nnnnnnnhnhfflnnnnMriQi uuuuuuuupi UCSB LIBRARY I A" PREFACE. THE probation of long and inexpressibie Buffering has rendered me a comparative stranger to my esteemed and genial readers ; bat I have a firm conviction that I am not entirely forgotten by them, and that their welcome will be readily given to an old friend with a new face. I have long had an earnest desire to present my writings to the public in a form and at a price that would place them within the reach of " the many," and on the prompting of this desire I have foregone propositions for an expensive work ; feeling that I shall derive much greater pleasure from seeing my poems widely circulated, than from any increase of pecuniary benefit. I am hoping that a gradual restoration to a better state of health will enable me to resume my minstrel vocation, and that I may still find willing ears to listen to my song that* the cheerful strain of my noontide dream and the minor plaint of my twilight musing may again win for me the responsive echoes which excited my young spirit, and crowned my young ambition. With this hope uppermost in my heart, I cordially offer to "auld acquaintance" my warm. " How do ye do 1 " without any painful anticipation of tiveir cool " Good-bye," CONTENTS. Melaia Page I Tracy De Vore and Hubert Grey 23 The Old Arm-C hair 33 Oh ! dear to Memory are those Hours 34 Song of the Rushliaht 35 The Land of my birth 37 The Mother who has a Child at sea 38 Summer's Farewell 3^ Sailing Soug 40 Sprinu 4L The Gipsy's Tent 41 The Miser 42 The Free . . . 43 Old Dobbin 44 Sleep 46 Winter 47 Hallowed be Thy Name 4$ The English Ship by Moonlight 41) Water :,() The Quiet Eye 5i Snow 52 The Gallant English Tar 5* Huttereups and Daisies o3 The Old Farm-Gate 55 Stanzas 56 The Idiot-Born 57 The Star of Glengary 53 The Waters f,! The Poet <<(> The Song of Marion <>2 The Gipsy Child (-5 Nature's Gentleman 04 No rah M'Shuue 6S Truth N> The Sexton . . 07 Galla Brae Gil The Clouds C,\) Hang up his Harp ; he'll wake uo more ! ?o VI CONTENTS. The Poet's Wreath Page 71 The Englishman 72 To a favourite Pony 75 Stanzas .... 75 ABC 7Q. A Love-Song 77 Nae Star was glintin out aboon 78 Cupid's Arrow 78 Song of the Carrion Crow . 7 The Young Manners 81 The Heart that's true 8-* Night 84 This is the Hour for Me 85 /There's a Star in the West 86 J (-/The loved one was not there 87 V The Ploughshare of Old England 87 Gratitude SS A way from the Revel 8i> The Fairy of the Sea 90 Oh ! never breathe a dead one's name 90 The Sailor's Grave 91 A Song for Merry Harvest 92 I miss thee, my Mother 92 The World 93 Stanzas 95 England 96 "Tiiy Kingdom Come" 97 The Bow 98 The Forest Trees 99 The King of the Wind 100 The Horse 101 The Mourners 102 My Grave 104 The Wreaths 105 Hope 107 Old Pincher 107 Christmas Tide 110 Kings 112 Lines Written at Midnight, in the Anticipation of a Dreaded Bereavement 113 The First Voyage 115 To Fancy 116 The Old Water-Mill 117 Children's Welcoming 118 The Sacrilegious Gamesters 120 Duncan Lee 125 Song of the Sea-Gulls * . . . 126 Love 127 Winter 128 Dinna Forget, Love 129> Our Native Song 130 Loch Lc veu's Gentle Stream 131 CONTENTS. \ii Sir Harold the Hunter Page 131 Music 132 On Swing a Bird-Catcher 13S Stanzas , 133 Hover's Song ' 134 The Dead 135 The Thames 136 Through the Waters ^ 137 The Star of My Home 139 The Brave 140 Song of the Mariners 140 Stanzas to the Young , 142 Wealing Bells 143 A Home in the Heart 144 Song for the New Year 144 The Homes of the Dead 146 The King's Old Hall 147 Stanzas 148 The Flag of the Free 148 Prayer 149 Stanzas 151 The Slumber of Death 152 Our Sailors and our Ships 152 Charlie O'lioss, wi' the Sloe-black Een 153 The Fisher Bov Jollily Lives 154 I Thank Thee, God! for Weal and Woe 154 The Smuggler Boy 155 Stanzas. The Tomb 156 Blue-bells in the Shade 157 Song of the Imprisoned Bird 158 The Willow-tree 151) Stanzas 1GO Fire 1C1 Stanzas 162 Song of the Sun 162 A Summer Sketch 164 The Welcome Back 165 While the Christmas Log is Burning 166 The Acorn 166 To a Cricket 167 Anacreontic 168 The Christmas Holly 169 "Thy Will Be Done" I/O Song of Old Time 171 Song of the Goblet 172 Washington 174 Sonnet 175 Love's First Dream 175 Time 176 The Surgeon's Knife 177 Love On 177 To the Spirit of Song 178 \ Till CONTENTS. Stanzas Page The Old Mill-Stream Song of the Red Indian 'Ti.s Sweet to Love in Childhood .- . . 1^7 Ilo-iesty a Fragment 188 Sonj? of the Worm 1'JO "Wealth m The Room of the Household . 193 The Pledge 1!5 The Future 196 IVly Murray Plaid 11>7 Harvest Sons 19'.) Sons of the Wind 200 Stanzas . , 203 Song of the Dying Old Man to his Young Wife .... 2(>1 Stanzas 20; Jinry O'More 207 Teddy O'Neale 2:0 Under the Moon 211 The Old Man's Marvel 212 Stanzas for the Season . 215 Song of the Blind One 216 The Uoat-Cloak 217 Sunshine 218 The Sabbath Bell 21 Song of the Spirit of Gold 24. Fragment 2 i.-S To uiy Lyre 2 !!> Rh,\ mes by the Roadside 2" The Daisy ::' St. Parf-rick's Day 2r,S Son of the Hempseed 2:.y The Old Clock Mi Sonji of the Ostrich - Song of the Greenwood Faggot 2 ;<> Stanaas ... 2:^ 180 / 183 185. ^ CONTENTS. IS Black "Hess Page 269 The Henrfc-the Heart 270 To the Robin 271 A Sketch 27* Tom Tidior's Ground 274 Those we Love 27ft The Playground 2/7 Mourn Not the Dead 275> Pal lad Stanzas 280 Stanzas to ihe Memory of Burns 281 The Poor Irish Hoy 282 Song of the Haymakers 283 The Moor of Gleiiann 281 Trouble your Heads with your own Affairs (A Song for the Million) 285 The Forest Brake 2t> The Bees-wing 288 Dust 2>9 Ttie Suit of Russet Brown 290 Song of the City Artisan . . 291 Winter is Here 293' The Happy Mind 2D4 Greyhair'ti December 296 Song of the Spirit of Poverty 297 There would L to 300 Dancing Son . 301 Song ot the Modern Time -. % 80:J Stanzas for Music 304 Song of the "Winter Tree 305 When I wore lied Shoes , , .306 Mother, come back . . - . 309 S, .via of the Old Year ... .. - 310 I Laugh'd at the Stcrm . 311 Many Happ\ Returns of the Day 312 Summer is Nigh 313 The Dewdrop 314 Old Songs 315 Spring 318 On the Death of a Favourite Hound 31S A Hint to Lovers 320 Song of the Ugh Maiden 322 The Tree of Death 324 Healih 8? Old Story Books . . . 327 Song of the Sen-weed 329 The Old Straw Hat , 335 The Dos of the Alps . 337 Old Cries 339 The Past 343 The Sea-Child 345 The English Holiday 346 A River Thought 317 X CONTENTS. A Forest Thought Page 343 The Bonnie Scot 349 Oh ! Come to the Ingle-side 319 God hath a Voice 351 Stanzas 352 Day Dreams ... 352 Here's merry Christmas come again 354 Derbyshire Dales ^54 The Harp's Wild Notes 358 There is nothing in vain 357 DW God so will it ? 358 The Villaue Church 360 Like the Evergreen so shall our Friendship be .... 361 "Let not the Sun go down upon your Wrath" .... 361 My Own 362 Lines Written for the Sheffield Mechanics' Exhibition, 1846 3G4 "Bonnie Sweet Robin " is "Nae Dead and Gaue" . . . 366 An Old Tune 367 A Son Ibr the Dog 368 "Don't you Remember?" 370 My Old Companions 371 To William Thorn 373 Autumn Thoughts 374 "Wilt Thou be True? 376 Best 370 Parting Song 3M) Curls and Couplets 381 The Bonnie Green Bough 3-><> " He that is withoutSinamongyou.let him first cast aStone" 387 Time's Chanaes 389 Tp Charlotte Cushman 390 Lines among the Leaves 391 To Alphonse de Lamartine 391 Summer Days '.' Love 3% The Happiest Time 3U8 "We'll Sing another Christmas Song 401 A Song 402 The Charcoal and the Diamond ( 405 To Winter 408 The Boatmen of the Downs (for Music) 409 "Come under my Plaidie" 4H 'Tis a Wild Night at Sea 413 The Child's Otierina 415 Wilt Thou be Mine? (for Music) 417 Stanzas 418 Which do 1 Love the Best? 4:i "Where the Weary are at Rest" 420 To , on her Birthday 421 An English Christmas Home 423 Stanzas by the Sea-side 42V 1'aith's Guiding Star 426 CONTENTS. Xl Address to the Freemasons Page 427 The Dreamer 429 The Old Palace *. . 434 Christmas Song of the Poor Man 435 Ten Years Ago 437 Stanzas 439 A Special Pleading . . . . 441 Good Works 443 Under the Mistletoe 444 A Pathetic Lament 445 It is the Song my Mother Sings (for Music) 446 Stanzas 447 Great Help Waits on Little Need 448 Fruits. . .' 419 Bessie Gray 450 Let us Give Thanks ..." 453 The Poor Man to his Son 454 They All belong to Me 456 " Poverty parts Good Companie" . 458 The Deck of tlie" Outward Bound" 459 The Shower 461 The Trysting-place" * 462 Alabama! 461 "Winter's Wild Flowers 465 The Firemen of the Land 466 Stanzas 10 an Old Friend 467 The Worship of Nature 468 Where there's a Will there's a Way 472 The Lover to his Departing Loved One 473 3>ad Leaves 474 The Holy Well 475 A Song for the Workers 477 The Old Green Lane 479 Lines for Music 480 Elecampane 480 The World is a Fairy Ring 482 Never hold Malice 48;J Better Fed than Taught 481 Fortune and Love 486 The Bird in the Storm .- . . 486 " Early to Bed and Early to Rise" 488 "Our Father" 489 Lady June 491 The Song of June 492 A Sabbath Evening Song 493 Live and Let Live 494 A Temperance Song 495 Thank God for Summer 498 The Lily and the Stream 500 A S The Churchyard Stile 541 Song of the Ked Man 542 Musical Murmurs from a Shattered String 54o The Mouse and the Cake 54f> An Evening Song 547 Try Again 54S Anger 550- Home for the Holidays 551 The Sailor Boy's Gossip 65$ How dad I shall be when the Cuckoo is Singing .... 554 The Blind Boy's been at Play, Mother 55S The Death of Master Tommy Hook 556- The Violet-boy 558 Puss and Dasa o62 MELAIA. TWAS in the age when Arts and Peace Eevived once more in mighty Greece ; When Fame forsook the camp and blade, And turn'd from purple fields to wreath* Her meeds again for those who bade The canvas glow, the marble breathe : 'Twas in this age Melonian stood The highest in his sculpture art ; Known as the great, loved as the good ; With hand but rivall'd by his heart. His was the power to wake the gaze, Yielding the spirit's speechless praise His was the spell that flings control Over the eye, breast, brain, and soul ; Chaining our senses to the stone, Till we become As fix'd and dumb As the cold form we look upon. Melonian was about to leave His idol toil one summer eve ; When at his door a stranger-guest Appear'd, in venerable guise ; Whose weight of years had dimm'd his eye^ And meekly lower'd his " haught crest." His garb was of a shape and sort That plainly augur'd little wealth ; But his frank smile gave good report Of rich, content and placid health POEMS BY ELIZA COOk. No stern and frowning gloom was seen To curl his lip or shade his mien ; His bending limbs and silver'd head, Stricken with patriarchal age ; Gave ample sign that he had read Life's volume to its closing page. Melonian rose the Stranger bowM : " Artist," cried he, " I've come to scan Thy blazon'd works, is it allowM ? Though great, perhaps thou'rt not too proud To please an old and curious man. The restless wings of Rumour waft Fair tidings of thy works and craft : Crowds speak of thee with lauding joy ; I know thy fame, and would employ Thy skill. Say, Artist, what may be The sum that forms thy common fee ? " The Sculptor smiled. " Friend ! " he exclaim'd, " My charge may startle, when 'tis named. Excuse me, Stranger, if I say I deem 'tis more than thou canst pay. Two thousand bizan tines I ask For simplest form or briefest task," " Two thousand ! 'tis indeed fair store Of gold, but he deserved much more. Have what thou wilt, 'tis ne'er too much; Double the sum, it shall be thine ; But will thy chisel deign to touch A form nor human nor divine ? I see thou hast a goodly band Of gods and heroes scatter'd round ; But I invoke thy master hand To carve me but a simple hound." " A hound ! a dog ! " Melonian cried : " How's this, old man, wouldst thou deride My noble art ? I blush with shame. Say, dost thcu taunt my skill and fame ? J, first in Greece, think'st thou 'twould suit Such hand to carve a cur ! a brute ? " MELAIA. " Hold ! " said the Guest ; " I must not hear Such hard words thrown to one so dear. Long as I've trod the world, I've found Naught half so worthy as mr hound ; And thou, Melonian, wouldst not spurn His claims and merit, didst thou learn The strange and strong, nay, holy tie, That link'd so firm and tenderly. Of all the boons that men possess To aid, to cheer, instruct, and bless, The dog bold, fond, and beauteous beast- Is far from either last or least. His love lives on through change of lot ; His faith will chain him on our grave To howl and starve ; but thou mayst not Have proved such love and faith : " Thy guerdon's sure : look on this ring ; A precious, though a bauble thing : The meanest jewel would suffice To render safe thy utmost price. But do my bidding, and the stone Of richest lustre is thine own ; Behold, and judge." The Sculptor gazed Upon the slender hand upraised, And saw a finger thin and white, Encircled with a hoop of gold, Embedding gems of flashing light, Nor loosely worn nor cheaply sold. " Speak," cried the Stranger ; " dost thou chooaS To carve my dog ? decide and tell ...... Enough : I see thou dost refuse The favour craved. Artist, farewell." Melonian seized his hand : " Nay, nay, Thy parting is not thus with me : Thy speech, thy bearing, all betray Thou art not what thou seem'st to be. There's more than meets the eye and ear In thee. Say who and what thou art t I'm honest, and thou need'st not fear A gossip tongue nor traitor heart. May I beseech thee to relate The secrets of thy name and state? B 2 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Tou start ay, 'tis a bold request ; But you have stirr'd within my breast A quick and sudden interest, "Wrapt in thy pilgrimage and fate. The warmth you've kindled doth defy The rules of gentle courtesy ; And prompts, perchance, to ruder word And freer tone than should be heard. Your pardon, if I give offence ; But, trust me, mine's no wily soul This fervour, bursting all control, Is not the bearing of pretence." The Stranger spoke not for awhile, But strove to check a rising sigh ; And fix'd his calm and searching eye Upon the Sculptor's brow. The smile Which erst illumed his mouth had fled, And with it every trace of red From cheek and lips; a change had spread O'er his fair mien, as though some deep, Keen pangs had woke from Memory's sleep Where is the one who hath not had Some anguish trial, long gone by, Steal, spectre-like, all dark and sad On busy thought, till the full eye And aching breast, be tray 'd too well, The past still held undying spell ? Some pensive vision of this kind Seemed shadowing the Stranger's mind. " My fate," said be, " hath been to see And bear Mortality's extremes. My days have run 'twixt cloud and sun ; But oh ! with more of shade than beams. What I was once, has been conceal'd Right cautiously from other ears ; My tongue has never yet revealed The state that mark'd my earlier yean ; But thou shalt hear it ; I will trust The earnest radiance in thy face : 'Tis spirit-lit, and I can trace The breathing of a soul all just. MELAIA. Listen, Melonian ; but I claim Thy sacred vow that words or name Pass not thy lips till death has laid This breaking form in peace and shade. Say, Sculptor, dost thou yield thine oath ? " " Ay ! " cried Melonian ; " but the troth Of simple promise is, with me, As strong a bond as there can be. My oath ! Ay, take it if thou wilt ; Yet is that bosom base and cold. And little worth, that does not hold A broken word as meanest guilt. But stay, my friend, here's rich, rare wine, Of years, I ween, outnumbering thine; I know its vintage to be good ; Pour, fill, and drink 'twill warm thy blood ; Come, pledge me deep, thy cheek is pale ; First brace thy heart, then tell thy tale." The cup was drain'd, and Friendship's power Had grown so great in some short hour; 'Twere difficult for host or guest To say which liked the other best. " Now," cried the Stranger, " hear me tell My simple tale ; and, mark me well ; Though my plain style may sound uncouth, It yields naught else than bitter truth. " My long and chequer'd course began Far hence, in sultry Hindostan. I was a mighty monarch's heir ; My toys, the sceptre and the crown; Shown like an idol to the stare Of a vast nation ; taught to wear A princely port, and proudly share A power I should one day bear, All kingly all my own. " I know full well you cannot see A trace of what there once might be- My sand is almost out, and now You find but furrows on my brow. POKM8 BT BLIZA. COOK. I know no records linger there, Save those indorsed by Age and Oare ; Heaven gives no stamp ; Misfortune's tide Brings prince and peasant side by side ; And who can mark the monarch, when He ranks and herds with other men ? " I know full well it seems a thing Absurd, a jest to rouse your mirth, To say my sire might be a king, And hold dominion o'er the earth. Yet such he was, and such was I. Nay, start not ! 'Tis but empty sound ; Strip off the robes of purple dye, Throw all the peacock trappings by, And nothing more than Man is found ; And often less some scorpion worm That crawls and stings in human form ; Some upright brute, whose ruthless mighty In covert of a regal den. Lays waste all Mercy, Sense, and Bight; Defies a God, and tramples men. But who expects the sapling tree To flourish, with no bough left free. Amid the worst the world can lend To choke and tangle, warp and rend; 'Mid all to blast the goodly shoot, And turn fair bloom to bitter fruit. " The monarch's glance hath little chanoe To scan a page in Nature's book ; The lessons there are seal'd with care ; He must not, dare not, cannot look. Lull'd by the songs that courtiers sing, No harsher music suffer'd near; If Truth should whisper, she would ring A strange alarum in his ear. Could ye but see what I have seen, And know as much as I have known; ITou would not wouder there have been Such graceless tyrants on a throne. " I had an empire at my nod, And ruled it like a demigod. MELAIA. I was caress'd as one divine; Wealth, Might scarce limited were mine. My word could free the veriest slave, Or doom the guiltless to a grave. I was a fear'd and homaged one ; Perch'd on Ambition's utmost height : And thought, as other fools have done, Ne'er to be lower or less bright. But I was taught a mighty change, In spirit, feeling, place, and word ; I've brook'd the trials wild and strange, Which some might question if they heard. ** I've proved how hard it is to cope With traitors' blows and blasted hope : I've drunk the cup of dark despair E'en to the dregs ; I've brunted all Of searing pain and withering care That Heaven can send to goad and gall : Yet have I stood the trying test, And found at last my hour of rest. " Old age is garrulous, they say, And this choice wine has wrought so well ; That my tongue gains a swifter play, And my lax heartstrings warmly swelL But come, I'll speed my tale, and pray None else may have such tale to telL "'Twas on the nightfall of a day, When Slaughter's red and fierce career Had lasted from the breaking ray, Leaving, as twilight died away, Some thousands on one common bier. " The night came on, the work was done, The glory ours, the battle won ; My hand was tired of the sword, And gladly to its sheath restored The dripping blade ; for though my life Has oft been risk'd in human strife, Elate and proud to hf ve my name Grow dreaded for its soldier fame ; Though I have stumbled o'er the slain, 'Mid st)linter'd bone and scatter'd brain ; POEMS BY BIIZA COOK. Though I have seen the streaming blood Drench the green earth and tinge the flood ; Still, when the raging hour had sped, I sigh'd to think such things had been; And though I help'd to strew the dead, I sicken'd at the carnage scene. My soul was reckless in the crash Of ringing shield and striking clash. Then I bad all the tiger's will, And all the lion's strength, to kill; But when I trod the dead-stren plain, With Mercy at her post again, I felt a shuddering horror lurk, To think I'd mingled in such work. " 'Twas on the night of such a day, Exhausted and o'erspent, I flung my heavy mail awaj, And hied me to my tent. There, close beside my couch, I found A young, and almost lifeless hound ; Some random sword or falling spear Had deeply gash'd his neck and ear : He panted fast, he freely bled ; His eyeballs had a glazy beam ; He moan'd with anguish as his head Fell weltering in his own life-stream. I ask'd who own'd him all were mute, Not one stood forth to make a claim. Who brought him there? None knew the brut*; Nor how, nor whence, nor when he came. Poor wretch ! I could not let him lie Unheeded, there to bleed and die : The girdle from my waist I toi e, To bind the wound and stanch the gore. "'Twas done ; I mark'd enough to see He was a dog of noble breed ; A whelp that promised fair to be The first in beauty, strength, and speed. I liked the boast, and turn'd to give Command that I would have him live. It was enough; he found repo-e ; S.cure from further wounds and foes. MELAIA. "Full soon he won my right good-will; I liked him well, As ye may tell, By how he claims my homage still. His fleetness held the longest chase ; He never knew the second place ; The prey once seized, he'd ne'er resign His hold for any voice but mine ; The bribe was vain, the threat defied I was his lord, and none beside. " He did not serve me for my throne, Tet was he grateful, fond, and brave ; He loved me for myself alone. He was that good and gracious thing, That rare appendage to a king ; A friend that never play'd the slave. " There was one other tie to hold My heart : I never loved but two : That other must the name be told? Tes, yes, it was my queenly bride ; My worshipp'd star, my joy, my pride: But she was false ; my dog was true. " I saw her in a lowly grade, Too bright a blossom for the shade : I woo'd, but with an honest love ; I spread no snares to catch the dove ; The bar of rank was trampled down, I stoop'd, and raised her to my crown. " Oh ! how I doted on her smile, That sunbeam o'er a gulf of guile ! How I adored her orbs of blue, Clear, full, and lustrous in their hue ; Rich as the deep cerulean light Of autumn's melting, moonlit night ! I've met their tender glance, half hid Beneath the thick-fringed falling lid ; I've seen their pearly drops of grief Swim like the dew on violet's leaf; I've watch'd their pleasure-kindled ray, Flash out like summer lightning's play ; 10 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. And thought, had old Prometheus caught The gleaming spark from eyes like those ; He would have found the fire he sought, On earth nor made the gods his foes. " Her golden hair, with glossy sheen, Fell round her temples, rich and free; With all the graceful beauty seen In flowers of the laburnum tree. Her soft cheeks made the maple fade, Such tint, such bloom, was theirs alone : The sculptor's art could ne'er impart Her stately bearing to the stone " Why, why does Heaven bequeath such giftfl^ To fascinate all eyes that mark, With magnet charm ; till something lifts The mask, and shows how foully dark The dazzling reptile is within, Beneath its painted shining skin ! Oh ! if our dazzling outward part Bore witness of the mind and heart ; How many a one must shun the light ; Or show a leper to the sight ! " I know I carried much of taint That gave offence to Heaven and man ; But if ye seek a sage or saint, Search courts, and find him if ye can. I was corrupt, and did much wrong, But never breathed of harm to her ; Mine was that passion, warm and strong, Which keeps its radiance, pure and long j However else the soul may err. I loved her with a zeal intense, That thrall'd each colder, wiser sense ; 1 drank the nectar from her lip, As bees the honied poison sip ; I trusted her, my tongue reveal'd All much that should have been conceal'dj She laboured not in vain, to wrest Some potent secrets from my breast ; And then she leagued with traitor hand ; A toil was spread, foul work was plann'd, MELAIA. 11 A rueful deed was to be done, And I the victim, she the one Oh, mercy ! have I speech and breath- She, she to weave the mesh of death ! " What's this upon my cheek ? a tear ! Weak drop, what business hast thou here P I fondly hoped the shattered string Had been by now, a tuneless thing; But touch it lightly as I will, *. It gives a mournful echo still. Oh ! when the heart has once been riven, The wound will firmly close no more ; Let Memory's searching probe be driven, It bleeds and quivers, freshly sore. " This must not be ; more wine, I say ; Your nectar-juice shall sweep away The phantom pang. Fill up, I'll drain This bowl, and to my tale again. " She leagued with traitors ; 'Twas no dream I I'd proof of all the hellish scheme ; I'd noticed much of late to make The drowsiest suspicion wake. Strange glances interchanged by those I guess'd were less of friends than foes ; And more than once I plainly heard A whisper'd, treasonable word. But these I brook'd, and thought to quell All petty brawls that might betide ; Till I beheld the Hecate spell Was conjured by my trusted bride. " Chance gave a paper to my sight, Meant for another eye to meet. It stated that the coming night Would render treachery complete. It told, what fiends would scarce proclaim ; Of treason, murder ! and the same Bore impress of her seal and name. " Mute with dismay, I still read on : And oh ! the direst that could be; I found her very honour gone She loved another, and not me 12 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. " I stood with fire in' every vein ; My pulsos beat with frenzied stroke ; I breathed with that short heaving strain, Which teaches what it is, to choke. - A moment, and there came a chill, A stagnant, icy chill ; as though The blood recoil'd, afraid to fill A heart made weak with such a blow. ** The jarring chaos could not last; Such struggling state is quickly past : Such conflict is too close and strong Por mortal strength to bear with long. When we have learnt the very worst ; The spirit soon must yield, or burst. " I was betray'd, ay e'en to life ; Sedition round, and death in view : And they who see the assassin's knife Must aptly think and promptly do. My love was wreck'd ; my faith deceived ; The strokes that ever madden most. Without these, all had been retrieved ; With them, I cared not what was lost. " My kingship flitted o'er my brain ; My pompous sway, my courtier train ; I laugh'd, and rent the silken vest, That only mock'd my abject state; I dash'd the jewels from my breast, And sought my palace gate. " I trod all soft and stealthily ; The path was clear ; I meant to fly. Ne'er call me coward, till ye bear The test by which I then was tried r Remember, had I tarried there, My doom was fix'd I'd meanly dieo. " I knew some minions round me then Were more of demons than of men : Their aim was sure, if life the mark ; Once set on blood, they keep the track; And would not scruple in the dark To sheathe their dagger in my back. MELAIA. It " With fearful haste, I saddled straight An Arab courser, newly broke ; Whose strength and grace were fit to mate With those that form Apollo's yoke. Twas no meet moment to restrain His mettled zeal. Away he sped. With tossing mane, And flinging rein, Upon the way he chose to tread. The die was cast flight, instant flight* Alone could lend me hope to live ; The monarch-born, the gem-bedight, The flatter'd god, the ever right ; Was now a friendless fugitive. "Away! away! the clattering hoof Re-echo'd from the palace roof: I fled, unrivall'd by the wind ; Nor thrsw a single glance behind ; Crown, sceptre, throne such dreams were o'er; Melaia was a king no more. " I fled ; but soon the deep-toned bay Of bloodhound, follow'd on my way ; And even now there's a rebound Of joyous throb, a glow that steals Swift through my frame, to tell I found My gallant dog upon my heels ! " How welcome are the words that tell The culprit, doom'd to death and pain ; That he may quit his chains and cell, And rove the world, all free again. How precious is the ray of light That breaks upon the blind one's eye ; Unfolding to his wondering sight, The glorious scenes of earth and sky. But never to despairing ear, Or hopeless orb, was aught so dear, As he to me appear'd to be In that dark hour of flight and fear. " I cheok'd my steed, and lost some time, To let that dumb retainer climb, 14 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. With whimpering joy ; and fondly greet The hand he ever sprang to meet. I stoop'd above his tawny head, And many a streaming tear I shed ; Ay, like a child ; but recollect, In perils we must not reject The meanest aid. The straw or plank Will lure us then to snatch and thank. " I linger'd ; but, ere long, my ear Had warning of pursuers near. I touch'd my Arab's glossy side, And on he went, like rushing tide, That rolls to fling its sweeping waste With furious, all-defying haste. " On, on, we sped, I took no heed How such a strange career would end. I urged my Barb to meteor speed ; But cared not where that speed might tend. He sprang, he flew, as though he knew A frenzied wretch was on his back ; And kept his pace for goodly space, Upon his own free chosen track. He bore me on for many an hour, With headlong stride, and bounding power. At last he falter'd on his path ; I goaded, but the goad was vain. Where was 1 ? with the sun's full wrath Around me on the desert plain. " What an unthought-of goal I'd won ! Mercy ! what wildering race I'd run. 'Twould soon be o'er, my failing horse Was strangely swerving on his course ; His strength was out, his spirit flagg'd ; His fire was spent, he faintly lagg'd ; His dripping flanks and reeking neck. Were white with rifts of foaming fleck : His labour'd breath was quick and short; His nostrils heaved with gasping snort ; He totterM on, his will was good, J is work had not belied his blood. MELAIA. " Another mile ; and then he fell, His part was o'er ; he'd play'd it well. With snapping girth and reeling head, He groan'd and sank, my steed was dead t " Above me one vast concave spread ; No dappled clouds, no mellow blue ; Hot, darting rays, like torches, shed A light of most unearthly hue. Below was one smooth, glittering sheet, That crisp'd and crack'd beneath my feet , No springing herb, no daisied sod, All barren, joyless, and untrod. My dog was fawning at my side, Uu .vcaried by my rapid ride ; But I rebuked his greeting bound, That scattered choking dust around. " My breath was faint, my skin was dry ; The little moisture in my eye Served but to scald : the striking beams Fell on my form like lava streams. What hideous change ! I, who had known The sickening splendour of a throne ; I, humbled wretch, was craving now A moment's shadow for my brow ! " Thus to be left on such a spot, Appear'd the climax of my lot. Death hover'd there in such gaunt shap& That Hope scarce whisper'd of escape ; But I was not in fitting state To weigh the chances of my fate. I wended on with hasty stride, 'Twixt torrid earth and brazen sky : Reek less of all that might betide ; To meet the worst, to live or die. But some conjecture, quick and wild, Flash'd sudden o'er me, and beguiled To flattering hope. I vaguely guess'd That nigh the desert in the west, A city stood. That thought inspired And held me on awhile, untired. 16 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. * I doubted if my wasting strength Could last the unknown, burning length. It might ; yet, oh ! 'twas fearful risk, To toil between the blazing disc Of eastern sun and shining sand, With lips unmoisten'd, cheek unfaim'd. Twas frightful ordeal, but yet, Dire evils pass, if boldly met. " I will not tire thy patient ear With tedious detail of ray woe ; But bring my rambling speech to bear On that I wish thee most to know. ' Hour after hour brought on the nighty With something less of heat and light "ou may believe I was outworn ; And trembling, famish'd, and forlorn, I flung me on the dewless ground And fast and bitter tears I wept, Till, pillowed on my faithful hound ; Like a tired child, I sobb'd and slept. Slumber like mine wrought little good : I started as the sun uprose ; And fancied that my boiling blood Had gathered torture from repose. I felt my temples glow and beat With faster pulse and fiercer heat: I would have wept again, but now My very tears refused to flow. " I woke I lived, to meet, to bear With famine, thirst, and blank despair: I cast my eager straining eye From sky to sand, from sand to sky ; No, no relief ; my hound and I Were all that broke the vacancy. " The whirling blast, the breaker's dash. The snapping ropes, the parting crash, The sweeping waves that boil and lash, The stunning peal, the hissing flash. The hasty prayer, the hopeless groan, The stripling seaboy's gurgling tone, MELATA. Shrieking amid the flood and foam, The names of mother, love, and home ; The jarring clash that wakes the land, When blade to blade and hand to hand, TJnnumber'd voices burst and swell, Iu one unceasing war-whoop yell ; The trump of discord /inging out, The clamour strife, the victor shout ; Oh 1 these are noises any ear Will dread to meet and quail to hear : But let the earth or waters pour The loudest din, or wildest roar ; Let Anarchy's broad thunders roll. And Tumult do its worst to thrill ; There is a silence to the soul, More awful, and more startling stilL " To hear our very breath intrude Upon the boundless solitude, Where mortal tidings never come With busy feet, or human hum. All hush'd above, beneath, around No stirring form, no whisperM sound This is a loneliness that falls Upon the spirit, and appals More than the mingled rude alarms. Arising from a world in arm?. This is a silence bids us shrink, As from a precipice's brink ; But ye will rarely meet it, save In the hot desert, or cold grave. Cut off from life and fellow-men, This silence was around me then : 'Twas horrible; but once again I dragg'd along the scorching plain. Till the consuming orb of day Shot down the close meridian ray. * Exhausted nature now had done It* utmost 'neath a desert sun ; Aud moments of delirium came; A staggering weakness seized my frame 18 POEMS BY ELIZA COOI. My feet refused their task when lo ! My gaze met Many a minaret : A city rose ; 'twas nigh ; but oh ! The beacon star now shone in vain ; Though short the space, I ne'er could gain That other league. My limbs, my heart, All fail'd ; I felt my sinews starb With the last shudder of despair ; And Hope expired my grave was there. " 'Twas Thirst, 'Twas maddening Thirst alou, That wrung my spirit's inmost groan. Hunger is bitter, but the worst Of human pangs, the most accursed Of Want's fell scorpions, is Thirst "I look'd upon this precious ring, That few beside a king could buy ; What was its value, would it bring A cup of water ? No ! its gleam, That flash'd back to the brazen beam. But taunted with its brilliancy. " My strange distemperM fancy wrought The doom of Tantalus : for naught Broke on my frantic, waking dream But the deep well and purling stream ; Distorted vision conjured near, All that is cool, fresh, moist, and clear. I saw the crystal fountain play in leaping sheets of snowy spray ; I heard the undulating wave Of the swift river, gush and lave ; I saw the dew on grass and flower ; I heard the gentle summer shower, With its soft pattering bubbles drip; I heard the dashing waterfall Oh ! it was cruel mockery all ! I laugh'd, and then my shrunken lip Oozed thicken'd gore ; with upraised hand, 1 sunk upon the shining sand. MELAIA. 19 A Maker's mercy to implore. I fervently invoked a name, Which, I confess, with much of shama, I'd rarely call'd upon before. "'Mid Pleasure, Plenty, and Success; Freely we take from Him who lends ; We boast the blessings we possess, Yet scarcely thank the One who sends. But let Affliction pour its smart ; How soon we quail beneath the rod : With shatter'd pride and prostrate heart ; We seek the long-forgotten God. Let him but smite us, soon we bleed, And tremble like a fragile reed ; Then do we learn, and own, and feel The Power that wounds, alone can heal. 'Twas thus with me; the desert taught Lessons with bitter truth replete. They chasten'd sorely, but they brought My spirit to its Maker's feet. " My glance was for a moment thrown Toward the heaven I address'd ; But the fierce rays came rushing down Upon my brow With furnace glow ; Dense, lurid, red ; Till my smote head Fell, faint and stricken, on my breast. " Thus while I knelt, my hound look'd up Fate was about to give the last, The o'erflowing drop to Misery's cup He started, fled, and bounded fast. " Oh ! what a moment, all the past Was blendeu in that little space. He left me at his utmost pace ; Like arrow from the string he flew "Right on he lessen'd to my view 'Twas o'er ; he vanish'd from my sight; I breathed his name, and groan'd outright. c 2 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. I was alone ; My dog had gone He that I deem'd the firmly true In the last hour, he left me too. " I saw no more ; I snatch'd my breath Like those who meet a drownius; death v One cry of hopeless agony Escaped my lips, while earth and sky Grew dark, and reel'd before mine eye. A whirling pang shot through my brain, Of mingled madness, fire, and pain; 'Twas rending, but it was the last. Thank God, it came like lightning flame; And desolated as it past. " No more of this ; I only know I felt strange pressure on my brow : The world was not; I can but tell, That, senseless, lone, and blind ; I felL " The next that Memory can mark Is of a clear and deep-toned bark. Sense tardily came back ; I woke Beneath a gentle, pawing stroke. I gazed with wild and doubting stare- My dog ! my noble dog was there It was my Murkim that I saw; With blood, wet blood, upon his jaw. "\Yhat sight for eyes like mine to meet ! 1 shriek'd, I started to my feet. Judge of my joy ; beside him lay A small and lifeless beast of prey. I seized it ; I was in no mood To play the epicure in food; I waited not to think on what That prey might be, nor whence 'twas got Had you but seen me clutch and fall, Like famish'd wolf or cannibal, Upon that mangled, raw repast ; My hands, my teeth, all tearing fast ; Had you beheld rny dry lips drain The current from each reeking vein 1 11ELAIA- You might have judged how human pain Can wring and madden human brain. My dry lips met food fresh and wet ; No nectar half so sweet or fresh ; Oh it was rare delicious fare ! I never quaff'd such luscious draught, Nor tasted viand like that flesh. It soothed my pulse, it cool'd my eye, It quench'd the fire upon my brow ; It gave me breath, strength, energy ; And, looking to the city nigh, I felt that I could reach it now. Could I do less than kneel and bless My Saviour in the wilderness ? But what will all of speech avail ? The choicest eloquence would fail ; Such wild emotion to express. The feeling that absorb'd my heart Was of that deep entrancing kind Which doth defy the lips to find A fitting language to impart Its glowing zeal and passionate start. My lips would falter to discuss The glow he kindled in my breast ; My dog had snatch'd from death ; and thus 1 leave thee to suppose the rest. " Again I took my onward way, Once more I track'd the desert ground ; Again I knelt to thank, to pray ; Nor deem me impious if I say, That next to God I held my Hound. " I reach'd the city ; many a year Has roll'd away, Since that long day, But yet, behold, this truant tear Proclaims that trying day is set Among the few we ne'er forget. " Methinks I'm gett'ng sad, and see 5 The sun's behind yon orange-tree: 'Tis well my tale holds little more ; It wearies, and I wish it o'er. POEMS BT ELIZA COOK. Some time, perchance, when thou'rt inclined. I'll yield thee more of what befell The throne and bride I left behind : But now I do not care to dwell On what to me Will ever be A most embitter* d tale to tell. "I walk'd the world, unmark'd, unknown ; Remote from man, but not alone ; I kept one friend, the closely bound ; The dear, the changeless, in my hound. He had become my spirit's part ; And rarely did he leave my side : He shared my board, my couch, my heart ; Till press'd by time he droop'd, and died Of sheer old age. Why, Murkim, why Did not Melaia too then die ! I miss thee still. I mourn tbee yet. But lo ! again my cheek is wet. Fool that I am this will not do Artist, this suits nor me nor you : My words have just worn down the sun. One question, Friend, and I have done. I've told thee how he bore and braved The darkest chequer in my lot : Tou know his worth ; he served and saved Now; wilt thou carve my Dog, or not ? " Pillars had moulder'd, Ages waned ; Since this plain tale beguiled an hour : And Time and War had both profaned The Glory-seat of arts and power. Famed Greece, the beautiful and great ; Was but a wreck'd and falbii state ; She was but as a funeral urn, Holding the ashes, worlds revere; O'er which the coldest heart will mourn, And strangers hang to shed the tear. Each monument was laid in dust, By some ungodly, savage hand ; Her palace gates had gather'd rust ; Her picture scrolls had fed the brand : TBACY DB VOSB AND HUBERT OBEY When, 'mid the relics scattered round ; One of surpassing skill was found ; The work was rare, The marble fair, The form, a bold and couctiant Hound. The old and wise, with judgment stern; In curious search were seen to turn With careless glance from all the rest, And own that image, first and best. The artist boy was seen to pause ; Ecstatic in his rapt applause. No idle wanderer pass'd it by, But mark'd with brighter, closer eye. They linger'd there to ask and trace The legend such a form might lend ; But naught was known, save what its base Told in the words, " Melaia's Friend." A ROMAUNT. TBACY DE VORE AND HUBERT GEEY. A TALE. KNOW ye not the stripling child That strolls from the castle wall ; To play with the mate he likes the best, By the mountain waterfall ? With delicate hand, and polish'd skin, Like Parian marble fair ; Know ye him not ? 'Tis Tracy de Vore, The Baron's beautiful heir. Tis Tracy de Vore, the Castle's pride : The rich, the nobly born : Pacing along the sun-lit sod With the step of a playful fawn. POBM8 BY ELI7A COOK. The waving plume in his velvet cap Is bound with a golden band . His rich and embroider'd suit exhales The breath of Arabia's land. His light and fragile form is graced With a girdle of silver*d blue ; And of matchless azure the belt would seem. Were it not for his eyes' own hue. Look on those eyes, and thou wilt find A sadness in their beam ; Like the pensive shade that willows cast On the sky-reflecting stream. Soft flowing curls of an auburn shade Are falling around his brow ; There's a mantling flush that dwells on his uneek. Like a rose-leaf thrown on the snow. There's a halcyon smile spread o'er his face, Shedding a calm and radiant grace ; Tlu.e's a sweetness of sound in his talking tone*. Betraying the gentle spirit he owns. And scarcely an accent meets his ear But the voices of praise and love : Caress'd and caressing, he lives in the world Like a petted and beautiful dove. He is born to bear the high command Of the richest domain in Switzerland ; And the vassals pray that fame and health May bless the child of rank and wealth. Oh ! truly does every lip declare What a cherub-like boy is Lord Tracy's heir. And now on the green and sedgy bank Another stripling form is seen : His garb is rough, h will, they will ; but ah ! who can tell Whether I may live on till their convugp This spirit may sleep too soundly then To wake with the warbling or humming. This chef;*., now pale, may be paler far, When the summer sun next is glowing ; The cherishing rays may gild with light The grass on my grave-turf growing. Ob ! what a change in my spirit's dreain May there be ere the summer sun next shall beam ! SAILING SONG. WE have left the still earth for the billows and breeze, 'Neath the brightest of moons on the bluest of seas ; We have music, hark ! hark ! there's a tone o'er the deep Like the murmuring breath of a lion asleep. There's enough of bold dash in the rich foam that laves Just to whisper the slumber-wrapt iright of the waves; But yet there's a sweetness about the full swell Like the sound of the mermaid the chords of the shell. We have jewels. Oh ! what is your casket of gmns To the pearls hanging thick on the red coral stems ? Are there homes of more light than the one where we are ; For it nestles the dolphin and mirrors the star ? We may creep, we may scud, -vo may rest, we may fly ; There's no check to our speeJ, there's no dust for our eye ; Oh ! well may our spirits grow wild as the breeze, 'N euth the brightest of moons on the bluest of seas ! 41 SPRING. WELCOME, all hail to thee ! welcome, young Spring! Thy sun-ray is bright on the butterfly's wing. Beauty shines forth in the blossom-robed trees ; Perfume floats by on the soft southern breeze. Music, sweet music, sounds over the earth; One glad choral song greets the primrose's birth ; The lark soars above, with its shrill matin strain ; The shepherd-boy tunes his reed-pipe on the plain. Music, sweet music, cheers meadow and lea ; In the song of the blackbird, the hum of the bee ; The loud, happy laughter of children at play, Proclaims how they worship Spring's beautiful da;,. The eye of the hale one, with joy in its gleam ; Looks up in the noontide, and steals from the beam : And the cheek of the pale one is mark'd with despair, To feel itself fading when all is so fair. The hedges, luxuriant with flowers and balm, Are purple with violets, and shaded with palm ; The zephyr-kiss'd grass is beginning to wave , Fresh verdure is decking the garden and grave. Welcome, all hail to thee, heart-stirring May ! Thou hast won from my wild harp a rapturous lay ; And the last dying murmur that sleeps on thb string Is, Welcome ! All hail to thee, welcome, young Spring ! THE GIPSY'S TENT. OUB fire on the turf, and our tent 'neath a tree Carousing by moonlight, how merry are we ! Let the lord boa-st his castle, the baron his hall ; But the house of the gipsy is widest of all. We may shout o'er our cups, and laugh loud as we wil) Till echo rings back from wood, welkin, and hill ; No joys seem to u? like the joys that are lent To the wanderer's life and the Gipsy's tent 42 POEMS BT ELIZA COOK. Some crime and much folly may fall to our lot ; We have sins ; but pray where is the one who has not V We are rogues, arrant rogues : yet remember ! 'tis rare We take but from those who can very well spare. You may tell us of deeds justly branded with shame ; But if preat oues heard truth, you could tell them the same; And there's many a king would have less to repent If his throne were as pure as the Gipsy's tent. Pant ye for beauty ? Oh ! where would ye seek Such bloom as is found on the tawny one's cheek P Our limbs, that go bounding in freedom and health, Are worth all your pale faces and coffers of wealth. There are none to control us, we rest or we roam ; Our will is our law, and the world is our home : E'en Jove would repine at his lot if he spent A night of wild glee in the Gipsy's tent. THE MISER. " To be frugal is wise ; " and this lesson of truth Should ever be preach'd in the ears of youth. The young must be curb'd in their spendthrift haste) Lest meagre Want should follow on Waste : But to see the hand that is wither'd and old So eagerly clutch at the shining gold Oh ! can it be good that man should crave The dross of the world so nigh his grave ? Sad is the lot of those who pine In the gloomy depths of the precious mine ; But they toil not so hard in gaining the ore, As the raise in guarding the glittering store. He counts the coin with a feasting eye ; And trembles the while if a step come nigh : He adds more wealth ; and a smiling trace Of joy comes over his shrunken face. He seeks the bed where he cannot rest : Made close beside his idol chest : He wakes with a wilder'd, Laggard stare, For he dreams a thief is busy there : THE FBEB. He searches around the bolts are fast ; And the watchmen of the night go past. His coffers are safe ; but there's fear in hia brain, And the miser cannot sleep again. He never flings the blessed mite To fill the orphan child with delight. The dog may howl, the widow may sigh ; He hears them not they may starve and die. His breast is of ice, no throbbing glow Spreads there at the piercing tale of woe ; All torpid and cold, he lives alone In his heaps, like the toad embedded in stone. Death comes but the miser's friendless bier Is free from the sobbing mourner's tear; Unloved, unwept, no grateful one Will tell of the kindly deeds he has done. Oh ! never covet the miser's fame ; 'Tis a cheerless halo that circles his name; And one fond heart that will truly grieve, Will outweigh all the gold we can leave. THE FREE. THE wild streams leap with headlong sweep In their curbless course o'er the mountain steep; All fresh and strong, they foam along ; Waking the rocks with their cataract song. My eye bears a glance like the beam on a lance; While 1 watch the waters dash and dance : I burn with glee, for I love to see The path of anything that's Free. The skylark springs, with dew on h wings ; And up in the arch of heaven he sings Trill-la, trill-la oh! sweeter far * Than the notes that come through a golden bar. The joyous bay of a hound at play, The caw of a rook on its homeward way: Oh ! these shall be the music for me, For I love the voices of the Free. 44 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. The deer starts by, v. Ith his antlers high ; Proudly tossing his head to the sky : The barb runs the plain, unbroke by the rein. With streaming nostrils and flying mane. The clouds are stirr'd by the eaglet bird, As the fla^ of its swooping pinion is heard : Oh ! these shall be the creatures for me, For my soul was form'd to love the Fr j. The mariner brave, in his bark on the wave, May laugh at the walls round a kingly slave; And the one whose lot, is t v e desert spot ; Has r -> dread of an envious foe in his cot. The turall and state at the palace gate, Are what my spirit has learnt to aate : Oh! the hills shall be a home for .>ie, For Pd leave a throne for the hut of the Free. OLD DOBBIN. HEBE'S a song for old Dobbin, whose temper and worth Are too rare to be spurn'd on the score of his birth. He's a creature of trust, and what more should we heed t Tis deeds, and not blood, make the man and the steed. He was bred in the forest, and turn'd on the plain, "Where the thistle-burs clung to his fetlocks and mane. All ugly and rough, not a soul could espy The spark of good- nature that dwelt in bis eye. The c ummer had waned, and the Autumn months roll'd Into those of stern Winter, all dreary and ooIJ ; But the north wind might whistle, the snow-flake might dance The colt of the common was left to his chance. Half-starved and half-frozen, the hail-storm would pelt ; Till his shivering limbs told the pangs that he felt : But we pitied the brute, and, though laugh'd at by all ; We rill'd him a manger and gave him a stall He was fond as a spaniel, and soon he became The pride of the herd-boy, the pet of tbe 'bine. OLD BOBBIN. 46 Tis well that his marl 3t-price cannot be known ; But we christen'd him Bobbin, and call'd him our own. Ho grew out of colthood, and, lo ! what a change ! The knowingor.es said it was "mortally strange;" For the foal of the forest, the colt of the waste, Attracted the notice of jockeys of taste. The line of his symmetry was not exact; But his paces were clever, his mould was compact ; And his shaggy thick coat now appear'd with a gloss, Shining out like ihe go!.', that's been purged of its dross. We broke him for service, and tamely " ; ;e wore Girth and rein, seeming proud of the thraldom he bore; Each farm, it is known, must possess an " odd " steed, Anrl Dobbin was ours, for all times, and nil need. He carried the master to barter his grain, And ever return'd with him safely again : There was merit in that, for deny it who may, When the master could not, Dobbin nould t : ad his way. The dairy-maid venture 1 her eggs on his back : 'Twas him, and him only, she'd trust with the pack. The team-horses jolted, the roadster play'd pranks ; So Dobbin alone had her faith and her thanks. We fun-loving urchins would group by his side ; We might fearless!^ mount him, and daring v ride : "We might creep through his legs, we might plait his long tail ; But his temper and patience were ne'er known to fail. We would brush his bright hide till 'twas free from a speck ; We kiss'd his brown muzzle, and hugg'd his thick neck: Oil ! we prized him like life, and a heart-breaking sob Ever burst when they threaten'd to sell our dear Dob. He stood to the collar, and tugg'd up the hill, With the pigs to the market, the grist to the mill ; With saddle or halter, in shaft or irxjarace ; He was stanch to bis work, and content with his place. When the hot sun was crowning the toi if the year, He was sent ^o the reapers with ale and stood cheer: And none in the corn-field more welooum were seen Than Dob and his well-laden panniers, I ween. POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Oh ! those days of pure bliss shall I ever forget, When we deck'd out his head with the azure rosette ? All frantic with joy to be off to the fair, With Dobbin, good Dobbin, to carry us there P He was dear to us all, ay, for many long years ; But, mercy ! how's this ? my eye 's filling with tears. Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start ; When Memory plays an old tune on the heart I There are drops on my cheek, there's a throb in my bresfct j But my song shall not cease, nor my pen take its rest; Till I tell that old Dobbin still lives to be seen, With his oats in the stable, his tares on the green. His best years have gone by, and the master who gave The stern yoke to his youth has enfranchised the slave : So browse on, my old Dobbin, nor dream of the knife ; For the wealth of a king should not purchase thy life. SLEEP. I'VB mourn'd the dark long night away With bitter tears and vain regret ; Till, grief-sick, at the break of day, I've left a pillow cold and wet. I've risen from a restless bed, Sad, trembling, spiritless, and weak ; With all my brow's young freshness fled ; With pallid lips and bloodless cheek. Hard was the task for aching eyes ; So long to wake, so long to weep : But well it taught me how to prize That precious, matchless blessing Sleep. I've counted every chiming hour, While languishing 'neath ceaseless pain ; While fever raged with demon power, To drink my breath, and scorch my brain. And oh ! what earnest words were given 1 What wild imploring prayers arose ! How eagerly I ask'd of Heaven A few brief momeuts of repose ! fflNTBB. Oh ! ye who drown each passing night In peaceful slumber, calm and deep ; Fail not to kneel at morning's light, And thank your God for health and Sleep. WINTER. WE know 'tis good that Old Winter should come, Roving awhile from is Lapland home ; 'Tis fitting that we should hear the sound Of his reindeer sledge on the slippery ground : For his wide and glittering cloak of snow Protects the seeds of life below ; Beneath his mantle are nurtured and born The roots of the flowers, the germs of the corn. The whistling tone of his pure strong breath Rides, purging the vapours of pestilent death. I love him, I say, and avow it again, For God's wisdom and might show well in his train. But the naked the poor ! I know they quail With crouching lim'us from the biting gale; They pine and starve by the fireless hearth, And weep as they gaze on the frost-bound earth. Stand nobly forth, ye rich of the land, With kindly heart, and bounteous hand ; Remember, 'tis now their season of need, And a prayer for help is a call ye must heed. A few of thy blessings, a ti+'-e of thy gold, Will save the young and cuerish the old. 'Tis a glorious task to work such good Do it, ye great ones ! Ye can and ye should. He is not worthy to hold from Heaven The trust reposed, the talents given, Who will not add to the portion t^iat's scant, In the pinching hours of cold and want. Oh ! listen in mercy, ye sons of wealth, Basking in comfort and glowing with health; Give what ye can spare, and be ye sure He serveth his Maker who aiaeth the Poor. POEMS BT ELIZA COOK. HALLOWED BE THY NAME. LIST to the dreamy tone that dwells In rippling wave, or sighing tree ; Go, hearken to the old church bells ; The whistling bird, the whirring bee : Interpret right, and ye will find 'Tie "power and glory" they proclaim : The chimes, the creatures, waters, wind; All publish, " hallowed be Thy name ! " The pilgrim journeys till he bleeds, To gain the altar of his sires ; The hermit pores above his beads, With zeal that never wanes nor tires : But holiest rite or longest prayer That soul can yield or wisdom frame ; What better import can it bear Than, " FATHEB ! hallowed be Thy laaete I ' The savage kneeling to the sun, To give his thanks or ask a boon The raptures of the idiot one Who laughs to see the clear round moon The saint well taught in Christian lore The Moslem prostrate at his flame All worship, wonder, and adore ; All end in, " hallowed be Thy name ! * Whate'er may be mail's faith or creed, Those precious words comprise it still ; We trace them on the bloomy mead, We hear them in the flowing rill. One chorus hails the Great Supreme ; Each varied breathing tells the same. The strains may differ ; but the theme IB, " FATHEB, hallowed be Thy name f" THE EMjLISH SHIP BY MI M iM.KiH'l . 49 THE ENGLISH SHIP 3Y MOONLIGHTS, THB world below hath not for me Such a fair and qlorious sight; As an English htiip on a rippling sea, In the full moon's placid light. My heart leaps high as I fix my eye On her dark and sw; ping hull, Laying its breast on the bi'lowy nest, Like the tired, sleeping gull. The masts spring up, all tall and bold, "With their heads aim>.jg the stars ; The white sails p-leam in the silvery beam Brail'd up to the bran .thing spars. The wind just breathing to unroll A flag that bear? no stf a. Proud ship ! that need'st no other scroll. To warrant tb/ right on the main. The sea-boy hanging on the shrouds Chants out his fitful song, And watches fie scud of fleecy clouds, That melts as it floats along. Oh ! what is there on the sluggard land That I love so well to mark, In the hallow'd light of the still midnight | As I do a dano. -, hark ! jtae ivied tower looks well in that hour, And so does an old church ?pire ; W nen the gilded vane, and Gothic pane Seem tinged with quivering fire. The hills shine out in the mellow ray, The love-bower gathers a charm ; And beautiful is the chequering play On the willow's graceful arm. 60 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. But the world below holds not f or n , Such a fair and glorious sight As a brave ship floating on the ea In the full moon's placid light WATJBft. WINE, wine, thy power and praise Have ever been echo'd in minstrel lays ; But Water, I deem, hath a mightier claim To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame. Ye who are bred in Anacreon's school May sneer at my strain, as the song of a fool Ye are wise, no doubt, but have yet to learn How the tongue can cleave, and the vein? can burn. Should ye ever be one of a fainting band, With your brow to the sun and your feet to the sand; I would wager the thing I'm most loath to spare, That your Bacchanal chorus would never ring there. Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell What treasures exist in the cold, deep well; Sink in despair on the red parch'd earth, And then ye may reckon what Water is wortn. Famine is laying her hand of bone On the ship becalm'd in a torrid zone ; The gnawing of Hunger's worm is past. But fiery Thirst lives on to the last. The stoutest one of the gallant crew Hath a cheek and lips of ghastly hue ; The Lot blood stands in each glassy eye ; And, " Water, O God ! " is the only cry. There's drought in the land, and the herbage w -lead, No ripple is heard in the streamlet's bed : The herd's low bleat and the sick man's Are mournfully telling the boon we want. Let Heaven this one rich gift withhold, How soon we find it is better than gold ; And Water, I say, hath a right to claim The minstrel's song, and a tithe of fame 51 THE QUIET EYE. THE orb I like is not the one That dazzles with its lightning gleam ; That dares to look upon the sun, As though it challenged brighter beam* That orb may sparkle, flash, and roll ; Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly ; But not for me : I prize the soul That slumbers in a quiet eye. There's something in its placid shade That tells of calm, unworldly thought; Hope may be crown'd, or joy delay'd No dimness steals, no ray is caught. Its pensive language seems to say, " I know that I must close and die ; " And death itself, come when it may, Can hardly change the quiet eye. There's meaning in its steady glance, Of gentle blame or praising love ; That makes me tremble to advance A word, that meaning might reprove. The haughty threat, the fiery look, My spirit proudly can defy ; But never yet could meet and brook The upbraiding of a quiet eye. There's firmness in its even light, That augurs of a breast sincere : And, oh ! take watch how ye excite That firmness till it yield a tear. Some hosoms give an easy sigh, Sojnn Hrnps of grief will freely start ; But tnat which sears the quiet eye Hath its deep fountain in the hear! B 2 POKMS BT ELIZA COO*. SNOW. BRAVE Winter and I shall ever agree, Though a stern and frowning gaffer is '*v I like to hear him, with hail and rain, Come tapping against the window pane : I like to see him come marching forth, Begirt with the icicle gems of the north ; But I like him best when he comes bedight lu his velvet robes of stainless white. A cheer for the snow the drifting snow ; Smoother and purer than Beauty's brow ; The creature ol thought scarce likes to tread On the delicate carpet so richly spread. With feathery wreaths the forest is bound, And the hills are with glittering diadems crown'd: Tis the fairest scene we can have below. Sing, welcome, then, to the drifting snow ! The urchins gaze with eloquent eye, To see the flakes go dancing by. In the thick of the storm how happy are they To welcome the first, deep snowy day. Shouting and peltiri^ -what Hiss to fall Half-smother'd, beneath the well-aim'd ball. Men of fourscore, did ye ever know Such sport as ye had in the drifting snow ? I'm true to my theme, for I loved it well, When the gossiping nurse would sit and tell The tale of the geese though, hardly believed I doubted and quest ion'd the words that deceived. I rejoice in it still, and love to see The ermine mantle on tower and tree ; 'Tis the fairest scene we cun have below. Hurrah i men ; hurrah ! for the driltiii 53 THR GALLANT ENGLISH TAB. THBBK'S one whose fearless courage yet has never faiPdin fight; "Who guards with zeal our country's weal, our freedom, amd our right ; But though his strong and ready arm spreads havoc in its blow ; Cry " Quarter ! " and that arm will be the first to spare its foe. He recks not though proud glory's shout may be the knell of death ; The triumph won, without a sigh he yields his parting breath. He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast ! " In peace, my boys, or war, Here's to the brave upon the wave ; the Gallant English Tar." Let but the sons of Want come nigh, and tell their tale to him ; He'll chide their eyes for weeping, while his own are growing dim: " Cheer up," he cries, " we all must meet the storm as well as calm ; " But, turning on his heel, Jack slips the guineas in their palm. He'll hear no long oration, but tell you every man Is born to act a brother's part, and do what good he can. He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast ! " In peace, my boys, or war, Here's to the brave upon the wave ; the Gallant English Tar." The dark blue jacket that enfolds the sailor's manly breast ; Bears more of real honour than the star and ermine vest. The tithe of folly in his head may wake the landsman's mirth, But Nature proudly owns him as her child of sterling worth. His heart is warm, his hand is true, his word is frank and free ; And though he plays the ass on shore, he's lion of the sea. He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast ! " In peace, my boys, or war, Here's to the brave upon the wave ; the Gallant English Tar." BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. I NEVEE see a young hand hold The starry bunch of white and gold, But something warm and fresh will start About the region of my heart M POEMS BT ULIZA COOK. My smile expires into a sigh ; I feel a struggling in tbe eye. Twixt humid drop and sparkling rajr, Till rolling tears have won their wav ; For soul and brain will travel back Through Memory's chequer'd mazes To days when I but trod Life's track For " Buttercups and Daisies." Tell me, ye men of wisdom rare, Of sober speech and silver hair ; Who carry counsel, wise and sage, With all the gravity of age : Oh ! say, do ye not like to hear The accents ringing in your ear, When sportive urchins laugh and shout, Tossing those precious flowers about, Springing with bold and gleesome bound Proclaiming joy that crazes ; And chorussing the magic sound Of "Buttercups and Daisies ?" Are there, I ask, beneath the sky Blossoms that knit so strong a tie With childhood's love ? Can any please Or light the infant eye like these ? No, no ; there's not a bud on earth Of richest tint, or warmest birth, Can ever fling such zeal and zest Into the tiny hand and breast. Who does not recollect the hours When burning words and praises Were lavish'd on those shining flowers; "Buttercups and Daisies?" There seems a brieht and fairy spell About their very names to dwell ; And though old Time has mark'd my brow With care and thought, I love them now. Smile, if ye will, but some heart-strings Are closest link'd to simplest things; And these wild flowers will hold mine fast, Till love, and life, and all be past : IHB OLD FARM-GATB. And then the only wish I have Is, that the one who raises The turf-sod o'er me plant my grave With " Buttercups and Daisies." THE OLD FARM-GATE. WHEBB, where is the gate that once served to divide The elm-shaded lane from the dusty road-side P I like not this barrier gaily bedight, With its glittering latch and its trellis of white. It is seemly, I own yet, oh ! dearer by far Was the red-rusted hinge, and the weather-warp'd bar. Here are fashion and form of a modernized date, But I'd rather have look'd on the Old Farm-gate. 'Twas here where the urchins would gather to play, In the shadows of twilight, or sunny mid-day ; For the stream running nigh, and the hillocks of sand, Were temptations no dirt-loving rogue could withstand. But to swing on the gate-rails, to clamber and ride, Was the utmost of pleasure, of glory, arid pride ; And the car of the victor, or carriage of state, Never carried such hearts as the Old Farm-gate. Twas here where the miller's son paced to and fro, When the'nvxm was above and the glow-worms below ; Now pensively leaning, now twirling his stick, While the moments grew long and his heart-throbs grew quick. Why, why did lie linger so restlessly there, With church-going vestment and sprucely-comb'd hair? He loved, oh ! he loved, and had promised to wait For the one he adored, at the Old Farm-gate. Twas here where the grey-headed gossips would meet ; And the falling of markets, or goodness of wheat This iield lying fallow that heifer just bought Were favourite themes for discussion and thought. The merits and faults of a neighbour just dead The hopes of a couple about to be wed The Pa. liament doings the Bill; and Debate Were ali oanvass'd and weigh'd at the Old Farm-gate. 6f> POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. 'Twas over that gate I taught Pincher to bound With the strength of a steed and the grace of a hound. The beagle might hunt, and the spaniel might swim ; But none could leap over j'iat nostern like him. When Dobbin was saddled for mirth -making trip, And the quickly pull'd willow-branch served for a whip, Spite of lugging and tugging, he'd stand for his freight ; While I climb'd on his back from tLe Old Farm-gate. "Tis well to pass portals where pleasure and fame May come winging our moments, and gilding our nam ; But give me the joy and the freshness of mind, When, away on some sport the old gate slamm'd behind I've listen'd to music, but none that could speak In such tones to my heart as the t< h-setting creak That broke on my ear when jhe ni^nt had worn late, And the dear one:- came home through the Old Farm-gate, Oh ! fair is the barrier taking its place, But it darkens a picture my soul long'd to trace. I sigh to behold the rough staple and hasp. And the rails that my growing hand scarcely could clasp. Oh ! how strangely the warm spirit grudges to part With the commonest relic once link'd to the "noart; And the brightest of fortune the kindliest fate Would not banish my love for tho Old Farm-gate. STANZAS. THOTJ hast left us long, my mother dear ; Time's sweeping tide has run ; But fail'd to wash away the tear From the eye of thy youngest one. The heart so closely knil to thine, That held thee as its all ; Adored too fondly, to resign Its love with the coffin and pall. Thou art lost M these arms, my mother dear, But they crave to enfoW theo still; And thy spirit may find those arms entwined Round thy gravestone, damp and chill. VSX 1DIOT-BOBN. 7 The reptile thiny thy lips may greet, The shroud enwraps thy form ; But I covet the place of thy winding-sheet, And am jealous of the worm. Thou hast fled from my gaze, my mother dear, But sleep is a holy boon ; For its happy visions bring thee n IT : Ah ! why do they break f o soon ? I look around when voices ring Where thine once used to be ; And deep are the score' pangs that wring, For my eye still asks for thee. Oh ! I worship tbee yet, my mother dear, Though my idol is buried in gloom: I cannot pour my love in thine ear, But T breathe it o'er thy tomb. Death came to prove if that love would hold, When the sharpest ^rdeal tried ; But it pass'd like the Lame that testa the gold, And hath only purified. THE IDIOT-BORN. "OUT, thou silly moon-struck elf; Back, poor fool, and hide thyself!* This la wnat the wise ones say, Should the Idiot cross their way : But if we would closely mark, We should see him not all dark ; We should find vro must not scorn The teaching of the Idiot-born. He will screen the newt and frog ; He will cheer the famish'd dog; He will seek to share his brsad With the orphan, parish fed: He will offer up his jeat To the stranger's wearied feet : Selfish tyrants, do not scorn The teaching - f the Idiot-born 68 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Use him fairly, he will prove How the simple breast can love ; He will spring with infant glee To the form he likes to see. Gentle speech, or kindness done ; Truly binds the witless one. Heartless traitois, do not scorn The teaching of the Idiot-born. He will point with vacant stare At the robes p~oud churchmen wear ; But he'll pluck the rose, and tell, God hath painted it right well. He will kneel before his food, Softly saying, " God is good." Haughty prelates, do not scorn The teaching of the Idiot-born. Art thou great as man can be ? The same hand moulded him and thee. Hast thou talent ? Taunt and jeer Must not fall upon his ear. Spurn him not ; the blemish'd part Had better be the head than heart Thou wilt be the fool to scorn The teaching of the Idiot-born. THE STAB OF GLENGARY. THE red moon is up, o'er the moss-cover'd mountain ; The hour is at hand when I promised t rove "With the turf-cutter's daughter, by Logan's bright water] And tell her how truly her Donald can love. I ken, there's the miller, wi' plenty o' siller, Would fain win a glance from her beautiful 'ee; But my ain bonnie Mary, the star o' Glengary, Keeps a' her sweet smiles, and saft kisses, for me. Tis lang sin' we first trod the Highlands togither, Twa frolicsome bairns, gaily starting the deer ; When I ca'd her iny life ! my ain, bonnie, wee wife, And ne'er knew sic joy as when Mary was near. THE WATEBS. 39 And still she's the blossom I wear in my bosom, A blossota I'll cherish and wear till I dee ; For my ain bonnie Mary, the star o' Glengary ! She's health, and she's wealth, and she's a' good to me. THE WATERS. WHAT was it that I loved so well about my childhood's home P It was the wide and wave-lash'd shore, the black rocks, crown'd with foam It was the sea-gull's flapping wing, all trackless in its flight ; Its screaming note that welcomed on, the fierce and stormy night. The wild heath had its flowers and moss, the forest had its trees, Which, bending to the evening wind, made music in the breeze: But earth, ha! ha! I laugh e'en now, earth had no charms for mej No scene half bright enough to win my young heart from the sea! No ! 'twas the ocean, vast and deep, the fathomless, the free ! The mighty rushing waters that were ever dear to me ! My earliest steps would wander from the green and fertile land, Down where the clear blue ocean roll'd, to pace the rugged strand ; I'd proudly fling the proffer'd bribe and gilded toy away, To gather up the salt sea weeds, or dabble in the sjiray ! I shouted to the distant crew, or launch'd my mimic bark ; I met the morning's freshness there, and linger'd till the dark ; When dark, I climb'd, with bounding step, the steep and jutting cliff; To see them trim the beacoc-light to guide the fisher's skiff! Oh ! how I loved the waters, and even long'd to be A bird, or boat, or anything that dwelt upon the Sea. The moon ! the moon ! oh, tell me, do ye love her placid ray ? Do ye love the shining starry train that gainers round her way? Oh ! if ye do, go watch her when she climbs above the main, While her full transcript lives below, upon the crystal plain. While her soft li%ht serenely falls ; and rising billows seem Like sheets of silver spreading forth to meet her haliow'd beam: Look ! arid thy boul will own the spell ; thou'lt feel as 1 have felt; Thou'lt love the waves as I have loved, and kneel as I have knelt; And, wen 1 know, the prayer of saint or martyr ne'er could be More fervent in its faitb than mine, beside the moon-lit Sea. 60 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. I liked not those who nurtured me ; they gave my bosom pain ; They strove to fix their shackles on a soul that spurn'd the chain: I grew rebellious to their hope, disdainful of tholr core ; And all they dreaded most, my spirit loved the most to dare. And am I changed? have I become a tame and fashion'd thing? Have I yet learn'd to sing the joys that pleasure's minions sing? Is there a smile upon my brow, when mix'd with folly's crowd ? Is the false whisper dearer than the storn -wail, shrill and loud? No ! no ! my soul is as it was, and as it e'er will be Loving, and wild as what it loves, the curbless, mighty Sea, THE POET. LOOK on the sky, all broad and fa?-- ; Sons of the earth, what see ye there ? The rolling clouds to feast thine eye With golden burnish and Tyrian dye; The rainbow's arch, the sun of noon, The stars of eve, the midnight moon : These, these to the coldest gaze are bright, They are mark'd by all for their glory and light , But their colour and rays shed a richer beam As they shine to illumine the Poet's dream. Children of pleasure, how ye dote On the dulcet harp and tuneful note; Holding your breath to drink the strain, Till throbbing joy dissolves in pain. There's not a spell aught else can fling Like the warbling voice and l he silver string : But a music to other ears unknown, Of deepei iirill and sweeter tone, Comes in the wild and gurgling stream To the Poet rapt in his blissful dream. The earth may have its buried stores Of lustrous jewels, and coveted ore; Ye may gather hence the marble stont To house a monarch or wall a throne ; Its gold may fill the grasping hand, Its gems may flash in the sceptre wand; THE POET. 61 But purer treasures, and Bearer things Than the coins of misers, or trappings of kings ' Gifts and hoards of a choicer kind, Are $; -rner'd up in the Poet's mind. The mother so loves, that the world holds none To match with her own fair lisping one ; The wedded youth will nurture his bride, With all the fervour of passion and pride ; Hands will press, and beings blend, Till the kindliest ties knit friend to friend. Oh ! the hearts of the many can truly burn, They cm fondly cherish, and closely yearn; But the flame of love is more vivid and strong, That kindles within a child of song. Life Lath nnich of grief and pain To sicken the breast, and tire the brain; All brows are shaded by sorrow's cloud, All eyes are dinnn'd, all spirits bow'd ; Sighs will break from the careworn breast, Till de th :s ask'd as a pillow of rest; But the gifted one, oh ! who can tell How his pulses beat, and his heart's strings swell. His quivering pain, his throbbing woe None but himself and his GOD can know. Crowds may join in the festive crew, Their hours may be glad, and their pleasures true; They may gaily carouse, and fondly believe There's no greater bliss for the soul to receive. But ask th? Poet if he will give His exquisite moments, like them to live : A 1 3 the scornful smile on his lips will play, 1 ;: ye will flash with exulting ray; For he knows aud feels to him is given The joys that yield a glimpse of heaven. Oh ! there's something holy about each spot Where the weary sleep, and strife comes not ; And the good and great ones, pass'd away, Have worshippers still o'er their soulless clay ; But the dust of the Bard is most hallow'd and dear, Tis moisteu'd and blest by the warmest tear ; 62 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. The prayers of the worthiest breathe his name, Mourning his loss, and guarding his fame ; And the truest homage the dead can have, Is pourM from the heart, at the Poet's grave. THE SONG OF MARION. She sat down again to look, but her eyes were blinded with tearsj nd, in a voice interrupted by sighs, she exclaimed " Not yet, not yet. Oh, my Wallace, what evil hath betided thee? " SCOTTISH CHIEFS. NOT yet, not yet ! I thought I saw The foldings of his plaid ; Alas ! 'twas but the mountain pine, That cast a fitful shade. The moon is o'er the highest crag, It gilds each tower and tree ; But Wallace comes not back to blesg The hearts in Ellerslie. Not yet, not yet ! Is that his plume I see beneath the hill ? Ah, no ! 'tis but the waving fern ; The heath is lonely still. Dear Wallace, day-star of my soul, Thy Marion weeps for thee; She fears lest evil should betide The guard of Ellerslie. Not yet, not yet ! I heard a sound, A distant crashing din ; 'Tis but the night-breeze bearing on The roar of Corie Lin. The grey-hairM harper cannot rest, He keeps his watch with me ; He kneels he prays that Heaven may shield The laird of Ellerslie. NOT yet, not yet ! My heart will break : j Where can the brave one stay ? I know 'tis not his own free will That keeps him thus away. THB GIPSY CHIEF. The lion may forsake bis lair, The dove its nest may flee, But Wallace loves too well, to leave His bride and Ellerslie. Not yet, not yet ! The moon goes down, And Wallace is not here ; And still bis sleuth-hound howls, and still I shed the burning tear. Oh, come, my Wallace, quickly come, As ever, safe and free : Come, or thy Marion soon will find A grave in Ellerslie. THE GIPSY CHILD. HE sprung to life hi a crazy tent, Where the cold wind whistled through many a rent; Rude was the voice, and rough were the hands That soothed bis wailings, and swathed his bands. No tissue of gold, no lawn was there, No snowy robe for the new-born heir ; But the mother wept, and the father smiled With heartfelt joy o'er their Gipsy child. He grows like the young oak, healthy and broad, With no home but the forest, no bed but the sward; Half-naked, he wades in the limpid stream, Or dances about in the scorching beam. The dazzling glare of the banquet sheen Hath never fallen on him, I ween ; But fragments are spread, and the wood-fire piled ; And sweet is the meal of the Gipsy child. He wanders at large, while maidens admira His raven hair and his eyes of fire ; They mark his cheek's rich tawny hue, With the deep carnation flushing through: He laughs aloud, and they covet his teeth, All pure and white as their own pearl wreatn ; And the courtly dame, and damsel mild, Will turn to gaze on the Gipsy child. 64 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. dp with the sun, he is r mng along, Whistling to mimic the blackbird's song ; He wanders at nightfall to start 1 o the owl, A:-,'- is baying again to the watch-dog's howL His limbs are unshackled, his spirit is bold, He is free from the evils of fashion and gold : His dower is scant and his life is wild, But kings might envy the Gipsy child. NATURE'S GENTLEMAN. WHOM do we dub as Gentlemen ? The knave, the fool, th brute If they but own full tithe of gold, and wear a courtly suit ; The parchment scroll of titled line, the riband at the knee ; Can still suffice to ratify and grant such high derrree : But Nature with a matchless hand, sends forth her nobly born, And laughs the paltry attributes of wealth r.nd rai.k to scorn; She moulds with care, a spirit rare, half human, half divine ; And cries, exulting, " Who can make a Gentleman like mine ?" She may not spend her common skill about the outward part, But showers beauty, grace, and light, upon the brain and heart ; She may not use ancestral fame his pathway to illume The sun that sheds the brightest ray may rise rom mist and gloom. Should Fortune pour her welcome store, and useful gold abound, He shares it with a bounteous hand, and scatters blessings round. The treasure sent, is rightly spent, and serves the end design'd, When held by Nature's Gentleman, the good, the just, the kind. He turns not from the cheerless home, where Sorrow's offspring dwell ; He'll greet the peasant in his hut, the culprit in his cell: He stays to hear the widow's plaint, of deep and mourning love . He seeks to aid her lot below, and prompt her faith above. The orphan child, the friendless one, the luckl ?s, or the poor, Will never meet his spurning frown, nor leave his bolted door ; His kindred circles all mankind, his country all the globe An honest name his jewell'd star, and Truth his ermine robe. NO RAH M'SHANE. on He wisely yields his passions up to Ren?on's firm control His pleasures are of urimeless kind, and never taint the soul. He may be thrown among the gay and reckless sons of life : But will not love the revel scene, nor head the brawling strife. He wounds no breast with jeer or jest, yet bears no honey'd tongue ; He's social with the grey-hair'd one, and merry with the young ; He gravely shares the council speech, or joins the rustic game ; And shines as Nature's Gentleman, in every place the same. No haughty gesture marks his gait, no pompous tone his word ; No studied attitude is seen, no ribald gossip heard ; He'll suit his healing to the hour laugh, listen, learn or teach ; With joyous freedom in his mirth, and candour in his speech. He worships God with inward zeal, and serves him in each deed ; He would not blame another's faith, nor have one martyr bleed ; Justice and Mercy form his code ; he puts his trust in Heaven : His prayer is, "If the heart mean well, may all else be forgiven !" Though few of such may gem the earth, yet such rare gems there are: Essh shining in his hallow'd sphere as Virtue's polar star. Though human hearts too oft are found all gross, con upt, and dark, Yet, yet, some bosoms breathe and burn, lit by Promethean spark : There are some spirits nobly just, unwarp'd by pelf or pride, Great in the calm, but greater still when dashed by adverse tide, They hold the rank no king can give, no station can disgrace : Nature puts forth her Gentleman, and monarchs must give place. NOEAH M'SHANE. I'VE left Ballymornach a long way behind me ; To better my fortune I've cross'd the big sea ; But I'm sadly alone, not a creature to mind me, And, faith ! I'm as wretched as wretched can be. I think of the buttermilk, fresh as a daisy ; The beautiful hills and the emerald plain ; And oh ! don't I oftentimes think myself crazy, About that young black-eyed rogue, Norah M'Shane 66 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. 1 sigh for the turf-pile, so cheerfully burning, When barefoot 1 trudged it, from toiling afar; When I toss'd in the light the thirteen I'd been earning, And whistled the anthem of " Erin-go-bragh." In truth, I believe that I'm half broken-hearted ; To my country and love I must get back again ; For I've never been happy at all since I parted From sweet Ballymornach and Norah M'Shane. Oh ! there's something so dear in the cot I was born in, Though the walls are but mud, and the roof is but thatch. ! How familiar the grunt of the pigs in the morning, What music in lifting the rusty old latch ! 'Tis true I'd no money, but then I'd no sorrow ; My pockets were light, but my heart had no pain ; And if I but live till the sun shines to-morrow, I'll be off to old Ireland and Norah M'Shane. TRUTH. Tis passing sad to note the face Where haggard Grief has taken its place ; Where the soul's keen anguish can but speak In the glist'ning larh and averted cheek When the restless o/bs, with struggling pride, Swell with the tears they fain would hide, Till the pouring drops and heaving throbs Burst forth in strong impassion'd sobs. 'Tis fearful to mark where Passion reigns, With gnashing teeth and starting veins; When the redden'd eyeballs flash and glare. With dancing flame in their maniac stare ; When fury sits on the gather'd brow, With quivering muscle and fiery glow : 'Tis fearful indeed just then to scan The lineaments of God- like man. 'Tis sad to gaze on the forehead fair, And mark the work of Suffering there; When the oozing pain-wrung moisture drips, And whiteness dwells round the parted lips ; THE SEXTON. When the breath on those lips is so short and faint That it falters in yielding the lowest plaint : Who does not sigh to read such tale On cheeks all shadowy and pale ? But have ye watch'd the mien that bore A look to be feaPd and pitied more Have ye seen the crimson torrent steal O'er the one who has err*d, and yet can./eeZ When the stammering speech and downcast eye Quail'd from the mean detected lie ? Have ye mark'd the conscious spirit proclaim Its torture 'neath the brand of shame ? Oh ! this to me is the look which hath More hideous seeming than honest wrath. Let pain distort with its harrowing might, Or sorrow rob the glance of its light ; Yet the pallid chill, or the fever'd flush, Sears less than Falsehood's scathing blush : Nay, look on the brow ; 'tis better to trace The lines of Death than the shade of Disgrace. THE SEXTON. " MINB is the fame most blazon'd of all ; Mine is the goodliest trade ; Never was banner so wide as the pall, Nor sceptre so fear'd as the spade." This is the lay of the sexton grey ; King of the churchyard he- While the mournful knell of the tolling bell, Chimes in with his burden of glee. He dons a doublet of sober brown And a hat of slouching felt ; The mattock is over his shoulder thrown, The heavy keys clank at his belt. The dark, damp vault now echoes his treao, While his song rings merrily out ; With a cobweb canopy over his head, And coffins falling about. F 2 66 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. His foot may crush the full-fed worms, His hand may grasp a shroud ; His gaze may rest on skeleton forms, Yet his tones are light and loud. He digs the grave, and his chant will break, As he gains a fathom deep 14 Whoever lies in the bed I make I warrant will soundly sleep." He piles the sod, he raises the stone, He clips the cypress-tree ; But whate'er his task, 'tis plied alone ; No fellowship holds he. For the sexton grey is a scaring loon ; His name is link'd with death. The children at play, should he cross their way Will pause, with fluttering breath. They herd together, a frighten'd host, And whisper with lips all white, " See, see, 'tis he that sends the ghost, To walk the world at night ! " The old men mark him, with fear in their eye. At his labour 'mid skulls and dust ; They hear him chant : "The young may die, But we know the aged must." The rich will frown, as his ditty goes on " Though broad y >ur lands may be ; Six narrow feet to the beggar I mete, And the same shall . vrve for ye." Thr "ar of the strong will turn from his song, And Beauty's cheek v.ill pale; " Out, out," cry they, " what creature would staf. To list thy croaking tale ! " Oh ! tit 3 sexton gre: is a mortal of dread ; None like to see him come near ; The orphan thinks on a father dead, The widow wipes a tear. All shudder to hear his bright axe chink, Upturning the hollow bone ; No mate will share his toil or his fare, He works, he carouses alone. OALLA BRAE. By night, or by day, this, this, is his lay : " Mine is the goodliest trade ; Kever was banner so wide as the pall, Nor sceptre so fear'd as the spade." GALLA BRAE. O, TELL me, did ye ever see Sweet Galla on a simmer night, When ilka star had oped its e'e, An' tipp'd the broom wi' saft, pale light ? Ye'd never gang toward the town, Ye wadna like the flauntie day ; If ance ye saw the moon blink down Her bonnie beams on Galla Brae. A' silent, save the whimplin tune, The win's asleep, nae leaflet stirs : gie me Galla 'neath the moon, Its siller birk, and gowden furw. There's monie anither leesome glen, But let 'em talk o' whilk they may, O' a' the rigs an' shaws I ken, There's nane sae fair as Galla Brae. 1 crept a wee thing 'mang its heath, A laughing laddie there I s'ray'd ; I roved beside its burnie's tide In morning air, an' gloaming shade Its gowans were the first I pu'd, An' still my leal heart loves it sae, That when I dee, nae grave would be Sic hallow'd earth as Galla Brae. THE CLOUDS. BEAUTIFUL Clouds ! I have watched ya long Fickle and bright as a fairy throng ; Now ye have gathered golden beams, Now ye are parting in silver streams, Now ye are tinged with a roseate blush. Deepening fast to a crimson flush; 7tt POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Now, like aerial sprites at play, Ye are lightly dancing another way ; Melting in many a pearly flake, Like the cygnet's down on the azure lake ; Now ye gather again, and run To bask in the blaze of a setting sun ; And anon ye serve as Zephyr's car, Flitting before the evening star. Now ye ride in mighty form, With the arms of a giant to nurse the storm ; Ye grasp the lightning, and fling it on earth, All flashing and wild as a maniac's mirth. Ye cavern the thunder, and bravely it roars, While the forest groans, and the avalanche pours ; Ye launch the torrent with headlong force, Till the rivers hiss in their boiling course ; Ye come, and your trophies are scattered around In the wreck on the waters, the oak on the ground. Oh 1 where is the eye that doth not love The glorious phantoms that glide above ? That hath not look'd on the realms of air, With wondering soul, and bursting prayer ! Oh ! where is the spirit that hath not bow'd At the holy shrine of a passing cloud ? HANG UP HIS HARP; HE'LL WAKE NO MORE! His young bride stood beside his bed, Her weeping watch to keep ; Hush ! hush ! he stirr'd not was he dead, Or did he only sleep ? His brow was calm, no change was there, No sigh had ull'd his breath ; Oh ! did he wear that smile so fair In slumber, or in death ? " Beach down his harp," she wildly cried, * Aud if one spark remain, Let him but hear 'Loch Erroch's side; 1 He'll kindle at the strain. THE POET'S WBEATH. 71 Tt tune e'er held his soul in thrall ; It] ever breathed in vain: He'53 waken as its echoes fall. Or never wake again." The strings were swept ; 'twas sad to hear Sweet music floating there ; For every note called forth a tear Of anguish and despair. " See ! see ! " she cried, " the tune is o'er No opening eye, no breath : Hang up his harp ; he'll wake no more; He sleeps the sleep of death." THE POET'S WREATH. JOVE said one day, he should like to know What would part the child of song from his lyre ; And he summon'd his minions, and bade them go, With all their bribes and powers, below; Nor return till they wrought his desire. The agents departed Jove's will must be done; They vow'd to perform the deed full soon : Vainly they search'd in the crowd and the sun, But at last they found a high-souPd one, Alone with his harp and the moon. Fortune first tempted : she scatter'd her gold, And placed on his temples a gem-bright rim ; But he scarcely glanced on the wealth as it roll'd ; He said the circlet was heavy and cold, And only a burden to him. Venus came next, and she whisper'd rare things, And praised him for scorning the bauble and peV' She promised him Peris in all but the wine;? ; But he laugh'd, and told her, with those soft strings, He could win such creatures himself. Oppression and Poverty tried their spell ; Nigh sure he would quail at such stern behest ; His pittance was scant, in a dark dank cell, Where the foam-spitting toad would not choose to dwell; But he still hugg'd the harp to his breast. 77 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. They debated what effort the next should be, When Death strode forth with his ponderous dart ; He held it aloft " Te should know," cried he, " This work can only be done by me ; So, at once, my barb to his heart ! " It struck ; but the last faint flash of his eye "Was thrown on the lyre as it fell from his hand : The trophy was seized, and they sped to the sky, Where the Thunderer flamed in his throne on high ; And told how they did his command. Jove heard, and he scowl'd with a gloomier frown ; 'Twas the cloud Pride lends to keep Sorrow unseen He put by his sceptre, and flung his bolt down ; And snatch'd from the glory that halo'd his crown. The rays of most burning sheen. He haste ..M to earth ; by the minstrel he knelt ; And fashion'd the beams round his brow in a wreath ; He ordain'd it Immortal, to dazzle, to melt ; And a portion of Godhead since then has e'er dwelt On the Pool; that slumbers in death. THE ENGLISHMAN. THEBE'S a land that bears a world-known name, Though it is but a little spot ; I say 'tis first on the scroll of Fame, And who shall say it is not? Of the deathless ones who shine and live In Arms, in Arts, or Song ; The brightest the whole wide world can give To that little land belong. 'Tis the star of earth deny it who can ; The island home of an Englishman. There's a flag that waves o'er every sea, No matter when or where ; And to treat that flag as aught but the free Is more than the strongest dare. For the lion spirits that tread the deck Have carried the palm of the brave , And that flag may sink with a shot-torn wreck. But never float over a slave. STANZAS. ?6 Pull many a mile thou'st borne me Gyp, Without a stumble, shy, or sl ; p ; Excepting, when that deep morass, All overgrown with weeds and grass, Betray'd us to a headlong tumble, And made me feel a little humble ; But on we went, though well bespatter'd ; Thy knees uncut, my bones unshatter'd. My gentle Gyp ! I've seen thee prow How fast a tiny steH can move ; I've seen thee keep the foremost place, And win the hard-contested race I've seen thee lift as light a leg As Tarn O'Shanter's famous Meg, Who gallop'd on rigUt helter-skelter, With goblins in her rear to pelt her ; And, closely press'd by evil kind, Left her unhappy tail behind. Stop 'air and softly, gentle Gyp I've jingled thus far in our trip ; But now we're nigh the well-known gate; So steady stand at ease and wait While I restore to hiding-place My paper and my pencil-case ; Stand steady and another time I'll sing thy praise in better rhyme. STANZAS. TlS well to give honour and glory to Age, With its lessons of wisdom and truth ; Yet who would not go back to the fanciful page, And the fairy tale read but in Youth ? Let time rolling on cro^vn w< ; i fame or with gold- Let us bask in the kindliest beams ; Yet what hope can be cherish'd, what gift can we hold, That will bless like our earlier dreams ? As wine that hath stood for a while on the board May yet glow as the luscious and bright ; But not with th n freshness, when first it was pour'd. Nor its brim-kissing sparkles of light : 74 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Down to the school-house, where the boys Greet us with rude, caressing noise; Where urchins leave their balls and bats, To stroke thy neck with fondling pats ; Where laughing girls bring tares and hay. And coax thy ears ; well knowing they Can sport right fearlessly and free With such a gentle brute as thee P Or shall we take the sandy road Toward the wealthy squire's abode, Where the lodge gate swings freely back, To let us take the well-known track ? I'll warrant me, that gate tbou'dst find, Though reinless, riderless, and blind. Thou'rt restless, Gyp ; come start, and go ;- You take the hill ; well, be it so The squire's abode, I plainly see, Has equal charms for you and me. 'Tis there thou ari allow'd to pick The corners of the clover rick ; Tis there by lady's hand thou'rt fed On pulpy fruit, and finest bread. The squire himself declares thou art The prettiest pony round the part : Nor black, nor chesnut, roan, nor grey Can match with thy rich, glossy bay. He says, thy neck's proud, curving line The artist's pencil might define ; With blood and spirit, yet so mild, A fitting playmate for a child ; So meekly docile, thou'rt indeed More like a pet lamb than a steed ; That when thou'rt gone, St. Leonard's plain Will never see thy like again ! He says all this ! No wonder, then, I think the squire the best of men ; For they who praise thy form and paces, Are sure to get in my good graces. The squire tells truth ; to say the least, Thou really art a clever beast : A better one, take altogether, Ne'er look'd from out a hempen tether TO A FAVOTJBITB PONY. 7* 'its honour is stainless, deny it who can; And this is the flag of an Englishman. There's a heart that leaps with burning glow, The wrongM and the weak to defend ; And strikes as soon for a trampled foe ; As it does for a soul-hound friend. It nurtures a deep and honest love ; It glows with faith and pride ; And yearns with the fondness of a dove. To the light of its own fireside. 'Tis a rich, rough gem, deny it who can ; And this is the heart of an Englishman. The Briton may traverse the pole or the zone And boldly claim his right ; For he calls such a vast domain his own, That the sun never sets on his might. Let the haughty stranger seek to know The place of his home and birth ; And a flush will pour from cheek to brow ; While he tells his native earth. For a glorious charter, deny it who can ; Is breathed in the words " I'm an Englishman.* TO A FAVOUEITE PONT. COMB, hie thee on, my gentle Gyp ; Thy rider bears nor spur nor whip, But smooths thy jetty, shining mane. And loosely flings the bridle rein. The sun is down behind the hill, The noise is hush'd about the mill ; The gabbling geese and ducks forsake Their sports upon the glassy lake , The herd-boy folds his bleating charge, The watch-dog, chainless, roves at large; The bees are gather*d in the hive, The evening flowers their perfumes give. On, on, my gentle Gyp ! but stay ; Say, whither shall we bend our way ? POEM9 BY ELIZA COOK. As the flowers live on in their fragrance and bloom, The long summer-day to adorn ; Yet fail with their beauty to charm and illume, As when clothed with the dew gems of morn. So Life may retain its full portion of joy, And Fortune give all that she can ; But the feelings that gladden the breast of the ftojr Will rarely be found in the man. ABC. OH ! thou Alpha, Beta row, Fun and freedom's earliest foe ; Shall I e'er forget the primer, Thumb'd beside some ' ' rs. Trimmer, While mighty problem ueld me fast, To know if Z were first or last ? And all Pandora had for me Was emptied forth in A 15 C. Teasing things of toil and trouble, Fount f many a rolling bubble : How I strived with pouting pain, To get thee quarter'd on uiy brain ; But when the giant foat was done, How nobly wide the field I'd won ! Wit, Reason, Wisdom, all might be Enjoyed through simple ABC. Steps !hat lead to topmost height Of worldly fame and human might; Ye win the orator's renown, The poet's bays, the scholar's gown ; Philosophers must bend and say 'Twas ye who oped their glorious way. Sage, sta< jsman, critic, where is he Who's not obliged to A B C It Ye really ought to be exempt From slighting taunt and cool contempt^ But drinking deep from learning's cup, We scorn the hand that fill'd it up. A LOVE-S05O. Be courteous, pedants stay and thank Tour servants of the Roman rank, For F.RJ3. and LLJX Can only spring from ABC. A LOVE-SONG. DZAB KATE I do not swear and rave Or sigh swe*t things as many can ; But though my lip ne'er plays the glare, My heart will not disgrace the man. I prize thee ay, my bonnie Kate, So firmly fond this breast can be; That I would brook the sternest (ate If it but left me health and thee. I do not promise that our life Shall know no shade on heart or brow; For human lot and mortal strife Would mock the falsehood of such TOW. But when the clouds of pain and care Shall teach us we ar, not divine; My deepest sorrows thou ehalt share, And 1 wilt strive to lighten thine. We lore each other, yet perchance The murmurs of dissent may rise ; Fierce words may chase the tender glance, And angry flashes light our eyes : But we must learn to c' eck the frown, To reason rather than to blame ; The wisest have their fault* to own, And yon and I, girl, have the i Tou must not like me less, my Kate, For such an honest strain as this ; I lore thee dearly, but I hate The puling r'u mes of " kiss" and " bun." There's truth iu all I've said or s>.ng; 1 woo thee as a man thonld woo ; And though I lack a honeyM tongue, Thou'lt never find a breast more true. 78 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. NAB STAB WAS GLINTIN OUT ABOON4 NAB star was glintin out aboon, The cluds were dark and hid the moon ; The whistling gale was in my teeth, And round me was the deep snaw wreath; But on I went the dreary mile, And sung right cantie a' the while I gae my plaid a closer fauld ; My hand was warm, my heart was bauld, I didna heed the storm and cauld, While ganging to my Katie. But when I trod the same way back, It seem'd a sad and waefu' track ; The brae and glen were lone and lang; I didna sing my cantie sang; I felt how sharp the sleet did fa', And couldna face the wind at a*. Oh, sic a change ! how could it be ? I ken fu' well, and sae may ye The sunshine had been gloom to me While ganging frae my Katie. CUPID'S ARROW. TOTTNO Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day, And besought him to look at his arrow. " 'Tis useless," he cried ; " you must mend it, I say ! 'Tis n't fit to let fly at a sparrow. There's something that's wrong in the shaft or the dart^ For it flutters, quite false to my aim ; 'Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart, And the world really jests at my name. "I have straighten'd, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare; I've perfum'd it with sweetest of sighs ; Tis featherM with ringlets my mother might wear, And the barb gleams with light from younj ftyes ; But it falls without touching I'll break it, I >ow. For there's Hymen beginning to pout ; He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low That Zephyr might puff it right out." 80KO OF THE CABEION CBOW. .Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale, Till Vulcan the weapon restored. 'There, take it, young sir; try it now if it fail, I will ask neither fee nor reward." The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made ; TLe wounded and dead were untold : But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade, For the arrow was laden with gold. SONG OF THE CARRION CROW. THE wolf may howl, the jackal may prowl, Rare brave beasts are they ; The worm may crawl in the carcass foul, The tiger may glut o'er his prey : The bloodhound may hang with untired fang, He is cunning and strong, I trow ; But Death's stanch crew holds none more true Than the broad-wing'd Carrion Crow. My roost is the creaking gibbet's beam, "Where the murderer's bones swing bleaching ; Where the clattering chain rings back again To the night-wind's desolate screeching. To and fro, as the fierce gusts blow, Merrily rock'd am I ; 4nd I note with delight the traveller's fright As he cowers and hastens by. I sv^nt the deeds of fearful crime ; I wheel o'er the parricide's head ; I have watch'd the sire, who, mad with ire, The blood of his child hath shed. can chatter the tales at which The ear of innocence starts ; And ye would not mark my plumage as dark If ye saw it beside some hearts. 1 have seen the friend sprint; out as a fr* And the guest waylay his ho* 4 And many a right arm jit ^ie a uiow The lips never 4ared to boast, 90 POEMS BT ELIZA COOK. I have seen the soldier, millions adored, Do other than deed of the brave ; When he wore a mask as well as a sword, And dug a midnight grave. I have flutter^ where secret work has been done. Wrought with a trusty blade ; But what aid I care, whether foul or fair, If I shared the feast it made ? A struggle, a cry, a hasty gash ; A short and heavy groan ! Revenge was sweet its work was complete The dead and I were alone ! I plunged my beak in the marbling cheek, I perch'd on the clammy brow; And a dainty treat was that fresh meat To the greedy Carrion Crow. I have follow'd the traveller, dragging on O'er the mountains long and cold ; For I kne \ at last he must sink iu the blari^ Though syiric was never so bold. I howr'd close ; his limbs grew stark- His life-stream stood to congeal ; And I whetted my claw, for I plainly saw 1 should soon have another meal. He fell, a 1 slept like a fair young bride, In his winding-sheet of snow ; And quickly his breast had a table guest In the hungry Carrion Crow. If my pinions ache in the journey I tak^ No resting-place will do Till I light alone on a churchyard stone, Or a branch of the gloomy yew. Famine and Plague bring joy to ma, .For I love the harvest they yield ; And the fairest sight I ever sec Is the crimson battle-field. Far an wide is my cbarnel range, And rich carousal I keep ; Till back I come to my gibbet home, To be merrily rock'd to sleep. THE YOUNG MABINEES. 81 When the world shall be spread with tombless dead, And darkness shroud all below ; What triumph and glee to the last will be, For the sateless Carrion Crow ! THE YOUNG MARINERS. BRED up beside the rugged coast, three brothers bold were we ; Wild urchin mariners, who knew no play-place but the sea: We spurn'd all space the earth could give the valley, hill, and field; The main, the boundless main alone, our reckless sports could yield. We long had borrow'd sail and skiff, obliged to bo content With any crazy, sluggard hull, that kindly fisher lent : At last our spirits, like our limbs, all strong and broad had grown ; And all our thoughts were centred in " a vessel of our own .' " The eldest-born, our hope and pride, the brightest of the three, Had enter'd on the busy world, a sturdy shipwright he ; And mighty project fill'd our heads we sat in council sage, With earnest speech and gravity beseeming riper age : We dared to think, we dared to say, that he could frame a boat, And many others said the same, but question'd " would itJJoat ?" Yet lines were drawn and timbers bought; all well and wisely plann'd ; And steadily he set to work to try his " 'prentice hand." He soon gave proof of goodly skill, and built a tiny craft ; While grey-hair'd sailors shook their heads and beardless lands- men laugh'd. " "Tis a sweet cockleshell," cried they, " well form'd to please a boy ; With silken sails the thing will be a pretty water toy ! " We took their taunts all quietly, till she was fit to launch ; And then some eyes began to find she look'd a little stanch. All trim and neat, rigg'd out complete, wehail'd our fairy bark, And choSe her name the Petrel, from the bird of storm and dark. We three, and Will, the smuggler's son, composed her stripling crew ; Her sheets were white as breaker's spray, her pennon old trae blue; C 8 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. And blessed was the breezy hour, and happy wights were we, When first we gave her wings the wind, and saw her take the sea, She clear'd the bay, and shot away with free and steady speed ; Ne'er faster sped the desert child upon his Arab steed ; And though that squally day had served the fishers to deter ; The Petrel fairly show'd us, that it fail'd to frighten her. We reePd she slack'd; "Helm down!" she tack'd: she scudded went about : All nobly done, our hopes were won what triumph filPd our shout ! And miser never prized his heaps, nor bridegroom loved his bride; As we did our brave Petrel when she cut the booming tide. Full many a fearful trip we made ; no hazard did we shun ; We met the gale as readily as butterflies the sun : No terror seized our glowing hearts; the blast but raised our mirth ; We felt as safe upon her planks, as by our household hearth. When many a large and stately ship lay rolling like a log, With more of water in her hold than that which served for grog, "What ho!" we'd cry, while skimming by, "look here, ye boasting band ! Just see what boys with water toys and silken sails can stand !" Old Nep might lash his dolphins on with fierce and splashing wrath, A nd summon all the myrmidons of death about his path ; The Triton trumpeter might sound his conch-horn long and loud, Till scaly monsters woke and toss'd the billows to the cloud. Tho Nereids might scream their glee, bluff Boreas howl and rave; Hut still the little Petrel was as saucy as the wave. By day or night, in shade or light, a fitting mate was she To ramble with her sponsor-bird, and live on any sea. She tempted with a witching spell, she lured us to forget A sister's fear, a mother's tear, a father's chiding threat : Away we'd dash through foam and flash, and take the main aa soon Atnid the scowling tempest as beneath the summer moon. THE HEAET THAT'S TBUE. 83 Some thirty years of toil and moil have done their work since then; And changed us three young mariners to staid and thoughtful men: But when by lucky chance we meet, we ne'er forget to note The perils that we dared with such a " wee thing " of a boat. Oh ! were it so that time could give some chosen moments back, Full well we know the sunniest that ever lit life's track ; "We'd ask the days beside the coast, of freedom, health, and joy The ocean for our play-place, and the Petrel for our toy. THE HEART THAT'S TEUE. TELL me not of sparkling gems, Set in regal diadems, You may boast your diamonds rare, Rubies bright, and pearls so fair ; But there's a peerless gem on earth, Of richer ray and purer worth ; 'Tis priceless, but 'tis worn by few- It is, it is the heart that's true. Bring the tulip and the rose, While their brilliant beauty glows ; Let the storm-cloud fling a shade, Rose and tulip both will fade : But there's a flower that still is found, When mist and darkness close around ; Changeless, fadeless in its hue It is, it is the heart that's true. Ardent in its earliest tie, Faithful in its latest sigh, Love and Friendship, godlike pair, Find their throne of glory there. Proudly scorning bribe and threat, Naught can break the seal once set; All the evil gold can do Cannot warp the heart that's true. First in Freedom's cause to bleed, First in joy when slaves are freed j a 2 84 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Their hearts were true and what could qu*3 The might of Washington or Tell ? Oh ! there in one mortal shrine Lighted up with rays divine : Seek it, yield the homage due ; Deify the h^art that's true. NIGHT. THE God of Day is speeding his way Through the golden gates of the West j The rosebud sleeps in the parting ray, - The bird is seeking its nent. I love the light yet welcome, Night ; For beneath thy darkling fall ; The troubled breast is soothed in rest, And the slave forgets his thralL The peasant child, all strong and wild. Is growing quiet and meek ; All fire is hid 'neath his heavy lid, The lashes yearn to the cheek. He loves no more in gamesome glee, But hangs his weary head ; And loiters beside the mother's kneo, To ask his lowly bed. The butterflies fold their wings of gold. The dew falls chill in the bower ; The cattle wait at the kineyard gate, The bee hath forsaken the flower: The roar of the city is dying fast, Its tongues no longer thri" : The hurrying tread is faint at last^ The artisan's hammer is still. Night steals apace : she rules supreme; A hallow'd calm is shed : No footstep breaks, no whisper waki 'Tis the silence of the dead. THIS IS THE HOUR FOE HB. Jhe hollow bay of a distant dog Bids drowsy Echo start ; The chiming hour, from an old church towes^ Strikes fearfully on the heart All spirits are bound in slumber sound; Save those o'er a death-bed weeping ; Or the soldier one that paces alone, His guard by the watch-fire keeping. With ebon wand and sable robe, How beautiful, Night, art thou ! Serenely set on a throne of jet ; With stars about thy brow. Thou comest to dry the mourner's eye^ That, wakeful, is ever dim ; To hush for awhile the grieving sigh, And give strength to the wearied limb. Hail to thy sceptre, Ethiop queen ! Fair mercy marks thy reign ; For the careworn breast may take its rest, And the slave forget his chain. THIS IS THE HOUE FOR MB. I'LL sail upon the mighty main but this is not the hour ; There's not enough of wind to move the bloom in lady's bower: Oh ! this is ne'er the time for me : our pretty bark would take Her place upon the ocean like a rose-leaf on a lake. There's not a murmer on the ear, no shade to meet the eye ; The ripple sleeps ; the sun is up, all cloudless in the sky: I do not like the gentle calm of such a torpid sea ; I will not greet the glassy sheet 'tis not the hour for me. Now, now, the night-breeze freshens fast, the green waves gather strength ; The heavy mainsail firmly swells, the pennon shows its length ; Our boat is jumping in the tide quick, let her hawser slip; Though but a tiny thing, she'll live beside a giant ship. 86 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Away, away ! what nectar spray she flings about her bow ; What diamonds flash in every splash that drips upon my brow, She knows she bears a soul that dares and loves the dark rough sea: More sail ! I cry : let, let her fly ! this is the hour for me. THERE'S A STAR IN THE WEST. THERE'S a star in the West that shall never go down Till the records of valour decay ; We must worship its light, though it is not our own, For liberty burst in its ray. Shall the name of a Washington ever be heard By a freeman, and thrill not his breast ? Is there one out of bondage that hails not the word, As the Bethlehem Star of the West ? " War, war to the knife ! be enthrall'd or ye die,** Was the echo that woke in his land ; But it was not his voice that promoted the cry; Nor his madness that kindled the brand. He raised not his arm, he defied not his foes, While a leaf of the olive remain'd ; Till goaded with insult, his spirit arose, Like a long-baited lion unchain'd. He struck with firn courage the blow of the brave, But sigh'd o'er the carnage that spread : He indignantly trampled the yoke of the slave, But wept for the thousands that bled. Though he threw back the fetters and headed the strife, Till Man's charter was fairly restored ; Yet he pray'd for the moment when Freedom and Life Would no longer be press'd by the sword. Oh, his laurels were pure ; and his patriot name In the page of the Future shall dwell ; And be seen in all annals, the foremost in fame, By the side of a Hofer and Tell. The truthful and honest, the wise and the good Aiaong Britons have nobly confess'd That his was the glory and ours was the blood Of the deeply-stain'd field of 87 THE LOVED ONE WAS NOT THERH. WE gatherM round the festive board, The crackling fagot blazed ; But few would taste the wine that pour'd, Or join the song we raised : For there was now a glass unfill'd A favour'd place to spare; All eyes were dull, all hearts were chill'd The loved one was not there. No happy laugh was heard to ring, No form would lead the dance ; A smother'd sorrow seem'd to fling A gloom in every glance. The grave had closed upon a brow, The honest, bright, and fair ; We miss'd our mate, we mourn'd the blow- The loved one was not there. THE PLOUGHSHARE OE OLD ENGLAND. THE sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the isle ; Tbe soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while; But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers' halls, And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals. We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn, To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the salfron morn; We'll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land ; The Ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy peasant band. The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly told ; We see it in the teeming barns, and fields of waving gold ; Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain lingers there : God speed it well, and let it thrive unshackled everywhere. The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust ; But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and rust. Fill up, fill up, with glowing heart, and pledge our fertile laud, The Ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy peasant baud. POEMS BT ELIZA COOK. GRATITUDR THE hound will fawn on any one That greets him with a kind car The flower will turn towards the sun, That nurtures it in loveliness. The drooping bird with frozen wing, That feeds in winter at your sill, Will trim his glossy plumes in spring, And perch about your window still The grazing steed will mark the voice That rules him with a gentle word ; And we may see the brute rejoice, As though he loved the tones he heard. I've taught the speckled frog to leap At twilight for the crumbs I've spread ; I've lured the fawn till it would keep Beside me, crouching, bound, and led. We find the fiercest things that live, The savage-born, the wildly rude, When soothed by Mercy's hand, will give Some faint response of gratitude. But Man ! oh blush, ye lordly race ! Shrink back, and question your proud heart, Do ye not lack that thankful grace Which ever forms the soul's best part ? AVill ye not take the blessings given ; The priceless boon of ruddy hea th ; The sleep unbroken ; peace unriven ; The cup of joy ; the mine of wealth ? Will ye not take them all, and yet Walk from the cradle to the grave, Enjoy in?, boasting, and forget To think upon the One that gave ? Tiiou'lt even kneel to blood-stain'd kings, Nor fear to have thy serfdom known ; Thy knee will bend for bauble things, Yet fail to seek its Maker's throne. AWAY ir'BOM THE BEVEL. The bosom that would most repine At slightest comfort snatch'd away The lip that murmurs to resign, Is last to thank, is last to pray Call home thy thoughts, vain child of dust: However sad thy lot may be ; There is a something good, that must Demand acknowledgment from thee. What wouldst thou have from Him above? Gaze but on Nature's ample field ; And that one type of mystic love NVill ask more praise than thou canst yield. AWAY FROM THE BEVEL. AWAY from the revel ! the night-star is up ; Away, come away, there is strife in the cup ; There is shouting of song, there is wine in the bowl ; But listen and drink, they will madden thy souL The foam of the goblet is sparkling and bright, Rising like gems in the torches' red light ; But the glance of thine eye, if it lingers there, AVill change its mild beam for the maniac's glare. The golden-wrought chalice, displaying in pride, May challenge thy lip to the purple draught's tide ; But the pearl of the dew-drop, the voice of the breeze, Are dearer and calmer, more blessed than these. Oh ! come, it is twilight ; the night-star is up , Its ray is more bright than the opal-rimra'd cup ; The boat gently dances, the snowy sail fills ; We'll glide o'er the waters, or rove on the hills. We'll kneel on the mountain, beneath the dark pine ; Our heart's prayer the incense, and Nature the shrine ! Back on the festal we'll look from the wave, As the eye of the free on the chains of the slave. Oh ! come, it is twilight.; the moon is awake ; The breath of the vesper-chime rides o'er the lake; There is peace all around us, and health in the breeze, And what can be dearer, more blessed than these ? POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. THE FAIRY OF THE SEA. THEBE'S a frigate on the waters, fit for battle, storm, or sun ; Sne dances like a life-boat, though she carries flag and gun. I'm rich and blest while I can call that gallant craft my own ; I'm king of her, and Jove himself may keep his crown and throne. She'll stem the billows mountain high, or skim the moonlit spray ; She'll take a blow and face a foe, like lion turn'd at bay ; Whate'er may try, she'll stand the test ; the brave, the staunch, the free : She bears a name of stainless fame, the " Fairy of the Sea." The gale is up, she feels the breath, the petrel is behind ; She travels through the white foam like an arrow on the wind. Softly, softly, bold her in let her slacken in her pace ; She'll do the pilot's bidding with a greyhound's gentle grace. The rocks are round her what of that ? she turns them like a swan; The boiling breakers roar, but she is safely creeping on. Hurrah ! hurrah ! she's clear again ! More canvas ! helm a-lee ! Away she bounds, like deer from hounds, the " Fairy of the Sea ! " I've met with life's rough-weather squalls, and run on shoals ashore ; All pass'd me under scudding-sails, and friends were friends no more: But when the storm-fiend did its worst, and blanch'd the firmest crew, No timber yawn'd, no cordage broke ; my bark, my bark was true. We've lived together, closely bound, too long to lightly part; I love her like a living thing; she's anchorM in my heart: But Death must come, and come he may ; right welcome he shall be, So that I sleep ten fathoms deep in the " Fairy of the Sea ! " OH ! NEVER BREATHE A DEAD OFE'S NAM& OH, never breathe a dead one's name, When those who loved that one are nigh ; It pours a lava through the frame That chokes the breast and fills the eyo. THE SAILOB'S GBAVB. It strains a chord that yields too much Of piercing anguish in its breath ; And hands of mercy should not touch A string made eloquent by death. Oh, never breathe a lost one's name To those who call'd that one their own i It only stirs the smouldering flame That burns upon a charnel-stone. The heart will ache and well-nigh break, To miss that one for ever fled ; And lips of mercy should not wake A love that cherishes the dead. THE SAILOR'S GRAVE. OUB bark was out far, far from land, When the fairest of our gallant band Grew sadly pale, and waned away Like the twilight of an autumn day. We watch'd him through long hours of pain ; But our cares were lost, our hopes were vain. Death brought for him no coward alarm ; For he smiled as he died on a messmate's arm. He had no costly winding-sheet, But we placed a round shot at his feet ; And he slept in his hammock as safe and sound As a king in his lawn shroud, marble-bound. We proudly deck'd his funeral vest With the English flag about his breast; We gave him that as the badge of the brave, And then he was fit for his sailor's grave. Our voices broke our hearts turn'd weak- Hot tears were seen on the brownest cheek And a quiver play'd on the lips of pride, As we lower'd him down the ship's dark side, A plunge a splash and our task was o'er ; The billows roll'd as they roll'd before ; But many a rude prayer hallow'd the wave That closed above the sailor's grave. V3 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. A SONG FOB, MERRY HARVEST. BRING forth the harp, and let us sweep its fullest, loudest string; The bee below, the bird above, are teaching us to sing A song for merry harvest ; and the one who will not bear His grateful part, partakes a boon he ill deserves to share. The grasshopper is pouring forth his quick and trembling notea; The laughter of the gleaner's child, the heart's own music, floati Up ! up ! I say, a roundelay from every voice that lives Should welcome merry harvest, and bless the Hand that gives. The buoyant soul that loves the bowl may see the dark grapes shine : And gems of melting ruby deck the ringlets of the vine : Who prizes more the foaming ale, may ga^e upon the plain ; A.nd feast his eye with yellow hops and sheets of bearded grain. The kindly one whose bosom aches to see a dog unfed ; May bend the knee in thanks to see the ample promised bread : Awake, then, all ! 'tis Nature's call ; and every voice that lives Shall welcome merry harvest, and bless the LI and that gives. I MISS THEE, MY MOTHER. I MISS thee, my Mother, thy image is still The deepest impress'd on my heart, And the tablet so faithful, in death must be chill, Ere a line of that image depart. Thou wert torn from my side when I treasured thee moot ; When my reason could measure thy worth ; When I knew but too well that the idol I'd lost, Could be never replaced upon earth. I miss thee, my Mother, in circles of joy, Where I've mingled with rapturous zest ; For how slight is the touch that will serve to destroy All the fairy web spun in my breast. Some melody sweet may be floating around 'Tis a ballad I learnt at thy knee ; Some strain may be play'd, and I shrink from the souitf J For my fingers oft woke it for thee. THE WORLD. 03 I miss thee, my Mother, when young health has fled. And I sink in the languor of pain : Where, where is the arm that once pillow'd my head, And the ear that once heard me complain ? Other hands may support, gentle accents may fall For the fond and the true are yet mine : I've a blessing for each ; I am grateful tc ail- But whose care can be soothing as thine ? I miss thee, my Mother, in summer's fair day, When I rest in the ivy- wreathed bower ; When I hang thy pet linnet's cage high on the spray, Or gaze on thy favourite flower. There's the bright gravel-path where I play'd by thy side, When Time had scarce wrinkled thy brow, Where I carefully led thee with worshipping pride, When thy glossy locks gather'd the snow. I miss thee, my Mother, in winter's long night: I remember the tales thou wouldst tell The romance of wild fancy, the legend of fright Oh ! who could e'er tell them so well ? Thy corner is vacant ; thy chair is removed ; It wns kind to take that from my eye : Yet relics are 'round me the sacred and loved To call up the pure sorrow-fed sigh. I miss thee, my Mother, oh, when do I not ? Though I know 'twas the wisdom of Heaven That the deepest shade fell on my sunniest spot ; And such tie of devotion was riven. For when thou \vert with me, my soul was below ; I was chain'd to the world I then trod ; My affections, my thoughts, were all earth-bound : but now They have follow'd thy spirit to God. THE WOULD. TALK who will of the World as a desert of thrall ; Yet, yet, there is bloom on the waste : Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall, There are honey- drops too for the taste. 04 POEMS BY ELIZA. COOK. We murmur and droop should a sorrow-cloud staj, And note all the shades of our lot ; But the rich scintillations that brighten our way, Are bask'd in, enjoy'd, and forgot. Those who look on Mortality's ocean aright, Will not mourn o'er each billow that rolls, But dwell on the glories, the beauties, the might, As much as the shipwrecks and shoals. How thankless is he who remembers alone, All the bitter, the drear, and the dark ; Though the raven may scare with its woe-boding tone, Do we ne'er hear the song of the lark ? We may utter farewell when 'tis torture to part, But, in meeting the dear one again, Have we never rejoiced with that wildness of heart, Which outbalances ages of pain ? Who hath not had moments so laden with bliss, When the soul, in its fulness of love, Would waver, if bidden to choose between this And the Paradise promised above ? Though the eye may be dimm'd with its grief-drop awhile, And the whiten'd lip sigh forth its fear ; Yet pensive indeed is that face, where the smile Is not oftener seen than the tear. There are times when the storm-gust may rattle around ; There are spots where the poison-shrub grows ; Yet are there not hours when naught else can be found But the south wind, the sunshine, and rose ? O haplessly rare is the portion that's ours, And strange is the path that we take ; If there spring not beside us a few precious flowers, To soften the thorn and the brake ! The wail of regret, the rude clashing of strife, The soul's hnrmony often may mar; But I think wo must own, in the discords of life, 'Tis ourselves that oft waken the jar. Earth is not all fair, yet it is not all gloom ; And the voice of the grateful will tell, That He who allotted Pain, Death, and the Tombk Gave Hope, Health, and the Bridal as well. STANZAS. Should Fate do its worst, and my spirit, oppressed, O'er its own shatter'd happiness pine ; Let me witness the joy in another's glad breast, And some pleasure must kindle in mine. Then say not the World is a desert of thrall, There is bloom, there is light on the waste ; Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall. There are honey-drops too for the taste. STANZAS. THE dark and rugged mountain-steep, The sloping emerald glade; The beam-lit valley where vines may creep ; The harebell low in the shade : The towering hill ; the shimmering rill ; The fields and forest trees Oh, he is blind who cannot find Good company in these ! I have seen the harvest sun pour down Its rays on the rustling sheaf, Till gold fiash'd out from the wheat-ear brown, And flame from the poppy's leaf: I have heard the music the woods have made In deep and sullen roar, When the mighty winds of Winter playM On branches grey and hoar : 1 have seen the merry Spring steal nigh, And my soul has leap'd to meet The rainbow clouds that flitted on high, The daisy that kiss'd my feet : I have watch'd the slowly-gathering gloom Of mournful Autumn throw Its pensive shade on the dying bloom, Like sorrow on beauty's brow : And though I have garner'd little of light From Learning's glorious store, These, these have taught God's mercy and might; And who can teach me more ? 96 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. My spirit has glow'd, the rapt, the blest; Flush'd with the fervent zeal That may gush from the eyes and burn in the breast ' But the weak lips ne'er reveaL The giant rock, the lowliest flower Can lead to Him above, And bid me worship the hand of power, Of mystery and love. Does my heart grow proud ? I need but turn To Nature, and confess A Maker's greatness shrink and learn My own unworthiness. ENGLAND. MY heart is pledged in wedded faith to England's " merry isle; I lovo each low and straggling cot, each famed ancestral pile ; I'm happy when my steps are free upon the sunny glade; I'm glad and proud amid the crowd that throng its mart of trad* I gaze upon our open port, where Commerce mounts her throne, Where every llag that comes, ere now has lower'd to our own. Look round the globe, and tell me, can ye find more blazon'd names, Among its cities and its streams, than London and the Thaiijes ? My soul is link'd, right tenderly, to every shady copse ; I prize the creeping violets, the tall and fragrant hops ; The citron-tree or spicy grove, for me would never yield A perfume half so grateful as the lilies of the field. I thread the wood, I rob the hedge, and glad content is mine; Although they lack the orange-branch, pomegranate, date, and vine. I covet not the rarest fruit exotic region shows, While England has its Imzel-nuts, its blackberries and sloes. I'll ask if there's a British boy whate'er may be his rank Who does not defcrly love to climb his native bramble bank ; AVho would not trudge for many a mile to gain a nutting track ; Proud of the crook'd stick in his hand, and basket at his back ? KINGDOM COME." 97 Our songsters, too, say, can we breathe of them one slighting word? Their plumage dazzles not but yet can sweeter strains be heard ? Let other feathers vaunt the dyes of deepest rainbow flush ; Give me old England's nightingale, its robin, and its thrush. I'd freely rove through Tempo's vale, or scale the giant Alp, Where roses list the bulbul's tale, or snow-wreaths crown the scalp ; I'd pause to hear soft Venice streams plash back to boatman's oar; Or hearken to the western flood in wild and falling roar. I'd tread the vast of mountain range, or spot serene and flower'd ; 1 ne'er could see too many of the wonders that are shower'd ; Yet though I stood on fairest earth, beneath the bluest heaven ; Could 1 forget our summer sky, our Windermere and Devon ? I'd own a brother in the good and brave of any land, Nor would I ask his clime or creed before I gave my hand ; Let but the deeds be ever such that all the world may know; And little recks " the place of birth," or colour of the brow. Yet, though I'd hail a foreign name among the first and best, Our own transcendant stars of Fame would rise within my breast ; I'd point to hundreds who have done the most e'er done by man; And cry, " There's England's glory scroll show brighter if ye can I" " THY KINGDOM COME." 'Tis human lot to meet and bear The common ills of human life ; There's not a breast but hath its share Of bitter pain, and vexing strife. The peasant in his lowly shed ; The noble 'neath a gilded dome; Each will at some time bow his head, And ask and hope, " Thy kingdom come 5" When some deep sorrow, surely slow, Despoils the cheek, and eats the heart. Laying our busy projects low, And bidding all earth's dreams depart POEMS BY ELIZA COOfc. Do we not smile, and calmly turn From the wide world's tumultuous hum, And feel the immortal essence yearn, Rich with the thought, " Thy kingdom come I" The waves of Cnre may darkly bound And bud'et, till, our strength outworn, We stagger as they gather round ; All snatter'd, weak, and tempest torn: But there's a lighthouse for the soul. That beacons to a stonnless home ; It safely guides through roughest tides It shines, it saves ! " Thy kingdom come !" To gaze upon the loved in death, To mark the closing, beamless eye, To press dear lips, and find no breath This, this is life's worst agony ! But God, too merciful, too wise, To leave the lorn one in despair; Whispers, while snatching those we prize, " My kingdom come ! Ye'll meet them there !* THE BOW. A CHEEK for Robin Hood, And Nottingham's famed wood ; When the greensward was the merry men's resort When the tough and springy yew, Was the bravest tree that gre\v, And the Bow held foremost place in English s Right glorious, I ween, Was the olden forest scene ; When bugles rang and sturdy yeomen met: When the flying bird was hit, The willow sapling split; And Bow and shaft hud fame unrivall'd yet. Tn the fields our fathers won We shall find the bow has done Some work our annals proudly may record; Did they prove it bent in vain, On Poictiers or Cressy's plain ? Had the arrow there less glory than the sword? TE FOiEST TEEE8. The whizzing barb that flew, Bore its message home and true; As swift as sun-ray, free as eagle's wing; And many a haughty foe Was taught to feel and know What English arms could do with wood and string. See, see the hunter hold His weapons, firm and bold, With spreading chest, and clear, uncoverM brow ; The arrow 'neath his eye, Drawn to the head let fly FU'd in the prey. Ha ! ha ! who scorns the Bow P Then a cheer for Robin Hood And Nottingham's famed wood, When the greensward was the merry men's resort ; When the tough and springy yew, Was the bravest tree that grew, And the Bow held foremost place in English sport. THE FOREST TREES. UP with your heads, ye sylvan lords, Wave proudly in the breeze ; For our cradle bands and coffin boards, Must come from the forest trees. We bless ye for your summer shade, When our weak limbs fail and tire ; Our thanks are due for your winter aid, When we pile the bright log fire. Oh ! where would be our rule on the sea, And the fame of the sailor band ; Were it not for the oak and cloud-crow That spring on the quiet land ? When the ribs and masts of the good ship live And weather the gale with ease ; Take his glass from the tar, who will not giTO A health to the forest trees. H 2 100 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Ye lend to Life its earliest joy, And wait on its latest page ! In the circling hoop for the rosy boy, And the easy chair for Age. The old man totters on his way, With footsteps short and slow; But without the stick for his help and stay- Not a yard's length could he go. The hazel twig in the stripling's hand Hath magic power to please ; And the trusty staff and slender wand Are pluck'd from the forest trees. Ye are seen in the shape of the blessed plough, And the merry ringing flail ; Ye shine in the dome of the monarch's home, And the sacred altar-rail. In the rustic porch, the panell'd wall. In the gay triumphal car ; In the rude-built hut, or the banquet hall ; No matter ! there ye are ! Then up with your heads, ye sylvan lords, "Wave proudly in the breeze ; From our cradle bands to our coffin boards. We're in debt to the forest trees. THE KING OF THE WIND. HE burst through the ice-pillar'd gates of the north, And away on his hurricane wings he rush'd forth ; He exulted, all free, in his might and his speed ; He mock'd at the lion, and taunted the steed. He whistled along, through each cranny and creek; He whirl'd o'er the mountains with hollow-toned shriek ; The arrow and eagle were laggard behind, And alone in his flight sped the King of the Wind. He swept o'er the earth the tall battlements fell ; And he laugh'd, as they crumbled, with maniac yell; The broad oak of the wood dared to wrestle again, Till, wild in his fury, he snapp'd it in twain. THE HOESB. He grappled with pyramids, works of an age, And dire records were left of his havoc and rage. No power could brave him, no fetters could bind ; Supreme in his sway was the King of the Wind. He career'd o'er the waters with death and despair ; He wreck'd the proud ship, and his triumph was there ; The cheeks that had blanch'd not at foeraan or blade. At the sound of his breathing turn'd pale and afraid. He rock'd the stanch lisrhthouse, he shiver'd the mast ; He howl'd the strong life-boat in fragments was cast; And he roarM in his glory, " Where, where wil ye find A despot so great as the King of the Wind ? " THE HOUSE. TJIE Horse ! the brave, the gallant Horse Fit theme for the minstrel's song ! He hath good claim to praise and fame ; As the fleet, the kind, the strong. What of your foreign monsters rare P I'll turn to the road or course ; And find a beauteous rival there In the Horse, the English Horse. Behold him free in his native strength, Looking fit for the sun -god's car ; With a skin as sleek as a maiden's cheek, And an eye like the Polar star. Who wonders not such limbs can deign To brook the fettering girth; As we see him fly the ringing plain. And paw the crumbling earth ? His nostrils are wide with snorting pride, His fiery veins expand ; And yet he'll be led by a silken threat^ Or soothed by an infant's hand. He owns the lion's spirit and might, But the voice he has learnt to love Needs only be heard, and he'll turn to the word, As gentle as a dove. 102 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. The Arab is wise who learns to prize His barb before all gold ; But is his barb more fair than ours, More generoiw, fast, or bold ? A song for the steed, the gallant steed Oh ! graet him a leaf of bay ; For we owe much more to his strength and speed, Than man can ever repay. "Whatever his place the yoke, the chase, The war-field, road, or course, One of Creation's brightest and best la the Horse, the noble Horse ! THE MOUENEES. KINO DEATH sped forth in his dreaded power To make the most of his tyrant hour; And the first he took was a white-robed girl, "With the orange-bloom twined in each glossy curt Her fond betrothed hung over the bier, Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear; He madly raved ; he utter'd his pain ; "With frantic speech and burning brain, " There's no joy," cried he, " now my dearest is gone. Take, take me, Death ; for I cannot live on ! " The sire was robbed of his eldest-born ; And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn: Other scions were round, as good and fair; But none seem'd so bright as the breathless heir. " My hopes are crush'd," was the father's cry; "Since my darling is lost, I, too, would die." The valued friend was snatched away; Bound to another from childhood's day ; And the one that was left, exclaim'd in despair; "Oh ! he sleeps in the tomb let me follow him there I* A mother was taken, whose constant love Had nestled her child like a fair young dove; And the heart of that child to the mother had grown, As the ivy to oak, or the moss to the stone. THB MO I' KNEES. 108 Nor loud nor wild was the burst of wot> , But the tide of anguish ran strong below ; And the reft one turn'd from all that wa^ light; From the flowers of day and the stars of night ; Sighing where none niisbt hear or see " Where thou art, my mother, thy child would be. 1 " Death smiled, as he heard each earnest word: " Nay, nay," said he, " be this work deferr'd ; I'll see fhee again in a fleeting jear, And, if grief and devotion live on sincere, I promise then thou shalt share the rest Of the being now pluck'd from thy doting breast Then, if thou cravest the coflin and pall, As thou dost this moment, my spear shall fall." And Death fled, till Time on his rapid wing Gave the hour that brought back the Skeleton King. But the lover was ardently wooing again, Kneeling in serfdom, and proud of his chain; He had found an idol to adore, Rarer than that he had worshipp'd before. His step was gay, his laugh was loud, As he led the way for the bridal crowd ; And his eyes still kept their joyous ray, Though he went by the grave where his first love lay. " Ha ! ha !" shouted Death, "'tis passing clear, That I am a guest not wanted here ! " The father was seen in his children's games Kissing their flushed brows and blessing their names: And his eye grew bright as he mark'd the charms Of the boy at his knee, and the girl in his arms : His voice rang out in the merry noise, He was first in ah 1 their hopes and joys ; He ruled their sports in the setting sun, Nor gave a thought to the missing one. " Are ye ready ? " cried Death, as he raised his dart : * Nay ! nay ! " shriek'd the father, " in mercy depart I* The friend again was quaffing the bowl, Warmly pledging his faith and soul; His bosom cherish'd with glowing pride A stranger lorin that sat by his side : 104 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. His band the hand of that stranger press'd ; He praised his song, he echo'd his jest ; And the mirth and wit of that new-found mate Made a blank of the name so prized of late. "See! see!" cried Death, as he hurried past, " How bravely the bonds of friendship last 1 " But the orphan child ! Oh ! where was she ? With clasping hands and bended knee. All alone on the churchyard's sod, Mingling the names of mother and God. Ker dark and sunken eye was hid, Fast weeping beneath the swollen lid ; Her sigh was heavy, her forehead was chill, Betraying the wound was unhealed still ; And her smother'd prayer was yet heard to crave A speedy home in the self-same grave. Hers was the love, all holy and strong ; Hers was the sorrow, fervent and long; Hers was the spirit, whose light was shed As an incense fire above the dead ! Death linger'd there, and paused awhile;' But she beckon'd him on with a welcoming smile. " There's a solace," cried she, " for all others to find. But a mother leaves no equal behind." And the kindest blow Death ever gave Laid the mourning child in the parent's grave. MY GRAVE. SWEET is the ocean grave, under the azure wave, Where the rich coral the sea-grot illumes ; Where pearls and amber meet, decking the winding-sheet, Making the sailor's the brightest of tombs. Let the proud soldier rest, wrapt in his gory vest, Where he may happen to fall on his shield. To sink in the glory-strife, was his first hope in life ; Dig him his grave on the red battle-field. Lay the one great and rich, in the strong cloister niche ; Give him his coffin of cedar and gold ; Let the wild torchlight fall, flouting the velvet pall: Lock him in marble vault, darksome and cold. THE WREATHS. 105 But there's a sunny lull, fondly remember'd still ; Crown'd with fair grass and a bonnie elm tree : Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf; There be the resting-place chosen by me ! Though the long formal prayer ne'er has been utter'd there. Though the robed priest has not hallow'd the sod ; Yet would I dare to ask any in saintly mask, "Where is the spot that's unwatch'd by a God !" There the wind loud and strong whistles its winter song; Shrill in its wailing and fierce in its sweep ; 'Tis music now sweet and dear, loved by ray soul and ear; Let it breathe on where I sleep th<5 last sleep. There in the summer days rest the bright flashing rays, There spring the wild flowers fair as can be ; Daisy and pimpernel, lily and cowslip bell, These be the grave flowers chosen by me. There would I lie alone, mark'd by no sculptur'd stone: Few will regret when my spirit departs ; And I loathe the vain charnel fame, praising an empty name; Dear, after all, but to two or three hearts. Who does not turn and laugh at the false epitaph, Painting man spotless and pure as the dove? If aught of goodly worth grace my career on earth ; All that I heed, is its record above. 'Tis on that sunny hill, fondly remember'd still ; Where my young footsteps climb'd, happy and free. Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf There be the sleeping-place chosen by me. THE WREATHS. WHOM do we crown with the Laurel leaf? The hero god, the soldier chief. But we dream of the crushing cannon-wheel, Of the flying shot and the reeking steel, Of the crimson plain where warm blood smoker Where clangour deafens and sulphur chokes: Oh ! who can love the Laurel wreath, Pluck'd from the gory field of death ? 106 I'OEllS 07 ELIZA COOK. Whom do we crown with summer Flowers t The young and fair in their happiest hours: But the buds are only seen in the light Of a festive day or a glittering nisiht; We know the vermeil tints will fade That pleasure dies with the bloomy braid : And who can prize the coronal That's form'd to dazzle, wither, and fall ? Who wears the Cypress, dark and drear? The one who is shedding the mourner's tear: The gloomy branch for ever twines Round foreheads graved \\iih Sorrow's lines. "Tis the type of a sad and lonely heart. That hath seen its dearest hopes depart. Oh ! who can like the chaplet band That is wove by Melancholy's hand ? Where is the Ivy circlet found ? On the one whose brain and lips are drown'd In the purple stream who drinks and laughs Till his cheeks outflush the wine he quaffs. Oh ! glossy and rich is the ivy crown, With its gems of grape-juice trickling down ; But, bright as it seems o'er the glass and bowl, It has stain for the heart and shade for the soul. But there's a green and fragrant leaf Betokens nor revelry, blood, nor grief; Tis the purest amaranth springing belo^t, And rests on the calmest, noblest brow. It is not the right of the monarch or lord, Nor purchased by gold, nor won by the sword ; For the lowliest temples gather a ray Of quenchless light from the palm of Bay. Oh, beautiful Bay ! I worship thee I homage thy wreath I cherish thy tree ; And of all the chaplets Fame may deal, 'Tis only to this one I would kneel : For as Indians fly to the banian branch. When tempests lower and thunders launch, 80 the spirit may turn from crowds and strife And seek from the Bay-wreath joy and life. 107 HOPE. THERE is a star that cheers our way Along this dreary world of woe, That tips with light the waves of life, However bitterly they flow. 'Tis Hope ! 'tis Hope ! that bless'd star Which peers through Misery's darkest cloud) And only sets where Death has brought The pall, the tombstone, and the shroud. But, ah ! to look upon the dead, And know they ne'er can wake again ! To lose the one we love the best ! 'Tis this that sears the breast and brain. Then, then, the human heart will groanj And pine beneath the stroke of Fate ; 'Twill break, to find itself alone, A thing all sad and desolate. OLD PINCHER. WHEN I gave to old Dobbin his song and his due, Apollo, I feared, would look scornfully bUe; I thought he might spurn the low station and blood, And turn such a Pegasus out of his stud. But another " four-footed " comes boldly to claim His place beside Dobbin for merit and fame; He shall have it, for why should I be over nice. Since Homer immortalized Ilion and mice ? I frolick'd, a youngling, wild, rosy, and fat; When Pincher was brought in the butcher-boy's hat; And the long-promised puppy was hail'd with a joy. That ne'er was inspired by a gold-purchased toy. " What a darling !" cried I ; while my sire, with a frown, Eiclaim'd, "Hang the brute ! though 'tis easy to drown:** But I wept at the word, till my sorrowful wail Won his total reprieve from the rope or the pail 108 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Regarding his beauty, I'm silent : forsooth, I've a Httle old-fashion'd respect for the truth ; And the praise of his colour or shape to advance Would bt that part of History known as Romance. There were some who most rudely denounced him " a cur :" How I hated that name, though I dared not demur ! /thought him all fair ; yet I'll answer for this, That the fate of Narcissus could ne'er have been his. Now, Dobbin, the pony, belong'd to us all, Was at every one's service and every one's call : But Pincher, rare treasure, possession divine, Was held, undisputed, as whole and sole, mine. Together we rambled, together we grear : Many plagues had thp household, but we were the two Who were brand'd the deepest ; all doings reviled, Were sure to be wrought by " that dog and that child." Unkennell'd and chainless, yet truly he served ; No serfdom was known, yet his faith never swerved : A dog has a heart, secure that, and you'll find That love, even in brutes, is the safest to bind. If my own kin or kind had demolished my ball, The transgression was mark'd with a scuffle and squall; But with perfect consent he might mouth it about, Till the very last atom of sawdust was out. When halfpence were doled for the holiday treat, How I long'd for the comfits, so lusciously sweet; But cakes must be purchased, for how could I bear To feast on a luxury Pinch could not share ? 1 fondled, I fed him, I coax'd or I cuff'd, I drove or I led him, 1 sooth'd or I huff'd: He had beatings in anger, and huggings in love, But which were most cruel, 'twere a puzzle to prove. If he dared to rebel, I might battle and wage The fierce war of a tyrant with petulant rage : I might ply him with kicks, or belabour with blows; But Pincher was never once known to oppose. Did a mother appear, the loud quarrel to learn ; If 'twere only with him, it gare little concern : OLD PINCHEE. 109 ; No ill-usage could rouse him, no insult could chafe ; "While Pinch was the playmate, her darling was safe. If the geese on the common gave signal of fear, And screams most unmusical startled the ear, The cause was soon guessed, for my foremost delight Was in seeing Pinch put the old gander to flight. Had the pantry heen rifled of remnant of beef, Shrewd suspicions were form'd of receiver and thief; For I paused not at crime, and I blush'd not at fibs, That assist'd to nurture his well-coverM ribs. The warren was sacred, yet he and I dared To career through its heath till the rabbits were scared: The gamekeeper threaten'd me Pinch should be shot ; But the threat was by both of us always forgot. The linen, half-bleach'd, must be rinsed o'er again ; And our footsteps in mud were " remarkably" plain. The tulips were crush' d, to the gardener's dismay ; And when last we were seen, we were bending that way. When brought to the bar for the evil we'd done, Some atrocious spoliation I chose to call " fun : " Though Pinch was Tiberius, those who might try, Knew well that the active Sejanus was I. But we weather'd all gales, and the years sped away, Till his glossy black hide was fast turning to grey; When accents were heard most alarmingly sad, Proclaiming that Pincher, my Pincher, was mad. It was true : his fix'd doom was no locger a joke ; He that moment must die : my young heart was nigh broka, I saw the sure fowling-piece moved from Us rest, And the sob of keen anguish burst forth unsuppress'd. A shot, a faint howl, and old Pincher was dead: How I wept while the gardener prepared his last bed ! Something fell on his spade too, wet, sparkling and clear; Though he said 'twas a dew-drop, I know 'twas a tear. Our winter-night circle was now incomplete ; We miss'd the fond brute that had snoozed at our feet: All his virtues were praised, all his mischief forgot, We lauded his merits, and sigh'd o'er his lot. UO r^x,ilS BY ELIZA COOK. Poodle, spaniel, an.] gre;> h;>ur. J, were brought for my carft, Of beauty and breed reckoii'd prcciou-ly rare ; But the playmate of infancy, friend of rny youthf Was link'd with a lasting affection and truth. lie was never supplanted ; nay, mention him now, And a something of shadow will steal from my brow. " Poor fellow !" will burst in such tone of regret, That whispers my heart is his lurkiug-plar yet No wonder ; for Memory brings back with him The thoughts that will render the lightest eye dim; He is mingled with all that I idolized most; The brightest, the purest, the loved, and the lost. The smile of a parent, the dearest, the best, The joys of my forest home spring to my breast; And those days reappear with a halo divine, When a mother, old Pinchcr, and childhood were mine. CHRISTMAS TIDE. WHEN the merry Spring-time weaves Its peeping bloom and dewy leaves; When the primrose opes its eye, And the young moth flutters by; When the plaintive turlle-dove Pours its notes of peace and love; And the clear sun flings its glory bright and wide Yet, yet my soul will own More joy in Winter's frown, And wake with warmer flush at Christmas tide. The Summer beams may shine On the rich and curling vine, And the noontide rays light up The tulip's dazzling cup; But the pearly mistletoe And the holly-berries' plow Are not even by the boasted rose outvied ; For the happy hearts beneath The green and coral wreath Lore the garlands that are twined at Christinas tide. CHEISTMAS T:DK. Ill Jjet Hie Autumn days produce Yellow corn and purple juice, And Nature's feast be spread In the fruitage ripe and red; 'Tis grateful to behold Gushing grapes and fields of gold, When c'ueeks are brown'd and rich lips deeper dyed ; But give, oh ! give to me The Winter night of glee, The mirth and plenty seen at Christmas tide. The northern gust may howl, The rolling storm-cloud scowl, King Frost may make a slave Of the river's rapid wave, The snow-drift choke the path, Or the hail-shower spend its wrath; But the sternest blast right bravely is defied: "While limbs and spirits bound To the merry minstrel sound, And social wood-fires blaze at Christmas tide. The song, the laugh, the shout, Shall mock the storm without ; And sparkling wine -foam rise 'Neath still more sparkling eyes; The forms that rarely meet, Then hand to hand shall greet, And soul pledge soul that leagues too long divide: Mirth, Friendship, Love, and Light, Shall crown the Winter night, And every glad voice welcome Christmas tide. But while Joy's echo falls In gay and plenteous halls, Let the poor and lowly share The warmth, the spurts, the fare; For the one of humble lot Must r.ot shiver in his cot, But claim a bounteous meed from Wealth ano _Ide: Shed kindly blessings round. Till no aching heart be found; And then all hail to inerry Christmas tide I Ill POEMS BY ELIZA. COOK. KINGS. OH, covet' not the throne and crown,' Sigh not for rule and state; The wise would fling the sceptre down. And shun the palace gate. Let wild ambition wing its flight; Glory is free to all : But they who soar a regal height Oft risk a deadly fall. Take any high, imperial name, The great among the great ; What was the guerdon of his famef And what his closing fate ? The hero of immortal Greece, Unhappy, fled to wine ; And died in Saturnalian peace, , As drunkard, fool, and swine. The first in arms, Rome's victor son, . yell hy a traitor's aim ; And drew the purple robes he'd won. To hide his blood and shame. Bold Richard, England's lion-heart Escaped the burning fray ; To sink beneath a peasant's dart, And groan his life away. Gaul's eagle, he whose upraised hand Sway'd legions of the brave, Died in a prison, " barr'd and baun'd," An exile and a slave. Scores may be found whose tyrant-time Knew not one hour of rest ; Their lives one course of senseless crinMb Their every deed unblest. Te blazing stars of gems and gold, "What aching hearts ye mock ! Strong marble walls, do ye not hold Sword, poison, axe, and block ? LIKES. 118 Many have cursed the crown they've worn "When hurl'd from place and rank, They met a people's groaning scorn, And trod the scaffold plank. "Uneasy lies the monarch's head," Despite his dazzling wreath ; The hireling by his dying bed May aid the work of death. His cringing horde may bow the neck, Though hid to lick the dust ; He may have serfs to wait his beck, But not one friend to trust. Ye, lowly born ! oh, covet not One right the sceptre brings The honest name and peaceful lot, Outweigh the pomp of Kings ! LINES WBITTEN AT MIDNIGHT, IN THE ANTICIPATION 01 DKEADED BEBEAVEMENT. THOUGH to the passing world my heart A quiet, untouch'd thing may seem, It bleeds, my Mother, bleeds for ihee ; My love, my sorrow, and my theme. How many a night these aching eyes Have watched beside thy wasting form; "Watch'd, like the anxious mariner, "Who marks and dreads the coming storm. How many a time I've bent mine ear, To catch thy low and fainting breath ; . .And trembled lest thy soul had fled, Unnoticed, to the realms of death. My Mother ! thou wilt die, and leave The world, with life and grief, to me; Oh ! would the human branch might fade, When sevec'd from its parent tree ! I IU POEMS BT ELIZA COOK. I do adore theo ! such my first Fond, broken lisping did proclaim; And all I suffer now but proves My shrine and homage still the same. Time, that will alter breast and brow So strangely that we know them not; That sponges out all trace of truth, Or darkens it with many a blot ; In me hath wrought its changes too, Alike in bosom, lip, and brain ; And taught me much, much that, alas '. Is learnt but in the school of Pain. I'm strangely warp'd from what I was, For some few years, in Life's fresh morn \ "When Thought, scarce link'd with Reason's chain, Nor dared to question, doubt, or scorn. Though young in years, I've learnt to look With trustless eye on all and each ; And shudder that I find so oft, The coldest heart with gentlest speech. But one deep stream of feeling flows With warm devoted love for thee ; A stream whose tide, without an ebb, Will reach Eternity's vast sea. Time has not dimm'd, nor will it dim, One ray of that bright glowing flame Which constant burns, like Allah's fire, Upon tlie altar of thy name. Jut, ah ! that name, so dearly prized, So fondly cherish'd, soon must bo A beacon quench'd; a treasure wreck'd To live but in the memory. Father of Mercy, is there naught Of tribulation Thou canst send Upon my heart but this dire stroke, To scathe, to sadden, and to rend? THE FIBST YOYAQ*. 115 Wilt Thou not spare, at least awhile, The only one I care to call My own ? Oh ! wilt thou launch the bolt), And crush at once my earthly all ? But this is impious. Faith and Hope Will teach me how to bear my lot; To think Almighty Wisdom hest, To bow my head, and murmur not The chast'ning hand of One above Palls heavy ; but I'll kiss the rod ; He gives the wound, and I must trust Its healing to the self-same God. THE FIRST YOYAGE. Hi stood upon the sandy beach, And watch'd the dancing foam ; He gazed upon the leaping waves, Which soon would be his home: And then ho eyed his sailor's garb, With look of proud delight ; The flowing kerchief round his neck, The trowsers, wide and white. The rose of health was on his cheek, His forehead fair as day ; Hope play'd within his hazel eye, And told his heart was gay. And many a time the sturdy boy LongM for the hour to come; Which gave the hammock for his couch, The ocean for his home ! And now the gallant ship rides nigh, The wind is fair and free, ha-nds have trimm'd her sails: She stems the open sea. I 2 POEMS BY EtlZA COOK. The boy again is on the beach '. A mother's arms have press'd hin\, A sister's hand is link'd in his, A father's lip hath bless'd him. The eyes that lately sparkled bright, Are swollen with many a tear ; His young heart feels a choking pan& To part from all so dear. Another kiss another sob, And now the struggle's o'er: He springs into the tiny boat, And pushes from the shore. The last sad drop upon his cheek Falls mingling with the foam : The sea-bird, screaming, welcomes bin The Ocean is his home ! TO FANCY. SPIRIT of ethereal birth ! Aerial visitant of earth ! Flashing vivid through the soul, Warm as the spark Prometheus stole f Hither, Fancy, hither come ; 'Neath thine Iris wings I'll roam. Take me to the crystal caves, Glassy chambers of the waves ; Where the dolphin's golden back Splashes gems around its track, Cleaving through the rocky cells, Green with weeds, and rich with shells; Where the Nereids keep their court, Where the Mermaids hold their sport ; Where the Syren sings to sleep All the tenants of the deep ; Take me through the proud, blue set, Show its beauties all to me. Waft me where the stars appear. Where the other worlds career; THE OLD WATEK-MILL. 117 Let me scan the dazzling scroll God's hand only can unrol. Let me hear the saints rejoice, Giving praise with harp and voice; Let me tread the welkin round, Lull'd in soft Elysian sound ; Let me rove the fields of light, Give their glories to my sight. Take me where the fairies spring Hound about their moonlit ring ; Where the dancing elfin sprites Consecrate their mystic rites ; Lead where Hippocrene's bright Count Gushes down the flowery mount; Where Apollo's hand bestows Fadeless wreaths on Poets' brows. Hither, Fancy, hither come; 'Neath thine Iris wings I'll roam. THE OLD WATER-MILL. AND is this the old mill-stream that ten years ago Was so fast in its current, so pure in its flow ; Whose musical waters would ripple and shine With the glory and dash of a miniature Rhine? Can this be its bed ? I remember it well AVhen it sparkled like silver through meadow and dell; When the pet-lamb reposed on its emerald side, And the minnow and perch darted swift through its tide. Yes ! here was the miller's house, peaceful abode ! Where the flower-twined porch drew all eyes from the road ; Where roses and jasmine embower'd a door That never was closed to the wayworn or poor: Where the miller, God bless him ! oft gave us " a dance," And led off the ball with his soul in his glance ; Who, forgetting grey hairs, was as loud in his mirth As the veriest youngsters that circled his hearth. Blind Ralph was the only musician we had, But his tunes oh, such tunes would make any heart glad! 118 1?OEMS BY ELIZA COOK. "The Roast Beef of Old England," and "Green grow the Hushes," Woke our eyes' brightest beams, and our cheeks' warmest flushes. No lustre resplendent, its brilliancy shed, But the wood fire blazed high, and the board was well spread ; Our seats were undamask'd, our partners were rough, Yet, yet we were happy, and that was enough. And here was the mill where we idled away Our holiday hours on a clear summer day ; Where lloger, the miller's boy, loll'd on a sack, And chorus'd his song to the merry click-clack, But lo ! what rude sacrilege here hath been done ! The streamlet no longer purls on in the sun ; Its course has been turn'd, and the desolate edge Is now mournfully cover'd with duck-weed and sedge. The mill is in ruins. No welcoming sound In the mastiff's gruff bark and the wheels dashing round; The house, too, untenan ted left to decay And the miller, long dead : all I loved pass'd away ! This play-place of childhood was graved on my heart In rare Paradise colours that now must depart ; The old water-mill's gone, the fair vision is fled, And I weep o'er its wreck as I do for the dead. CHILDREN'S WELCOMING. THEY were indeed a lovely group Of happy, sportive creatures ; With all of beauty that can dwell In earthl} forms and features. There was a light in every eye, A tint on every cheek ; So bright, so deep, that rarer ones A limner would not seek. They sprang about the spangled grass Like young and gamesome deer; And thrillingly their voices fell. Upon my heart and car. CHILDREN'S WELCOMES. 11* With minds of childish innocenco Unsullied and unbent ; T1iou n 'h living in a \vorldofsin, They knew not what sin meant "Come on," they cried, " we've deck'd your seat With fresh-pull 'd oaken boughs ; We've gather'd flowers, and you must weave Them round about our brows ! " We've chased each other down the hill, And through the primrose vale ; But now we'll listen, while you sit And tell the promised tale. " We've run to meet you at the gate. And watch'd and waited long : Come on, come on we're all right glad To have you in our throng ! " And then the urchins, clambering up, Gave many an earnest kiss; And led me on, with wild delight, Towards their fields of bliss. Oh, how I loved the fairy elves ! I bless'd them, for I knew Their inmost thoughts were on their lips. Their welcoming was true. There was a strong, endearing spell Around their artless ways; I fear'd no treachery 'neath tfieir smiles, No falsehood in their praise. I help'd to weave their daisy chains, I wreath'd their waving hair ; And, pleased as they, 'twere hard to tell] Which heart was happiest there. I bless'd them all ; and much I doubt If Time will ever bring Words to my ear more musical Than children's welcoming. 120 THE SACKILEGIOUS GAMESTERS. THE incident on which the following is founded is related (if my memory errs not) in a work entitled " Sketches of a Seaport Town." The particulars of the circumstances I cannot remember, but the recital amounts to this. A traveller, passing through a country town in the dead of night, saw a light in the church, which equally excited his wondel and curiosity. He procured two companions, and, carrj-ing a ladder, placed it against a window immediately above the altar, from which part the strongest light emanated : one of them ascended, and witnessed a scene of depravity perhaps unequalled. Three young men, of most abandoned character, were seated at the communion-table, engaged in gambling. The wax-candles were lighted; the sacramental wine reeked on their lips, and, to complete the impious orgies, they had exhumed a corpse, and set it at the table among them. The whole, it appeared, hail originated in a drunken frolic; but the affair created so much horror and di-gust, that the wretched profligates who enacted it were eventually compelled to quit the town. This is the sole outline which my memory will afford : I have taken a little liberty with the subject, which, I believe, most scribblers are allowed to do. A STRANGER journey'd through the town, One dark and wintry night ; And, as he pass'd the ivy'd church, He mark'd a flitting light. It shed a restless waving gleam Through the Gothic window-pane ; And now it vanish'd for a space, And now it came again. He stood, and thought it wondrous strange That such a scene should be : He stood, and now the full, red beam Shone strong and steadily. He look'd around ; all else was dark, Not e'en a star was left ; The townsmen slumber'd, and he thought Of sacrilege and theft. He roused two sleepers from their beds, And told what he had seen ; And they, like him, were curious To know what it should mean. THE SACRILEGIOUS GAMESTERS. Ill They hied together to the church, And heard strange sounds within Of undistinguishable words. And laughter's noisy din. The window's high ; a ladder quick 'Tis placed with stealthy care, And one ascends he looks below; Oh ! what a sight is there ! The white communion-cloth is spread With cards, and dice, and wine ; The flaming wax-lights glare around, The gilded sconces shine. And three of earthly form have made The altar-rail their seat, With the Bible and the books of prayer As footstools for their feet. Three men, with flashing bloodshot eyes And burning fever'd brows, Have met within those holy walls To gamble and carouse. But the darkest work is not yet told : Another guest is there, With the earthworm trailing o'er his cheek To hide in his matted hair ! He lifted not the foaming cup, He moved not in his place ; There was slime upon his livid lips, And dust upon his face. The foldings of a winding-sheet His body wrapp'd around, And many a stain the vestment bore Of the clay from the charnel ground. A rent appear'd, where his wither'd hands Fell out on the sacred board ; And between those hands a goblet stood, In which bright wine was pour'd. Oh ! he was not like the other three, But ghastly, foul, and cold ; He was seated there, a stiflen'd corpse^ All horrid to behold. 128 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. He had been their mate for many a year, Their partner many a game; He had shared alike their ill-got gold, And their deeply-tarnish'd fame. He bad died in the midst of his career, As the sinful ever die; "Without one prayer from a good man's heart* One tear from a good man's eye. He had died a guilty one, unhless'd, Unwept, unmourn'd by all ; And scarce a footstep ever bent To his grave by the old church wall. The other three had met that night, And revell'd in drunken glee ; And talk'd of him who a month ago Form'd one of their company. They quafFd another brimming glass, And a noisy oath they swore, That he who had join'd their game so oft Should join their game once more. And away they strode to the old church wall Treading o'er skull and tomb ; And dragg'd him out triumphantly, In the midnight murky gloom. They carry him down the chancel porch, And through the fretted aisle; And many a heartless, fiendish laugh, Is heard to ring the while. The place him at the hallow'd shrine, They call upon his name ; They bid him wake to life again, And play his olden game. They deal the cards : the ribald jest And pealing laugh ring on : A stroke a start the echoing clock Proclaims the hour of one! And two of the three laugh louder still, But the third stares wildly round : He drops the cards, as if his hand Were palsied at the sound. THE SACEILEGIOUS GAMESTEB8. 128 His cheeks have lost, their deepen'd flush,' His lips are of paler hue ; And Fear bath fallen on the heart Of the youngest of that crew : His soul is not yet firmly bound In the fetters of reckless sin ; Depravity hath not yet wrought Its total work within : The strong potation of the night Drowu'd all that might remain Of feeling; and his hand shrunk not "While madness fired bis brain. But now the charm hath lost its spell, The heated fumes have pass'd ; And banish'd Reason, to her throne Usurped, advances fast. He rises staggers looks again Upon the shrouded dead : A shudder steals upon his frame; His vaunted strength is fled. He doubts he dreams can, can it be? A mist is o'er his eyes ; He stands aghast. " Oh ! what is this ? Where ? where ? " he wildly cries. " Where am I ? see the altar-piece The Holy Bible. Say- Is this the place where I was brought A tiny boy to pray ? "The church the churchyard too I know I have been there to-night ; For what ? Ha ! mercy ! see that corpse ! Oh ! hide me from the light ! "I have been deem'd a profligate, A gamester, and a knave, But ne'er was known to scoff at God Or violate the grave : * I've long been what man should not be. But not what I am now. Oh ! help me ! help ! My tongue is parch'd t There's fire upon my brow t 124 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. " Oh ! save me ! hide me from myself ! I feel my pulses start : The horror of this drunken crime Hath fix'd upon my heart : " Again ! I feel the rushing blood, I die ! the unforgiven ! Again, it comes ; all all is dark I choke Oh ! mercy, Heaven ! " One struggling groan he reels he falls On the altar-steps he lies ; And the others gasp with fear, for now Two corpses meet their eyes. But, hark ! swift footsteps echo round, Encircled now they stand ; Surprised, detected, they are seized By many a grappling hand ; And soon the dreadful tale is spread And many a finger raised To point them out ; while the listening on* Looks fearfully amazed. They are shunn'd by all : the son, tho sire, The heedless and the gay ; Their old associates leave their side, And turn another way. Hate, Shame, and Scorn have set a mark Upon them : one by one, Of all they knew, forsakes their path, Till they are left alone : And they have sought another land, And breathe another clime ; "Where men may deem them fellow-men, Nor hear their blasting crime : And gossips, in their native town, Even now are beard to tell Of the sacrilegious crew that turned The old church to a hell. 125 DUNCAN LEB. THE owl hath left its hiding-pUoa,. The mist is o'er the sea ; And wistfully a maiden's eyes Look out for Duncan Lee. The one who seeks the meeting-spot Is not the child of pride ; She has no circlet round her arm, No greyhound by her side. But ah ! her brow betrays a soul As deep as soul can be ; And dearer to that soul than life Is gallant Duncan Lee ! " Where ? where ? " she cries, " My Duncan, art thou roving ; The hour is pass'd, but yet I cannot doubt thy loving." And now there moves a gallant form Within the Castle hall ; It hurries on with eager bound Beyond the Castle wall : "Tis Duncan Lee, the wealthy heir To all Cathullin's lands ; Whose name and tartan keep their place Among the kilted bands. The sire hath listen'd to his son, The son hath fondly sued ; Tho laird hath given the boy his will To wed the one he's woo'd, Who stiil is crying, " Where, My Duncan, art thou roving ? The hour is past, but yet I cannot doubt thy loving." And now the foot of Duncan Lee Is dashing through the heather ; And now the moon peeps out, and finds The beauteous pair together. 126 POEMS BY -LIZA COOK. Oh ! what hallow'd bliss is there, What rapture in their greeting ! His face is flushed with doting joy, Her heart, is wildly beating. And soft he whispers in her ear, M Tomorrow thou shall be, Before the face of heaven and eartht The bride of Duncan Lee ! " No more she's heard to cry, " Where, Duncan, art thou roving P' The bridal day is past, Their hearts are bless'd in loving. SONG OF THE SEA-GULLS. BIRDS of the land, ye may carol and fly O'er the golden corn 'neath a harvest sky ; Your portion is fair 'mid fields and flowers, But it is not so broad or so free as ours. Ye are content with the groves and the hills, Ye feed in the valleys and drink at the rills ; But what are the joys of the forest and plain To those we find on the fresh, wide main ? Birds of the land, ye rear your broods In the lofty tree or tangled woods, Where the branch may be reft by the howling wind, Or the prowling schoolboy seek and find. But we roost high on the beetling rock, That firmly stands the huiricane's shock ; Our callow young may rest in a home W here no shot can reach, and no footstep come. Birds of the land, ye shrink and hide As the tempest-cloud spreads black and wide; Your song* are hush'd in cowering fear \s the startling thunder-clap breaks near. But the brave gull soars while the deluge pours, While the stout ship groans and the keen blast roars : Oh ! the Sea- Gull leads the gayest life While the storm-fiends wage their fiercest strife. LOTS. 127 Wo lightly skim o'er the breaker's dash. Where timbers strike with parting crash; "We play round the dark hull, sinking fast, And find a perch on the tottering mast: More loud and glad is our shrieking note As the planks and spars of the wreck'd bark float: There live we in revelling glee, ' Mid the whistling gale and raging sea. We are not caught and caged to please The fondled heirs of wealth and ease ; The hands of beauty never come With soft caress or dainty crumb: We are not the creatures of pett'd love, We have not the fame of the lark or dove ; But our screaming tone rings harsh and wild, To glad the ears of the fisher's child. He hears our pinions flapping by, And follows our track with wistful eye, As we leave the clouds with rapid whirl To dive 'neath the water's sweeping curl. He laughs to see us plunge and lave, While the northern gale is waking the wave; And dances about 'mid sand and spray, To mimic the Sea-Gull's merry play. We hold our course o'er the deep, or the land, O'er the swelling tide, or weed-grown strand ; "We are safe and joyous when mad waves roll, We sport o'er the whirlpool, the rock, and the shoal, Away on the winds we plume our wings, And soar, the freest of all free things : Oh ! the Sea-Gull leads a merry life In the glassy calm or tempest strife. LOVE. Tis well to wake the theme of love AVben chords of wild ecstatic firo Flir-? 1'rom the harp, and amply prove The soul as joyous as the lyre. 128 *OEMS DY ELIZA COOK. Such theme is blissful when the heart Warms with the precious name we pour; "When our deep pulses glow and start Before the idol we adore. Sing ye, whose doting eyes behold Whose ears can drink the dear one's tone ; Whose hands may press, whose arms may fold The prized, the beautiful, thine own ! But should the ardent hopes of youth Have cherish'd dreams lhat darkly fled ; ] Should passion, purity, and truth, Live on, despairing o'er the dead: Should we have heard some sweet voice hush'd. Breathing our name in latest vow ; Should our fast, heavy tears have gush'd Above a cold, yet worshipp'd brow : Oh ! say, then, can the minstrel choose The themes that gods and mortals praise ? No, no ; the spirit will refuse, And sadly shun such raptured lays. For who can bear to touch the string That yields but anguish in its strain ; Whose lightest notes have power to wring The keenest pangs from breast and brain P " Sing ye of love in words that burn ? " Is what full many a lip will ask ; But love the dead, and ye will learn Such bidding is no gentle task. Oh ! pause in mercy, ere ye blame The one who lends not love his lyre ; That which ye deem ethereal flame May be to him a torture pyre. WINTER. WINTER is coming : who cares ? who cares t Not the wealthy and proud, I trow ; " Let it come ! " they cry, " what matters to a* liow chilly the blast may blow ? DINNA FOBGET, LOVB. * We'll feast and carouse in our lordly halls, The goblet of wine we'll drain ; We'll mock at the wind with shouts of mirth, And music's echoing strain. "Little care we for the biting frost. While the fire gives forth its blaze ; What to us is the dreary ni^ht, While we dance in the waxlight's rays ! " 'Tis thus the rich of the land will talk : But think, oh, ye pompous great ! That the harrowing storm ye laugh at within, Falls bleak on the poor at your gate. They have blood in their veins, ay, pure as thine ! Eut naught to quicken its flow ; They have limbs that feel the whistling gale, And shrink from the driving snow. Winter is coming oh, think, ye great ! On the roofless, naked, and old ; Deal with them kindly, as man with man, And spare them a tithe of your gold. DINNA FORGET, LOVE. THE last time we roved through Lochaber's dark glen. When the rod blooming heather wi' night-dew was wet, You ken, bonnie lass, what you promised me then? You canna forget, love ! you canna forget ! You said when the harvest moon blink'd forth again, When the gowans' gay hues and the simmer-beams met, That the kirk and the gowd ring should make you my ain ! Dinna forget, love ! oh, dinna forget ! And now the sun glitters o'er brae, and through birk; Though late in the gloaming his ray lingers yet : Simmer is come, love ; the ring and the kirk Dinna forget, love ! oh, dinna forget ! l0 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. OUR NATIVE SONG. OUE Native Song, our Native Song! Oh, where is he who loves it not? The spell it holds is deep and strong, "Where'er we go, whate'er our lot. Let other music greet our ear With thrilling fire or dulcet tone; We speak to praise, we pause to hear, But yet oil yet 'tis not our own ! The anthem chant, the ballad wild, The notes that we remember long The theme we sung with lisping tongue 'Tis this we love our Native Song ! The one who benrs the felon's brand, With moody brow and darken'd name, Thrust meanly from his father-land, To languish out a life of shame ; Oh, let him hear some simple strain Some lay his mother taught her boy He'll feel the charm, and dream again Of home, of innocence, and joy. The sigh will burst, the drops will start, And all of virtue buried long The best, the purest in his heart, Is waken'd by his Native Song. Self-exiled from our place of birth, To climes more fragrant, bright and gay; The memory of our own fair earth May chance awhile to fade away : But should some minstrel echo fall, Of chords that breathe Old England's fame; Our souls will burn, our spirits yearn, True to the land we love and claim. The high the low in weal or woe, Be sure there's something coldly wrong About the heart that does not glow To hear its own, its Native Song. 131 LOCH LEV EN'S GENTLE STREAM. I'VE gazed upon the rapid Rhine, I've seen its waters foam and shine; I've watch'd its cascades, wild and bright^-* Leap proudly on, in rainbow light: Its waves have charm'd my dazzl'd eye, Like molten silver dashing by : Still, still, I could not love the Rhine; The land it water'd was not mine: I sifdi'd to see the moon's mild beam Fall on Loch Leven's gentle stream ! I've wander'd by the placid Rhone, When nijiht was on her starry throne ; I've look'd upon the Tiber's tide, And pluck'd the wild flowers by its side; I've heard the gondolier's wild note O'er the Lagoon's fair waters float: Still, still, 1 turn'd, with willing feet, My native North again to greet ! Again to see the moon's mild beam Fall on Loch Leven's gentle stream ! SIR HAROLD THE HUNTER. SIB HAROLD, the hunter, was rarely seen At rest in his lordly home; But, roughly clad in liis forester's green, Far over the hills he'd roam. With his hounds and his bugle, he greeted the dawn Tracing the roebuck's track ; Oft was he seen, at the rosy morn, With the wild fawn slung at his back. Merrily caroll'd the bold young knight, " No love, 10 bride for me ! I'll never go wooing to beauty bright, But live as a hunter free." Sir Harold, the hunter, what ails him now? His beautiful doj:s are at play ; He has thrown aside the twanging bowj Ilis tunic is courtly and gay. K 2 132 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. His quiver is hung where the barbs may rust^ On liigh with his hunting spear ; His echoing bugle is cover'd with dust, And. a softer note comes near. Sir Harold if sinking, beneath the moon, " List, dearest Ella, to me ! Life to thy knight is a joyless boon If he's parted long from thee." Sir Harold, the hunter, is often known To go forth at the sunset hour : He roves in the twilight but roves not alone^ He leads a fair maid from her bower. Ho has doff'd his belt and forester's green, And shines in a bridal suit : Wooing, and wedding, are there, I ween, With the priest, the dance, and the lute. Merrily carols the gay young knight " Love and my bride for me I Tis better to kneel to beauty bright Than live as a hunter free." MUSIC. OH Music ! gentle Music ! There's a magic in thy strain ; Come where thou wilt, in lady's bower. Or on the battle plain. The wild harp hath a witching spell About its silver strings ; Can aught on earth excel the charm Its pensive breathing flings ? 'Tis Music's, gentle Music's power, That steals the listening soul away, Till Man, entranced in rapture's dream. Forgets he wears a form of clay. Oh, Music ! stirring Music ! We see the war-steed rest, ' With dust upon his tired limbs, And white foam on his chest; ON SEEING A BIBD-CATCHER. 185 Stretched, quivering with many a wound, Upon the red sod lying, His rider leaves him, for he deems The gallant charger dying ; But hark ! he hears the trumpet's blast, He starts, he shakes his clotted mane ; Music! bold Music ! fires his blood, And brings him to the ranks again. Oh, Music ! mighty Music ! Thou art all of bliss on earth ; Thou givest the lover's moonlight tale And poet's song their birth. There's not a heart, however rude, However base it be, But hath some slender string that yields An answering tone to thee. With promised Music heaven allures, With golden harps, and cherubs' lovo Rejoice, then ! that we have below A foretaste of the bliss above ! ON SEEING A BIRD-CATCHER. HEALTH in his rags, Content upon his face, He goes th' enslaver of a feather'd race : And cunning snares, warm hearts, like warblers, take; The one to sing for sport, the other, break. STANZAS. THE wild bee and the butterfly Are bright ami happy things to see ; Living beneath a summer sky, And nestling in an orange tree. The eagle, monarch of the rocks. Soars nobly in his lonely flight, 'Mid lightning streams and thunder shocks; The bird of freedom, strength, and might. 184 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. The graceful chamois, hounding, leaps "Where other steps would pause and shrink ; He spans the gulf, he climbs the steeps, And sports upon the topmost brink. Blest things of earth, the bright, the brave, In lands of serfdom still the free ! Yet not one privilege ye have Is sought or coveted by me. But I have heard an eastern tale Of creature patient, mild, and fair; Whose faith is never known to fail Till man gives more than brute shoula bear. Then, meekly proud, its head is bowed, With wrong and suffering oppressed; To breathe its gentle life away, And sink at once in death and rest. This is the privilege I'd ask When throbbing pulse and aching brow Betray how sadly dark the task The soul may have to learn below. Oh, I have lived through many an hour That bade my writhing spirit cry " Give me the Lama's fabled power : Break, break, my heart, and let me die ! " ROVER'S SONG. I'M AFLOAT I'm afloat on the fierce rolling tide ; The Ocean's my home ! and my bark is my bride; Up, up, with my flag ; let it wave o'er the sea ; I'm afloat I'm afloat and the Hover is free ! I fear not a monarch ; I heed not the law ! I've a compass to steer by, a dagger to draw ; And ne'er as a coward or slave will I kneel, While my guns carry shot, or my belt bears a steel. Quick quick trim her sails ; let her sheets kiss the wind ; And I'll warrant we'll soon leave the sea-gull behind ; Up, up with my flag ; let it wave o'er the sea ; I'm afloat I'm afloat and the Hover is free ! THE DEAD. 136 The night gathers o'er us ; the thunder is heard ; What matter ! our vessel skims on like a bird ; What to her is the dash of the storm-ridden main ? Sho has braved it before, and will brave it again. The fire-gleaming flashes around us may fall ; They may strike ; they may cleave ; but they cannot appal: With lightnings above us, and darkness bel\ w, Through the wild waste of waters right onward we go. Hurrah, my brave boys ! ye may drink ; ye may sleep; The storm- fiend is hush'd ; we're alone on the deep ; Our flag of defiance still waves o'er the sea ; Hurrah, bo; s ! hurrah, boys ! the Eover is free ! THE DEAD. WHEX the clear red sun goes down, Passing in glory away ; And Night is spreading her twilight frown On the open brow of Day ; When the faintest glimmering trace is gone, And all of light is fled ; Then, then does Memory, sad and lone, Call back the dear ones dead. When the harp's soul-touching chord Is roughly fray'd and torn ; When of all tones the string that poured The fullest is outworn ; When it is heard to breathe and break, Its latest made shed ; Then, then will my" warm heart bleed and ache* And weep for the kind ones dead. When the elm's rich leaf is seen Losing its freshness fast; And paleness steals on its vivid green, As the autumn wind moans past ; When it eddies to the cold damp ground, All crush'd beneath the tread ; Then, then may the sigh on my lip be found, For I muse on the fair ones dead. 136 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. For, like that orb of light, That chord, and shining leaf ; Forms were once near, as rare and bright; And, oh ! their stay as brief. I watch'd them fading I saw them sink, Light, beauty, sweetness" fled ; And a type of their being bids me think Too fondly of the dead. The sun will rise again, The string may be replaced, The tree will bloom but the loved in the tomb Leaves the world for ever waste. Let earth yield all the joys it may, Still should I bow my head ; Still would my lonely breathing sny, Give, give me back the dead 1 As the thickest verdure springs From the ashes of decay, And the living ivy closest clings To the ruins cold and grey ; So my feelings most intense and deep By the shrouded and lost are fed ; So my thoughts will yearn, and my spirit turn. To be nurtured by the Dead. THE THAMES. LET the Rhine be blue and bright In its path of liquid light, "Where the red grapes fling a beam Of glory on the stream ; Let the gorgeous beauty there Mingle all that's rich and fair ; Yet to me it ne'er could be Like that rivej great and free, The Thames ! the mighty Thames ! Though it bear no azure wave, Though no pearly foam may lave, Or leaping cascades pour Their rainbows on its shore ; THROUGH THE WATERS. Page 137. THROUGH THE WATERS. 137 Yet I ever loved to dwell "Where I heard its gushing swell; And never skimm'd its breast, But I warmly praised and blest, The Thames ! the mighty Thames f Can ye find in all the' world A braver flag unfurl'd Than that which floats above The stream I sing and love? Oh ! what a burning glow Has IhrilFd my breast and brow, To see that proud fla^ come With glory to its home, The Thames ! the mighty Thames ! Did ribs more firm and fast Ere meet the shot or blast Than the gallant barks that glide On its full arid steady tide ? Would ye seek a dauntless crew, With hearts to dare and hands to do? You'll find the foe proclaims They are cradled on the Thames ; The Thames ! the mighty Thames ! They say the mountain child Oft loves his torrent wild So well, that should he part He breaks his pitting heart ; He grieves with smother'd sighs Till his rearing spirit dies ; And so I yearn to thee, Thou river of the free, My own, my native Thames I THROUGH THE WATERS. THROUGH the forest, through the forest, oh ! who would not like to roam, Where the squirrel leaps right gaily, and the shy fawn makes a home ! Where branches, spreading high and wide, shut out the golden sun, And hours of noontide steal away, all shadowy and dun ? 138 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. 'Tis sweet to pluck the ivy sprigs or seek the hidden nest, To track the spot where owlets hide and wild deer take their rest ; Through the forest, through the forest, oh, 'tis passing sweet to take Our lonely way 'mid springy moss, thick bush, and tangled brake J Through the valley, through the valley, where the glittering harebells peep, Where laden bees go droning by, and hum themselves to sleep ; "Where all that's bright with bloom and light springs forth to greet the day, And every blade pours incense to the warm and cloudless ray; Where children come to laugh away their happy summer hours, To chase the downy butterfly, or crown themselves with Sowers ; Through the valley, through the valley, oh, who does not like to bask Amid the fairest beauties Heaven can give or man can ask ? Through the desert, through the desert, where the Arab takes his course, With none to bear him company except his gallant horse ; Where none can question will or right, where landmarks ne'er impede ; But all is wide and limitless to rider and to steed : No purling streamlet murmurs there, no chequer'd shadows fab 1 ; 'Tis torrid, waste, and desolate, but freo to each and all : Through the desert, through the desert, oh, the Arab would not change For purple robes or olive trees his wild and burning range ! Through the Waters, through the Waters, ah ! be this the joy for me, Upon the flowing river, or the broad and dashing sea ; Of all that wealth could offer me the choicest boon I'd crave, Would be a bold and sturdy bark upon the open wave. I love to see the wet sails fill before the whistling breath, And feel the ship cleave on as though she spurn'd the flood beneath. Through the Waters, through the Waters, can ye tell me what below IB freer than the wind-lash'd main, or bolder than the prow P THE STAB OF MY HOME. 139 I love to see the merry craft go running on her side; I laugh to see her splashing on before the rapid tide ; I love to mark the white and hissing foam come boiling up, Fresh as the froth that hangs about the Thunderer's nectar cup. All sail ! Away ah ! who would stay to pace the dusty land, If once they trod a gallant ship, steer'd by a gallant band ? Through the Waters, through the Waters. Oh, there's not a joy for me Like racing with the gull upon a broad and dashing sea ! THE STAR OF MY HOME. I REMEMBER the days when my spirit would turn From the fairest of scenes and the sweetest of song, When the hearth of the stranger seem'd coldly to burn, And the moments of pleasure for me were too long; For one name and one form shone in glory and light, And lured back from all that might tempt me to roam : The festal was joyous, but was not so bright As the smile of a Mother, the Star of my Home ! I remember the days when the tear fill'd my eye, And the heaving sob wildly disturb'd my young breast; But the hand of that loved one the lashes would dry, And her soothing voice lull my chafed bosom to rest. The sharpest of pain and the saddest of woes, The darkest, the deepest of shadows might come; Yet each wound had its balm, while my soul could repose On the heart of a Mother, the Star of my Home ! But now let me rove the wide world as I may, There's no form to arise as a magnet for me ; I can rest amid strangers, and laugh with the gay- Content with the pathway, where'er it may be. Let Sorrow or Pain fling their gloomiest cloud, There's no haven to shelter, no beacon to save ; For the rays that e'er led me are quench'd by the shroud, And the Star of my Home has gone down in the Grav. 140 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. THE BRAVE. FOE whom are jour gyves? for the cowardly one, Who would strike in the dark, and steal back in the sun f For the felon who never hath u.-ed his right hand But to injure his brothers and merit the brand ? Go, fetter the traitor and dastardly spy ; Let them joylessly live, and despairingly die: THEY are guerdon'd right well with the doom of the slavo ; But away with your chains from the honestly Brave ! Could a Wallace or Washington spirits divine ! Live on as the captured to languish and pine ? Should earth show a wall as the dungeon of such, Or aught like a fetter profane with its touch ? No, no ! when the destiny woven by Fate Givps us po\ver to trample and vanquish the Great, Strike, strike in pure mercy ; 'twere torture to save ; Fell at once, but oh ! forge not a link for the Brave. The lion may yield let him sink, let him bleed; But seek not to tame him, to bind, and to lead. Launch thy barb, bring the proul eagle down from his swoop; But a curse on the hand that would build him a coop. Oh, give not the noble one trammels 1o wc;ir, Till the heart-strings are snapp'd by the pressure they bear: Let him fall like the free give him death and a grave ; But never, in mercy, place chains on the Brave ! SONG OF THE MARINERS. THE Miser will hold his darling gold Till his eyes are glazed, and his hands are cold ; The Minstrel one tu his wild lyre clings As though its chords were his own heart-strings, No dearer txxm will the Reveller ask Than the draught that deepens the purple flask; But the firmest love-link that can be Chains the Mariners bold to the pathless sea. SONG OF THE MA.KIXERS. 141 Choose, ye who will, earth's dazzling bowers. But the great and glorious sea be ours ; Give us, give us the dolphin's home, With the speeding keel, and splashing foam: Right merry are we as the sound bark springs On her lonely track like a creature of wings. Oh ! the Mariner's life is blithe and gay, When the sky is fair and the ship on her way. We love the perilous sea, because It will not bend to man or his laws ; It ever hath roll'd, the uncontroll'd, It cannot be warp'd to fashion or mould. Now quiet and fair as a sleeping child; Now rousing in tempests madly wild ; And who shall wean the mighty flood From its placid dream or passionate mood ? We are not so apt to forget our God As those who dwell on the dry safe sod For we know each leaping wave we meet .May be a crystal winding-sheet; We know each blustering gale that blows May requiem to a last repose ; And the chafing tide, as it roars and swells, Hath as solemn a tone as the calling bells. The land has its beauty, its sapphire, and rose: But look on the colours the bright main shows, While each billow flings from its pearly fringe The lucid jewels of rainbow tinge. Go, mark the waters at sunny noon, Go, float beneath the full clear moon ; And cold is the spirit that wakes not there With wondering praise, and worshipping prayer. 'Tis true, we may sink 'mid deluge and blast, But we cope with the strong, we are quell'd by the vase. And a noble urn is the found er'd wreck, Though no incense may burn, and no flower may deck. We need no stately funeral car ; But, tangled with salt-weeds, and lash'd to a spar. Down, down below, the Mariners go, While thunders volley, and hurricanes blow. 142 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. But little do we bold Mariners care What hour we fall or what risk we dare, For the groan on the struggling sailor's lip Is less for himself than his dying ship. Oh ! ours is the life for the free and the brave; We dance o'er the planks that may yawn We laugh 'mid the foam of our perilous home, And are ready for death whene'er it may come. STANZAS TO TE1E YOUNG. LONG have the wisest lips confess'd That minstrel ones are far from wrong Who " point a moral" in a jest, Or yield a sermon in a song. So be it ! Listen ye who will, And though my harp be roughly strung, Yet never shall its lightest thrill Ofl'end the old or taint the young. Mark me ! I ne'er presume to teach The man of wisdom, grey and sage ; "fis to the growing I would preach From moral text and simple page. First, I would bid thee cherish Truth As leading star in Virtue's train; Folly may p;iss, nor tarnish youth, But Falsehood leaves a poison stain. Keep watch, nor let the burning tide Of Impulse break from all control ; The best of hearts needs pilot-^uide To steer it clear from Error's shoai One wave of Passion's boiling flood May I 146 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. THE HOMES OF THE DEAD. "WE must not make a home for the dead, Nor raise an osier'd mound, Till the eloquent prayer and priestly tread Have sanctified the ground. But there are those who fall and die Upon the desert land ; With no pall above but the torrid sky, No bier but the scorching sand. No turf is laid, no sexton's spade Chimes in with the mourner's groans ; But the prowling jackal Cads a feast, And the red sun crumbles the bones. There are those who go down in the dark wild sea, When storms have wreck' d proud ships; With none to heed what the words may be That break from their gurgling lips. Iso anthem-peal flows sweet and loud, No tablets mark their graves ; But they soundly sleep in a coral shroud To the dirge of the rolling waves. There are those who sink on the mountain path, With cold and curdling blood ; With the frozen sleet for a funeral sheet, And no mates but the vulture brood : No tolling bell proclaims their knell, No memory -stone is found ; But the snowdrift rests on their skeleton breasts, And the bleaching winds sweep round. There are those who fall on the purple field, In glory's mad career: Their dying couch a batter'd shield, xneir cross of faith a spear : No priest has been there with robes and prayer To consecrate the dust : Where the soldier sleeps, his steed sleeps too, And his gore-stain'd weapons rust. THE KING'S OLD HALL. 147 >Io cypress waves, no daisy grows, Above such pillows of rest; Yet say, are the riteless graves of those Unholy or unblest ? 'Tis well to find our last repose Where the churchyard yew is nigh ; But those who sleep in the desert or deep Are watch'd by the selfsame eye. THE KING'S OLD HALL. FEW ages since, and wild echoes awoke In thy sweeping dome and panelling oak; Thy seats were fill'd with a princely band, Rulers of men and lords of the land. Loudly they raved, and gaily they laugh'd, O'er the golden chalice and sparkling draught; And the glittering board and gem-studded plume Proclaim'd thee a monarch's revelling room. But now the spider is weaving his woof, Making his loom of thy sculptured roof; The slug is leaving his slimy stain, Trailing his way o'er thy Gothic pane ; "Weeds have gather'd and moss hath grown On thy topmost ridge and lowest stone ; And the wheeling bat comes flapping his wing On the walls that circled a banqueting king. The idle stare and vulgar tread May fall where the regal train was spread ; The gloomy owl may hide its nest, And the speckled lizard safely rest. Who were the revellers? where are their f.jrnis ? Go to the charnel, and ask of the worms. They are low in the dust, forgotten and past, And the pile they raised is following fat. Oh ! Man, vain Man ! how futile your aim, When building your temples to pL-usure and fame! Go, work for Heaven with Faith and Care ; Let good works secure thee a mansion there. L 2 148 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. For the palace of pageantry crumbles away ; Its beauty and strength are mock'd by decay ; And a voice from the desolate halls of kings Cries, " Put not your trust in corrupted things ! ' STANZAS. THEY tell us that the deep sea hath More dangers than the shore ; They whisper tales of ocean wrath, And breakers' deadly roar. How oft the ruddy cheek will pale To leave the earth behind ! How oft the glowing heart will quail Before.the tempest-wind ! We fear the billows' dash, but why ? There's One to guard and save ; There's One whose wide and watchful eye Sleeps not above the wave. Why should the soul withdraw its trust Upon the foamy track ? HE who gave life, all wise and just, Knows when to ask it back. Though death were nigh, I would not shrink ( My faith, my hope, should rest Upon a Maker's will, and think Whate'er HE will'd the best. I'd ever trust the ruling hand, Howe'er the storm might rave, For HE who watches o'er the land Sleeps not above the wave. THE FLAG OF THE FREE. 'Tis the streamer of England it floats o'er the brave 'Tis the fairest unfurl'd o'er */he land or the wave ; But though brightest in story and matchless in fight, Tis the herald of Mercy as well as of Might. In the cause of the wrongM may it ever be first When tyrants are humbled and fetters are burst : Be " Justice " the war-shout, and dastard is he Who would scruple to die 'neath the Flag of the Fr* J 149 It may trail o'er the halyards a bullet-torn rag, Or flutter in shreds from the battlement-crag ; Let the shot whistle through it as fast as it may, Till it sweep the last glorious tatter away. "What matter ! we'd hoist the blue jacket on high, Or the soldier's red sash from the spearhead should fly : Though it were but a riband, the foeman should see The proud signal, and own it the Flag of the Free ! Have we ever look'd out from a far foreign shore, To mark the gay pennon each passing ship bore; And watch'd every speck that arose on the foam, In hope of glad tidings from country and home? Has our straining eye caught the loved colours at last, And seen the dear bark bounding on to us fast ? Then, then have our hearts learnt how precious can be The fair streamer of England the Flag of the Free ! PRAYER. How purely true, how deeply warm, The inly-breathed appeal may be, Though adoration wears no form, In upraised hand or bended knee ! One Spirit fills all boundless space, No limit to the when or where ; And little recks the time or place That leads the soul to praise and prayer. Father above, Almighty one, Creator, is that worship vain That hails each mountain as thy throne, And finds a universal fane ? "When shining stars, or spangled sod, Call forth devotion, who shall dare To blame, or tell me that a GOD Will never deign to hear such prayer ? Oh ! prayer is good when many pour Their voices in one solemn tone; Conning their sacred lessons o'er, Or yielding thanks for mercies shown. 'Tis good to see the quiet train Forget their worldly joy and care ; While loud response and choral strain Re-echo in the house of prayer. 150 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. But often have I stood to mark The setting sun and closing flower, When silence and the gathering dark Shed holy calmness o'er the hour. Lone on the hills, my soul confess'd More rapt and burning homage there^ And served the Maker it address'd With stronger zeal and closer prayer. When watching those we love and prize Till all of life and hope be fled ; When we have gazed on sightless eyes, And gently stay'd the falling head: Then what can soothe the stricken heart, What solace overcome despair ; What earthly breathing can impart Such healing balm as lonely prayer ? When fears and perils thicken fast, And many dangers gather round; When human aid is vain and past, No mortal refuge to be found ; Then can we firmly lean on Heaven, And gather strength to meet and bear: No matter where the storm has driven, A saving anchor lives in prayer. Oh, God ! how beautiful the thought, How merciful the bless'd decree, That Grace can e'er be found when sought, And naught shut out the soul from Thee. The cell may cramp, the fetters gall, The flame may scorch, the rack may tear j But torture-stake, or prison wall, Can be endured with Faith and Prayer. In desert wilds, in midnight gloom ; In grateful joy, in trying pain ; In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb ; Oh ! when is prayer unheard or vain ? The Infinite, the King of kings, Will never heed the when or where ; He'll ne'er reject the heart that brings The offering of fervent prayer. 151 STANZAS. MY Joy, my Hopes, let others share, In Grief, I'd play the miser's part ; My lips, rny brow shall never bear The index of a stricken heart. If riches were consign'd to me, No griping hand would clutch the pelf; For valueless the gold would be If hoarded only for myself. If Pleasure's cheering rays were mine, I would not bask in selfish light ; But have the circle spread and shine, And make all round as glad and bright. But should my spirit bend and ache Beneath some pressing load of woe ; Unheard the heavy sigh must break, Unseen the scalding drop must flow. With sudden stroke or wearing pain The barb might pierce, the worm might feeds I'd cloak the wound, I'd hide the chain- In secret weep in silence bleed. For did my troubled breast reveal Its anguish to the world's wide ear, The few would grieve, partake, and feel The many would not care to hear. And could I bear the few, the loved, To make my fears and sorrows theirs ? Could I e'er w ish a bosom moved To note and mourn my doubts and cares ? Twere easier far to inly groan, And let the canker rankle deep ; Better the worst of paugs my own Than sec a dear one watch and weep. And who among the busy throng Would heed my words or mark my tear ? The saddest tale, the foulest wrong, Might raise a smile or call a sneer. 152 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Oh ! well I know, whate'er my fate, I'd meet and brook it, firmly proud ; And rather die beneath the weight Than tell it to the soul-less crowd. Joy, Hope, and Wealth, let others share ; In grief I'd play the miser's part : I'd scatter all that's sweet and fair, But lock the nightshade in my heart. THE SLUMBER OF DEATH. PEACEFUL and fair is the smiling repo c e That the breast-cradled slumber of infancy knows; Sound is the rest of the weary and worn, Whose feet have been gall'd with the dust and the thorn: Sweet is the sleep on the eyelids of youth, When they dream of the world as all pleasure and truth : Yet child, pilgrim, and youth shall awaken again To the journeys of toil and the trials of pain. But, oh ! there's a fast and a visionless sleep, The calm and the stirless, the long and the deep : 'Tis the sleep that is soundest and sweetest of all, When our couch is the bier, and our uight-robe the paJI. No voice of the foe or the friend shall impart The proud flush to the cheek or warm throb to the heart: The lips of the dearest may seek for the breath, But */heir kiss cannot rouse the cold stillness of death. 'Tis a long, 'tis a last, 'tis a beautiful rest, When all sorrow has pass'd from the brow and the breast, And the lone spirit truly and wisely may crave The sleep that is dreamless, the sleep of the grave. OUR SAILORS AND OUR SHIPS. How dashingly in sun and light the frigate makes her way ; Her white wings spreading full and bright beneath the glancing ray ! The gale n ay wake, but she will take whatever wind may come Fit car to bear the ocean-god upon his crystal home. CHAELIE O'BOSS, Wl' THE SLOE-BLACK BEN. 153 She cleaves the tide with might and pride, like war-horse freed from rein ; She treats the wave like abject slave the empress of the main : All, all shall mark the gallant bark, their hearts upon their lips; And cry, "Old England, who shall match thy Sailors and thy Ships?" Stout forms, strong arms, and dauntless spirits dwell upon the deck ; True to their cause in calm or storm, in battle or in wreck. No foe will meet a coward hand, faint heart or quailing eye : They only know to fall or stand, to live the brave, or die. The flag that carries round the world a Nelson's victor name Must never shield a dastard knave or strike in craven shame. Let triumph scan her blazing page, no record shall eclipse The glory of Old England's Cross, her Sailors and her Sliips. The tempest breath sweeps o'er the sea with bowlings of despair, Death walks upon the waters, but the tar must face and bear : The bullets hiss, the broadside pours, 'mid sulphur, blood, and smoke, And prove a British crew and craft alike are hearts of oak. Oh ! ye who live 'mid fruit and flowers the peaceful, safe, and free Yield up a prayer for those who dare the perils of the sea. " God and our Eight ! " these are the words e'er first upon our lips ; But next shall be, "Old England's flag, our Sailors and out Ships ! " CHAELIE O'EOSS, WI' THE SLOE-BLACK EEN. 'Tis down in the glen where the wild thistle grows. Where the golden furze glitters and bonnie broom blows ; There dwells the braw laddie, sae gallant and free ; The laddie wha blithely comes wooing o' me. You may ken him from a' by his beauty sae rare, By the bloom on his cheek, and his dark glossy hair ; Oh ! there's nane half sae bright on the hills to be seen As Charlie O'Eoss, with the sloe-black een. 154 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. J He looks like a laird, in his bonnet o' blue ; His words are sae soft, and his heart is sae true ; The sang that he sings is sae sweet, and sae clear, That it falls like the mavis's notes on the ear. To be loved by him dearly is a' my d-elight ; And he'll gang through the heather to meet me to-night ; For I promised to lead off the dance on the green, Wi' Charlie O'Ross, wi' the sloe-black een. THE FISHER BOY JOLLILY LIVES. MERRILY OH ! merrily oh ! The nets are spread out to the sun : Merrily oh ! the Fisher Boy sinsis, Right glad that his labour is done. Happy and gay, with his boat in the bay, The storm and the danger forgot ; The wealthy and great might repine at their state, And envy the Fisher Boy's lot. Merrily oh ! merrily oh ! This is the burden he gives : "Cheerily oh ! though the blast may blow, The Fisher Boy jollily lives." Merrily oh ! merrily oh ! He sleeps till the morning breaks; Merrily oh ! at the seagull's scream The Fisher Boy quickly awakes. Down on the strand he is plying his hand, His shouting is heard again ; The clouds are dark, but he springs to his bark With the same light-hearted strain. Merrily oh ! merrily oh ! This is the burden he gives ; " Cheerily oh ! though the blast may blow, The Fisher Boy jollily lives." I THANK THEE, GOD ! FOR WEAL AND WOE. I THANK Thee, GOD ! for all I've known Of kindly fortune, health, and joy ; And quite as gratefully I own The bitter drops of life's alloy THE SMFGGLEB BOY. 156 Oh ! there was wisdom in the blow That wrung the sad and scalding tear ; That laid my dearest idol low, And left my bosom lone and drear. I thank Thee, GOD ! for all of smart That thou hast sent ; for not in vain Has been the heavy, aching heart, The sigh of grief, the throb of pain. What if my cheek had ever kept Its healthful colour, glad and bright ? What if my eyes had never wept Throughout a long and sleepless night? Then, then, perchance, my soul had not Remember'd there were paths less fair ; And, selfish in my own blest lot, Ne'er strove to soothe another's care. But when the weight of sorrow found My spirit prostrate and resign'd ; The anguish of the bleeding wound Taught me to feel for all mankind. Even as from the wounded tree The goodly, precious balm will pour; So in the rived heart there'll be Mercy that never flow'd before. 'Tis well to learn that sunny hours May quickly change to mournful shade; 'Tis well to prize life's scatter'd flowers, Yet be prepared to see them fade. I thank Thee, GOD ! for weal and woe ; And, whatsoe'er the trial be ; 'Twill serve to wean me from below, And bring my spirit nigher Thee. THE SMUGGLER BOY. WE stole away at the fall of night, When the red round moon was deep'ning her light; But none knew whither our footsteps bent, Nor how those stealthy hours were spent; 156 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. For we crept away to the rocky bay, "Where the cave and craft of a fierce band lay ; We gave the signal cry, " Ahoy ! " And found a mate in the Smuggler Boy. His laugh was deep, his speech was bold, And we loved the fearful tales he told, Of the perils he met in his father's bark ; Of the chase by day and the storm by dark. We got him to take the light boat out, And gaily and freshly we dash'd about ; And naught of pleasure could ever decoy From the moonlight sail with the Smuggler Boy. We caught his spirit, and learnt to love The cugeless petrel more than the dove ; And wild and happy souls were we, Roving with him by the heaving sea. He whisper'd the midnight work they did, And show'd us where the kegs were hid : All secrets were ours a word might destroy But we never betray'd the Smuggler Boy. We sadly left him, bound to range A distant path of care and change ; We have sought him again, but none could relate The place of his borne, or a word of his fate. Long years have sped, but we dream of him now, With the red cap toss'd on his dauntless brow ; And the world hat.h given no greater joy Than the moonlight sail with the Smuggler Boy. STANZAS.-THE TOMB. FEW years ago I shunn'd the tomb, And turu'd me from a tablet-stone ; I shiver'd in the churchyard gloom, And sicken'd at a bleaching bone. Then all were round my warm young heart- The kindred tie the cherish'd form ; I knew not what it was to part, And give them to the dust and worm. BLUE-BELLS IN THE SHADE. 157 But soon I lost the gems of earth, I saw the dearest cold in death : And sorrow changed my joyous mirth To searing drops and sobbing breath. I stood by graves all dark and deep, Pale, voiceless, rapt in mute despair ; 1 left my soul's adored to sleep In stirless, dreamless slumber there. And now I steal at night to see The soft clear moonbeams playing o'er Their hallo w'd beds, and long to be Where all most prized have gone before. Now I can calmly gaze around On osier'd heaps, with yearning eye, And murmur o'er the grassy mound " 'Tis a glorious privilege to die ! " The grave hath lost its conquering might, And death its dreaded sting of pain, Since they but ope the path of light To lead me to the loved again. BLUE-BELLS IN THE SHADE. THE choicest buds in Flora's train, let other fingers twine; Let others snatch the damask rose, or wreath the eglantine ; I'd leave the sunshine and parterre, and seek the woodlas glade, To stretch me on the fragrant bed of blue-bells in the shade. Let others cull the daffodil, the lily, soft and fair ; And deem the tulip's gaudy cup most beautiful and rare ; But give to me, oh, give to me, the coronal that's made Of ruby orchis mingled with the blue-bells from the shade. The sunflower and the peony, the poppy bright and gay, Have no alluring charms for me ; I'd fling them all away : Exotic bloom may fill the vase, or grace the high-born maid ; But sweeter far to me, than all, are blue-bells in the shade. 158 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. SONG OF THE IMPRISONED BIRD. YE may pass me by with pitying eye. And cry " Poor captive thing ? " But I'll prove ye are caged as safely as I, If ye'll list to the notes I sing. I flutter in thrall, and so do all ; Ye have bonds ye cannot escape ; With only a little vvider range, And bars of another shape. The noble ranks of fashion and birth Are fetter'd by courtly rule ; They dare not rend the shackles that tend To form the knave and fool. The parasite, bound to kiss the hand That, perchance, he may loathe to touch ; The maiden, high-born, wedding where she may scorn, 1 Oh ! has earth worse chains than such ? The one who lives but to gather up wealth, Though great his treasures may be; Yet, guarding with care and counting by stealth, "What a captive wretch is he ! The vainly proud, who turn from the crowd, Ar.d tremble lest they spoil The feathers of the peacock-plume With a low plebeian soil : Oh ! joy is mine to see them strut In their chosen narrow space ; They mount a perch, but ye need not search For a closer prison-place. T!ie being of fitful, curbless wrath May fiercely stamp and rave ; He will call himself free, but there cannot be More mean and piteous slave ; For the greatest victim, the fastest-bound, Is the one who serves his rage: The temper that governs will ever be found A fearful, torture-cage. THE WILI.OW-TBSR. 139 Each breathing spirit is chasten'd down By the hated or the dear ; The gentle smile or tyrant frown Will hold ye in love or fear. Ho'.v much there is self-will would do, Were it not for the dire dismay That bids ye shrink, as ye suddenly think Of " What will my neighbour say ? " Then pity me not ; for mark mankind, Of every rank and age; Look close to the heart, and ye'll ever find, That each is a bird in a. cage. THE WILLOW-TREE. TREE of the gloom, o'erhanging the tomb, Thou seem'st to love the churchyard sod; Thou ever art found on the charnel ground, Where the laughing and happy have rarely trod When thy branches trail to the wintry gale. Thy wailing is sad to the hearts of men ; When the world is bright in a summer's light, 'Tig only the wretched that love thee then. The uolden moth and the shining bee Will seldom rest on the Willow-tree. The weeping maid comes under thy shade, Mourning her faithful lover dead ; She sings of his grave in the crystal wave, Of his sea- weed shroud and coral bed. A chaplet she weaves of thy downy leaves, And twines it round her pallid brow; Sloe]) falls on her eyes while she softly sighs, " My love, my dearest, I come to thce now ! " She sits and dreams of the moaning sea, While the night wind creeps through the Willow-tree. The dying one will turn from the sun, The dazzling flowers, and luscious Iruit; To sH his mark in thy sombre bark. An 1 find a couch at thy moss-dud root. 160 POEMS BY ELTZA COOK. He is fading away like the twilight ray, His cheek is pale and his glance is dim ; But thy drooping arms, with their pensive charm*, Can yield a joy till the last for him ; And the latest words on his lips shall be, " Oh, lay me under the Willow-tree ! " STANZAS. THEY told me in my earlier years, Life was a dark and tangled web; A gloomy sea of bitter tears, "Where Sorrow's influx had no ebb. But such was vainly taught and said, My laugh rang out with joyous tone ; The woof possess'd one brilliant thread Of rainbow colours, all my own. They talked of trials, sighs, and grief, And call'd the world a wilderness ; "Where dazzling bud or fragrant leaf But rarely sprung to cheer and bless. But there was one dear precious flower Engrafted in my bosom's core, Which made my home an Eden bower, And caused a doubt if heaven held more. I boasted till a mother's grave Was heap'd and sodded then I found The sunshine stricken from the wave, And all the golden thread unwound. Where was the flower I had worn So fondly, closely, in my heart ? The bloom was crush'd, the root was torn, And left a cureless, bleeding part. Preach on who will say " Life is sad," I'll not refute as once I did ; You'll find the eye that beam'd so glad Will hide a tear beneath its lid. Preach on of woe ; the time Tiat h been I'd praise the world with shadeless brow : The dream is broken I have seen A mother die : I'm silent now. FIRE. BLANDLY glowing, richly bright, Cheering star of social light ; While I gently heap it higher, How I bless thee, sparkling fire ! Who loves not the kindly rays Streaming from the temper'd blaze P Who can sit beneath his hearth Dead to feeling, stern to mirth ? Who can watch the crackling pile, And keep his breast all cold the while P Fire is good, but it must serve : Keep it thrall'd for if it swerve Into freedom's open path, What shall check its maniac wrath? Where's the tongue that can proclaim The fearful work of curbless flame P Darting wide and shooting high, It lends a horror to the sky ; It rushes on to waste, to scare ; Arousing terror and despair ; It tells the utmost earth can know, About the demon scenes below ; And siuks at last, all spent and dead, Among the ashes it has spread. Sure the poet is not wrong To glean a moral from the song. Listen, youth ! nor scorn, nor frown,^ Thou must chain thy Passions down : Well to serve, but ill to sway, Like the Fire they must obey. They are good in subject state, To strengthen, warm, and animate ; But if once we let them reign, They sweep with desolating train, Till they but leave a hated name, A ruin'd soul, and blacken'd lame. M ir>2 STANZAS. 1'VB track'd the paths of the dark wild wood^ No footfall there but my own ; I've linger'd heside the moaning flood, But I never felt alone. There were lovely things for my soul to meet, Hare work for my eye to trace : I held communion close and sweet With a Maker face to face. I have ^at in the cheerless, vacant room, At the stillest hour of night ; "With naught to break upon the gloom But the taper's sickly light : And there I have conjured back again The loved ones, lost and dead ; Till my swelling heart and busy brain Have hardly deein'd them fled. I may rove the waste or tenant the cell, But alone I never shall be ; While this form is a home where the spirit may dwell; There is something to mate with me. Wait till ye turn from my mindless clay ; And the shroud o'er my breast is thrown ; And then, but not I ill then, ye may say That I am left alone ! SONG OE THE SUN. SUPREME of the sky no throne so high I reign a monarch divine ; What have ye below that doth not owe Its glory; and lustre to mine ? Has Beauty a charm I have not helped To nurture in freshness and bloom ? Can a tint be spread can a glance be shed Like those I deign to illume ? Though ye mimic my beams, as ye do and ye will, Let all galaxks meet, I am mightiest still ! 80NG OF THE SUN. 168 The first red ray that heralds my way, Just kisses the mountain top ; And splendour dwells in the cowslip bells "While I kindle each nectar drop; I speed on my wide refulgent path, And Nature's homage is given ; All tones are pour'd to greet my adored As I reach the blue mid-heaven, And the sweetest and boldest, the truly free The lark and the eagle come nearest to me. The glittering train so praised by man, The moon, night's worshipp'd queen ; The silvery scud, and the rainbow's span ; Snatch from me their colours and sheen. I know when my radiant streams are flung, Creation shows all that is bright, But I'm jealous of naught save the face of the young Laughing back my noontide light : I see nothing so pure or so dazzling on earth, As childhood's brow with its halo of mirth. My strength goes down in the crystal caves, I gem the billow's wide curl ; I paint the dolphin and burnish the waves, I tinge the coral and pearl. , f Love ye the flowers ? What power, save mine, Can the velvet rose unfold ? "Who else can purple the grape on the vine, Or flush the wheat-ear with gold ? Look on the beam-lit wilderness spot *Tis more fair than the palace, where I come not. Though giant clouds ride on the whirlwind's tide, And gloom on the world may fall ; I yet fla-sh on in gorgeous pride, Untarnish'd, above them all. So the pure warm heart for awhile may appear, In probations of sorrow and sin, To be dimm'd and obscured, but trial or tear Cannot darken the spirit within. Let the breast keep its truth, and Life's shadows may roll, But they quench not, they reach not the Sun nor the Soul. M 2 164 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. A SUMMER SKETCH. Tl8 June, 'tis merry, smiling June, 'Tis blushing Summer now ; The rose is red the bloom is dead- The fruit is on the bough. Flora, with Ceres, hand in hand, Brinp; all their smiling train ; The yellow corn is waving high, To gild the earth again. The bird-cage hangs upon the wall, Amid the clustering vine ; The rustic seat is in the porch, Where honeysuckles twine. The rosy, ragged urchins play Beneath the glowing sky ; They scoop the sand, or gaily chase The bee that buzzes by. The household spaniel flings his lengik Along the stone-paved hall ; The panting sheep-dog seeks the spot "Where leafy shadows fall. The petted kitten frisks among The bean-flowers' fragrant maze ; Or, basking, throws her dappled form To court the warmest rays. The open'd casement, flinging wide, Geraniums gives to view ; With choicest posies ranged between, Still wet with morning dew. 'Tis June, 'tis merry laughing June, There's not a cloud above ; The air is still, o'er heath and hill, The bulrush does not move. The pensive willow bends to kiss The stream so deep and clear; While dabbling ripples, gliding on, Bring music to mine ear. THE WELCOME BACK. 165 The mower whistles o'er his toil The emerald grass must yield ; The scythe is out, the swath is down, There's incense in the field. Oh ! how I love to calmly muse In such an hour as this ; To nurse the joy Creation gives, In purity and bliss ! There is devotion in my soul My lip can ne'er impart ; But One above will deign to read The tablet of my heart. And if that heart should e'er neglect The homage of its prayer, Lead it to Nature's altar-piece, 'Twill always worship there. THE WELCOME BACK. SWEET is the hour that brings us home, Where all will spring to meet us ; "Where hands are striving as we come, To be the first to greet us. When the world hath spent its frowns and wrath, And care been sorely pressing; 'Tis sweet to turn from our roving path, And find a fireside blessing. Oh ! joyfully dear is the homeward track, If we are but sure of a welcome back. What do we reck on a dreary way, Though lonely and benighted; If we know there are lips to chide our stay, And eyes that will beam love-lighted ? What is the worth of your diamond ray, To the glance that flashes pleasure ; When the wcrds that welcome back betray We form a heart',* chief treasure ? Oh ! joyfully dear is our homeward track, If we are but sure of a welcome back. 166 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. WHILE THE CHRISTMAS LOG IS BUHNINO. HAIL to the night when we gather once more All the forms we love to meet ; When we've many a guest that's dear to our breast ; And the household dog at our feet. "Who would not be in the circle of glee, When heart to heart is yearning When joy breathes out in the laughing shout "While the Christmas log is burning ? 'Tis one of the fairy hours of life, When the world seems all of light ; For the thought of woe, or the name of a foe Ne'er darkens the festive night. When bursting mirth rings round the hearth, Oh ! where is the spirit that's mourning ; While merry bells chime with the carol rhyme, And the Christmas log is burning ? Then is the time when the gray old man Leaps back to the days of youth ; When brows and eyes bear no disguise, But flush and gleam with truth. Oh ! then is the time when the soul exults, And seems right heavenward turning ; When we love and bless the hands we press, While the Christinas log is burning. THE ACORN. BEAUTIFUL germ ! I have set thee low In the dewy earth strike, spring, and grow f Oh ! cleave to the soil, arid thou mayst be The king of the woods, a brave, rare tree. Acorn of England, thou mayst Lear Thy green head high in the mountain air : Another age, and thy mighty form May scowl at the sun and mock at the storm. A hundred years, and I lie woodman's stroke May fiercely fall on thy heart of oak : Let Time roll on and thy planks may rido In glorious state o'er the fathomless tide. TO A CB1CKET. 187 Thou raayst baffle the waters, and firmly take The winds that sweep and waves that break ; And thy vaunted strength shall as nobly stand The rage of the sea as the storm on the land. A hundred year.*, and in some fair hall Thou mayst shine as the polish'd wainscot wall ; And ring with the laugh "d echo the jest Of the happy host and the feasting guest. Acorn of England ! deep in the earth Mayst thou live and burst in flourishing birth ; May thy root be firm and thy broad arms wave, When the Land that plants thee is cold in the grave. TO A CRICKET. MERRY Cricket, twittering thing, How I love to hear thee sing ! Chirping tenant, child of mirth, Minstrel of the poor man's hearth ! Stay, merry Cricket, stay, and be Companion in our jollity. Winter days are round us now, Stormy winds and falling snow; Pelting hail is rattling fast, Driven by the northern blast ; Dark December's dreary night Needs the fagots' blazing light: Grandsires tell the goblin tale, Urchins listen, mute and pale; Mistletoe is hung on high ; Christmas tide is drawing nigh ; Stay, merry Cricket, stay, and be Partner in our jollity. Holly branches deck the walls Of peasants' cots and barons' halls ; Scarlet berries peep between, Twined with laurel, daiily green. Close commingled, rudely bound ; Sacredly fiey wreath around. Polished tAnkards grace the board ; Backs and cellars yield their hoard; POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Flowing ale, with cheering zest, Animates the song and jest ; Wine, rich sparkling, greets the lip, Such as Bacchus' self might sip ; Such that Horace might have sung Praises of with honest tongue ; Giving to the world its name, Sharing the Falernian fame. Laughing voices, bounding feet, In many a happy circle meet ; Sports and feasting make the hours Light as those in summer bowers ; Stay, then, merry Cricket, stay, Tarry with the glad and gay. Spring about the oaken floor, Dread not pussy's murderous paw ; Dainty crumbs and fragments rare Shall be scatter'd for thy fare ; Gambol in thy covert warm, None shall chase thee, naught shall harm; I will guard thee, for I dote Upon thy timid whistling note. Stay, then, merry Cricket, stay, Tarry with the glad and gay ; Share our blazing fire, and be Partner in our jollity. ANACREONTIC. WINE ! Wine ! Wine ! Thou purple stream of bliss ; Thy Lethe powers drown bygone hours, And make a heaven of this, Go, look upon the boundless sky, "Where shining planets roll ; There's none can match the sparkling eyb When Wine lights up the soul ! Let monarchs say, their eastern gems All other gems surpass ; We'll show them brighter in the drops That stud each draining glass ; THE CHKISTMAS HOLLY. 169 "Wine ! "Wine ! Wine ! Thou purple stream of bliss ; Thy Lethe powers drown bygone hours, And make a heaven of this. There's beauty round that might entice The angels as of yore : Once drawn to Earth by such a charm, They'd seek the sky no more. There's music, soft and thrilling hark ! What magic in the strain ! Tvvere madness for to listen long, Come, fill the gla*s again. Wine ! Wine ! Wine ! Thou purple stream of bliss ; Thy Lethe powers drown bygone hours, And make a heaven of this. Young Bacchus reels about our board With face like morning's blush; His cheeks have pilfer'd from the grapes Their rich, carnation flush. The rosy rogue around to-night A treble rapture flings ; He revels with Apollo's lyre, And Cupid's burning wings. Wine! Wine! Wine! Thou purple stream of bliss ; Thy Lethe powers drown bygone hours, And make a heaven of this. THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY. THE Holly ! the Holly ! oh, twine it with bay- Come give the Holly a song ; For it helps to drive stern winter away, With his garments so sombre and long. It peeps through the trees with its berries of red, And its leaves of burnish'd green, When the flowers and fruits have long been dead, And not even the daisy is seen. 170 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Then sing to the Holly, the Christmas Holly, That hangs over peasant and king : While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering bought, To the Christmas Holly we'll sing. The gale may whistle, and frost may come, To fetter the gurgling rill ; The woods may be bare, and the warblers dumb- But the Holly is beautiful still. In the revel and light of princely halls, The bright Holly-branch is found ; And its shadow falls on the lowliest walls, "While the brimming horn goes round. Then drink to the Holly, &c. The ivy lives long, but its home must be Where graves and ruins are spread ; There's beauty about the cypress tree, But it flourishes near the dead : The laurel the warrior's brow may wreath, But it tells of tears and blood. I sing the Holly, and who can breathe Aught of that that is not good ? Then sing to the Holly, &c. "THY WILL BE DONE." LET the scholar and divine Tell us how to pray aright ; Let the truths of Gospel shine With their precious hallow'd light ; But the prayer a mother taught Is to me a matchless one ; Eloquent and spirit- fraught Are the words " Thy will be done." Though not fairly understood, Still those words, at evening hour, Implied some Being, great and good, Of mercy, majesty, and power. Bending low on infant knee, And gazing on the setting sun, I thought that orb his home must be, To whom I said" Thy will be done." SOffG OF OLD TIME. I have searched the sacred page, I have heard the godly speech; But the lore of saint or sage Nothing holier can teach. Pain has wrung my spirit sore, But my soul the triumph won ; When the anguish that I bore Only breathed" Thy will be done." They have served in pressing need, Have nerved my heart in every task ; And howsoever my breast may bleed, No other balm of prayer I ask, "When my whiten'd lips declare Life's last sands have almost run, May the dying breath they bear Murmur forth" Thy will be done." SONG OF OLD TIME. I WEAR not the purple of earth-born kings, Nor the stately ermine of lordly things ; But monarch and courtier, though great they be, Must fall from their glory and bend to me. My sceptre is gemless ; yet who can say They will not come under its mighty sway ? Ye may learn who I am, there's the passing chime, And the dial to herald me Old King Time ! Softly I creep, like a thief in the night, After cheeks all blooming and eyes all light; My steps are seen on the patriarch's brow, In the deep-worn furrows and locks of snow. Who laugh at my power ? the young and the gay: But they dream not how closely I track their way. Wait till their first bright sands have run, And they will not smile at what Time hath done. I eat through treasures with moth and rust; I lay the gorgeous palace in dust ; I make the shell-proof tower my own, And break the battlement, stone from stone. 171 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Work on at your cities and temples, proud man, Build high as ye may, and strong as ye can ; But the marble shall crumble, the pillar shall fall, And Time, Old Time, will be king, after all. SONG OF THE GOBLET. I HAVE kept my place at the rich man's board For many a waning night ; Where streams of dazzling splendour poured Their galaxy of light : No wilder revelry has rung Than where my home has been ; All that the bard of Teos sung, Has the golden Goblet seen : And what I could tell, full many might dem A fable of fancy, or tale of a dream. I have beheld a courteous band Sit round in bright array ; Their voices firm, their words all bland, And brows like a cloudless day : But soon tho guests were led by the host To dash out Reason's lamp ; And then GOD'S noble image had lost The fineness of its stamp : And their sober cheeks have blush'd to hear "What they told o'er to me without shame or fear. Their loud and tuneless laugh would tell Of a hot and reeling brain ; Their right arms trembled, and red wine fell Like blood on a battle-plain. The youth would play the chattering ape, And the gray-hairM one would let The foul and sickening jest escape Till I've loathed the lips I've met; And the swine in the dust, or the wolf on its p?ejr, Gave less of sheer disgust than they. The drunkard has fill'd me again and again 'Mid the roar of a frantic din ; Till the starting eyeballs told his brain "Was an Etna pile within. SONG OF THE GOBLET. 171 Oh ! sad is the work that I have done In the hands of the sot and fool ; Cursed and dark is the fame I have won, As Death's most powerful tool : And I own that those who greet my rim Too oft, will find their bane on the brim. But all the golden Goblet has wrought Is not of the evil kind ; I have helped the creature of mighty thought, And quicken'd the Godlike mind. As gems of first water may lie in the shade, And no lustre be known to live ; Till the kiss of the noontide beam has betray'd What a glorious sheen they can give : So, the breast may hold fire that none can see, Till it meet the sun-ray shed by me. I have burst the spirit's moody trance, And woke it to mirth and wit ; Till the soul would dance in every glance Of eyes that were rapture-lit. I have heard the bosom all warm and rife With friendship, offer up Its faith in heaven, its hope on earth, With the name it breathed in the cup ! And I was proud to seal the bond Of the truly great and the firmly fond. I have served to raise the shivering form That sunk in the driving gale; I have fann'd the flame that famine and storm Had done their worst to pale. The stagnant vein has been curdled and cold As the marble's icy streak ; But I have come, and the tide hath roll'd Eight on to the heart and cheek ; And bursting words from a grateful breast- Have told the golden Goblet was blest. Oh ! Heaven forbid that bar or ban / Should be thrown on the draught I bear But woful it is that senseless man Will brand me with sin and despair. 174 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Use me wisely, and I will lend A joy ye may cherish and praise ; But love me too well, and my potion shall send A burning blight on your days. This is the strain I sing as ye fill " Beware ! the Goblet can cheer or kill." WASHINGTON. LAND of the "West ! though passing brief the record of thine age, Thou hast a name that darkens all on History's wide page ! Let all the blasts of fame ring out thine shall be loudest far ; Let others boast their satellites thou hast the planet star. Thou hast a name whose characters of light shall ne'er depart ; 'Tis stamped upon the dullest brain, and warms the coldest heart; A war-cry fit for any land where Freedom's to be won : Land of the West ! it stands alone it is thy Washington ! Eome had its Csesar, great and brave; but stain was on his wreath : He lived the heartless conqueror, and died the tyrant's death. France had its Eagle; but his wings, though lofty they might soar, Were spread in false ambition's flight, and dipped in murder's gore. Those hero-gods, whose mighty sway would fain have chained the waves Who fleshed their blades with tiger seal, to make a world of slaves Who, though their kindred barred the path, still fiercely waded on. Oh, where shall be their " glory" by the side of Washington ! He fought, but not with love of strife ; he struck but to defend ; And ere he turn'd a people's foe, he sought to be a friend : He strove to keep his country's right by Reason's gentle word, And sighed when fell Injustice threw the challenge sword to sword. He stood the firm, the calm, the wise, the patriot and sage ; He showed no deep avenging hate no burst of despot rage. He stood for Liberty and Truth, and daringly led on, Till shouts of Victory gave forth the n.,me of Washington. BONNET. 175 No car of triumph bore him through a city filled with grief; No groaning captives at the wheels proclaimed him victor- chief : He broke the gyves of slavery with strong and high disdain ; But cast no sceptre from the links when he had crushed the chain. He saved his land, but did not lay his soldier trappings down. To change them for a regal vest, and don a kingly crown. Fame was too earnest in her joy too proud of such a son To let a robe and title mask her noble Washington. England, my heart is truly thine my loved, my native eartn The land that holds a mother's grave, and gave that mother birth ! Oh, keenly sad would be the fate that thrust me from thy shore, And f'aultering my breath that sighed " Farewell for evermore !'* But did I meet such adverse lot, I would not seek to dwell Where olden heroes wrought the deeds for Homer's song to tell. Away, thou gallant ship ! I'd cry, and bear me swiftly on ; But bear me from my own fair land to that of "VVashiiigton. SONNET. 'Tis midnight ! and pale Melancholy stands Beside me, wearing a funereal wreath Of yew and cypress : the faint dirge of Death Moans in her breathing, while her withered hands Fling corse-bedecking rosemary around. She offers nightshade, spreads a winding-slieet, Points to the clinging clay upon her feet, And whispers tidings of the charnel-ground. Oh ! pray thee, Melancholy, do not bring These bitter emblems with thee ; I can bear With all but these 'tis these, oh GOD ! that wring And plunge my heart in maddening despair. Hence, for awhile, pale Melancholy ; go ! And let sweet slumber lull my weeping woe. LOVE'S FIRST DREAM. EfllOHT is the froth of an eastern wave, As it piays in the sun's last glow; Pure is the pearl in its crystal bed, Gemming the worlds below; 176 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. "Warm is the heart that mingles its blood In the red tide of Glory's stream ; But ^ore dashingly bright, more pure, more warm, Is " Love's first Dream." Hope paints the vision with hues of her own, In all the colours of Spring ; "While the young lip breathes like a dewy rose Fanned by the fire-fly's wing. 'Tis a fairy scene, wliere the fond soul roves, Exulting in Passion's warm beam; Ah, sad 'tis to think we should wake with a chill, From " Love's first Dream." But it fades like the rainbow's brilliant arch, Scattered by clouds arid wind ; Leaving the spirit, unrobed of light, In darkness and tears behind. When mortals look back on the heartfelt woes They have met with in Life's rough stream, That sigh will be deepest which Memory give* To " Love's first Dream." TIME. OH ! never chide the wing of Time, Or say 'tis tardy in its flight ! You'll find the days speed quick enough, If you but husband them aright. Thy span of life is waning fast ; Beware, unthinking youth, beware! Thy soul's eternity depends Upon the record moments bear ! Time is indeed a precious boon, But with the boon a task is given ; The heart must learn its duty well, To man on earth, and God in heaven. Take heed, then, play not with thine houn^ Beware, unthinking youth, beware ! The one who acts the part he ought, "Will have but little Time to #pare. THE SURGEON'S KNIFE. THERE are hearts stout hearts that own no fear At the whirling sword or the darting spear, That are eagerly ready to bleed in the dust, 'Neath the sabre's cut or the bayonet's thrust; They heed not the blows that Fate may deal, From the murderer's dirk or the soldier's steel: But lips that laugh at the dagger of strife Turn silent and white from the surgeon's knife. Though bright be the burnish and slender the blade, Bring it nigh, and the bravest are strangely afraid ; And the rope on the beam or the axe on the block Have less terror to daunt, and less power to shock. Science may wield it, and danger may ask The hand to be quick in its gory task : The hour with torture and death may be rife, But death is less fear'd than the surgeon's knife. It shines in the grasp 'tis no weapon for play, A shudder betrajs it is speeding its way ; While the quivering muscle and severing joint Are gash'd by the keen edge, and probed by the point. It has reek'd in the dark and welling flood, Till purple and warm with the heart's quick blood; Dripping it comes from the cells of life, AYhile glazing eyes turn from the surgeon's knife. Braggarts in courage, and boasters of strength, At the cannon's mouth 01 the lance's length ; Ye who have struggled sword to sword, With your wide wounds drenching the battle-sward- Oh ! boast no more till your soul be found Unmoved with a breathless silence round ; And a dread of the grave and a hope of life ; That rest on the work of the surgeon's knife. LOVE ON. LOVE on, love on, the soul must have a shrine The rudest breast must find some hallow'd spot; i The One who form'd us left no spark divine In him who dwells on earth, yet loveth not. N 178 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Devotion's links compose a sacred chain Of holy brightness and unmeasured length ; The world with selfish rust and reckless stain May mar its beauty, but not touch its strength. Love on, love on ay, even though the heart We fondly build on proveth like the sand ; Though one by one "Faith's corner-stones depart ; And even Hope's last pillar fails to stand : Though we may dread the lips we once believed, And know their falsehood shadows all our days; Who would not rather trust and be deceived, Than own the mean, cold spirit that betrays? Love on, love on, though we may live to see The dear face whiter than its circling shroud; Though dark and dense the gloom of Death may be, Affection's glory yet shall pierce the cloud. The truest spell that Heaven can give to lure, The sweetest prospect Mercy can bestow ; Is the blest thought that bids the soul be sure 'Twill meet above the things it loved below. Lovo on, love on Creation breathes the words Their mystic music ever dwells around ; The strain is echoed by unnumber'd chords, And gentlest bosoms yield the fullest sound. As flowers keep springing though their dazzling bloom Is oft put forth for worms to feed upon, So hearts, though wrung by traitors and the tomb, Shall still be precious, and shall still love on. TO THE SPIRIT OF SriKiT OF SONG, thou has left me awhile To find my joy in the world's false smile ; Thou hast left me to prove that world to be A dull sad desert, unchetred by thee. Oh ! my heart has been a shivering thing ; Like a young bird missing its mother's wing: It has ached in secret and pined away Through the festive night and the weary day. To THE SPIEIT OF 80NO. 179 Spirit of Song, when thou art fled, No light is left on my earthly track ; We must not part till I sleep with the dead- Spirit of Song, I'll woo thee back ! And yet I know 'tis kind and best That thou for awhile shouldst leave my breast ; Strings tuned so highly must soon be snapt, Though the tone may be rich and the minstrel rapt ; The heart that kindles a flame so strong Can never feed that flame for long ; It would burn as a sacred incense pyre, And be consumed by its own wild fire. Spirit of Song thou hast wrung the tear ; Thou hast tortured with joy and madden'd with pain ; Yet shine, thou star of a holier sphere ; Spirit of Song, be mine again ! I'll seek thee, but not in the midnight crowd, "Where revels are kept by the gay and proud ; Not in the city's clamorous mart, Where wealth is the idol of each cold heart; Not at the sculptured palace gate, That bars out peace with towering state ; Not in the region of a throne, "Where truth and repose are rarely known. Spirit of Song, thou dost not dwell With the sons of pomp or the slaves of care : Their homes may hold the glories of gold, But, Spirit of Song, thou art not there ? I'll seek thee when the night winds blow, Warming the bosom and cooling the brow ; When the moon climbs over the misty hill, When the steed is unyoked and the hamlet still; When the flowers are sleeping, and dripping gems Hang like pearls on their emerald stems; When the cawing rook has gone to rest, And the lark is hid in his lowly nest. Spirit of Song, this, this is the time When wisp-lights dance on the moor and fen ; When the watch-dog bays to the curfew chime- Spirit of Song, I'll woo thee then ! V 2 180 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. I'll seek thee where the moonshine falls On ivied towers and crumbling walls ; Where the frog leaps on in the rising dew, And the owl hoots out with his loud too-whoo: "Where the arms of the clustering alders moan, Where the tall larch straggles dark ind lone, Where black pines crown the rugged steep, Where heather blooms and lichens creep- Spirit of Song, 'tis there thou art, By the desolate shore and heaving sea : Oh ! come thou rainbow of my heart, Spirit of Song, come back to me ! Thou comest ! I hear thy voice once more In the waters laving the pebbly shore; Thou comest with breathing deep and sweet, Where the fitful breeze and the willows meet. Thou comest ! I feel thy presence around ; My harp and my soul are alike unbound; The world is wearing the selfsame hue Of fairy tinge it was wont to do. Spirit of Song, thou hast left me long, But the prayer of thy child has not been vain ; Thou hast come in the might of thy glory and light/ Spirit of Song, thou art mine again ! STANZAS. " GOD speed the plough ! " be this a prayer To find its echo everywhere ; But curses on the iron hand That grasps one rood of " common" land* Sure there's enough of earth beside, Held by the sons of Wealth and Pride; Their glebe is wide enough without Our " commons " being fenced about ! We guard the spot where steeples rise In stately grandeur to the skies ; We mark the place where altars shine, As hallow'd, sainted, and divine ; 8TANZAS. 181 And just as sacred should we hold The turf, where peasants blithe and bold, Can plant their footsteps day or night, In free, unquestioned, native right. The common range the common range Oh ! guard it from invading change ; Though rough, 'tis rich though poor, 'tis blest And will be while the skylark's uest And early violets are there, Tilling with sweetness earth and air. It glads the eye it warms the soul, To gaze upon the rugged knoll ; Where tangled brushwood twines across The straggling brake and sedgy moss. Oh ! who would give the blackthorn leaves For harvest's full and rustling sheaves ? Oh ! who would have the grain spring up Where now we find the daisy's cup ; Where clumps of dark red heather gleam, With beauty in the summer beam And yellow furze-bloom laughs to scorn Your ripen'd hops and bursting corn ? " God speed the plough !" but let us trace Something of Nature's infant face ; Let us behold some spot where man Has not yet set his " bar and ban ; " Leave us the green wastes, fresh and wild, For poor man's beast and poor man's child I 'Tis well to turn our trusty steeds In chosen stalls and clover meads ; "We like to see our " gallant grey " Snuff daintily his fragrant hay; But the poor sandman's "Blind old Ball* Lacks grooms and clover, oats and stalL With tired limbs and bleeding back He takes his steady, homeward track ; The hovel gained, he neighs with glee, From burthen, whip, and bridle free: Turned forth, he flings his bony length, And rolls with all his waning strength j 182 POEMS BY ELIZA COOS. Up on his trembling legs again, He shakes himself from tail to mane, And, nibbling with a grateful zest, Finds on " the common " food and rest. Hark to the shouts of peasant boys, With ill-carved bats, and uncheck'd noise I While " cricket," with its light-heel'd mirth, Leaves scnrs upon the grassy earth Too deeply lined by Summer's play, For Winter's storms to wear away. Spent by the game, they rove apart, With lounging form and careless heart ; One by the rushing pond will float Old "Dil worth" in a paper boat; Another wades, with legs all bare, To pluck the water-lily fair ; Others will sit and chatter o'er The village fund of cricket lore- Quote this rare " catch," and that bold "run,* Till, having gossip'd down the sun, They promise, with a loud " Good night ! " That, if to-morrow's sky be bright, They'll be again where they have been For years upon the " common green." The chicken tribe the duckling brood, Go there to scratch their daily food ; The woodman's colt the widow's cows, TJnwatch'd untether'd there may browse ; And, though the pasturage be scant, It saves from keen and starving want. " God speed the plough ! " let fields be till'd, Let ricks be heap'd and garners fill'd ; 'Tis good to count the Autumn gold, And try how much our barns can hold ; But every English heart will tell It loves an " English common " well ; And curse the hard and griping band That wrests away such "hallow'd" landj That shuts the green waste, fresh and wild; From poor man's beast and poor man's child! 183 THE OLD MILL-STREAM. BEAUTIFUL streamlet ! how precious to me Was the green -swarded paradise water'd by thee; I dream of thee still, as them wert in my youth, Thy meanderings haunt me with freshness and truth. I had heard of full many a river of fame, With its wide rolling flood, and its classical name ; But the Thames of Old England, the Tiber of Rome, Could not peer with the mill-streamlet close to my hornet Full well I remember the gravelly spot, Where I slyly repair'd though I knew I ought not; Where I stood with my handful of pebbles to make That formation of fancy, a duck and a drake. How severe was the scolding, how heavy the threat, When my pinafore hung on me dirty, and wet; How heedlessly silent I stood to be told Of the danger of drowning, the risk of a cold ! " Now mark ! " cried a mother, " the mischief done there Is unbearable go to that stream if you dare ! " But I sped to that stream like a frolicsome colt, For I knew that her thunder-cloud carried no bolt. Though puzzled with longitude, adverb and noun, Till my forehead was sunk in a studious frown ; Yet that stream was a Lethe that swept from my soul The grammar, the globes, and the tutor's control. I wonder if still the young anglers begin, As I did, with willow-wand, packthread, and pin ; When I threw in my line, with expectancy high As to perch in my basket, and eels in a pie : When I watched every bubble that broke on a weed, Yet found I caught nothing but lily and reed ; Till time and discernment began to instil The manoeuvres of Walton with infinite skill. Full soon I discover'd the birch-shadow'd place That nurtured the trout and the silver-backed dace; Where the coming of night found me blest and content, IV'ith my patience unworn, and my fishing-rod bent. 184 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. How fresh were the flags on the stone-studded ridge, That rudely supported the narrow oak hridge : And that bridge, oh ! how boldly and safely I ran On the thin plank that now I should timidly scan. I traversed it often at fall of the night, When the clouds of December shut out the moon's light ; A mother might tremble, but I never did ; For my footing was sure, though the pale stars were hid. "When the breath of stern winter had fetter'd the tide, What joy to career on its feet-warming slide ; With mirth in each eye, and bright health on each cheek. While the gale in our faces came piercing and bleak. The snow-flakes fell thick on our wind-roughen'd curls, But we laugh'd as we shook off the feathery pearls ; And the running, the tripping, the pull and the haul Had a glorious end in the slip and the sprawl. Oh ! I loved the wild place where the clear ripples flow'd On their serpentine way o'er the pebble-strew'd road ; Where, mounted on Dobbin, we youngsters would dash ; Both pony and rider enjoying the splash. How often I tried to teach Pincher the tricks Of diving for pebbles and swimming for sticks ; But my doctrines could never induce the loved brute To consider hydraulics a pleasant pursuit. Did a forcible argument sometimes prevail, What a woful expression was seen in his tail : And, though bitterly vex'd, I was made to agree, That Dido, the spaniel, swam better than he. What pleasure it was to spring forth in the sun, When the school-door was oped, and our lessons were don* , When " Where shall we play ? " was the doubt and the call, And "Down by the mill-stream" was echo'd by all. When tired of childhood's rude, boisterous pranks, We pull'd the tall rushes that grew on its banks ; And, busily quiet, we sat ourselves down To weave the rough basket, or plait the light crown. f OF THE EED INDIAN. 18i I remember the launch of our fairy-built ship, How we set her white sails, pull'd her anchor atrip ; Till mischievous hands, working hard at the craft, Turn'd the ship to a boat, and the boat to a raft. The first of my doggerel breathings was there, 'Twas the hope of a poet, " An Ode to Despair;" I won't vouch for its metre, its sense, or its rhyme, But I know that I then thought it truly sublime. Beautiful streamlet ! I dream of thee still, Of thy pouring cascade, and the tic-tac-ing mill; Thou livest in memory, and will not depart, For thy waters seem blent with the streams of my heart. Home of my youth ! if I go to thee now, None can remember my voice or my brow ; None can remember the sunny-faced child, That play'd by the water-mill joyous and wild. The aged, who laid their thin hands on my head, To smooth my dark shining curls, rest with the dead; The young, who partook of my sports and my glee, Can see naught but a wandering stranger in me. Beautiful streamlet ! I sought thee again, Eut the changes that mark'd thee awaken'd deep pain; Desolation had reign'd, thou wert not as of yore Home of my Childhood, I'll see thee no more ! SONG OF THE EED INDIAM. OH ! why does the white man hang on my path, Like the hound on the tiger's track ? Does the flush of my dark skin waken his wrath ? Does he covet the bow at my back ? He has rivers and seas where the billow and breeze Bear riches for him alone ; And the sons of the'wood never plunge in the flood That the white man calls his own. Then why should he covet the streams where none But the red-skin dare to swim ? Oh ! why should he wrong the hunter one "Who never did harm to him ? 186 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. The Father above thought fit to give To the white man corn and wine; There are golden fields where he may liva, But the forest shades are mine. The eagle has its place of rest, The wild horse where to dwell ; And the Spirit who gave the bird its nest, Made me a home as well. Then back, go back from the red-skin's track, For the hunter's eyes grow dim, To find the white man wrongs the one Who never did harm to him. Oh ! why does the pale-face always call The red man " heathen brute ? ". He does not bend where the dark knees fall, But the tawny lip is mute. We cast no blame on his creed or name, Or his temples, fine and high ; But he mocks at us with a laughing word When we worship a star-lit sky. Yet, white man, what has thy good faith done, And where can its mercy be, If it teaoh thee to hate the hunter one Who never did harm to thee ? We need no book to tell as how Our lives shall pass away ; For we see the onward torrent flow, And the mighty tree decay. " Let thy tongue be true and thy heart be brave," Is among the red-skins' lore ; We can bring down the swift wing and dive in the wav^ And we seek to know no more. Then back, go back, and let us run With strong, unfetter'd limb; For why should the white man wrong the one Who never did harm to him ? We know there's a hand that has fix'd the hill And planted the prairie plain ; That can fling the lightnings when it will. And pour out the torrent rain. 'TIS SWEET TO LOVE IN CHILDHOOD. 187 Far away and alone, where the headlong tide Dashes on with our bold canoe, We ask and trust that hand to guide And carry us safely through. The Great Spirit dwells in the beautiful sun, And while we kneel in its light, Who will not own that the hunter one Has an altar pure and bright ? The painted streak on a warrior's cheek Appears a wondrous thing; The white man stares at a wampum belt, And a plume from the heron's wing. But the red man wins the panther's skins To cover his dauntless form; "While the pale-face hides his breast in a garb That he takes from the crawling worm. And j our lady fair, with her gems so rare, Her ruby, gold, and pearl, "Would be as strange to other eyes As the bone-deck'd Indian girl. Then why does the cruel white man come "With the war-whoop's yelling sound ? Oh ! why does he take our wigwam home, And the jungled hunting-ground? The wolf-cub has its lair of rest, The wild horse where to dwell, And the Spirit who gave the bird its nest Made rne a place as well. Then back, go back, from the red-skin's track ; For the hunter's eyes grow dim, To find that the white man wrongs the one Who never did harm to him. 'TIS SWEET TO LOVE IN CHILDHOOD. 'Tis sweet to love in Childhood, when the souls that we bequeath Are beautiful in freshness as the coronals we wreath ; When we feed the gentle robin, and caress the leaping hound, And linger latest on the spot where buttercups are found; 188 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. When we seek the bee and ladybird with laughter, shout, and song, And think the day for wooing them can never be too long : Oh ! 'tis sweet to love in Childhood, and though stirr'd bv meanest things, The music that the heart yields then, will never leave its strings. 'Tis sweet to love in after years the dear one by our side ; To dote with all the mingled joys of passion, hope, and pride ; To think the chain around our breast will hold still warm and fast; And grieve to know that Death must come to break the link at last. But when the rainbow span of bliss is waning, hue by hue, When eyes forget their kindly beams, and lips become less true; When stricken hearts are pining on through many a lonely hour, Who would not sigh "'Tis safer far, to love the bird and flower !" 'Tis sweet to love in ripen'd age the trumpet blast of Fame, To pant to live on Glory's scroll, though blood may trace the name; 'Tis sweet to love the heap of gold, and hug it to our breast To trust it as the guiding star, and anchor of our rest, But such devotion will not serve, however strong the zeal, To overthrow the altar where our Childhood lov'd to kneel. Some bitter moment shall o'ercast the sun of wealth and power, And then proud man would fain go back to worship bird and flower. HONESTY A FRAGMENT. I TELL you, sir, that Honesty is naught But a mere word bandied by men's lips ; It is a quality that does insure Hate's venom'd arrows, and affords a prey For human bloodhounds to hunt down to death. There have been honest men there may be such. Some have been bold enough to breathe aloud Their own peculiar homage to the God Who form'd at first, and who at last shall judge. They did avow their faith with steady zeal, Nor let their breast be warp'd by bribe cr threat. HONESTY A FBA0MENT. 189 What were the guerdons of such honest tongues ? The chain, the rack, the fagot, and the stake : And the sharp crackling of consuming bones, Commingled with the yell of saintly fiends, Served as encouragement to speak the truth. Some have been honest rarely ; strangely so ; In that Elysium of craft a Court. With most presuming speech the patriot one Has offered stern advice to sceptred fools, Serving a people rather than a king: And what the thanks he gain'd ? A traitor's name At least ; perchance the secret poison-cup Or public scaffold, teaching senators A glorious lesson in the book of TfiUTH. Go, face the hungry lion in his path, Tread on the serpent in his torpid coil, And less of risk will wait upon such deed Than on the effort that shall seek to tear The specious mask from gilded roguery. Oh ! 'tis a goodly thing this Honesty ! An estimable feature in a watchdog; And there repaid and valued ; but the man Who takes up Candour for his standard word, Scorning the Proteus shapes of mean dissemblance, Acts just as wisely as the soldier does Who draws his sword and flings away his shield. Try ye how uncloak'd Honesty will thrive With close and kindred friends or passing strangers. Confess your errors with a ready grace ; Own you have sins, and tell how Passion throbs With earnest pulse at some forbidden shrine; Proclaim how dark llevenge excites your soul; Betray the latent spring of selfish Pride That moves the bhizon'd hand of Charity: Publish the flaws and blots that " flesh is heir to ;" Speak out appear the chequer'd thing you are} And see if Mercy will befriend your cause, Or any voice commend your guileless tongue. No, no. The herd around, who hide, perchance, More guilt under more cunning, will pounce down, Like hungry hawks upon a wandering bird J90 POEMS BT ELIZA COOK. They will condemn the heart that's frank enough To speak its folly, and yet babble forth " An honest man's the noblest work of God." Oh, Honesty ! thou art indeed a gem Of matchless brilliancy ; but he who wears the* Finds the pure jewel is a target mark For every bolt that worldly knaves can shoot ; Till, worn and harassed by the goading strife, He flings the lustre from his struggling breast, And walks the road of life like all wise men, A flattering trickster. He must learn to look All smiles and courtesy to those above him; Ee their ways good or evil. He must give The hand of Friendship where he may despise ; Woo the rich fool, and meet tlie titled villain With eulogistic greeting and glad aspect. He must be all things for all purposes ; Veer with Opinion's compass, let it point Wherever it may, and breathe soft eloquence In praise of even that he inly loathes. 'Tis sad, but 'tis most true that Honesty Is like the phantom sprites in grandams' tales- Much oftener prated of than seen ; and 'tis As true and sad, that it is safer far To sin, like Lucifer, in wily guise ; Than simply err, and tell the wrong we do. SONG OF THE WORM. THE worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain In the field that is stored with its millions of slain ; The charnel-grounds widen, to me they belong, With the vaults of the sepulchre, sculptured and strong The tower of ages in fragments is laid, Moss grows on the stones, and I lurk in its shade ; And the hand of the giant and heart of the brave Must turn weak and submit to the worm and the grave. Daughters of earth, if I happen to meet Your bloom-plucking fingers and sod-tre-ading feet Oh ! turn not away with the shriek of disgust From the thing you must mate with in darkness and du? WEALTH. Vl Your eyes may be flashing in pleasure and prHe, 'Neath the crow-s of a Queen or the wreath of a bride ; Your lips may be fresh and your cheeks may be fair Let a few years pass over, and I shall be there. Cities of splendour, where palace and gate, Where the marble of strength and the purple of state; Where the mart and arena, the olive and vine, Once flourish'd in glory ; oh ! are ye not mine ? Go look for famed Carthage, and I shall be found In the desolate ruin and weed-cover'd mound; And the slime of my trailing discovers my home, 'Mid the pillars of Tyre and the temples of Home. I am sacredly sheltered and daintily fed Where the velvet bedecks, and the white lawn is spread; I may feast undisturbed, I may dwell and carouse On the sweetest of lips and the smoothest of brows. The voice of the sexton, the chink of the spade, Sound merrily under the willow's dank shade. 'They are carnival notes, and I travel with glee To leoru what the churchyard has given to me. Oh ! the worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain, For where Monarchs are voiceless I revel and reign; I delve at my ease and regale where I may ; None dispute with the earthworm his will or his way. The high and the bright for my feasting must fall Youth, beauty, and manhood, I prey on ye all : The Prince and the peasant, the despot and slave ; All, all must bow down to the worm and the grava. \ WEALTH. WHAT is Wealth ? ye worldly knaves, Mammon's crew of fetter'd slaves Ye who seem to know so well What, is Wealth I bid ye tell ! Spendthrift 3'oung, and miser gray; All may guess what ye will say ; Millions cry, " 'Tis gold alone ! " And millions echo back the tono. POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. What is Wealth ? ask all around We hear men breathe one common sound; We see them turn with eager stare, To gaze upon " the richest heir." The maiden weds, and we are told, Weds well, because her lord hath gold. Ye fools, and is there nothing more Worth calling wealth, but yellow ore ? Hath Heaven dispensed to mortal share Nought else to claim our ceaseless care ? Is there no music we can think So perfect as the ducat's chink ? No Eden left to wander through, Save the deep caverns of Peru ? Is wealth a blessing none can hold, Save in the shape of worshipp'd " gold ?" Oh, hoodwinked creatures that we are ! To see but one soul-guiding star, When there are myriad rays of light More pure, more warm, and full as bright f Riches, what are ye ? Oh, how blind Is he who cannot, will not find The choicest "wealth" held from above In peaceful health and trusting love ! Who shall say what the boon is worth, To rise from slumber, and go forth, To shout, to leap, to laugh, to run, 'Twixt the green grass and golden sun ? To see the mountain high and H ide, And feel that we can climb its side, And breathe upon that mountain peak, With bounding limb and mantling cheek. Oh, who would weigh the coffer chest Against a fond and faithful breast? Who would not rather bear to part With all, before a clinging heart ? What though no gleaming gem may deck The arm that twines about our neck ; Does not that arm keep out the cold Better than stately cloth-of-gold ? THE BOOM OP THE HOUSEHOLD. U3 Riches, what are ye ? let us look Abroad upon the gushing brook, Where the cool tide pours fast and clear, Fresh to the pilgrim as the peer. Let our steps wander where the mead Fattens the wild bee and the steed : These, these are "wealth," ye sons of dust; That does not " fly " nor gather rust." Go, taste the morning's spicy breeze, That plays among the forest trees ! Go, loiter in the noon-tide ray, That flashes on the harvest day ! Go, dream in evening's twilight hour, "With nestling bird and closing flower ! No lock is placed, no bar, no wall These, these are " wealth " that's free to all. Go where the lime and citron spread Their branches round the wearied head ! Go where the bloomy clusters shine, And myrtles mingle with the vine! Was it not said of one of old, * Great with his glory and his gold ; i That he, in all his pomp, must yield, To the sweet " lilies of the field ?" Wealth, Wealth ! oh, GOD has given much Of treasure that we deem not such; And lips of truth will quickly own lliches dwell not in gold alone. Toil on, vain man, and think no fame Like that which marks a Crresus' name; But sadly poor are they who hold No Wealth that's dearer than their gold. THE ROOM OF THE HOUSEHOLD. THERE'S a room I love dearly the sanctum of blis% That contains all the comforts I least like to miss; Where, like ants in a hillock, we run in and out, Where sticks grace the corner, and hats iie about ; t'H POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Where no idlers dare come to annoy or amuse With their " morning call" budget of scandalous newi Tis the room of the Household the sacredly frt-e Tis the room of the Household that's dearest to me. The romp may be fearlessly carried on there, No " bijouterie" rubbish solicits our care ; All things are as meet for the hand as the eye, And patchwork and scribbling unheeded may lie; " Black Tom" may be perch'd on the sofa or chairs, He may stretch his sharp talons and scatter his hairs ; Wet boots may "come in," and the ink-drop may fall, For the room of the Household is " libertj hall." There is something unpleasant in company days, When saloons are dress'd out for Terpsichore's maze ; When the graceful Mazourka and Weippert-led band Leave the plain countrydance-people all at a stand. There's more mirth in the jig, and the amateur's strum, When the parchment-spread battledore serves as a drum. When Apollo and Momus together unite, Till the Household-room rings with our laughing delight. Other rooms may be thickly and gorgeously stored With your Titian, Murillo, Salvator, and Claude ; But the Morland and Wilkie that hang on the wall Of the family parlour, out- value them all. The gay ottomans, claiming such special regard, Are exceedingly fine, but exceedingly hard ; They may serve for state purpose but go, if you please, To the Household-room cushions for comfort and ease. And the bookshelves where tomes of all sizes are spread, Not placed to be look'd at, but meant to be read ; All defaced and bethumb'd, and I would not be sworn, But some volumes, perchance the most precious, are torn. There's the library open; but if your heart yearns, As all human hearts must, for the song of a Burns, Or the tale of a " Vicar" that ever rich gem, You must go to the room of the Household for them. 'Tis the shadiest place when the blazing sun flings His straight rays on the rose and the butterfly's wings ; For the irst beams oi' morning are all that dare peep Through the windows where myrtle and eglantine creep. THE PLEDGE. 195 Happy faces assemble with cheerful salute, "When the summer meal tempts with its cream and its fruit ; But the board's not so merry, the meal's not so sweet, If 'tis o\ii t the room of the Household we meet. And that room is the one that is sought by us still, When the night clouds of winter bring darkness and chill; "When the ramblers return from their toil or their play, And tell over the news and the deeds of the day. "When the favour'd old dog takes his place on the rug, Curl'd up in the firelight all warmly and snug ; While the master sits nodding before the bright flame, Till the hound snores aloud, and the Squire does the same. I have wander'd far off, over " moorland and lea," O'er the fairest of earth and the bluest of sea ; It was health that I sought but, alas ! 1 could find The pursuit was in vain while my heart look'd behind. The room of the Household had bound with a spell, And I knew not till then that 1 loved it so well : " Take me back to that room," was my prayer and my cry, For my languishing spirit does nothing but sigh." There was light in my glance when I saw the green woof Of old elm-trees half screening the turreted roof; I grew strong as I pass'd o'er the daisy-girt track, And the Newfoundland sentinel welcomed me back. But the pulse of my joy was most warmly sincere When I met the old faces, familiar and dear ; When I lounged in the "Household-room," taking my rest; With a tinge on my cheek, and content in my breast. THE PLEDGE. FULL oft we breathe and echo round, With cheering shout and minstrel sound, A name that Honesty would write In colours anything but bright. But shame be on the hands that hold Tb- wiue-cup at the shrine of gold i Shame on the slavish lips that part To utter what belies the heart ! o 2 126 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. Fill high, fill high, while Truth stands by To echo back the lauding cry ; But gall be on the goblet's edge For him who yields the worthless pledge. However rich the stream that's pour"d In homage at the banquet board, To coward, fool, or wealthy knave ; Let, let us spurn the tainted wave. Far sweeter is the foaming ale That circles with the fireside tale ; While sacred words and beaming eyes Proclaim we pledge the souls we prize. Fill high, fill high, while Truth stands by To echo back the lauding cry ; But let the glad libation prove The meed of Friendship, Worth, Let warm Affection light the draught, Then be the nectar deeply quaff'd ; Let Genius claim it gift divine And all shall drain the hallowM wine ; Let Goodness have the honour due, Drink to the poor man if he's true ; And ne'er forget that star's the best That's worn not on but in the breast. Fill high, fill high, while Truth stands by To echo back the lauding cry ; But gall be on the goblet's edge For him who yields the worthless pledge. THE FUTURE. IT was good, it was kind, in the Wise One above, To fling Destiny's veil o'er the face of our years; That we dread not the blow that shall strike at our love, And expect not the beams that shall dry up our tears. Did we know that the voices, now gentle and bland Will forego the fond word and the whispering tone; Did we know that the eager and warm-pressing hand Will be joj-fully forward in "casting the stone;" MY MUBBAY PLAID. 197 Did we know the affection engrossing our soul Will end, as it oft does, in Sadness and pain ; That the passionate breast will but hazard its rest, And be wreck'd on the shore it is panting to gain : Oh ! did we but know of the shadows so nigh, The world would indeed be a prison of gloom ; All lisiht would be quench'd in youth's eloquent eye, And the prayer-lisping infant would ask for the tomb. For if Hope be a star that may lead us astray, And " deceiveth the heart," as the aged ones preach ; Yet 'twas Mercy that gave it, to beacon our way, Though its halo illumes where we never can reach. Though Friendship but flit, like a meteor gleam, Though it burst, like a morn-lighted bubble of dew; Though it passes away, like a leaf on the stream, Yet 'tis bli&s while we fancy the vision is true. Oh ! 'tis well that the Future is hid from our sight; That we walk in the sunshine, nor dream of the cloud ; That we cherish a flower, and think not of blight ; That we dance on the loom that may weave us a shroud. It was good, it was kind, in the Wise One above, To fling Destiny's veil o'er the face of our years; That we dread not the blow that shall strike at our love, And expect not the beams that shall dry up our tears. MY MURRAY PLAID. MY Murray plaid, my Murray plaid, I love thee, though vain tongues have said That thou art all unfit to be So praised, so worn, so prized by me. Wise men have ever shrewdly guess'd That plainest friends are oft the best ; 'Tis so my silks and lustres fade, But thou'rt unchanged, my Murray plaid. There was no colour, gay or light, To lure and fix my wand'ring sight; But darken'd shades of myrtle green, Parted with sombre black betweeu ; 198 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. The lines of purple broadly spread, Right-angled with the stripes of red. These, these were all the tints that mad* The charms about my Murray plaid. How soft and full the foldings lie, In close and clinging drapery ; Satin or velvet, truly both Are harsh beside the woollen cloth. Thou'rt fashion'd with a goodly taste, High wrapping corsage girdled waist And snowy collar, smoothly laid, Looks well upon my Murray plaid. The clouds are dark, the roads are wet, The glass at " stormy " firmly set ; And none dare brave the threaten'd rain, Lest valued garments gather stain ; But I, well muffled, thanks to thee, My darling dress, can wander free : The roughest journey may be made In "double soles" and Murray plaid. The petted hound, all joy and play, Forgets 'tis a November day ; And, leaping up with bounding zeal, Heeds not what mud-strokes he may deal. " Tasso, get out ! " and " Down, sir, down I 1 Echo with many a chiding frown ; Till, fondly safe, his paws are laid Upon his owner's Murray plaid. Full oft my roving limbs, oppress'd, "Would turn to seek a place of rest; And soon the welcome ease is found On dusty stile or mossy ground. The ridge of chalk the pile of clay The gravel bank Ihe ruin grey ; 'Tis all the same, in sun or shade, For nought can spoil my Murray plaid. When Pleasure rules the festive night, Crown'd with her garlands briefly bright^ And bids her worshippers appear In laughing mood and rainbow gear ; HJKVEST SONG. Oh, how I grieve to throw aside Comfort's old garb for that of Pride ! How long the moment is delay'd That sees me change my Murray plaid J I shun the world I cannot bear The worldling's greeting, worldling's stare And placed among them, soul and eye Grow strangely haughty, strangely shy; I'm happier far when I can find The few, the genial, and the kind ; Whose warm, fond spirits are betray'd, And welcome me in "Murray plaid." That world may smile above my song But thou hast served me well and long ; And, somehow, mine's a foolish heart, That, once endear'd, 'tis hard to part. Let ladies sneer, and dandies scoff, I cannot, will not fling thee off; And wonder not, if I'm array'd On wedding-day in Murray plaid. HARVEST SONG. I LOVE, I love to see Bright steel gleam through the land ; 'Tis a goodly sight, but it must be In the reaper's tawny hand. The helmet and the spear Are twined with the laurel wreath ; But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear, And blood-spots rust beneath. I love to see the field That is moist with purple stain ; But not where bullet, sword, and shield Lie strewn, with the gory stain. No, no ; 'tis where the sun Shoots down his cloudless beams, Till rich and bursting juice-drops run On the vineyard earth in streams. 300 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. My glowing heart beats high At the sight of shining gold ; But it is not that which the miser's eye Delighteth to behold. A brighter wealth by far, Than the deep mine's yellow vein, Is seen around in the fair hills crowu'd With sheaves of burnish'd grain. Look forth, thou thoughtless one, Whose proud knee never bends ; Take thou the bread that's daily spread. But think on Him who sends. Look forth, je toiling men, Though little ye possess, Be glad that dearth is not on earth To make that little less. Let the song of praise be pour'd In gratitude and joy, By the rich man with his parners stored And the ragged gleaner boy. The feast that Nature gives Is not for one alone ; Tis shared by the meanest slave that lives And the tenant of a throne. Then glory to the steel That shines in the reaper's hand, And thanks to Him who has blest the seed, And crown'd the harvest land. SONG OF THE WIND. I'VE cradled on the topsail, o'er a smooth and glassy deep, Till mariners have whistled to arouse me from my sleep ; I've seen the loveyft kiss'd by him who had the watch aloft; And breathed no ruffling whisper round the tress so dark and soft: But lo ! I started into life, I call'd the tempest band, And soon the hull was on the rock, the spars were on the strand ; 8OXO OF TUB WIND. 201 I snatch'd the glossy ringlet from the struggling sea-boy's breast. And dropp'd it on the mountain-side within an eagle's nest. Out wearied witu my fierce career, I left the frantic train, Whose lightning-brands and thunder-roars had help'd the hurricane And, sinking into gentle mood, I took my lonely way, Just breaking through the cobweb film, and dancing on the spray. A castle door was flinging wide, and straight I enterM there, Where rich aroma greeted me of luscious banquet-fare: 1 travell'd on by silken walls, and loiter'd round the board ; Where forest deer was smoking high, and bubbling flasks were pour*d. Choked with the mingled odours nigh, and sicken'd with the fume Of hot and tainted revel breath, I left the palace-room : I hasten'd to the harvest-fields, I scatter'd poppy leaves, And plumed and purified my wings upon the harvest-sheaves. A young child came and stood to gaze on all things bright and sweet ; The butterfly was round his head, the wild-flower at his feet : ~li grasped an airy thistle-tuft, I cried, " Come, follow me," And off he bounded, light and fast, and rare good sport had we. Full long he strove with all his strength to gain the bubble prize, As hiah and low it scudded on, and danced before his eyes ; Until his panting heart became half angry and half sad, To think he had not caught a thing worth nothing if he had. At last I blew it into nought, and then the boy stood still ; And found the chase had tired him, as all such chases will : Uut while I linger'd round the spot, I saw him turn and creep Beneath a spreading chesnut-tree, and calmly fall asleep. Man, h'ke the child, will often run in close and fond pursuit Of what will prove but thistle-down, or yield a bitter fruit; But ah ! unlike the tired child, 'tis rarely that his breast Can meet its disappointed hopes with deep, unbroken rest On to the busy town I went, and fann'd the burning brow That many an hour had fed the loom, or faced the furnace glow ; Lips never dimpled with a smile, all tintless, parch'd, and thin, Parted as I went wafting by and gladly drank me in. 202 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. I play'd about the shrivelFd hand, whose hard and fever'd palm Grew somewhat softer as it felt my cool refreshing balm. The tear-drop that was trickling from a friendless orphan's eye "Was lightly breathed upon by me, and soon the cheek was dry. I wander'd on till suddenly I heard a fervent prayer, That gasp'd the last of mortal need in " Give, oh, give me air !" I rush'd beside the bed of death the dying one had gold, But he had piled it round his heart, and kept that heart too cold ; He clung to earth like leech to blood, but, ah ! he had forgot To weave the strongest of earth's ties, Affection's silken knot. And when his latest moments came, no kindred could he find, None round him but the hireling, and the wandering zephyr Wind. Again I sought the fragrant fields, and merrily I rung A fairy peal of changes where the bonnie blue-bells hung ; And soon there came the grasshoppers, the ladybirds, and bees ; And never was a purer host of willing devotees. I bow'd the bulrush to the stream, I sway'd the willow-bough, And push'd a mimic boat along till ripples wash'd the prow. I gallop'd with the noble steed, freed from his girth .and rein, And proudly did 1 toss about his thick and flying mane. I sped across the lonely waste, and there I heard strange tones, For I had swung the gibbet-chains against the bleaching bones ; I clank'd the rusted fetter-links with white ribs hard and dry, Till I had scared the owls away, and then away went I. From East to West, from North to South, a roving life is mine ; Now howling round the snow-topp'd fir, now toying with tho vine; From beggar's rags to prince's robes, from hut to court I go; I rule the golden clouds above, and drive the waves below. Away ! away ! I cannot stay, I hear the ploughboy's song But I can chant as carelessly and whistle just as lung: It comes again up, up, my wings ! the saucy loon shall find He hath a goodly challenger in me, the angry Wind. STANZAS. A GENTLE Heart went forth one day As many another heart has done To take a strange and friendless way, And walk the mazy world alone. STANZAS. It had no shield, no help, no guide, And soon that Heart began to find Bude foes come jostling side by side- Darkness before, despair behind. The beggar's rags that wrapp'd it round Met but the glance of bitter scorn ; And all the earth seem'd desert ground, Where nothing flourish'd but the thorn. It journey'd on its pilgrim road, 'Twixt barren waste and gloomy sky : And sank beneath Oppression's goad, To bleed unseen to break and die. The haggard Ghosts "Want, Pain, and Car More fiercely laugh'd, more closely press'd ; And all the wild fiends gather'd there That seek to hunt down life and rest. It chanced young Love came by just then- Love wanders at all times and seasons : He travels how he will and when, He asks no leave, he gives no reason*, He saw the Heart, and bent above The cheerless thing with whisper'd word ; And whatsoe'er the tidings were, The heart revived at what it heard. Avaunt!" cried Love, " I'll shed a light To scare ye all, ye demon crew ; And Poverty, thou beldam sprite, For once I'll try my strength with you." To work he went a pile was rear'd Such fingers work with magic charm; And soon a brilliant flame appear'd 'Twas Love's own watchfire, strong and wtrcx The Heart grew bold beneath the rayg; Its pulse beat high, it bled no more- It had fresh hope, and dared to gaze On all from whom it shrunk before. POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. It dared to smile, it dared to scoff At squalid Want and weeping Woe ; While Pain and Care went farther off, And grim Despair pack'd up to go. And thus it is, the soul may smart Beneath all ills that goad and tire ; But bravely rallies when the Heart Is guarded by Love's beacon fire. SONG OF THE DYING OLD MAN TO IT IS YOUNG WIFE. KATE, there's a trembling at my heart, a coldness on my brow, My sight is dim, my breath is faint, I feel I'm dying now ; But ere my vision fadeth quite, ere all of strength be o'er ; Oh! let me look into thy face and press thy hand once more. I would my latest glance should fall on what I hold most dear ; But, ah! thy cheek is wet again wipe, wipe away the tear. Such tears of late have often gemm'd thy drooping eyelids' fringe; Such tears of late have wash'd away thy young cheek's ruddy tinge. T brought thee from a simple home to be an old mail's bride ; Thou wert the altar where I laid affection, joy, and pride : My heart's devotion, like the sun, shone forth with glowing power, And kept its brightest glory rays to mark its setting hour. I brought thee from a simple home, when early friends had met ; And something fill'd thy farewell tone that whisper'd of regret : Oh ! could I wonder when you left warm spirits like your own, To dwell upon far distant earth, with A^e and Wealth alone. I gazed with holy fondness on thy meek, retiring eye, Soft in its beaming as the first fair star of evening's sky ; I mark'd the dimpled mirth around thy sweet lips when they smiled ; And while I loved thee as a bride, I blest theo as a child. THK DYING OLD MAN TO HIS TOTING WIFE. 205 But, oh ! thy young and ardent soul could not respond to mine ; My whiten'd hairs seemed mock'd by those rich sunny curls of thine ; And though thy gentle faith was kind as woman's faith can be; 'Twas as the spring flower clinging round the winter-blighted tree. My speech is faltering and low the world is fading fast The sands of life are few and slow this day will be my last : I've something for thine ear bend close list to my failing word ; Lay what I utter to thy soul, and start not when 'tis heard. There's one who loves thee though his love has never lived in speech : He worships as a devotee the star he cannot reach ; He strives to mask his throbbing breast, and hide its burning glow But I have pierced the veil and seen the struggling pulse below. Nay, speak not : I alone have been the selfish and unwise ; Young hearts will nestle with young hearts, young eyes will meet young eyes; And when I saw his earnest glance turn hopelessly away, I thank'd the hand of Time that gave me warning of decay. I question not thy bosom, Kate I cast upon thy name No memory of jealous fear, no lightest shade of blame: I know that he has loved thee long, with deep and secret truth, I know he is a fitting one to bless thy trusting youth. Weep not for me with bitter grief; I would but have thee tell That he who bribed thee to his care has cherish'd thee right well. I jiive ihee to another, Kate, and may that other prove As grateful for the blessing held, as doting in his love. Bury me in the churchyard where the dark yew-branches wave, And promise thou wilt come sometimes to weed the old mau'a grave ! 'Tis all I ask! I'm blind I'm faint take, take my parting breath I die within thy arms, my Kate, and feel no sting of death. 06 P01MS BY ELIZA COOK. STANZAS. TBTTTH ! Truth ! where is the sound Of thy calm, unflattering voice to be found ? We may go to the Senate, where Wisdom rulet, And find hut deceived or deceiving fools: Who dare trust the sages of old ; When one shall unsay what another has told ? And even the lips of childhood and youth But rarely echo the tones of Truth. We hear the full-toned anthem-hymn Pealing along the cloisters dim ; We hear the priest, in his eloquent pride, Bless those of his faith, and none beside : We hear the worshippers gather'd there Muttering forth the lengthy prayer; But few of the throng shall come or depart With the peaceful truth of a lowly heart. Truth ! Truth ! thy echoes are mute In the tyrant's oath and the courtier's salute, The Bacchanal screams in his maniac laugh, The hermit groans o'er his pilgrim-staff; But hollow and wild is the maniac's glee, The penance is false as penance can be ; And Love itself has learn'd to lie, In the faithless vow and unfelt sigh. Where then, O Truth, may thy voice be found ? In the welcoming bay of a faithful hound. Thy form is seen and thy breathing heard In the leaping fawn, and warbling bird. There is truth in the soft sweet tones that com In the ringdove's coo, and the honey-bee's hum ; In the dabbling stream, whose ripples gem The lily-cup's brim and bulrush-stem. There is Truth in the south wind stealing by, 'Neath the clear blue span of a sunlit sky ; When it hardly deigns in its perfumed way To rustle the leaves on the topmost spray : There is Truth in the grasshopper's twittering song; In the owlet's night shriek, loud and strong ; lu the steed's glad neigh on the grassy plain, In the sea-mew's cry on the stormy main. EOBT O'MOBB. There is Truth, good Truth, in the ringing stroke Of the axe that is felling the giant oak ; In the shrivell'd leaves that the hollow blast flings To dance at our feet, cold sapless things ! In the tumbling stone that tears away The ivy branch from the ruin grey ; In the billow that bears on its crystal car The rock-torn plank and shatter'd spar. There is nothing that saint or sage may tell Can school the bosom half so well As the chink of the sexton's polish'd spade, Digging a grave 'neath the yew-tree's shade. Truth ! Truth is there ! You may hear her tones In the rattling heap of gather'd bones ; " Live but to die" is her lesson to man, And learn a wiser if ye can. EOEY O'MOEE. JOVE had gather'd his band, and to every one Gave peremptory notice of what he wish'd done ; And he sat on his throne with expectancy great As to when they'd return, and what news they'd relate. He sat till his patience was nearly outworn Disappointment by gods is not easily borne " I am sure," he exclaim'd, " 'tis full two hours ago Since Mercury sped with that message below. "There's Bacchus, too he was to bring me some wine; And Hebe, that teasing young scapegrace of mine, She knows she should serve it; but neither is here, 'Tis strange that not one of my minions appear. " This neglect is atrocious, there must be some cause For such absolute scorn of the King and his laws; I'll just walk through the court to examine and see AVhy this trulv unbearable conduct should be." He went, and behold ! the whole outermost court AVas ihrong'd like a market of vulgar rescrt ; / All idle and seeming as much at their ease As though they'd no master to serve or to pleasa. 208 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. In the midst was Apollo with laughter-lit face, Bending over his harp with all passion and grace ; And there was the tribe of Olympus around, "With their fetter'd ears eagerly drinking the sound. There was Boreas, hoarse Boreas, attempting to sing, And Mars chiming in with his rude tink-a-ting ; For, instead of careering on red battle-field, He had turn'd into cymbals the sword and the shield. There was Mercury beating strict time with his wings, And lucking as though he'd fain pilfer the strings; The poppies had fallen from Somnus's wig, And his tiptoeing feet secm'd inclin'd for a jig. Bacchus lean'd on a barrel with tankard in hand, 'T\vas useless his trying to sit or to stand ; And he saw not the nectar-juice running about, That the tap was unturn'd and the spigot was out. There was Cupid, forgetting loves, doves, hearts, and smarts, Hud bundled together his bow and his darts; And press'd through the gods with a push and a bob, Just as other young urchins will do in a mob. There was Venus, who seetn'd half-ashamed to be seen, For a blush mark'd the cheek of the Paphian Queen ; She said she had come there to look for her son, "Who of all children was the most troublesome one. So mofners on earth often steal to a crowd "Where the puppets are droll and the music is loud ; They seek for their " wee ones," the worrying elves, But, in truth, 'tis to peep and to listen themselves*. All, all were delighted, but Mercury's eye Saw the form of the thundering Monarch draw nigh : And the minstrel one stopp'd ere the tune was play'd out, And the listeners look'd, half in fear, half in doubt. Jove stared with astonishment, " How's this ? " he cried , " My commands disobey'd my displeasure defied ; 'Tis open rebellion quick tell me who leads; Or, by Juno, I'll level a bolt at your EOBT O'MOEB. 289 "You, King of the battle-plain, loitering here ! I'll make you spin petticoat fringe for a year; And Boreas, I told you to get up a gale In the Baltic you villain, how came you to fail ? " And you, Miss Aurora, 'tis two hours at least Since I saw you set off for your place in the east ; Yet Day's portal is closed and the night-cloud's still black; You heedless young spirit, how dare you come back ? " He threaten'd them all, and he terrified each "With his light-flashing glance and his thundering speech Till Hebe stepp'd forth, the rogue didn't forget That Jupiter often had call'd her his pet. She raised her fair hand ere she ventured to speak, And threw back the curls from her down-coverM cheek ; She look'd up in his face, and 'twere easy to mark, That the frown on his brow was a great deal less dark. "Indeed, Sire," she cried, " 'tis that serpent of song Who has lured us from duty, and made us do wrong; We all were intent on your mission and word, When he struck up a tune that we never had heard. " We believe that he pick'd it up somewhere on earth, But 'tis rife with sweet melody, humour, and mirth; I attempted to pass, but I really oould not ; For my wings and my senses were chain'd to the spot. " Just allow him to play it ? " Apollo's best skill Was that moment exerted to charm and to thrill : Jove laugh'd with delight, as he shouted, " Encore ! " And inquired the name it was " Rory O'More." " 'Tis well," cried the King, " here's a pardon for all, Eut mind, 'Pol, play that at our annual ball. And, really (while looking at Hebe askance) I think now we could manage a bit of a dance." It was done, and they merrily footed awhile In the good old Sir Ro^er de Coverly style ; Till Juno appear'd in all possible state, And look'd most unlovable things at her mate. 10 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. " Come, Madam," cried Jove, " let us have no to-do, Here's Mars wants a partner, no doubt he'll take you." Juno listen'd a moment, then ran to her place, As the music went on, with a smile on her face. " Bless me ! " and " How wonderful ! " whisper'd the gods, With very significant shruggings and nods ; " Why, her Majesty ne'er was so pleasant before, It must be all owing to " Eory O'More." So it was, and a glorious time they all had ; Blithe Momus was crazy, Melpomene glad ; They danced till the minstrel began to complain That his fingers were sore, and his wrists were in pain. But 'tis noted that Jove since that musical day Has most graciously bow'd when 'Pol comes in his way ; And his manners and bearing most courteously tend To make the god-minstrel his intimate friend ; For he knows very well that Apollo's soft lyre Is more than a match for his thunder and fire ; That his slaves would revolt all supremacy o'er If led on by the quick-step of " Eory O'More." TEDDY O'NEALB. I'VE come to the cabin he danced his wild jigs in, As neat a mud palace as ever was seen ; And, considering it served to keep poultry and pigs in, I'm sure it was always most elegant clean. But now all about it seems lonely and dreary. All sad and all silent, no piper, no reel ; Not even the sun, through the casement, is cheery, Since I miss the dear, darling boy, Teddy O'Neale. I dreamt but last night oh ! bad luck to my dreaming, I'd die if I thought 'twould come truly to pass, But I dreamt, while the tears down my pillow were streaming; That Teddy was courting another fair lass. Oh ! didn't I wake with a weeping and nailing, The grief of that thought was too deep to conceal ; My mother cried " Norah, child, what is your a ; l : .ng ?" And all I could utter was" Teddy O'Neale ! '" TTNDBE THE MOON. 211 Shall I ever forget when the hig ship was ready, And the moment was come when my love must depart ; How I sobb'd like a spalpeen, " Good-bye to you, Teddy ! " With drops on my cheek and a stone at my heart. He says 'tis to better his fortune he's roving, But what would be gold to the joy I should feel, If I saw him come back to me, honest and loving, Still poor, but my own darling, Teddy O'Neale. UNDER THE MOON. BEOWNIES, and goblins, and kelpies, and fay?, Dance it away in the greenwood maze, Or merrily swing on the aspen's sprays, "While glowworms are setting the sward in a blaze, Under the moon. Young eyes from young eyes are gathering light, Hearts beat the faster as Luna grows bright ; And Love claps his soft wings with all his might, Forgetting he's wandered so late in the night, Under the mooa. The language that charms, and the voices that fill Our fond bosoms with bliss, are more exquisite still W hen blent with the wind sighing over the hill, Or the musical chime of the shimmering rill, Under the moon. Sorrow is taking its desolate way, Where the grave-grass is kiss'd by the quivering ray, And tears that were dried by the sunshine of day, Are falling again on the mouldering clay, Under the moon. TV.e blighted in feeling, the sad yet the proud, W hose soul-wearing grief is too deep to be loud, \Vho has smiles for the noontide and jests for the crowd JN.-w wander unmark'd, with their throbbing heads bowed, Under the mooa. P 2 212 POEMS BY ELIZA. COOK. Lips that are flush'd when the morning is new, And carry their roses the whole day through ; Like the billow-dashed coral, in freshness and hue, Seem fresher and redder when meeting the dew, Under the moon. The shades of the summer eve beckon us out, Tracking and beating the wild woods about ; But freer the footstep and blither the shout. As homeward we hie while the young owlets flout, Under the moon. The robin's sweet note and the lark's matin call Are spells that e'er hold the warm spirit in thrall ; But the nightingale's warble is clearest of all, When the sound of its echoing cadences fah, Under the moon. We may breathe a farewell in a sigh-deepen'd tone, Yet devotion shall live though the idol be gone; The heart shall still pant for the well-cherish'd one, But never so truly as when 'tis alone, Under the moon. THE OLD MAN'S MARVEL. OLD man, old man, come tarry awhile, There is something I fain would ask of thee ; For thy hands are thin and thy lips fall in, And thou'st been a long time in the world, I see. Thy back is bow'd and thy forehead is plough'd; Thou'st a tapering chin, and a sunken cheek; Oh ! thou hast been long in the mortal throng, So tarry, and give me the wisdom I seek. Of all thou hast mark'd and all thou hast met In wide Creation's curious host ; Come, tell me, I say, through thy pilgrim way. What is it hath call'd up thy wonder most ? " I'll tell you full soon," quoth the gray old man. " Though, methinks, you might be as wise as I ; It is not the moon," quoth the gray old man, " Nor the rolling sun, nor the azure sky : THE OLD MAN'S MABVE1. 213 "There is that which can change with swifter might Than the orb that maketh the ghost-hour fair ; There is that which gloweth with warmer light Than the crimson globe in the purple air. ** It is not the main with its rushing tides, Fitful in fury and curbless in will ; Nor the black ravine with its iron sides, Nor the pathless peak of the mountain hill. * There is that which taketh its own wild course, In madder mood than the raging waves; There is that whiuh mocks the fissured rocks With harder walls and darker caves. " There's a loftier thing than the hills that spring, Though, perchance, 'tis alone in its daring height; There's a loftier thing than the eagle king, And it striketh out with a bolder flight. 44 It is not the wolf, nor the tiger dam, With red fan^s laved in their reeking food ; There is that which drains and laps from the veins, Fiercer in preying and fonder of blood. " It is not the worm that dwelleth in shade, Leaving its slime as it travelleth slow ; There is that which is bound to the dusty ground, More abjectly crawling more meanly low. '"It is not the sweet bird that dies in its nest, Pining to miss its, chosen love ; For I have seen truth and affection rest In a deeper fount than the breast of the dove, * It is not the snake in the jungled brake, Crushing and stinging with venom'd fold ; There is that which coils with deadlier toils, Griping its victim with firmer hold. ** I have measured the star," quoth the gray old man t " And can guess what its limits in space may be; I have found how far," quoth the gray old man, " The lead will sink in the ' deep, deep sea.' 314 POEMS BY ELIZA COOK. "But there is that which hath baffled my skill, Though my brain to the task was closely set ; I have watch'd and sought with right goodwill, But its power and depth I know not yet. "'Tis an Etna burning with demon hate; 'Tis an Eden breathing devotion's sigh ; Tis a tyrant wielding the sceptre of state ; 'Tis a crouching slave to a gentle eye. " It panteth to claim the laurel of Fame ; It starteth in chase of the daisies of spring ; It labours in search of a deathless name ; It runneth a race with a painted wing. " It hath fouler blots than the leper's spots ; It leapeth in freedom, nobly pure ; It quails at the touch of a careless word ; It can stretch to the rack-rope, and bravely endura. " It yieldeth the fire that hallows the lyre ; It formeth the poet's rich key-note ; It nerveth the murderer's lurking hand, To clutch the knife and grapple the throat. " It doeth in mercy the deeds divine ; It works in oppression, accursed and cold; It stands unbribed by an Eastern mine For a ducat of dross 'tis bought and sold. " Oh ! 'tis a mazy and mystic thing; It deceiveth my trust and foileth my lore ; I am watching it still with a right goodwill, But it winneth my wonder more and more. "I am waning away," quoth the gray old man, " My sands are few I shall soon depart; But, while I stay," quoth the gray old man " I shall marvel most at the human heart." 215 STANZAS FOE THE SEASON. ONCE again, once again, Christmas wreaths arc twining ; Once again, once again, Mistletoe is shining. Time is marching through the land, Deck'd with leaf and berry ; He leads the Old Year in his hand, But both the churls are merry. He speak eth in the clanging bells, He shouts at every portal ; GOD speed the tidings that he tells, " Goodwill and peace to mortal." Gladly welcome