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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 DREAMS AND REALITIES, 
 
 IN VERSE AND PROSE. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE, 
 
 Author of "Hours with the Muses." 
 
 "I've written, not forgetting tlie great end 
 Of Poesy, that it should be a friend 
 To sootlie the cares, and lift the thoughts of man." 
 
 Keats. 
 
 printed for the author, and sold by him, henry-square, 
 ashton-under-lyne. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 8IMPK1N AND MA'RSHALL. 
 
 1847.
 
 John Williamson, Printer, Stamfortl-stveet, Asliton-uuder-Lyne.
 
 
 TO THE 
 
 CHAIRMAN, SECRETARY, AND COMMITTEE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 "PRINCE TESTIMONIAL," 
 
 AND TO 
 ALL WHO HAVE IX ANY WAY CONTRIBUTED THERETO, 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME 
 
 IS jffoST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED 
 
 BT 
 
 > THEIR GEATEFUL SERVANT, 
 
 841 F/JT*
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Pare. 
 Preface vii. 
 
 Tributary Stanzas to J. C. Prince 1 
 
 The Pen and the Sword 3 
 
 The Press and tlie Cannon 1'2 
 
 A Winter Sketch from Oldermann 10 
 
 Hymn to the Creator It! 
 
 The Queen's Question "21 
 
 A Lay for the Printer 20 
 
 A Rhyme for the Time 30 
 
 Poetry in Common Things 35 
 
 Passion and Penitence : a Tale 40 
 
 The Seaside Sojourn 59 
 
 Come to my Home 67 
 
 A Summer's Evening Sketch 70 
 
 Tlie Wanderer 73 
 
 War .^ 79 
 
 Winter Musings 83 
 
 The Partition of the Earth 89 
 
 The Patriot's Battle Prayer 91 
 
 •Lines on the Death of Robert Southey 93 
 
 A Familiar Epistle to my Friend John Ball 97 
 
 The Power of Pleasant Memories 105 
 
 New Year's Day Aspirations 107 
 
 To a Young Poetess 110 
 
 A Stray Leaf HI 
 
 The Weil-Spring 112 
 
 The Woodland Well 122 
 
 January 1-0 
 
 April.". 1'^!'
 
 VI. INOFX, 
 
 Page. 
 
 July 134 
 
 October 139 
 
 Autumn 1-42 
 
 North Wales 147 
 
 The Merchant and the Mourner 152 
 
 Vindicatory Stanzas 158 
 
 Contrition , 162 
 
 Rough Notes of a Rambler: — 
 
 Reverence for the Dead: a Romantic Thought 165 
 
 A Thought in Coventry 167 
 
 A Reflection near Kenilworth 168 
 
 Approach to Shakespear's Birth-place 169 
 
 The Grave of Shakespear 170 
 
 My last Sigh for the Past 172 
 
 An Evening in Conway, North Wales 173 
 
 A Thunder Storm 175 
 
 A South of England Village 176 
 
 The Poets 17d 
 
 Snowdon 179 
 
 Leouore 1*^3 
 
 The Poet's Welcome 187 
 
 The "Temptation," and the "Expulsion" 189 
 
 To the Memory of a Deceased Friend 192 
 
 On the Death of two Infant Children 105 
 
 Sabbath Evening Thoughts 197 
 
 Lines written in Rhuddlan Castle, North Wales 199
 
 P R E F ACE. 
 
 In explanation of my motives for issuing this little volume, a 
 few words only are necessary. 
 
 Having a number of Poems and a few prose trifles, floating 
 about in the periodicals, and in the hands of friends, I was 
 desirous of collecting and preserving them in this shape, pre- 
 vious to putting forth a work of greater pretensions, and to 
 which I am devoting more study and cai'e in the composition. 
 
 I have no apology to offer for the publication of these Stray 
 Leaves, further than this — the indulgence which was extended 
 to my former effusions, both in this country and America, in- 
 spired me with a hope that these, also, might meet with a 
 portion of the like public favour. 
 
 Those Poems herein which are occasional, and those which 
 were written with a definite purpose, the reader will readily 
 discover. They have filled up my intervals of toil ; they have 
 tended to lighten my cares, and they are such, perhaps, from 
 their spirit, as a poor man may be pardoned for putting into 
 print. 
 
 The power to think and utter great things belongs to few, 
 and I am not of them; but I trust I may be recognized as 
 one of those Voices from the Croud, — an humble, but an 
 earnest one — which are every day gaining strength, and which 
 must, sooner or later, it is hopeful to believe, command the 
 attention, and win the respect, of the whole British People. 
 
 Ashton-undcr-Lyne, September 1847.
 
 EXTRACT FROM "THE CRITIC" OF APRIL, 1847. 
 
 "Mr. Prixce is one of those men, so rare, yet so welcome when tbey 
 come, who, boru and educated amid poverty and invested with a qnick 
 intellect, have, amid the gloom of their world, snch an expansion of 
 heart, that when they condemn they comdemn without bitterness. In 
 the entire range of literary history we have read of uo poet with a mind 
 more elastic than that possessed by Mr. Pbince. His mind rebounds 
 from the passions and the degradation with which he has been un- 
 avoidably associated, and the rebound has been most signal and lofty. 
 Apart from birth and education, and in the completeness and inividu- 
 ality of the word, Mr. Pbince is apoet. He has an intuitive perception of 
 the finest beauties of life, and a quick comprehension of the beauties of 
 nature. We need not say more. We have written only what is 
 generally admitted; but our desire is that Mr. Peixce's Works should 
 be the companions of every poor man, because they will increase his 
 social tendencies; and, further, we wish them to be in the possession of 
 every rich man, because they will teach him that a Poet of the People 
 is not necessarily antagonistic to the wealthy." 
 
 k fourth edition of "Hours with the Muses," price Three Shillings, 
 may be had of the Author or Printer, Ashton-under-Lyne.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 TRIBUTARY STANZAS TO J. C. PRINCE. 
 
 KY JOHN BOLTON ItOGERSON. 
 
 When first I saw thy sweet and polisbed lines, 
 
 Tbougb they were peun'd not hy a scholar'd hand, 
 
 Even as the sun through mist of morning shines, 
 
 I knew that they were destined to command 
 
 The praise and wonder of thy native land ; 
 
 And on the banner of wide-circling fame 
 
 Inscribe, in dazzling hues, thy then unbonoured name! 
 
 And so it is ! — thy aspirations high, 
 
 Thy powerful pleadings for a suifering race ; 
 
 Thy ardent love for heavenly Poesy, — 
 
 The feelings pure which in each line we trace, — 
 
 Have for thee gained a proud and envied place 
 
 Among the bards, who heavenwards cleave their way. 
 
 And gain by strength of wing, a bright immortal day. 
 
 Thou need"st not now, a wretched outcast, tread 
 
 With slow and weary steps a foreign shore ; — 
 
 England will find a shelter for thy head, 
 
 And thou shall know the want of food no more : 
 
 Be true unto thyself — there is in store 
 
 A future, rich in many happy days, 
 
 And Ibou shall find the bard treasured as are his hivs.
 
 TRIBUTARY STANZAS. 
 
 Walk forth and worship Nature as thoti hast, — 
 
 Drink in the beauty of her vales and streams ; 
 
 Wander again, as when, in days long past, 
 
 Thy soul, euwrapt in its poetic dreams. 
 
 Became instinct with holy Sabbath themes ; 
 
 And then, in thoughts majestic and sublime, 
 
 Poured forth the noble strain which shall contend with time. 
 
 Give us thy songs of freedom once again — 
 Raise high thy voice for liberty and love ; 
 Tell to the world the woes of toiling men, 
 And thou their dearest champion wilt prove — 
 Perchance the great and niighty thou may'st move: 
 Speak in thy wonted tones aloud of wroRg - 
 Who may divine the power and influence of song? 
 
 Hang not thy harp upon the willows now — 
 
 Be not with what thou'st won alone content ; 
 
 A wreath more glorious yet may grace thy brow — 
 
 On high achievement be thy mind still bent; 
 
 Gifts like to thine were surely never meant 
 
 To be unused or thrown neglected by — 
 
 Well is he paid whose dower is immortality ! 
 
 Manchester, May 1842.
 
 THE PEK AND THE SWOED. 
 
 " One murder makes a villain — millions a hero." 
 
 PORTEUS. 
 
 Creative Pen, destnictive Sword — dread powers I 
 How strongly ye have stirred this world of ours ! 
 By different means, to dififerent ends ye sway, 
 One with delight, the other with dismay — 
 Homes, cities, nations, climes, religions, kings, 
 And all the boundless range of human things. 
 One, proud of Peace and her great gifts, aspires 
 To aid progression in its vast desires: 
 One, prone to waste, disorder, spoil, and pride, 
 Would turn the course of onward thought aside ; 
 One lifts, enlightens, purifies, and saves; 
 One smites, degrades, contaminates, enslaves ; 
 One hath a baneful, one a blest employ, — 
 One labours to create, one leapeth to destroy I 
 
 Giant opponents ! leagued with peace and strife,- 
 One blights, one beautifies, the forms of life ; 
 One leads to pleasures, lofty and refined. 
 One, while it darkens, tortures humankind. 
 Stupendous twain ! great ministers on earth 
 Of good and ill, of plenitude and dearth, — 
 One is the storm, the pestilence, the grief, 
 One the mind's health, culm, solace, and relief;
 
 4 THE TEN AND THE SWORD. 
 
 One is the hope, the majesty, the dower 
 
 Of man, still striving for a wiser power; 
 
 And one — dark game, which false ambition plays ! 
 
 A fierce, but fading, error of old days. 
 
 The world grows weary of this sad unrest, 
 This night-mare of its myriad-hearted breast, — 
 This monster, breathing horror in its path. 
 This hideous thing of recklesness and wrath : 
 New thoughts, new deeds, more kindred to the skies, 
 Pregnant with better destinies, arise, 
 And 'mong the old iniquities of men, 
 The mighty Sword shall fall before the mightier Pen ! 
 
 Ye worshippers of Warfare, can ye tell 
 Where are the right, the beauty, and the spell, 
 The glory, the morality, the gain, 
 Of the disastrous system ye maintain? 
 When ye have paved the battle-ground with bones. 
 To the sad music of a people's groans; 
 Wakened the cries of multitudinous woe, — 
 Done all ye can to slaughter and o'erthrow ; 
 Brought man's and nature's fairest doings down, — 
 Bold hearts and bloody hands ! how holy your renown ! 
 
 Holy? Dear God! War in his whole career 
 Is rife with lawless force and hopeless fear; 
 And, spite of gorgeous garniture and forms, 
 With inward agonies and outward storms ; 
 Lust, riot, ruin hang upon his breath, 
 Tumultuous conflict, and dishonoured death! 
 Let not the youth whose spirit pants to win 
 By lofty labours, fame unsoiled with sin,
 
 THE PEN AND THE SWOED. 5 
 
 Seek it amid those desolating hordes 
 
 o 
 
 That gii'd Ambition with embattled swords; 
 Nor desecrate his soul — which God has made 
 For nobler things — in War's unhallowed trade. 
 But let him serve his countiy as he can, 
 With pen, tongue, action, as becomes a man 
 Bent upon toils that dignify and grace, 
 And bring some blessing to the human race. 
 See the poor soldier — no unworthy name 
 When wielding moral weapons 'gainst the shame 
 Bom of a thousand social ills and wrongs. 
 Which dash with bitterness the Poet's songs ; — 
 See the poor soldier, from less guilty life 
 Coaxed or coerced to tread the fields of strife, 
 Caught in a tavern ; in a barrack bred 
 To things that blight his heart and cloud his head ; 
 Shut up his sympathies, enslave his soul, 
 Hold natural impulse in a stern control : 
 Hoodwink his reason, paralyse his speech, 
 Uproot his virtues — all that's good unteach, — 
 Till he becomes, — oh! man thrice brave and blest! — 
 lu war a terror, and in peace a pest! 
 And if he dare — for manhood sometimes will 
 Break through its bondage, spite of eveiy ill, — 
 H he but dare by look, word, act, or flaw, 
 Mark his impatience of the iron law. 
 The Lash, laid ready for the needful hour, — 
 That just and tjentle instrument of power. 
 That man-degrading, man-upbraiding thing. 
 Bearing at every point a scorpion's sting, —
 
 6 THE PEN AND THE SWORD. 
 
 Tears up the quivering flesh, extorts the groan, 
 
 Rouses to vengeance, or subdues to stone, 
 
 Making the being it pretends to -win 
 
 A restless, reckless follower of sin; 
 
 Or a machine, now dead to fear and shame. 
 
 Whereby the well-born coward climbs to fame ! 
 
 Fame, did I say? Can that enchanting thing. 
 For whose great guex'don Genius strains his wing, 
 Bedim her lustrous records with the tale 
 Of deeds, whereat the harrassed world turns pale? 
 They write itfame ; but Reason, Truth, and Song, 
 Must find a darker word to designate the wrong ! 
 
 But, hark ! your country calls ! up valiant sons ! 
 Gird on your swords, prepare your murderous guns ; 
 Some new aggression, grand in its design, 
 Strikes the wise rulers of your land and mine ; — 
 Your country calls, and her strong law and voice 
 Admit no conscience, and allow no choice: 
 Ye wear War's gaudy badge, ye willing braves, — 
 Ask not the why and where, go at it, slaves ! 
 Plenty may fail, and Commerce droop the while, 
 And Peace, for lack of light, refuse to smile; 
 The Arts may sicken. Science cease his toils. 
 And a sad people tremble at your broils. 
 What boots it if a wilderness be won. 
 Or a pacific nation half undone ? 
 Go forth, nor let the hostile flag be furled 
 Till ye have cursed and conquered half the world ! 
 
 But ere ye go, the Servant of the Lord 
 Must bless the banner, consecrate the sword;
 
 THE PEN AND THE SWORD. < 
 
 Must pray the God of Battles — impious prayer ! 
 To make your coiiorts His especial care ; 
 And, with a mock solemnity of mien, — 
 Ah ! how unworthy of the sacred scene ! — 
 Ask blessings on a bloody crowd that goes 
 To fetter human wills, and feast on human woes ! 
 
 Dear Christ ! commissioned from the Eternal Throne 
 To touch our hearts, and claim them for thine own ; 
 Man of humility and patient pain, 
 Word without error, life without a stain ; 
 Teacher of truths reflected from above, — 
 Pure type of Peace, and miracle of Love ! 
 It shocks the soul, it makes the spirit sad, 
 To hear these men, in robes of meekness clad, 
 Beside the altars hallowed in thy name, 
 Sanction a giant sin, should bi-and their cheeks with shame* 
 
 It is the day of battle; mora's sweet light 
 Comes surging o'er the lingering shades of night. 
 And Nature, fresh as in her newest hour. 
 Looks up with calm and renovated power ; 
 But hostile hosts, impatient for the day. 
 Panting like hungry tigers for the fray : — 
 For slaughter eager, and for conquest keen, 
 Crowd and encumber the enchanting scene ; 
 Preparing to pollute, with gloom and glare. 
 What God has made so holy and so fair; 
 And with the life-blood of each others' veins, 
 Curse and incarnadine the peaceful plains. 
 The mournful bugle sings a startling note ; 
 The cannon opes its fulminating throat;
 
 3 THE PEN AND THE SWOKD. 
 
 Gleams the quick sword ; upstarts the bristling lance, — 
 
 A thousand files with deadly strength advance, 
 
 And with a wild tornado-shock of strife, 
 
 Each bosom burning with delirious life — 
 
 Meet midway ; and the tumult rising high 
 
 Shakes the ensanguined ground, and troubles all the sky. 
 
 Fiercer and fiercer, till the noon is past, 
 Rages the battle's desolating blast ; 
 Closer and closer, with unbated breath, 
 The martial multitudes contend with death, 
 Till the insulted sun, adown the skies, 
 Sinks in an ocean of resplendent dyes. 
 And pensive twilight, clothed in dewy grey. 
 Drops her dim cui'tain o'er the fitful fray ; 
 Till baffled, bleeding, filled with pride and spleen, 
 Foe shrinks from foe, and darkness steals between. 
 
 But not in silence reigns the fearful night. 
 For muffled sounds denote the hurried flight ; 
 And groans, upheaved from ebbing hearts, ascend 
 And shriek, and prayer, and malediction blend ; 
 And rufilan violence, and frantic fear, 
 Strike with abrupt alarm the enquiring ear; 
 And reckless revel in the camp is heard, 
 And angry cries at victory deferred, — 
 And the mixed mockery of laugh and song. 
 From men that glory in gigantic wrong ; 
 Till a new morning, lovely as before. 
 Smiles on the field that reeks with human gore,— 
 Wakes the rough soldier from his haunted sleep, 
 And gilds a scene "that makes the angels weep!"
 
 THE PEN AND THE SWORD. 9 
 
 For many a day the dread Golgotha hes 
 Hideous and bare to the upbraidhig skies ; 
 The gentle flowers, the yet surviving few, 
 Droop with the burden of unhallowed dew : 
 The lark, returning thither, soars and sings 
 With man's last life-blood on his buoyant wings! 
 The vagrant butterfly drops down to bear 
 The stains of slaughter through the summer air : 
 The quiet cattle startle, as they sti-ay. 
 At ghastly faces festering into clay ; 
 The stream runs red ; the bare and blackened trees 
 Have ceased to wanton with the wayward breeze ; 
 But the gaunt wolf and hungry \-ulture, led 
 By tainted gales that blow athwart the dead, 
 Hold loathsome banquet ; till some friendly hand 
 Digs a great grave, and clears the cumbered land, 
 And pleasant winds, and purifying rains. 
 Sweep out at last the horror of the plains !* -^^ 
 
 Thought sickens o'er the scene : — come back, sweet Muse! 
 Xor soil thy sunny garments with the hues 
 Gathered from goiy battle-grounds, and graves 
 Unheaped with warfare's immolated slaves, 
 Lest gentle bosoms, and disdainful tongues, 
 Tire of thy truths, and rail against thy songs. 
 
 Lo ! in that quiet and contracted room, 
 Where the lone lamp just mitigates the gloom. 
 Sits a pale student, stirred with high desires, 
 With lofty principles and gifted fires. 
 
 * I find that this passage is an unintentional imitation cif a beanUful 
 one in "The Battle of Life," by Charles Dickens. 
 C
 
 10 THE TEN AND THE SWOKD. 
 
 From time to time, with calm inquiiing looks, 
 
 He culls tlie ore of wisdom from his books ; 
 
 Clears it, sublimes it, till it flows refined 
 
 From his alchymic crucible of mind ; 
 
 And as the mighty thoughts spring out complete, 
 
 How the quill travels o'er the snowy sheet! 
 
 Till signs of glorious import crowd the page. 
 
 Destined to raise and rectify the age ; 
 
 For every drop from that soul -guided pen 
 
 Shall fall a blessing on the hearts of men, — 
 
 Shall rouse the listless to triumphant toils, 
 
 Wean the unruly from their sins and broils ; 
 
 Teach the grown man, and in the growing child 
 
 Transfuse a power to keep it undefiled ; 
 
 Solace the weary, animate the sad. 
 
 Restrain the reckless, make the dullest glad, 
 
 Sow in the bosoms of our rising youth 
 
 The seed of unadulterated truth ; — 
 
 Uproot the lingering errors of the throng. 
 
 Break down the barriers of remorseless Wrong ; 
 
 Direct mind's onward march, and in the van 
 
 Send back electric thought from man to man : 
 
 This is the Pen's high purpose — Can it fail? 
 
 Soul ! scorn the shameful doubt ! press forv,'ard and prevail I 
 
 Oh ! for a day of that triumphant time, 
 That universal jubilee sublime; 
 When Marlboroughs shall be useless, and the name 
 Of Miltons travel through a wider fame ; 
 When other Nelsons shall be out of place, 
 While other Newtous pierce the depths of space;
 
 THE TEN AND THE SWOIID. 11 
 
 When other Wellingtons! — proud name! — sliall yield 
 
 To mightier Watts, in a far mightier field ! 
 
 When other Shakespears shall direct the mind 
 
 To Hero-worship of a purer kind ; 
 
 When War's red banner shall, for aye, be furled, 
 
 And Peace embrace all climes, all children of the world !
 
 19 
 
 THE PRESS AND THE CANNON. 
 
 The Cannon and Press! bow they ban, how they bless 
 
 This beautiful planet of ours ; 
 The first by the length of its terrible strength, 
 
 The other by holier powers. 
 More and more they are foes as the new spirit grows — 
 
 Will their struggles bring joy to the free? 
 For the wrongful and right — for the darkness and light- 
 
 Oh, which shall the conqueror be? 
 
 With a war-waking note from its sulphurous throat 
 
 The Cannon insulteth the day, 
 And flingeth about, with a flash and a ehout, 
 
 The death-bolts that deepen the fray: 
 "Give me slaughter," it cries, as it booms to the skies, 
 
 And men turn to fieuda at the sound; 
 Till the sun droppeth dun, till the battle is won, 
 
 And carnage encumbers the ground.
 
 THE PRESS AND THE CANNON. 
 
 Then the reveller reels, then the plunderer steals 
 
 Like a snake, through the horrible gloom ; 
 Then the maid is defiled, then the widow is wild, 
 
 As she fathoms the depths of her doom ; 
 Fierce fires glare aloof, till the night's Btarrj' roof 
 
 Seems to blush at the doings of wrong ; 
 Sounds of terror and woe through the dark come and go, 
 
 With fury, and laughter, and song ! 
 
 When the morrow 3 fair face looketh down on the place, 
 
 All trodden and sodden with strife, 
 The grass and the grain are empurpled with rain 
 
 From the fountains of desperate life ; 
 The stream runneth red, and the green loaves are shed, 
 
 That o'ershadowed its waters so clear — 
 For the bale-fire hath been on the desolate scene, 
 
 And hath cursed it for many a year ! 
 
 Reeking ruins abound on the war-withered ground, 
 
 In whose ashes sit shapes of despair, 
 And the voices of wail float afar on the gale, 
 
 Till the brute is appalled in his lair : 
 On the broad battlc-lloor, in their cerements of gore, 
 
 Lie thousands whoso conflicts are past, 
 To furnish a feast for the bird and the beast — 
 
 To foster and bleach iu the blast.
 
 14 THE I'KESS AND THE CAXNOX. 
 
 Ijiit the tears of the sad, and the cries of the mad, 
 And the blood that polluteth the sod, 
 
 And the prayers of the crowd — solemn, earnest, and loud- 
 Together go up unto God ! 
 
 Nor in vain do they rise — for the good and the wise, 
 And the gifted of spirit and speech, 
 
 Are waking the lands to more holy conmiands, 
 Y ox peace is the lesson they teach. 
 
 Behold the proud Press ! how it labours to bless, 
 
 By the numberless tones of its voice ! 
 To lofty and low its grand harmonies flow, 
 
 And the multitudes hear and rejoice; 
 Scarce an ally of gloom, scarce an artisan's room, • 
 
 Scarce a heart in the mill or the mine, 
 Scarce a soul that is dark, but receiveth a spark 
 
 Of its spirit, so vast and divine ! 
 
 The Cannon lays waste, but the Press is in haste 
 
 To enlighten, uplift, and renew ; 
 And the life of its lore — can we languish for more? — 
 
 Is the beautiful, peaceful, and true. 
 Man bringeth his thought, in calm solitude wrought, 
 
 To be multiplied, scattered, and sown; 
 And iho seed that to-day droppeth down by the way, 
 
 Is to-morrow fair, fruitful, and grown.
 
 THE TRESS AND THE CANNON. 
 
 Joy, joy to tlie world! Press and People have burled 
 
 Their slings 'gainst the errors of old ; 
 One by one, as they fall, the poor children of thrall 
 
 Grow dignified, gladsome, and bold. 
 The Cannon and Sword — cruel, cursed, and abhorred — 
 
 Cannot stay the proud march of the free ; 
 They may ban and beguile the rude nations awhile, 
 
 But the Press vdW the conqueror be !
 
 l(j 
 
 A WINTER SKETCH FROM OLDERMANN.* 
 
 Fair are the Springtide features of the hills — 
 Glorious their Summer aspect of repose — 
 Calm in Autumnal hues their shadowy forms — 
 
 But not less beautiful when Winter fills — 
 Their wild untrodden solitudes, and tlirows 
 Around them all the grandeur of its storms ! 
 
 Such are my musings on the craggy crown 
 Of Olderraann, the sterile, stern, and cold, 
 As days sink sloping to the evening hour ; 
 
 Bound my proud centre mountain regions frown, 
 Abrupt and lone, wherein my eyes behold 
 Gigantic proofs of God's unmeasured power, 
 
 Which wake mute worship in the eloquent heart, 
 
 And lift the aspiring soul from common things apart. 
 
 * A bold precipitous hill in the romautic valley of SadJleworth, a few 
 miles from Ashtou-uuder-Lyue.
 
 A WINTER SKETCH FROM OLDERMANN. 17 
 
 What a religious silence is outspread 
 
 O'er all the rude and solitary scene — 
 
 So cold, so pure, so solemn, so serene — 
 From the deep valley to the mountain's head I . 
 Ice-roofed, the stream runs mutely o'er its bed ; 
 
 The torrent lingers in its midway leap ; 
 
 The firs, in all their branches, are asleep ; 
 The bird is absent, and the bee is fled ; 
 From moss-fringed fountains not a tear is shed ; 
 
 Of human life no shape or voice is near ; 
 
 And the sole sound that greets my passive ear 
 Is the crisp snow-floor yielding to my tread : 
 Dumb seems the earth, and rifled of her bloom, 
 Like breathless beauty shrouded for the tomb. 
 
 Dear Heaven ! it is a blessed thing to feel 
 My heart un withered by the world, my mind 
 
 Wakeful as ever, and as glad to steal 
 Into the realms of wonder, unconfined, 
 
 As round me drops the drapery of night. 
 With the delicious dimness of a dream. 
 While the one hei'ald-star, of restless beam, 
 
 Climbs, with the quiet moon, the etherial height. 
 
 Winter is Nature's Sabbath-time ; and now. 
 With all her energies within her breast. 
 
 She folds her matron garments round her brow. 
 Sits down in peace, and takes her holy rest : 
 
 For wave, wood, mountain, star, moon, cloud, and sky, 
 
 In deep-adoring stillness, prove tliat God is nigh ! 
 
 D
 
 18 
 
 HYMN TO THE CREATOR. 
 
 Praise unto God ! whose single will and might 
 Upreared the boundless roof of day and night, 
 With suns, and stars, and glorious cloud-wreaths hung ; 
 The 'blazoned veil that hides the Eternal's throne, 
 The glorious pavement of a world unknown. 
 
 By angels trodden, and by mortals sung. 
 To God ! who fixed old Ocean's utmost bounds. 
 And bade the Moon, in her harmonious rounds. 
 
 Govern its waters with her quiet smiles ; 
 Bade the obedient winds, though seeming free. 
 Walk the tumultuous surface of the sea. 
 And place man's daring foot upon a thousand isles ? 
 
 Praise unto God ! who thrust the rifted hills,. 
 With all their golden veins and gushing rills, 
 
 Up from the burning centre, long ago ; 
 Who spread the deserts, verdureless and dun, 
 And those stern realms, forsaken of the sun. 
 
 Where Frost hath built his palace-halls of snow I 
 To God ! whose liand hath anchored in the ground 
 The forest-growth of ages, the profound 
 
 Green hearts of solitude, unsought of men ! 
 God ! who suspends the avalanche, who dips 
 The Alpine hollows in a cold eclipse, 
 And hurls the headlong torrent shivering down the glen I
 
 HYMN" TO THE CREATOR. 19 
 
 Praise unto God ! who speeds the lightniug's wing 
 To fearful flight, making the thunder spring 
 
 Abrupt and awful from its sultiy lair, 
 To rouse some latent function of the earth, 
 To bring some natural blessing into birth, 
 
 And sweep disorder from the troubled air ! 
 To God ! who bids the hurricane awake, 
 The firm rock shudder, and the mountain quake 
 
 With deep and inextinguishable fires ; 
 Who ui'ges ghastly pestilence to wrath, 
 Sends withei'ing famine on his silent path. 
 The holy purpose hid from our profane desires. 
 
 Praise unto God ! who fills the fruitful soil 
 With wealth awaking to the hand of toil. 
 
 With germs of beauty, and abundance, too; 
 Who bends athwart the footstool of the skies 
 His braided sunbow of resplendent dyes. 
 
 Melting in rain-drops from the shadowy blue ! 
 To God! who sends the seasons, "dark or bright,' 
 Spring's frequent resurrection of delight; 
 
 Summer's mature tranquility of mien ; 
 The generous flush of the Autumnal time, 
 The every-changiug spectacle sublime 
 Of purgatorial Winter, savage or serene !
 
 20 IIYSIN TO THE CKEATOK. 
 
 Praise uuto God I whose wisdom placed me here, 
 A lowly- dweller on this lovely sphere — 
 
 This temporary home to mortals given ; 
 Which holds its silent and unerring way 
 Among the inuumerahle worlds that stray, 
 
 Singing and burning through the halls of heaven ! 
 To God! wh® sent me hither to prepai'e, 
 By wordless worship, and by uttered prayer, 
 
 By suffering, humility, and love. 
 By sympathies and deeds, from self apart, 
 Nursed in the inmost chambers of the heart, 
 For that transcendent life of purity above.
 
 21 
 
 THE QUEEN'S QUESTION; OR, THE RIVAL 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 Ladies, — who linger o'er this page 
 
 With pure and tranquil pleasure, 
 Moved by the words of Wit and Sage, 
 
 Or Bard's romantic measure, — 
 Deign to receive this random rhyme, 
 
 This brief and simple story. 
 Of Solomon's transcendent time 
 
 Of grandeur and of glory. 
 
 Fired at the splendour of his fame, 
 
 A proud and regal maiden 
 To Israel's distant kingdom came 
 
 With costly presents laden. 
 She brought bright gold from Ophir s mine. 
 
 Rich gems of mighty prices. 
 Raiment of colours half divine, 
 
 With perfumes and with spices.
 
 22 THE queen's question. 
 
 With mingled majesty and grace, 
 
 A goi'geous crowd attending, 
 She met the monarch fece to face, 
 
 In silent homage bending. 
 With dignified, but gentle, tone, 
 
 His eyes with kindness beaming. 
 The good king placed her on his throne, 
 
 In posture more beseeming. 
 
 The feast was spread, the hymn was sung, 
 
 The dancers bounded lightly; 
 Rare music through the palace rung, 
 
 And scented lamps burnt brightly. 
 Meanwhile the monarch urged his guest 
 
 To pleasure's sweet employment ; 
 And both, by radiant looks, confess'd 
 
 The depth of their enjoyment. 
 
 W^ith questions subtle, deep, refined. 
 
 In changing conversation, 
 I'he maiden task'd the monarch's mind 
 
 With skilful penetration : 
 But still, like gold thrice tried by fire. 
 
 Wit, wisdom, lore and learning 
 Came from the king, the sage, the sire. 
 
 With richer lustre burning.
 
 THE QUEENS QUESTION. 23 
 
 The baffled queen was sorely tried, 
 
 And dumb with pleasing wonder ; 
 But what can quell a woman's pride, 
 
 Or keep her spirit under? 
 Sheba, with persevering pains, 
 
 Assumes a modest meekness, 
 For one last question still remains 
 
 To prove her strength or wealoiess. 
 
 With quick and cmming hand she cull'd 
 
 A mass of seeming flowers, 
 And one of real sweetness pull'd 
 
 From lavis^ Nature's bowers. 
 In equal parts, ^\ath silken tie, 
 
 She bound the blushing roses, 
 Till each appear'd, to casual eye, 
 
 Twin pyramids of posies. 
 
 Within the spacious palace hall, 
 
 A fair mischievous thing ; 
 She stood apart from each and all, 
 
 And thus address'd the king : — 
 "Pray tell me, thou of high command, 
 
 To whom great thoughts are given. 
 Which is the work of human hand — 
 
 Which drank the dews of heaven?"
 
 '^4 THE queen's question. 
 
 He gazed with earnest look and long — 
 
 The question was repeated; 
 But still he held a silent tongue, 
 
 Half angrj, half defeated. 
 The pleas'd spectators cluster 'd nigh, 
 
 And whisper'd — almost loudly, — 
 While Sheba, with inquiring eye, 
 
 Stood patiently and proudly. 
 
 'Twas summer, and some bees had stray 'd 
 
 Away from fields and bowers; 
 They hovered round the royal maid, 
 
 And round the rival flowers : 
 To one gay group they clung at last, — 
 
 Their own strange instinct guiding ; 
 But careless o'er the other pass'd. 
 
 Not one lone wins abidingr. 
 
 'o 
 
 " Fair queen! those floral gems of thine, 
 
 Where yet the wild bee lingers. 
 Where all the rainbow hues combine. 
 
 Were train'd by Nature's fingers !" 
 Thus spoke old Isi-ael's king, aloud, 
 
 And every bosom started; — 
 The vanquish 'd maiden blush "d and bow'd, 
 
 Then gracefully departed.
 
 THE QUEEN S QUESTION. 
 
 Of Solomon's exalted soul, 
 
 Of Sheba's mental merit, 
 A portion of the glorious whole, 
 
 'Tis well, if we inherit ; 
 With sight to see, desire to know, 
 
 And reason our adviser, 
 Better and happier we may grow, 
 
 And surely something wiser. 
 
 Fair female flowers, which breathe and bloom 
 
 Where'er our lot hath bound us ; 
 Flinging Affection's dear perfume 
 
 Delightfully around us: 
 Born with a beauty all your own, 
 
 In proud and pure completeness, 
 May well-deserving bees alone 
 
 Enjoy your summer sweetness ! 
 
 OS
 
 UG 
 
 A LAY FOR THE PRINTER. 
 
 Who will deny the dignity of that enduring toil 
 
 That penetrates earth's treasure-glooms, and ploughs her sunny 
 
 soil! 
 That flings the shuttle, plies the hammer, guides the spin- 
 ning wheel, 
 Moulds into shape the rugged ore, and bends the stubborn steel ? 
 That hews the mountain's rocky heart, piles the patrician dome, 
 Leans to some lone and lowly craft beneath a lowlier home ? 
 And who shall say that my employ hath not the power to bless, 
 Or scorn the honest hand that wields the wonder-working Press? 
 
 With ready finger, skilful eye, and proudly-cheerful heart, 
 I link those potent signs that make the magic of my art; 
 Till word by word, and line by line, expands the goodly book, 
 Wherein a myriad eyes, ere long, with eager souls will look. 
 The lightning wit, the thunder- truth, the tempest-passion there, 
 The touching tones of poesy, the lesson pure and fair, 
 Come forth upon the virgin page, receive their outward dress. 
 And, to inspire an anxious \Torld, teem glowing from the Press !
 
 A LAY FOR THE PRINTER. 2 I 
 
 What were the Poet's vision-life, his rapture-moods of mind, 
 His heavenward aspirations, and his yearnings undefined? 
 His thoughts that drop like precious balm in many a kindred 
 
 breast, 
 His gorgeous fancies, and liis feelings gloriously express "d ? 
 What were his sentiments that make the hopeful spirit strong. 
 His fervent language for the right, his fearless 'gainst the 
 
 wrong? 
 What were they to the multitudes — a nation's strength — 
 
 unless 
 They sprang in thrice ten thousand streams triumphant from 
 
 the Press? 
 
 The star-seer — honour to his name — with art-assisted sight 
 May travel 'midst the pathless heavens, and trace their founts 
 
 of light; 
 May weigh the planet, watch the comet, pierce those realms 
 
 that be 
 Of suns that cluster thick as sands by Wonder's boundless 
 
 sea; 
 May mark, with mute exalted joy, some nameless orb arise 
 To shine a lawful denizen of earth's familiar skies ; — 
 But these sublime and silent toils how few could know or 
 
 guess, 
 Save through the tongue that faileth not, the cver-voiceful 
 
 Press !
 
 28 A LAY FOE THE PKINTEK. 
 
 The student of the universe, the searcher of its laws, 
 
 Whose soul mounts, link by link, the chain that leads to God, 
 the cause ; 
 
 Who reads the old ■world's history in wondrous things that 
 lay 
 
 Tombed in the rock-veins and the seas, ere man assumed his 
 sway; 
 
 Who grasps the subtile elements and bows them to his will, 
 
 Tracks the deep mysteries of Mind, a nobler knowledge 
 still ; 
 
 Who adds to human peace and power, makes human darkness 
 less, 
 
 What warms, applauds, and cheers him on? His own inspir- 
 ing Press ! 
 
 A proud preserver of the past, it gives us o'er again 
 
 A TuUy's golden tide of speech, a Homer's stirring strain ; 
 
 Reflects the glory of old Greece, Rome's stern heroic 
 
 state. 
 And tells us how they sank beneath the shocks of Time and 
 
 Fate: 
 Horatian wit, Virgilian grace, it keeps for us in store, 
 And every classic dream is fresh and lovely as of yore:— 
 How had these treasures been consigned to "dumb forgetful- 
 
 ness," 
 But for the mirror of great things, the re-creating Press I
 
 A LAY KOR THE PRINTER. 29 
 
 The Press.' "tis Freedom's myriad-voice re-echoed loud aiid 
 Jong, 
 
 The Poet's world-wide utterance of high and hopeful song ; 
 
 A trump that blow? the barriers down where fear and false- 
 hood lie, 
 
 A lever lifting yearning hearts still nearer to the sky ! 
 
 In good men's hands it multiplies God's Oracles of Grace, 
 
 And puts them in a hundred tongues to glad the human race : 
 
 Oh! Christian truth! oh! Christian love ! twin fires that bum 
 to bless, — 
 
 What holier spirit than your own to purify the Press ? 
 
 And yet it is an evil thing when wicked men combine 
 To use it for some selfish end, some fierce or dark design; 
 Who through it pour their poison-creeds, their principles of 
 
 strife, 
 To cripple, darken, and degrade the social forms of life. 
 Oh! ye of strong and upright minds, from such unhallowed 
 
 things 
 Defend the mighty instrument whence peaceful knowledge 
 
 springs ; 
 Make it the bulwark of all right, the engine of redress, 
 The altar of our country's hopes — achainless, stainless Press!
 
 30 
 
 A RHYME FOR THE TIME. 
 
 On! ye have glorious duties to fulfil, 
 Nor fear, nor falter on the weary way ; 
 Ye, who with earnest rectitude of -will 
 Marshal the millions for the moral fray : 
 Ye, who with vollied speech and volant lay, 
 'Gainst the dark crowd of social ills engage, 
 Lead us from out the darkness to the day 
 We languish to behold ; exalt the age. 
 And write your names in fire on Truth's unspotted page I 
 
 With hopeful heart and faith-uplifted brow 
 Press on. Crusaders, for the gaol is near; 
 Desert and danger are behind, and now 
 Sweet winds and waters murmur in our ear; 
 And plenteous signs of peaceful life appear. 
 And songs of solace greet us as we go ; 
 And o'er the horizon's rim, not broad, but clear. 
 The light of a new morning seems to flow, — 
 We journey sunwards ! on, and hail the uprising glow I
 
 A RHYME FOR THE TIME. 31 
 
 In the sad wilderness we've wandered long, 
 Thirsting amid the inhospitable sand, 
 Cheered by that burden of prophetic song, — 
 "The clime, the time of freedom is at hand I" 
 And, lo I upon the threshold of the land 
 We strive and hope, keep patient watch, and wait ; 
 And few and feeble are the foes that stand 
 Between us and our guerdon: — back, proud gate, 
 That opes into the realm of Freedom's high estate I 
 
 Not ours, perchance, the destiny to see 
 The unveiled glories of her inner bower. 
 But myriads following in our steps shall be 
 Equal partakers of the coming hour; 
 The unencumbered heritage, the dower 
 With its full fruits is theirs, with all its store 
 Of fine fruition and exalted power : 
 And Truth shall teach them her transcendent lore — • 
 "Man towards the perfect good advanceth evermore!" 
 
 And in our upward progress through the past, 
 What giant evils have been trodden down ! 
 Dread deeds which struck the shrinking soul aghast, 
 Branding the doer with unblest renown : 
 The Inquisitor's harsh face and gloomy gown. 
 Girt with a thousand torture-tools; the flame 
 In whose fierce folds the martyr won his crown, — 
 Are gone into the darkness whence they came, — 
 There let them rust and rot, in God's insulted name !
 
 3Q A RHYME FOR THE TIHE. 
 
 Knowledge hath left the hermit's ruined cell, 
 The narrow convent and the cloister's gloom, 
 With world-embracing wings to soar and dwell 
 In ampler ether, and sublimer room; 
 The vollied lightnings of her Press consume 
 The tyrant's strength, and smite the bigot blind ; 
 Day after day its thundei'S sound the doom 
 Of some old wrong, too hideous for the mind 
 Which reason hath illumed, which knowledge hath refined. 
 
 Knowledge hath dignified the sons of toil, 
 And taught where purest pleasures may be won ; 
 The peasant leaves his ploughshare in the soil 
 For mental pastime when the day is done ; 
 The swart-faced miner, shut from breeze and sun, 
 While Nature reigns in beauty unsubdued, 
 Creeps from his caverned workshop, deep and dun, 
 And in his hovel's fire-lit solitude 
 Storeth his craving mind with not unwholesome food. 
 
 'Mid the harsh clangor of incessant wheels, 
 Beside the stithy and the furnace blaze, 
 Some soul, still hungering and eularging, feels 
 The silent impulse of her quickening rays ; 
 In the lone loom-cell, where for weary days. 
 And weary nights, the shuttle flies amain. 
 With his white web the weaver weaveth lays > 
 To speed his labour, or beguile his pain, 
 Lays which the world shall hear, and murmur o'er agaiu.
 
 A RHYME FOR THE TIME. 33 
 
 Proud halls reecho with exalted song, 
 With calm iustruotion, or impassioned speech; 
 And who stands foremost in the listening throng? 
 The ai'tizan, who learns that he may teach : 
 Longing, acquiring, holding, like the leech. 
 He cries, " Give, give!" with unallayed desire ; 
 No point of knowledge seems beyond his reach : 
 Effort begets success, and higher, higher. 
 Like eagles towards the sun, his full-fledged thoughts aspire ! 
 
 Nor is there danger in the liberal gilt 
 Of soul-seed, cast abroad by Genius' hand. 
 Not weeds, but flowers and fruitful stems shall lift 
 Theu' forms of grace and grandeur o'er the land. 
 Like that proud tree by eastern breezes fanned. 
 From kindred roots a mighty forest made — 
 A brotherhood of branches shall expand 
 From the great myriad mind, affording shade, 
 Strength, shelter, and supply, when outer storms invade. 
 
 And by this patient gathering of thought, — 
 And by this peaceful exercise of will. 
 What wonders have been nursed, matured, and wrought! 
 What other wonders will they not fulfil ? 
 Upheaves the valley, yawns the opposing hill, 
 Man and his hand- work sweep triumphant through; 
 Time swells, space narrows, prejudice stands still 
 And dwindles in the distance; high and new 
 Are all our dreams and deeds : — but much remains to do.
 
 34 A RHY]\rE FOR THE TIME. 
 
 But War, that tawdry yet terrific thing, 
 The Ethiop 3 brand and bondage, the vile show 
 Of God's frail image fi'om the gallows string 
 Dangling and heaving with convulsive throe ; — 
 These man-made ministers of death and woe. 
 Shall we not crush them — Reason, Mercy, say? 
 Shall we not fling behind us, as we go, 
 These ancient errors? Reason answers "Yea! 
 Pure hearts and earnest souls will clear the encumbered way." 
 
 Hail to the lofty minds, the truthful tongues 
 Linked in an universal cause, as now ! 
 Which break do rights, which advocate no wrongs. 
 Firm to the loom, and faithful to the plough ! 
 Commerce, send out thy multifarious prow 
 Laden with goodly things for every land; 
 Labour, uplift thy sorrow-shaded brow, 
 Put forth thy strength of intellect and hand, 
 And plenty, peace, and joy may round thy homes expand. 
 
 Hail ! mighty Science, nature's conquering lord ! 
 Thou star-crowned, steam-winged, fiery-footed power ! 
 Hail ! gentle Arts, whose hues and forms afford 
 Refined enchantments for the tranquil hour ! 
 Hail ! tolerant teachers of the world, whose dower 
 Of spirit-wealth outweighs the monarch's might! 
 Blest be your holy mission, may it shower 
 Blessings like rain, and bring, by human right, 
 To all our hearts and hearths, love, liberty, and light!
 
 35 
 
 POETRY IN COMMON THINGS. 
 
 ""Twas Saturn's niglat, dark, sileut, cliill, and late, 
 
 My exhausted fire was dying in tlie grate ; 
 
 My taper's wick was waxing large and long, 
 
 While I sat musing on the gift of song, 
 
 With all its soul-born influences, and power 
 
 To soothe or strengthen in the varying hour, 
 
 Upon my table, in promiscuous crowd, 
 
 Lay the great minds to whom my spirit bowed ; — 
 
 Shakespear, the universal, and the bard 
 
 Who Gloriana sang without reward, 
 
 Save that which Fame accorded him for ever! — 
 
 Dryden, the child of change, whose best endeavour 
 
 Was aye beset with troubles, though his string 
 
 Piang out in praise of Commonwealth and Iving; 
 
 Milton, the mighty, dignified, and pure, 
 
 Born with a soul to battle or endure : 
 
 Pope, the euphoneous, whose every theme 
 
 Is smooth and flowing as the summer stream ; 
 
 The cold and caustic Swift, whose loveless heart 
 
 Knew not the pangs he laboured to impart; 
 
 Goldsmith, whose muse is ever undefiled, 
 
 "In wit a man — simplicity a child!"
 
 36 POETRY IN COMMON THINGS. 
 
 The grave sarcastic Cowper, best of men ! 
 And Crabbe, the moral Hogarth of the pen ; 
 Calm Campbell, dazzlnig Moore, to fancy dear ; 
 The erratic ploughman, and the wayward peer ; 
 Southey, the sorcerer, whose wizard strain, 
 Alas ! is silent, ne'er to sound again; 
 Wordsworth, now full of honourable years, 
 Whose thoughts do often lie " too deep for tears ;" 
 Coleridge, of dreamy lore, (who shall excel 
 His wild and wondrous fragment, " Christabel ?") 
 Baronial Scott, the heir of deathless gloiy. 
 And him who sang Kilmeny's fairy story ; 
 Ideal Shelley, and ethereal Keats, 
 With their fine gathering of luxurious sweets ; 
 Leigh Hunt, who loves a quaint, but cheerful lore. 
 And Lamb, as gentle as the name he bore ; 
 Elliott the iron-like, but sweetly strong, 
 And the Montgomery of sacred song; 
 The fervid Hemans of the magic shell, 
 And that lom nightingale, sweet L. E. L. 
 These are a glorious number, yet not all 
 Whose words have held me in delicious thrall. 
 Weary with many thoughts, I went to sleep, 
 (Mysterious mute existence !) calm and deep 
 My slumbers came upon me, while my dreams, 
 Tinged with the beauty of a thousand themes 
 From childhood cherished, crowded through my brain. 
 Bright things a waking eye might seek in vain. — 
 Freed from its daily struggles with the real, 
 My spirit sought the infniite ideal,
 
 POETBY IX COMMON THINGS. 
 
 And revelled in its regions for a time, 
 Where all is pure, extatic, and sublime. 
 With clear, unbounded intellect, and tongue 
 To utter at my will undying song, 
 My lips dropped poesy, like flakes of light, 
 As though some wandering angel, in his flight, 
 Had waved his radiant pinions o'er my head, 
 And shaken plumage off. I'orth from my bed, 
 When the spring morning shed its lustrous rain, 
 I leapt in joy, and seized my pen to chain 
 A thousand splendid visions which had crept 
 Through my delighted being as I slept ; 
 But like a breath upon a mirror's face, 
 They lapsed away, nor left a lingering trace. 
 Finding my muse had crippled both her wings. 
 And fluttered earthward, back to common things, 
 I went to brealvfast, wrapt in thoughtful gloom, 
 While Sabbath sunshine pouring in my room, 
 Hung brightly upon ceiling, wall, and floor, 
 And laid a golden bar across my door ; 
 I could not choose but own its silent power, 
 And feel in calm accordance with the hour. 
 The scribbling fit was on me, but in lieu 
 Of soaring into regions high and new 
 Of perfect Poesy, I strove to climb 
 The little mole-hill of imperfect Rhyme. 
 The ample table-cover drooped adown 
 In graceful folds, white as a bridal gown, 
 Or childhood's shroud, or vestal-maid's array, 
 Or blossoms breathing on the lap of Mar,
 
 38 POETRY IN COMMON THINGS. 
 
 Or cygnet's breast, or those fair clouds that lie 
 
 Hovering in beauty in a summer sky ; 
 
 Or snow on Alpine summits, (thus you see 
 
 We get at poesy by simile.) 
 
 The bread suggested com-fiekls broad and yellow. 
 
 Touched by the autumn sunbeams mild and mellow ; 
 
 The rustle of full sheaves, the laugh and song 
 
 Of jolly reapers, sickle-armed and strong, 
 
 And all the loud hilarities that come 
 
 To swell the triumph of a harvest home. 
 
 And then the restless and secluded mill, 
 
 Moved by the gushings of a mountain rill, 
 
 With its moss-grown and ever-dripping wheel, 
 
 Churning the waters till they flash and reel, 
 
 Came up distinct before my mental gaze, — 
 
 A well-remembered picture of old days. 
 
 The unctuous butter and the cooling cream, 
 
 Though simple in themselves, inspired a dream 
 
 Of quiet granges seated far away 
 
 From towns and cities, and of meadows gay 
 
 With springs innumerable flowers; of kin e 
 
 Feeding in healthful pastures, (how I pine 
 
 To rush into the fields I) of dairies sweet. 
 
 Where buxom damsels, rosy-lip'd and neat, 
 
 Have pleasant toils ; and last, the ingle side. 
 
 Scene of the farmer's solacement and pride. 
 
 The juicy lettuce and the pungent cress, 
 
 At least in fancy's hearing, spoke no less 
 
 Of trim-laid gardens, and complaining brooks, 
 
 Winding away through green romantic nooks,
 
 POETRY IX COMMON THINGS. o9 
 
 To schoolboys and to lovers only known, 
 Or Poets wandering in their joy alone ; 
 And then the coffee, with its amber shine. 
 In aromatic richness half divine — 
 Brought Ai-aby, and Araby the " Nights," 
 Which in my boyhood filled me with delights 
 That linger yet. To memory how dear 
 The generous Caliph, and the good Vizier : 
 The silent city -with, its forms of stone, 
 Its crowded streets so wonderfully lone : — 
 Sinbad, of eastern travellers the great ; 
 Aladdin's potent lamp, and splendid state, 
 And all that dreamy mystery whose power 
 Hath kept one wakeful till the morning hour. 
 Alas ! that time's remorseless hand should raze 
 Those magic mansions of our early days, 
 Wherein we dwell in quietude and joy, 
 As yet unconscious of the world's annoy ; 
 But still, though time, and even truth, be stern, 
 'Tis well if we can meditate, and learn 
 To gather solace from the meanest springs, 
 And see some beauty in the humblest things; 
 For to the willing heart and thoughtful mind. 
 To eyes with pride and prejudice unblind, 
 Germs of enjoyment and for ever rife. 
 E'en on the the waste of unromantic life.
 
 40 
 
 PASSION AND PENITENCE : 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 In the heart of the fair and fertile county of Kent, not without reason 
 called the garden of England, stands the ■village of Mayburn; and if the 
 rapid and gigantic changes of the last twelve years have not invaded its 
 peace, and disturbed its whereabouts, it is as lovely a spot as any one, 
 weary of the busy world's din, heartlessness, and misery, could wish to 
 make a refuge and a sanctuary of holy and ennobling thoughts. Swerving 
 a little from the great highway to Dover, it nestles down in a warm and 
 narrow valley, shut in by wooded slopes and cultivated uplands. On the 
 surrounding level of its fields the hop, the grape of Kent, grows luxu- 
 riantly; and a stream, bright as the face of childhood, with a voice as 
 silvery sweet, with a course as wayward and pleasant, winds through and 
 about the separate and mingled beauties of the scene. Mayburn possesses 
 all the characteristics of an English village of the best class. Its group of 
 white dwellings, their well thatched roofs streaked with moss; their latticed 
 windows glistening in the sunlight, and gay with flowering plants; their 
 strips of garden neatly trimmed and productive, present to the stranger's 
 eye something which satisfies and delights. Its one inn, with its pendant 
 sign standing apart between two old sentinel trees, and swinging lazily and 
 audibly to the wind, seems to invite one into its snug recesses, there to 
 forget one's cares in the truly English comforts it affords. Its old church, 
 with its low square tower, whose dim dial plate thrusts its admonitory face 
 through the clustering ivy, stands on a neighbouring eminence, a holy and 
 necessary feature of the place. Beneath, where " the rude forefathers of 
 the hamlet sleep,'' lies the green grave-yard, rife with solemn lessons of 
 mortality, and which the hand of vulgar taste has not dared to desecrate. 
 Within a rood's length, under the shadow and protection of the church, is 
 the anciently endowed school-house, whence issues the daily hum of 
 embryo scholars labouring at the irksome task, or the sharp authoritative
 
 PASSION AND penitence: A TALE. 41 
 
 voice of the schoolmaster, which for a moment subdues the murmur, as a 
 clap of thunder seems to silence the audacious chidings of the sea. Con- 
 tiguous, dropped as it were by chance in a sheltering dell, the rectorage 
 lifts its pointed and fantastic gables, its turret chimneys and broad bay 
 windows. Its sharp angles, shady corners, and pendent eaves, with the 
 swallows twittering about them ; its tasteful grounds, where the wildness 
 of nature is chastened, not checked, and all its comfortable and becoming 
 appliances, make it a most comfortable and picturesque abode, in perfect 
 keeping with the whole scene. A little way from the village, seated on the 
 stream, is an old mill, which to look upon from a short distance, when the 
 motion of its wheel flings ofiF its spray to sparkle in the sun, is a precious 
 morsel for the painter. Here and there may be discerned a few residences 
 of the gentry looking down from the wooded hills, or glancing from quiet 
 nooks in remote corners of the valley. Then there are scattered farms, and 
 romantic wood-paths, and branching bowery lanes, which lead to rural 
 haunts as pleasant as our imaginations. Such is the picture of Mayburn, 
 as we beheld it some twelve years ago ; and such is the principal scene of 
 our story. 
 
 In the spring of the year 1816, the curiosity of the good people of May- 
 burn was excited by the circumstance of a strange lady appearing among 
 them, accompanied by a female of matronly deportment and maturer years. 
 The lady, who was young and eminently beautiful, wandered for two or 
 three days about the village and its vicinity, evidently taking a pleasurable 
 interest in all she saw. At length she took a small unoccupied cottage 
 which stood apart, surrounded by a still healthy looking garden, in a re- 
 tiring nook of the village. In a few days simple but elegant furniture was 
 brought from a neighbouring town, and the strange lady, with her 
 elder companion, and an interesting boy of three or four years of age, 
 were duly installed in their new residence. On the following Sunday the 
 strange lady, with her little household, appeared at church. Every eye 
 was upon her: but any eye, however quickened by curiosity, envy, or 
 prejudice, could see nothing in that beautiful, serene, and melancholy 
 face, but what awakened sympathy and respect. To this feeling we must 
 attribute the silence, the kind but enquiring looks of the rustics of May- 
 bam, as the strange lady and her solitary family left God's house on the 
 evening of her first Sabbath amongst them.
 
 42 PASSION AND pekitence: a tale. 
 
 lu a few days the laJy was discovered to be a foreigner, but of what 
 laud remained to be known. She appeared to understand our tongue but 
 very imperfectly ; but the lisping, broken, and gentle idiom in which she 
 expressed her wants, and her frank, liberal, and modest demeanour had a 
 charm which could not be withstood, so that she gained the tacit affec- 
 tions of her neighbours before she was prepared to receive or appreciate 
 them. By degrees she insinuated herself into the good graces of the in- 
 habitants of Mayburn, individually and collectively. She would take daily 
 rounds among the people she had adopted ; pause at one door to converse, 
 in her pleasing hesitating way, with some housewife, patting the while 
 the rosy cheeks of wondering children; enter another, where the aspect 
 of poverty seemed to invite her and drop her heart-giving mite into the 
 palm of its needy and grateful occupant, hurrying away from the sound of 
 blessings called down upon her head. 
 
 Madame Santerre, for such was the superscription of the few letters 
 she received, was understood to be the widow of a French officer who fell 
 in the wars of the Peninsula; but why she chose to estrange herself from 
 her own country and seek seclusion in an English village, could not be 
 ascertained. That she had some deep-seated cause for sorrow was evident 
 to all who observed to her. She was habitually thoughtful, and absorbed 
 in some feeling too great or too sacred to be breathed in the ear of the 
 common world. She was sometimes, by the few considerate and respectable 
 people privileged to visit her, surprised in her tears ; but the loss of a 
 brave and beloved husband, and anxiety for the welfare of an orphan child, 
 was deemed to be a sufficient reason for the solitary indulgence of her 
 grief. Her time seemed almost exclusively devoted to her household 
 duties, the education of her son, and frequent visits to the sick and indi- 
 gent of the village. In these last good offices she was guided and often 
 accompanied by the venerable rector. He seemed to be the only one who 
 possessed her confidence, and if her secret was confided to him (for she 
 had a secret) it was kept inviolate, for not a word was dropped which 
 pointed to the truth, till a combination of unexpected circumstances un- 
 ravelled the mystery, and brought to the heart of the fair foreigner a joy 
 for which she was unprepared. 
 
 Ten years had elapsed since she took up her abode in the village of 
 Mayburn, with whose unsophisticated sons and daughters she had become
 
 PASSION AND penitence: A TALE. 43 
 
 an established favourite. Curiosity had subsided ; her son was grown up 
 into an intelligent youth ; and she, though still beautiful, had a somewhat 
 paler cheek, and a more matronly deportment. Her venerable and pious 
 pastor was gathered to the grave, and one much younger succeeded Lim ; 
 but every one soon found cause to rejoice in so worthy a successor. He 
 was a man yet on the sunny side of forty years, of a commanding figure, 
 with a grave, benevolent, and intellectual countenance, and a voice sin- 
 gularly impressive. In his duties, both in and out of the church 
 he was assiduous, earnest, and charitable. Wherever there was an error 
 to he rectified, a soul to he instructed, a mind to be consoled, there for 
 the pure love of God and man was the rector to be found. His exhorta- 
 tions were characterized by a simple and natural eloq^uence, which appealed 
 at once to the understanding, riveting the attention and gently opening the 
 heart for the reception of those pure and sublime truths it was his sacred 
 office to expound. He was a scholar, and a man of considerable scientific 
 knowledge; and the rectorage became the resort of similarly constituted 
 minds. The good and the great were often his guests, and save that, nor 
 wife nor child hallowed his household by their loving and delightful pre- 
 sence, his home might he deemed one of all but perfect happiness. To 
 his duty as a gospel teacher every other pursuit, as being of secondary im- 
 portance, was properly subservient ; but he nevertheless enjoyed the world 
 as a rational and responsible being for whom Providence had abundantly 
 provided, and to whom had been entrusted the means of dispensing blessings 
 to others. To his equals he was courteous, communicative, and hospitable ; 
 to the poor, kind, considerate, and parental in his generosity : but his hos- 
 pitality was neither ostentatious nor unwisely lavish, nor his religion 
 atistere or affected. He was all that could be desired of a man in so 
 onerous a situation ; he felt its full importance, performed his duties in a 
 meek spirit, and was in consequence revered and beloved by his flock and 
 all who knew him. 
 
 Such was the unexaggerated character of the Eev. Edward Morland, 
 the new rector of Mayburn. To such a man Madame Santen-e could not 
 remain long unknown. The fact of her being a foreign lady, respectable in 
 station, and popular because of her many charitable acts, could not fail to 
 lead to such an event. It was, however, brought about much sooner than 
 she expected, in a singular manner, and with results that gave a new and
 
 44 PASSION AND PENITENCE: A TALE. 
 
 interesting aspect to her hitherto solitary and mysterious existence. Pro- 
 ceeding to the church, one beautiful spring morning, she took her accus- 
 tomed seat near and in front of the pulpit. The solemn service, the sweet 
 and voluble tones of the organ, the harmonious and reverberated chant of 
 the choir, the hallowed and venerable features of the place, altogether pre- 
 pared the mind for deep and serious impressions, and this morning Madame 
 Santerre felt unusually disposed to the indulgence of tender feelings ; in 
 spite of herself a few tears, stirred by recollections of the past, trickled from 
 her pensive eyes and fell on her folded hands, and a melancholy serenity of 
 thought succeeded. 
 
 In a few minutes the rector entered the pulpit, and as he uplifted his 
 face after a brief but silent prayer, Madame Santerre was struck with its 
 resemblance to one she had looked upon long ago, and which still haunted 
 her daily memories and nightly dreams. Could it be that her long cherished 
 hopes were about to be realized? Could it be that face, that tougue, just 
 reading a fervent passage from the divine book, which had beguiled her 
 youth and embittered half her life ? Nol his grave and earnest counten- 
 ance, pale with holy musings ; his sacred office ; his position in the church, 
 all forbade it. She dismissed the thought. The good rector had given his 
 text and entered considerably into his discourse before the attention of 
 Madame Santerre became fixed on the subject. By a natural digression he 
 commenced a description of the horrors of war. He pictured the dazzle- 
 ing and imposing pageantry of armies proceeding to and gathering on the 
 scene of action, the din and awful collision in the onset, the subsequent 
 carnage and confusion, the exulting shouts of the victorious, and panic 
 of the defeated; the gradual subsidence of the clash of arms and the thun- 
 der of the cannon ; the following comparative and mournful silence, broken 
 only by the groans of the dying, and the stealthy steps and compressed 
 curses of the prowling plunderer, who under the shadow of the night, and 
 with the horrid licence of his trade, stalked among the fallen to quench the 
 remaining sparks of life, and insult the stiffening corse by rifling it of 
 raiment, or of those little mementos of affection which a wife, lover, sister, 
 or parent, bedewed with their tears, and consigned to its keeping in the 
 last parting and bitter hour. He went on to describe a town in a state of 
 seige ; the alternate attack and stratagem of the besieger; the teiTor, phy- 
 sical suffering and resolute defence of the besieged ; the final entrance of
 
 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. 45 
 
 the foe; the tide of reckless and merciless soldiery rolling in, and sweeping 
 all before it. 
 
 Madame Santerre's heart beat violently, and a sickening sense of men- 
 tal bewilderment came over her ; but she kept her eyes riveted on the 
 speaker's face. 
 
 He proceeded to complete his description. He spoke of God's temples 
 being entered and wantonly desecrated ; of the pavement of the streets slip- 
 pery with gore ; of the terrible glare of fired houses lighting the mass of 
 men, transformed for a time into devils incarnate, to their noisy and beastly 
 orgies ; of the sanctuaries of home being invaded, and wives and daughters 
 being openly and shamelessly violated in the compelled presence of hus- 
 bands and fathers; of every species of outrage being committed which force 
 could accomplish, or cruel and lawless passion suggest. He concluded by 
 condemning, in forcible, eloquent, and convincing language, all warfare as 
 deplorable, iniquitous, and altogether unchristian, of incalculable mischief 
 to man, and eminently sinful in the sight of God. He would rejoice to 
 see the civilized nations lay down the sword and take up the olive branch, 
 and by their united influence annihilate, then and for ever, so destructive, 
 80 universal a calamity. It was indeed a glowing and truthful picture the 
 pastor drew, and, as if overpowered by the vividness of his own descrip- 
 tion, he paused from excess of emotion, bowed his face in his hands and 
 was silent. 
 
 Madame Santerre had fainted and fallen from her seat, and, amid the sur- 
 prise of the rector, the temporary confusion of all, and the tears of many, 
 she was borne out of the church and conveyed home. This was but the 
 re-awakening of her secret sorrows to enhance the sudden joy, and the long 
 and tranquil happiness which were yet in store for her. 
 
 On the morning following a Sabbath so eventful to Madam Santerre, she 
 beheld from her window the rector passing through the wicket-gate of her 
 garden, in his approach to the cottage. With an indescribable feeling she 
 met hira at the door, and ushered him into her neat parlour. " I call, as in 
 duty bound," said he, " being witness of your indisposition at church, yes- 
 terday, to offer such assistance and consolation as I can give, to alleviate, 
 if possible, your distresses, let them arise from what causes they may." 
 Madame Santerre replied, that "his discourse relative to the miseries of war 
 had merely awakened certain painful recollections, which bad for a moment
 
 46 PASSION AND penitence: a tale. 
 
 overpowered her; but assured him that she was now quite well." They 
 now sat down, and, to set the lady more at ease, the rector conversed in 
 French, which he spoke gracefully and fluently. He entered upon general 
 topics with an acuteness of remark, and a propriety of language, which at 
 once interested and charmed. When he spoke upon serious subjects with 
 an earnest but subdued voice, Madame Santerre listened to him with the 
 most profound attention, hanging upon the tones in which he delivered his 
 sentiments with a fondness which surprised her, they were so unaccountably 
 familiar to her ear : and as she stealthily scrutinized the face of the speaker, 
 its features and expression answered to the strange fancy her memory had 
 conjured up. As, however, he never alluded in the slightest degree to times 
 and circumstances of which she wished to hear, and on which half of her 
 past life had depended, she again dismissed her newly formed hopes, with 
 the conclusioD that human faces and voices might be so alike as to deceive 
 an anxious and sensitive imagination like her own. In half-an-hour the 
 good pastor took his leave, pleased with his new friend, and the feeling was 
 reciprocal. 
 
 He called again and again upon Madame Santerre, every time showing 
 new proofs of his regard, and the interest he took in her welfare. He 
 undertook to superintend the education of her son, and according to her ex- 
 press wish, to prepare him for college or some respectable profession. He 
 now lengthened his frequent evening visits, and beguiled the hours so 
 pleasantly and profitably with her and her little household, that his unex- 
 pected absence was felt as a disappointment. Gradually a warm and serious 
 sentiment, which she strove in vain to control, arose in the breast of 
 Madame Santerre. The feeling could not be mistaken — she had felt it be- 
 fore ; and though less passionate and romantic than in her youthful days, 
 she knew that it was love — love for her pastor, Edward Morland. The 
 discovery gave her infinite pain; but she locked up the secret in her heart, 
 although she yearned to expend its treasury of affections upon one so worthy 
 to receive them, and patiently waited the unfolding of events. 
 
 Six months passed away in this delightful intercourse ; but nothing had 
 transpired, nothing had fallen from the lips of the rector to fan the fair 
 widow's unfortunate but virtuous passion. He was respectful as ever, 
 frank, ardent, and disinterested in his friendship for her, but nothing 
 more. At length, however, when Madame Santerre sat one evening in
 
 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TAl.E. 47 
 
 company with her faithful domestic, plying her needle in silence, and brood- 
 ing over the melancholy events of her past life, the rector made his cus- 
 tomary call. He did not enter the apartment with his old cheerful smile, 
 but with a mild reserved air, saying " Madame Santerre, can we be alone ? I 
 have something to communicate." The domestic withdrew. 
 
 After a brief embarrassing silence, he said " Victorine," — he paused. This 
 was the first time he had addressed her thus familiarly, and it had the effect 
 of bringing the warm blood into her face, to which a deadly paleness in- 
 stantly succeeded. " Victorine," he resumed, " I come to speak to you on 
 a subject which lies very near my heart, and which I have well considered. 
 It rests with you whether it be favourable or not to my future happiness- 
 Since the simple event which led to our first acquaintance, I have had num- 
 berless opportunities of judging of your general temper, prudence, and 
 virtue. The mental scrutiny has resulted to your credit and my own satis- 
 faction. I know you are amiable and discreet ; I know you are intelligent 
 and yet beautiful ; I believe you are pious and above worldly reproach ; I 
 take your word that you are of good family, and though delicacy forbade 
 enquiring into your youthful history, I doubt not it was equally pure with 
 the maturer portion of your life. Such being my conviction, you have my 
 esteem, and, need I say it, Victorine ? a more exalted and warmer feeling 
 even than that." 
 
 Madame Santerre sat drooping in her chair, trembling violently, but 
 endeavoured in a scarcely audible voice to express her thanks lor his good 
 opinion. Emotions, explicable only to herself, shook her whole being. Mr, 
 Morland went on — 
 
 "In my quiet musings, after those brief intervals of enjoyment in your 
 Bociety, I have looked round my abode, and, spite of its many comforts, 
 fancied that it looked lonely and cheerless. Though I had never observed it 
 before, the enlivening presence of a faithful and confiding woman seemed 
 wanting. I looked about me for the desirable object of my household, and 
 my choice — could it miss ? — rested upon you. I felt the hold you had taken 
 of my afifections, but forbore to explain my sentiments, from a fear of being 
 too premature, till now. I am now decided; and if a man who had seen 
 enow of the world's vanities to despise their false glitter — if a heart which 
 has been chastened, and, I trust, purified by early mental suffering, but 
 which is still capable of loving, be worthy your acceptance, I here offer
 
 48 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. 
 
 Ihem in exchange for yourself and your esteem. I cannot woo with the 
 romantic ardour of a youthful lover, but your good sense will not expect 
 it. If none more favoured has forestalled me in your affections, may I 
 heg to know if your heart can respond to my own ? May I hope that the 
 coming winter will see you the presiding mistress of my house ? God has 
 been pleased to surround me with worldly comforts, and by the continuance 
 of his blessing I can be a guide and father to your son, a devoted com- 
 panion to yourself, and we can share the joy of doing good among our fellow- 
 creatures, keeping in view the teachings and example of Him in whose 
 service I am engaged, and to whose glory every deed of my life, I hope, 
 will be dedicated. I wait for your decision. Take time to examine your 
 heart, and if its pleadings are in my favour my happiness is complete." 
 
 With calm but desperate courage Madame Santerre replied to the good 
 rector ; she fully appreciated the honour conferred upon her by the un- 
 qualified offer of his heart and hand and confessed with diffidence and deli- 
 cacy that she felt far from indifferent towards him ; but argued the necessity 
 of a little time for consideration on so important a step as marriage, fraught 
 as it would be with misery or happiness to both. In a week she would be 
 prepared to enter into the details of her life previous to her coming to 
 Mayburn, with a full trust in his integrity, and leave him to renew or 
 withdraw the generous advances he had made, as a knowledge of her his- 
 tory might prompt him to act. Mr. Morlaud was pleased with her can- 
 dour, and acknowledged the reasonableness of her proposition. He would 
 wait with patience, though not without anxiety, the appointed time, and 
 leave her till then in the care of her good angel. At parting he took her 
 extended hand, kissed it respectfully and affectionately, and quitted the 
 house. The widow sought her chamber, full of bewildering thought and 
 misgivings as to the effect of her promised disclosure. Her prayers were 
 not unavailing that night in Heaven. Having asked council of God, she 
 resolved what course to pursue before slumber closed her eyes. "For 
 fourteen years," she mused, " have I estranged myself from my own land, 
 pursuing a shadow which eludes my grasp, nursing a foolish love and a 
 vain regret, mourning over the commission of a guilty act to which cruel 
 circumstances, in some measure, compelled me, keeping my secret with 
 unshrinking firmness, bearing up against my grief with unwearied fortitude, 
 and finding, at last, in this sweet retirement something like retiring peace
 
 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. 49 
 
 and tranquility, when this good man, this Edward Morlaud, comes to 
 change the whole current of my feelings, and to offer me happiness I am 
 not prepared to accept. If I tell him the whole truth, he knows my shame, 
 and will, I fear, reject and despise me. If I disguise it, I retain him by 
 a life-long deception, which my soul abhors, — a deception which would prey 
 upon my heart, and dash my cup of happiness with gall. No ; I cannot 
 dissemble to him as I have done to the world. Injustice to a kind and 
 honourable man, and for the sake of that peace of conscience hypocrisy 
 cannot purchase, I will reveal my misfortunes, and trust to Heaven for 
 the result. With him, I doubt not, my secret will be in safe keeping, and 
 if I sacrifice my hopes it shall, at least, be at the shrine of truth." 
 
 With this determination Madame Santerre went about her duties with 
 cheerfulness and alacrity. A burden and a shadow seemed to have passed 
 frcro her mind ; and when on the appointed evening Mr. Morland made his 
 appearance, she felt confident in her power to bear the approaching trial. 
 
 " Well, Victorine," he said, as he entered, "I hope your good angel, 
 under whose guardianship I left you, has dictated a favourable response to 
 my wishes." 
 
 The widow smiled faintly and sat down pale and composed. 
 
 " Mr. Morland," she began, " I have well considered your generous 
 and honourable offer. I have done considerable violence to my feelings in 
 preparing myself for this, to me, important meeting. Though I claim your 
 frien dship. I feel I am not worthy of your love. I cannot to you dissimulate. 
 With reverence for your sacred character as a minister of the Gospel, with 
 respect for yourself as a man, I cannot go to the altar with premeditated 
 duplicity — with a lie lurking and rankling in my heart. I have committed a 
 grievous sin, which will set a barrier between us, — a sin in expiation of 
 which I have shed many bitter tears. I trust that my God, against whom 
 I have chiefly offended, has forgiven me ; and shall I not expect pity from 
 a fellow creature.' In divulging the particulars of my early life, I throw 
 myself on your compassion. I ask your sympathy, and place implicit faith 
 in your secresy. More than this I dare not hope for. To begin the history 
 of my misfortunes, I have, contrai7 to your belief, never been married." 
 
 " Never married, Madame Santerre ? exclaimed the rector, quite as- 
 tounded and incredulous, " but your son" — 
 
 " Is the child of guilt and dishonour." 
 H
 
 50 PASSION AND penitence: A TALE. 
 
 " Guilt and dishonour, Victorine ! " muttered he, paralysed and Be- 
 wildered, " then alas for thee and me ! " 
 
 " Alas, indeed ! Hear my story, and judge between my culpability and 
 misfortunes. My parents were French protestants ; I was their only child, 
 and along with an education suitable to my station, I received their reli- 
 gious opinions. My father made some successful mercantile speculations 
 in Spain, and, for the sake of convenience, removed his family thither, where 
 he shortly afterwards died. The loss of my father, shook my mother's deli- 
 cate frame almost to dissolution, but recovering slowly, she resolved to 
 return to France, when the British troops laid seige to the town in which 
 we lived, and effectually prevented our removal. In common with others 
 we shared all the doubt, fear, and suspense of that terrible time. At length 
 the town surrendered, and the outrages of a victorious, licentious, and in- 
 furiated soldiery commenced. Deaf to the voice of command, the appeal- 
 ings of reason, and the cries of innocence, nothing could restrain them. 
 Frenzy of the most diabolical kind took possession of them, and at this 
 moment I shudder at the recollection of reports that hourly shocked our 
 ears. For a whole week they held the ascendency, till the excess of their 
 own fierce indulgences overmastered them. It was night, on the first day 
 of these horrors ; I had just seen my mother to bed, feeble from sickness and 
 terror, when a party of soldiers, reckless from drunkenness, forced the door, 
 and entered the apartment where I sat with two or three domestics. The 
 servants fled, and left me to the fury of the intruders. The men seemed to 
 demand money, and while some ransacked the house in search of it, others 
 pulled me rudely about and offered revolting indignities. I was speechless 
 with dismay, and though endowed with more than ordinary strength, I was 
 near becoming the victim of their brutal passions, when one in the garb of 
 a British officer entered, and confronting the men commanded them to desist. 
 They refused, but drawing his sword and shielding me with his person he kept 
 them at bay. Seeing him resolute, and beholding in him their own officer, 
 they at length with loud and angry voices, reluctantly quitted the house. 
 When they were gone I fell on my knees before my deliverer, and thanked 
 him in French for his generous and timely interference. He addressed me 
 in the same language, and leading me to a seat, asssured me of his protec- 
 tion. I now saw that he was young and handsome, of polished address and 
 winning manners. After some conversation he left me with a promise tO'
 
 PASSION AND penitence: A TALE. 51 
 
 keep watch over the house. That night, though 1 could not sleep for the 
 alarming sounds in the streets, I had no further molestation. On the next 
 day he called again, renewed his assurances of protection, and staid a con- 
 siderahle time. Grateful for his kindness, and glad to have a protector near 
 me, I could not urge his departure. He talked warmly and eloquently on 
 various subjects, and as he withdrew, expressed a hope that he might claim 
 the privilege of a friend, and visit me as often as his duties would permit. 
 I know not how I answered, for his eyes and his tenderness said more than 
 his tongue, and I felt his meaning. I must confess that I was pleased with 
 hira, and during his absence had a desire for his return. To my mother, 
 who was confined to her room, I had related my danger and delivery, and 
 she bade me give such reception to the stranger as the merit of his act 
 demanded, but cautioned me against overstepping the bounds of a proper 
 and polite decorum. For two days he came not again ; and as the tumult 
 of the town had not subsided, 1 was both alarmed and disappointed. When 
 he came it was nightfall; to his hurried knock and request to be admitted, 
 as more than common danger was abroad, I answered precipitately. He 
 entered and secured the door, and to his desire that he might stay all night 
 to guard the house, I offered no opposition, but leaving him with two male 
 domestics, retired to my mother's apartment. But you are indisposed, Mr. 
 Morland. Pray let me waive the rest till you are better." 
 
 " Go on, Madame Sauterre — for heaven's sake go on ! I must hear you 
 to the end." 
 
 Surprised and startled by the rector's singular and impressive manner, 
 Madame Santerre proceeded: 
 
 "Next morning, with considerable trepidation, I sat down to breakfast 
 with my protector, who was cheerful and even gay, and exerted all his 
 powers of pleasing. At length he ventured to talk of love, and, encouraged 
 by my silence, he declared his passion for me in the most earnest but respect- 
 ful language, soliciting my pardon for his temerity, and offering his un- 
 divided and devoted heart. As he spoke, I took a rapid survey of my own 
 feelings towards him : his seeming rank, his amiable and fascinating 
 manners, his cultivated mind, his personal bravery in ray defence, my gra- 
 titude, all were in his favour, and pleaded for him with a power I could not 
 withstand. With a frankness which is uatiiral to mo, and with the proud 
 but subdued delight of a girl who first sees man her worshipper, I con-
 
 i)'^ PASSION AND penitence: A TALE. 
 
 fessed— could I do less? that I already loved him. I need not describe our 
 jinitual confidence and happiness. Iq a few days the frantic soldiery were 
 reduced to order and discipline, and comparative peace was restored. In 
 the mean time my mother's health rallied, and every hospitable kindness 
 that could express the deep sense of our obligation to the Englishman she 
 unstintedly showered upon him. Our interviews now hecame frequent and 
 protracted. Fearing to make my mother acquainted with what would ap- 
 pear to her a too premature connexion, we met in secret. Every day we 
 were knit more closely together — every hour saw me more entangled in the 
 mazes of a new and romantic attachment. By his artful designs — for I must 
 now call them artful — my caution was gradually lulled to sleep ; my scru- 
 ples were over-ruled ; my virtue was undermined ; and in an evil and 
 unguarded hour I became the victim of a guilty passion which I blush to 
 name." 
 
 Here Madame Santerre gave way to her feelings and wept, while the 
 rector with a hurried step and troubled countenance paced the apartment. 
 At length the widow resumed, — 
 
 " A few weeks passed away in dishonourahle and intoxicating indulgence, 
 ^during which I saw no diminution of his tenderness. One evening, how- 
 ever, he appeared unusually thoughtful. Sitting beside me he slid a value- 
 able ring on my finger and unclasped a bracelet from my arm, saying 
 half-playfully, half seriously, " We will exchange tokens of affection, dear 
 Victorine, keeping the talismans to remind us of each other when distance 
 or duty keeps us apart." I saw nothing in the sentence to alarm me. I 
 saw nothing but the unwonted gloom on his brow, and expressed my 
 anxiety as to the cause. With a sickly smile he pleaded indisposition, and 
 with an emhrace, during which I felt a tear — a tear of his shedding — fall hot 
 upon my cheek, he departed. I never saw him more. On the following 
 day I received a letter; it was from my lover. With a trembling heart I 
 tore it open, devoured its contents, and stood paralysed with fear, grief, and 
 shame. It was full of expressions of love and remorse. ' Under an as- 
 sumed name,' he wrote, ' I have wooed and wronged you. I mourn that 
 inexorable circumstances prevent me making reparation; but as my heart 
 can never be estranged from you, can those difficulties be removed, it will 
 be my pride and pleasure to claim you as my wife. Till then I implore you 
 to be consoled, to forgive me, to believe that I am not the heartless seducer
 
 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. 53 
 
 I appear. We may possibly never meet again, but till the latest moment of 
 my existence, my dear Victoriue can never be forgotten, can never cease to 
 be beloved. Duty calls me hence ; I depart this very hour.' " 
 
 "This letter afforded no clue to where he might be found. In vain I 
 made enquiries. la vain I made daily rambles through the town in the 
 hope of again beholding him. It was evident that he was ,'really gone, and 
 the sense of desolate despair that came over me words are inadequate to 
 describe. To add to my sorrow, my mother suffered a relapse, and as I 
 watched over her with aifectionate solicitude, brooding over my fate, fear- 
 ing to lose the only being that connected me ^vitb the world, my fond parent 
 would attribute my faded cheek to my toil and anxiety on her account. It 
 was indeed true in part, but I could not embitter the few days that re- 
 mained to her by a confession of my guilt and grief. She closed her eyes 
 unconscious of my sin, and I laid her in the grave with a subdued and re- 
 pentant spirit, returning home — alas ! how lonely now ! — with a strength- 
 ened, trustful, and tranquil mind. I had scarcely performed this mournful 
 duty than I began to feel the unquestionable consequences of my criminal 
 love. Alarmed at this new cause of trouble, and fearing exposure, I hur- 
 riedly arranged my affairs, discharged my domestics, disposed of my house, 
 and with one female companion, who yet remains with me, set out for 
 Paris, where my father's property had been chiefly invested. Having se- 
 cured my little fortune, I assumed the name of Madame Santerre, and 
 took up my abode in a sequestered village, where I gave birth to my poor 
 boy, who is yet ignorant of his mother's disgrace. Here I stayed three 
 years. The innocent endearments of my child soothed my sorrow, and 
 kept alive my love for his father. A new hope, a new desire seized my 
 mind. I would visit the principal cities of France and England. I might 
 in my wanderings meet with him — he might be yet free and unchanged, 
 and, oh 1 flattering idea I I might yet be compensated for all my sufferings 
 on his account. For a whole year I travelled incessantly, and made use of 
 every honourable means to discover the object of my search, but in vain. 
 Wearied and sick at heart I at length took refuge here. My one great hope 
 gradually subsided. Time did its work of consolalion, and my one great 
 misfortune seemed a thing of "long ago." My love for the man who had 
 wronged me gave way to a higher, a holier feeling. Religion began to 
 claim my whole heart, when your eloquence, Mr. Morland, gave poignaucy
 
 54 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. 
 
 to my recollections, and your noble offer put me to the necessity of making 
 this painful disclosure. Without reservation have I made it ; and your 
 ■commisseration, perhaps a continuation of your friendship, is all I can now 
 expect ; more than that I have not the presumption to claim. A load is 
 lifted from my mind, and with a full reliance on your honour, I resign 
 myself to my solitary lot, too happy if I see my boy take a virtuous path, 
 and an honourable position in the woild, ere I die." 
 
 Madame Santerre (as we must still call her) concluded her narrative 
 with a deep sigh and a few tears of maternal solicitude. With her eyes 
 bent on the ground, she had not observed the many changes that had passed 
 over the face of her auditor, in the course of her story. He was now 
 deathly pale and trembling with deep emotion, as he said, "Madame San- 
 terre, there is something very strange in your history; and I feel, I hope, 
 that I am in some way connected with it. Vvill you satisfy some doubts that 
 yet remain upon my mind ?" 
 
 " Anything, Mr. Morland, that may convince you of my sincerity." 
 
 " Is your present name not Santerre .'" 
 
 " No ; my real and only name is Jocelyn." 
 
 " Good God!" ejaculated the rector. " What was the assumed name of 
 your lover — I mean your seducer ?" 
 
 "Alas! I remember it too well! It was Frederick Stanley." 
 
 "Indeed ! But there have been, no doubt, many of that name in the 
 British army. Can you produce the ring he gave you, and the letter he 
 wrote to you at parting?" 
 
 "lean," said Victorine; taking them from a cabinet and laying them 
 on the table: you will see that the ring contains an emerald, heart-shaped. 
 The letter is worn and stained with my tears." 
 
 The rector took up the letter and scanned it closely. Having read it 
 and laid it down calmly on the table, there was a tear upon it, which said 
 more than words. 
 
 " In what town of Spain did these painful events of your early life take 
 place?" 
 
 " In Badajos, after the seige in 1812." 
 
 With compressed lips, but with an expression of eye which indicated in- 
 ward pleasure, Mr. Morland walked slowly about the room, purposely avert- 
 ing his face from the anxious, searching, and enquiring looks of the lady.
 
 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. 55 
 
 After a pause, he asked, ■with some hesitation, as if fearing her answer 
 might frustrate his newly kindled hopes, " Was there about this Frederick 
 Stanley any mark, any peculiarity by which you could recognize him ?" 
 
 " There was : he had on his neck a scar left by a bullet wound. When 
 questioning him concerning the dangers to which he had been exposed, he 
 showed me this mark, and expressed his thankfulness that Providence had 
 guarded him in the strife." 
 
 Here, to the surprise of the lady, the rector threw himself at her feet 
 exclaiming, "Eejoice with me! rejcice with me, my dearest Victorine .' 
 Behold in me that Stanley — that infatuated and guilty man who rob- 
 bed you of your honour, and who has been the cause of your tribulation. 
 In the course of your story I felt it would come to this, and I am now grate- 
 ful to Heaven that I am permitted to offer that heart whose first love has 
 never been wholly subdued. But we kne w not each other, beloved Victorine I 
 How is this ?" 
 
 Victorine, bewildered with astonishment, delight, and gratitude, had 
 fallen upon his shoulders, and her tears were dropping thick and fast upon 
 his uplifted face. "Alas!" she replied, " fourteen years of sorrow and re- 
 morse will blanch and furrow the fairest face, and the difference of garb, 
 place, and circumstance has aided the deception. I had a vague presenti- 
 ment, when I first saw you as God's chosen servant, that I had looked upon 
 your countenance and listened to your voice in my youthful days; and am I 
 not exceedingly happy to have found you at last ! '' Once more, as of old, 
 but in perfect purity and sincerity, their lips met, and seated by each other 
 the rector explained some circumstances of his past life. 
 
 " I was bom of a go.od and pious family in the north of England. My 
 father designed me for the church, and I was educated at Oxford with a view 
 to holy orders ; but being of an ardent temperament, and fond of novelty 
 and adventure, I expressed my preference for the army, which excited my 
 father's anger and surprise. Eightly judging, however, that a few years 
 amid the dangers and discomforts of a soldier's life, would cool down my 
 youthful impetuosity, he purchased for me a captain's commission, and I 
 set out to reap laurels in the Peninsula. After taking part in a few minor 
 engagements I was at the taking of Badajos, where I had the good fortune 
 my dearest Victorine, to protect thee from a brutal and merciless soldiery. 
 Little did I think that so many woes would have resulted from our first
 
 56 PASSION AND penitence: a tale. 
 
 meeting. I had not then learned to control my passions, and your beauty, 
 your interesting position, your gratitude, and my own wild desires, all com- 
 bined to effect your ruin. Knowing I was not at liberty to offer you my 
 hand, though my heart was yours, with a feeling of anguish and self- 
 reproach I wrote that letter. I was then ordered to a distant station, and 
 departed immediately. For six months, though I had much to occupy my 
 mind as a soldier, I was absolutely miserable, hesitating between my love 
 for you, and my ties and promises to those at home. At length the caprice 
 of the lady to whom I was betrothed released me from my engagements. 
 I hastened to communicate to you the joyful intelligence, renewed my vows, 
 and promised, when my duties would permit, to fly to your arms, and make 
 honourable amends for the wrongs I had inflicted. Weeks passed away and 
 no answer came to tranquilize my impatient mind. I then requested a 
 brother officer still remaining at Badajos, to make inquiries after you. He 
 informed me you were gone no one knew whither. I was distracted, and 
 with more recklessness than bravery, plunged into danger, and sought every 
 kind of excitement in the vain hope of banishing your image from my me- 
 mory. It would cling to my recollection. In the tent, in the field, at the 
 feast, it was ever before me, and reproached me with almost unendurable 
 gentleness. Thus I existed, mentally and bodily tossed about, till the battle 
 of Waterloo. Here again I courted danger, but when victory furled the 
 British standard I remained unscathed. Disgusted with the enormities of 
 the war system, weary of tumult, and the turmoil of my own mind, I gave 
 up my commission, and was received by my family with affectionate joy. 
 To the great satisfaction of my father I recommenced my studies for the 
 church, and began my new career with a small living at some distance from 
 here. With a truly changed and penitent spirit I gave myself wholly to 
 my sacred duties, the performance of which afforded me a pleasure far 
 higher than all the liberties of a mere worldly life. At length I obtained 
 the rectorage of Mayburn ; and I believe that Providence has brought me 
 hither for the especial purpose of atoning for my youthful crime by loving, 
 guarding, and comforting thee, my Vietorine ; wilt thou not grant me such 
 glorious privilege ? 
 
 " Need such a question be asked, Edward ? From this moment I am 
 devoted to your slightest wish, and shall be proud to retain the truant I 
 have sought so long."
 
 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. y ( 
 
 " I have but another request to make. May I not see my boy this 
 evening? May not our marriage be solemnized immediately, Victorine ?" 
 
 " I will send for Charles ; but we must prudently keep him ignorant of 
 the circumstances of his birth for a time. With regard to our marriage, 
 permit me a little space to prepare my mind for that happiness 1 long since 
 ceased to hope for. It is now the end of October; let it be on Christmas- 
 day, Edward, a time to remind us of Him to whose service our future 
 years must be devoted." 
 
 The good rector assented, and their son was called in. Mr. Morland 
 took the boy's profferd hand and retained it, while the inward yearnings of 
 the father's heart prompted him to fall upon his neck, biTt he restrained 
 himself, and merely gazed affectionately in his child's face. 
 
 "Charles," said his mother, ''you must henceforth- look upon Mr. 
 Morland as your father ; can you not love and honour him as such ?" 
 
 " I can mother. I loved Mr. Morland long since, and am pleased to be 
 allowed to call him father. I shall be happy to prosecute my studies under 
 a father's eye." 
 
 Mr. Morland, with a gratified look, said, " Victorine, let us pray to- 
 gether." This little family knelt down. He prayed with more than com- 
 mon eloquence, fervour, and pathos, while Victorine in the fulness of her 
 joy wept aloud. ^Yhen they rose, three happier hearts than theirs did not 
 beat in the world. Beseeching a blessing on the house and its inmates, the 
 rector departed for his own dwelling with a feeling of profound peace 
 arising from a consciousness of having done his duty, and of having 
 given happiness to two beings so near and dear to him. 
 
 A few weeks passed rapidly away, and on the morning of Christmas- 
 day Mr. Morland and Victorine by the most solemn and important of all 
 ceremonies for the living, were made one. The rustics of Mayburn, who 
 heard of the approaching event, had filled the church. Their congratu- 
 lations were sincere and hearty. Their pastor gave bountiful largess to 
 them, and sent them grateful to their homes. Mr. Morland then led his 
 happy but trembling wife to the rectorage, where a few select guests 
 awaited to receive them. 
 
 "Welcome to thy future home, my own Victorine I " exclaimed he, as he 
 stepped over the threshold, " whii h thy sweet society will make a little 
 paradise for me, and where I shall pour my daily thanks to Heaven for 
 r
 
 58 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. 
 
 restoring thee to my arms. Sinful was the Passion ; sincere has been the 
 Penitence. I trust we are forgiven." Mrs. Morland threw herself upoa 
 her husband's neck, and wept in the fulness of her gratitude and joy. 
 
 If there be among my readers any youth whose ardent spirit has been 
 bewitched by the spurious gi-andeur of War, and who has longed to try his 
 chance for distinction io the " tented field," I hope that this little tale may 
 have tended, however slightly, to shake his faith in the " honour," the 
 "glory," the "duty," said to belong to this disastrous and unchristian 
 system. They are specious names used to catch the ear and inflame the 
 imaginations of young and unthinking minds. " War is a game which, if 
 men were wise, kings would not play at;" and as men begin to form correct 
 notions of W^ar and its enormities, a corresponding distaste and detestation 
 of them will be.created. We may serve our country without shedding the 
 blood of our fellow-creatures, recklessly and unnecessarily, at the bidding 
 of men who would urge us into strife from expediency, vain glory, and in- 
 tolerant self-love. A feeling opposed to battle and bloodshed is taking deep 
 root in the public mind of our own country, and who may tell her influence 
 for good on other nations ? God prosper the feeling, and hasten the coming 
 of that day of Jubilee when universal brotherhood shall be acknowledged and 
 held inviolable, " and Peace embrace all climes, all children of the world."
 
 59 
 
 THE SEASIDE SOJOURN. 
 
 TO A rOET-FKIEND. 
 
 My valued Friend ! as generous and true 
 
 As bard could -wisli, -when steadfast friends are few, — 
 
 Friend of the feeling heart and soul of fire, 
 
 Restrained and chastened by each just desire : 
 
 "Whose thoughts are high, exuberant, and warm. — 
 
 Whose manners win, whose lightest words inform; 
 
 Whose deeds are ever on the helpless side 
 
 Of all who are oppressed and trouble-tried. 
 
 Thou hast not 'scaped the many-headed strife, 
 
 Which in the tangled labyrinths of life 
 
 Meets us at everv tuni, and strives to wrest 
 
 Peace from the mind, and pleasure from the breast ; 
 
 But could I, as my wishes urge, extend 
 
 A prayer-won blessing unto thee, my friend, 
 
 Thy storms should cease, thy clouds should break away, 
 
 And leave the e.xperienced evening of thy day 
 
 Calm in his joy, and in its brightness bland, 
 
 A fleeting foretaste of a happier land. 
 
 Sick of the thoughtless revel, and the throng 
 Of paltry pleasures that have done me wrong,
 
 '"•0 THE SEASIDE SOJOURN, 
 
 Of envious malice and of spurious praise, 
 
 (The bane, the blight of my aspiring days !) 
 
 I come, with more than sadness in my breast. 
 
 To be with Nature a repentant guest ; 
 
 And here, once more by the consoling sea. 
 
 Whose constant voice of solemn euphony 
 
 Disposes to serene, exalted thought, 
 
 I find the tranquil solacement I sought; 
 
 Put oS" my cares, repress regretful teai's, 
 
 And wake fond memories of departed years. 
 
 ]\Jany and harmless are the spells that bind 
 
 To this calm spot my stricken heart and mind. 
 
 The grey and breezy downs, unploughed and bare ; 
 
 The priceless luxury of healthful air; 
 
 The long lone ramble by the sounding shore ; 
 
 The drip and sparkle of the measured oar ; 
 
 The white winged sea-gull's low and laggard flight ; 
 
 The green wave's fitful and phosphoric light; 
 
 The staunch and stately ships that come and go 
 
 With the strong tide's unfailing ebb and flow; 
 
 The hardy sailor's wild, peculiar cry, 
 
 As, with a spirit emulous and high, 
 
 His horny hands unfurl the fluttering sail 
 
 To catch the fulness of the freshening gale ; 
 
 The steadfast beacon's red revolving shine. 
 
 Far-looking o'er the still or stormy brine 
 
 With calm and constant, needful, watchfulness, 
 
 To warn from danger, and to cheer distress. 
 
 Then the pure pleasantness at eventide. 
 
 Our faces brightening by the "ingle side," —
 
 THE SEASIDE SOJOUKN. 61 
 
 In social converse, various and new, 
 
 Merry or sad, witli chosen friends and few, — 
 
 Of wit and wisdom, manners, books, and men ; 
 
 Of the strong sword-plague and the stronger pen ; 
 
 Of living laws that guard us or degrade ; 
 
 Of peaceful arts that speed the wings of trade ; 
 
 Of mild Philosophy's untold delights ; 
 
 Of fearless Science in his daring flights: 
 
 Of fervid eloquence, whose wondrous tongue 
 
 Makes truth and falsehood, rectitude and wrong, 
 
 Play faithless and, withal, fantastic parts 
 
 On our deluded ears and doubtful hearts ; 
 
 Till thou, my Friend, already brimming o'er 
 
 With classic stoiy and poetic lore, 
 
 Dost lead us gently, by degi'ees, away 
 
 To mental regions of serener day, 
 
 Where Genius of a loftier, holier power, 
 
 Lives soul-rapt in the quiet of his bower, 
 
 Calmly creating and enjoying things, 
 
 (Bom of emotions and imaginings.) 
 
 So sweet and stainless, truthful and sublime, 
 
 And so instinct with life, that even Time 
 
 Who makes material grandeur stern and hoary, 
 
 Adds to their strength, their beauty and their gloi-y ! 
 
 'Tis sweet again, with tranquil heart and limb. 
 
 Within my dormitory, small and dim, 
 
 To lie and listen to the lengthened roar 
 
 Of restless waters rolling on the shore, 
 
 And feel o'er all my languid senses creep 
 
 The soft and silent witchery of sleep ;
 
 G-2 THE SEASIDE SOJOURN. 
 
 With its mysterious crowd of glooms and gleams 
 Mixed in a wild romance of miscellaneous dreams. 
 
 Once more there's pleasure, when my lattice pane 
 Admits the dewy morning's golden rain, 
 To hear the merry birds' melodious glee, 
 And the still sleepless and complaining sea — 
 Call me to spend another happy day 
 Of fresh, free thought — too soon to pass away! 
 
 But there are other charms that gently hold 
 My world-sick spirit to thy little fold 
 Of joyous human lambs, that learn and live 
 'Mid many pleasures fair but fugitive ; 
 That wist not wherefore, and that ask not when 
 Care claims the hearts, and dims the eyes of men. 
 The first that greets my inquiring eyes at morn 
 Is the sweet fay, thy loved and latest born : 
 Her with the ruddy and the rounded cheek , 
 And flowing elf-locks, amber-hued and sleek. 
 And ripe lips, like a virgin bud that blows 
 'Mid summer dews, a stainless infant rose : 
 Her with the thoughtless brow, and laughing eye, 
 Clear as the depths of the cerulean sky, 
 Where storms are brief, where shadows seldom dare 
 Pollute or trouble the salubrious air. 
 
 Well do I know her father hath the power 
 (A dear, but yet, alas ! a dangerous dower !) 
 To shrine his daughter in a song whose tone 
 Would be as sweet and lasting as my own ; 
 But since he lays his trembling harp aside. 
 With a deep sense of not unworthy pride, —
 
 THE SEASIDE SOJOURN, 63 
 
 Be mine the privilege, ^vith -words sincere, 
 To please an anxious father s willing ear. 
 
 She duly comes — that little sprite of thine, — 
 A human form, but seeming half divine. 
 With the young morn, as fresh and free from care 
 As forest flowers that meet us unaware — 
 To kiss with ready lips her fond, firm mother, 
 Her kindly nurse, — her grave and growing brother, 
 Her yearning father, and her father's friend. 
 As if she sought her little soul to blend 
 With souls of sterner mood, and thus impart 
 Her own spontaneous happiness of heart. 
 With bright impatient face she rushes out. 
 Her lips disparted with a gleesome shout, 
 To make a merry pastime of the hours 
 In the romantic fields, knee deep in flowers. 
 Which with an eager hand she plucks to grace 
 The unravelled tresses floating round her face. 
 Else, with her young companions hand in hand,— 
 Leaving her tiny foot-prints in the sand, — 
 Roams the long level of the sloping shore. 
 Watching the waters — fearless of their roar ; 
 Gathering the stranded shells wherewith to deck 
 The purer whiteness of her graceful neck; 
 Till in the full-tide splendors of the noon. 
 Humming with "vacant joy" some wordless tune, 
 She comes exulting from her pleasant toils, 
 And strews the floor with variegated spoils; 
 Worthless, perchance, to our maturer sight. 
 But to her own a treasure of delight.
 
 <U TfiE SEASIDE SOJOURN'. 
 
 The dinner done, tlie irksome lesson o'er, 
 Again she seeks her playmates, to explore 
 Haunts yet unvisited, or old ones -where 
 All that salutes her earnest eyes is fair; 
 And every sound, to her untutored ears 
 Is as the fabled music of the spheres. 
 The shady quiet of some bosky dell. 
 And the cool sparklings of its little well; 
 The bustling brooklet hurrying past her feet 
 With a low murmur, tremulous and sweet ; 
 A fluttering leaf — a waving flower — a tree 
 Shivering through all is foliage ; a bee 
 Sitting assidious on the honied bloom 
 Of clover, blushing in its own perfume : 
 The song and plumage of some fearless bird — 
 The cuckoo's shout from dim remoteness heard ; 
 Mysterious Echo's mimic voice, that seems 
 Like that of spirit from a place of dreams ; 
 The dauntless pleasure-toils to seek and find 
 The brown nuts nestling in their rugged rind ; 
 The feast of bramble berries black and bright, 
 Staining the lip that prattles with delight; 
 The tale of fairy — childhood's cherished creed — 
 Of wild old thoughts, a treasury indeed ! 
 Yea, all that Nature's outward form imparts 
 To win the worship of such sinless hearts, 
 Makes up her waking life, and makes it too 
 Seem ever gladsome, glorious, and new, — • 
 Sending her home at the calm set of day 
 Subdued and silent from her joyous play ;
 
 THE SEASIDE SOJOURN. 65 
 
 Her light limbs "weary, and her eyelids prest 
 By slumber — welcome, though unbidden guest, 
 ^Vhich lays her down, a pure unconscious thing, 
 In the soft shadow of an angel's wincr. 
 
 Oh ! Childhood is the Paradise of Life, 
 Long safe from sin, and separate from strife ; 
 And heaven-appointed spirits hover round. 
 To guard from evil the enchanted ground. 
 Till the dread thing o'erleaps the hallowed wall, 
 Basks in our path, and lures us to our fall : 
 Bright thoughts and pure all stealthily depart. 
 Leaving a strange vacuity of heart ; 
 Some necessary impulse seems to press 
 Our footsteps nearer to the wilderness. 
 Until we learn the knowledge of our doom 
 From the " small voice" that whispers through the gloom, 
 While unseen hands, and powerful, compel 
 Our going from the Eden where we dwell ; 
 And at the boundarj', the angel Truth, 
 With looks of pity ou our dawning youth. 
 Waves the stern flame-sword in our startled eyes, 
 And turns us to the world where danger lies : 
 But happy we, if in our hearts we find 
 Aught holy from the home for ever left behind. 
 
 I may not predicate what grief or glee 
 Awaits the darling of thy wife and thee, — 
 Her fate lies folded in the breast benign 
 Of Him who holds her in His hand divine : 
 But hope is soothing, and despair is vain. 
 And gentle precept leadeth with a chain 
 
 K
 
 66 THE SEASIDE SOJOURN. 
 
 Stronger than passion's, from the path of wrong. 
 And firm example doeth more than song. 
 
 Thus with the teaching thou alone canst give, 
 Serene in virtue she may learn to live; 
 And though some bitter taints the cup of all, 
 Her's, in its sweetness, may subdue the gall. 
 Oh ! may these written thoughts, when after life 
 Hath merged the maiden in the prouder wife, 
 Awake sweet memories of departed years. 
 And call the tribute down of none but happy tears. 
 
 I go, heart-strengthened by the little space 
 Of calm enjoyment in as calm a place, 
 Enlarged in sympathy, refreshed in mind, 
 With loftier thoughts, and feelings more refined; 
 Earnest and hopeful, anxious to explore 
 A clearer region of poetic lore. 
 Where I may toil with purer soul, and stand 
 Among the worthiest of my native land. 
 
 In sadness I depart, but not in pain. 
 Trusting to clasp thy cordial hand again : 
 Take thou and thine my blessing and farewell, — 
 Peace to thy house and all therein that dwell !
 
 67 
 
 COME TO MY HOME. 
 
 Come to my calm but lonely home, 
 
 With all thy grace, and love, and light, 
 That I may watch thee day by day. 
 
 And be thy guardian tlirough the night; 
 Be thou my household's happy queen, 
 
 The pride and beauty of my bower; 
 My wayward soul's presiding star, — 
 
 My fond heart's sweetest, dearest flower. 
 
 Light labours only wait thee here, — 
 
 My peerless and my chosen one ! 
 For thou shalt train the nectar-tree 
 
 To hang its tresses in the sun. 
 By thee the honey-fingered bine 
 
 Shall mantle round our rural shed ; 
 And the Sultana summer rose 
 
 Lift high her proud imperial head
 
 68 COME TO MY HOME, 
 
 Tlirougli radiant summer's gorgeous time. 
 
 When pleasant toils are duly told : 
 When burn upon the western skies 
 
 The sun's rich robes of cloudy gold, — 
 We'll tread the green and fragrant sward. 
 
 And, leaning by some laggard stream. 
 Breathe to the sweet and listening air 
 
 The words of some immortal dream . 
 
 When garish day fades softly out, 
 
 Religious twilight gathering o'er, — 
 We'll read upon the book of heaven 
 
 Its God-illuminated lore ; 
 Then filled with quiet thankfulness 
 
 While odorous night winds round us creep, 
 We'll turn with homeward steps, and slow, 
 
 To woo the tranquil bliss of sleep. 
 
 When moonlight snow is on the roof, 
 
 And pictured frost is on the pane ; 
 When clustering stars look keenly forth. 
 
 And clouds discharge their solid rain, — 
 We'll nestle near the chimney side, 
 
 Unenvious of the festive throng. 
 And drown the moaning of the blast 
 
 In the united tones of song.
 
 COME TO MY HOME. 69 
 
 Should sickness bow tliy fragile form, 
 
 Or sorrow rifle thee of rest, — 
 Should aught of humau ill destroy 
 
 The peaceful rapture of thy breast. 
 My lips shall speak of hope and health, 
 
 To cheat thee of thy grief and pain, 
 And all my faculties combine 
 
 To bring thee back to peace again. 
 
 When other voices than our own. 
 
 And other forms which are not here, 
 Shall fill these walls with childish glee. 
 
 And make existence doubly dear; 
 What shall estrange us heart from heart. 
 
 When such connubial joys are given? 
 Come, be the angel of my life, 
 
 And make my earthly home a heaven !
 
 70 
 
 A SUMMER'S EVENING SKETCH. 
 
 In tranquil thought, last eventide, I went my wonted way, 
 Along the foldings of a vale where quiet beauty lay. 
 To breathe the living air, and watch with fancies half divine, 
 The clouds that gathered near the sun, to gi'ace his grand 
 decline. 
 
 The new-mown meadows, smooth and broad, gay in their 
 
 second green, 
 The sinuous river gliding on in shadow and in sheen ; 
 The orchard and its little cot, with low and mossy eaves, 
 And tiny lattice twinkling through its chequered veil of leaves. 
 
 The costly mansion, here and there, 'mid solemn gi'oves and 
 still; 
 
 The mass of deep and wave-like woods uprolling on the hill ; 
 
 The grey and gothic church that looked down on its grave- 
 yard lone. 
 
 And on the hamlet roofs and walls, coeval with its own;
 
 A summer's evening sketch. 71 
 
 Old farms remote and far apart, with intervening space 
 
 Of black 'ning rock, and barren down, and pasture's pleasant 
 
 face; 
 . The white and winding road, that crept through village, vale, 
 
 and glen, 
 And o'er the dreary moorlands, far beyond the homes of men. 
 
 The changeful glory of the sky, the loveliness below ; 
 
 The tree-tops tinged with rosy fire, the bright pool's borrowed 
 
 glow; 
 The blaze of windows, and the smile of fields so soon to fade, 
 And when the lingering sun went do mi, the tenderness of 
 
 shade ; 
 
 The throstle's still untiring song, loud as at early mom ; 
 The grasshopper's shrill serenade amid the ripening corn ; 
 The careless schoolboy's gleesome shout; the low of home- 
 ward herds ; 
 The voice of mother and of child, let loose in loving words ; 
 
 The rose that sighed its fragrant soul upon the summer air ; 
 The breath of honeysuckle wild, that met me unaware ; 
 The smell of cribs where oxen lay, of dairies dim and small ; 
 Of herb, and moss, and fruit, that -grew within the garden 
 wall; 
 
 All pleasant things that wooed the sense in odour, sound or hue, 
 Came with as sweet an influence as if they had been new, — 
 And so disposed my mind to love, to gentleness, and trust, 
 I blessed all seemly forms that God life kindled from the dust.
 
 73 A summeb's evening sketch. 
 
 The mingled magic of the scene, the season, and the hour, 
 Fell on my -world-sick spirit then with most consoling power ; 
 Old friendships seemed revived again — old enmities forgiven, 
 Suspended as my feelings were midway 'tween earth and 
 heaven. 
 
 I could have sported with a child, myself a child again ; 
 I could have hailed the veriest wretch of penury and pain ; 
 Religion, love, humanity, awoke within my breast. 
 And filled me with a solemn joy my tears alone expressed. 
 
 Thus nature wins her peaceful way, with silent strength and 
 
 grace. 
 To souls that love her lineaments, and meet her face to face. 
 Blest privilege ! to leave behind the paths of toil we trod. 
 And live an hour of purity with Nature and with God I
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 lu a lonely valley yonder, 
 
 Where tlie Rhenish wine-tree grows, 
 I sat me down to rest and ponder 
 
 On the mysteiy of woes : 
 For I was travel-stained and weary, 
 
 Sore of foot and faint of limb, 
 Helpless, hungry, heart-sick, dreary, 
 
 My eyes with want and watching dim. 
 
 It was a sunny Sabbath morning, 
 
 In the briefest days of spring, — 
 Infant buds the boughs adorning, 
 
 Larks upon the skyward wing : 
 Flowers, in fragrant childhood blowing, 
 
 Drank the golden light of day ; 
 Streams, in clearer gladness flowing, 
 
 Found a sweeter, greener way.
 
 74 THE WAKDEREK. 
 
 The peasant poor to worship wending,— 
 
 Wrinlded dame and ruddy lass, 
 With a kind obeisance bending, 
 
 Greet the pilgrim as they pass : — 
 Welcome, though their homely graces. 
 
 Buoyant footstep, aspect free ; 
 Stranger forms and stranger faces 
 
 Are not those he yearns to see. 
 
 A simple Sabbath-chime was ringing 
 
 From a grey and leafy tower, — 
 A sweet and solemn music flinging 
 
 Over vineyard, vale, and bower; 
 The very woods and hills seemed listening. 
 
 In a holy calm profound, 
 And the lingering dew-drops, glistening, 
 
 Seemed to tremble at the sound. 
 
 Present sorrow, — baleful shadow ! 
 
 Slid from off my languid mind, 
 Like a cloud-shade from a meadow, 
 
 Leaving greener spots behind. 
 Recollections, sad or splendid, 
 
 Came with softened smiles and tears. 
 And the future, hope-attended. 
 
 Beckoned unto brighter spheres.
 
 THE WANDEEEK. T5 
 
 England's temples of devotion, 
 
 Unassuming, old, and dim, 
 Where the deepest heart-emotion 
 
 Answers to the holy hymn ; 
 In whose grave-yards, greened with ages, 
 
 Eyes the teai's of memory shed. 
 Looking on those solemn pages — 
 
 Stony records of the dead. 
 
 I saw a sleeping habe receiving 
 
 Baptismal drops upon its face, 
 A blushing bride the portal leaving 
 
 With a proud and modest grace : 
 T saw a dark assembly gather 
 
 Round an open grave and deep, 
 And a wifeless, childless father 
 
 Stricken till he could not weep. 
 
 Then my youth rose up before me, 
 
 Fresh as in its newest hour. 
 When that deeper life came o'er me. 
 
 Love's pure passion and its power ; 
 When a crowd of different feelings 
 
 In my growing heart took birth, 
 Different thoughts, whose sweet revc-alings 
 
 Uttered more of heaven than earth.
 
 70 THE WANPEKEK. 
 
 Memory opened out her treasures. 
 
 Which had lain unheeded long, — 
 Trials, triumphs, pains, and pleasures, 
 
 A mingled and familiar throng ; 
 Scenes, where I had wandered lonely. 
 
 In my boyhood's dreamy days. 
 When the shapes of nature only 
 
 Soothed and satisfied my gaze. 
 
 Wood haunts, where I lay and lingered. 
 
 At my stolen, but happy ease^ 
 While the west wind, frolic-fingered, 
 
 Stirred the umbrage of my trees ; 
 While the fern and fox-glove nigh me 
 
 Whispered things, too seldom heard ; 
 And brook and hee that flitted by me 
 
 Held light concert with the bird. 
 
 England's soft and slumbering valleys. 
 
 With happy homesteads scattered o'er. 
 Where the honey-suckle dallies 
 
 With the rose, about the door : 
 England's ancient halls and granges. 
 
 In some woodland nestled low, 
 Through whose shades the river ranges- 
 
 With a dark and devio^is flow.
 
 THE WANDEEEK, 
 
 Then I saw new things, and fairer, 
 
 In the stars, clouds, fields, and flowers; 
 Then I heard new sounds, and rarer, 
 
 In the ever-voiceful howers : 
 Then with stronger life came laden 
 
 Every breeze that wandered wide. 
 Because one loved, one loving maiden, 
 
 Smiled, 'looked, listened, by my side. 
 
 Eveiy spot of blissful meeting 
 
 Rose before my inner sight ; 
 Evei-y fond and joyous greeting 
 
 Thrilled me with an old delight. 
 Precious hours of speedy pinion — 
 
 Ye with purest passion rife, 
 Alas I to feel your dear dominion 
 
 Once only in the lapse of life ! 
 
 Still that Sabbath-chime was ringing, 
 
 Where the Rhenish wine-tree grows, 
 Sterner recollections bringing, 
 
 Tinctured with a thousand woes : — 
 Poverty's resistless terrors, 
 
 Careless words, and careless deeds 
 Rash resolves, and thoughtless errors, 
 
 For which the wiser spirit bleeds.
 
 78 TUE WANDERER. 
 
 Absent voices, absent faces, 
 
 Which I longed to hear and see ; 
 Hearts, which yearned for my embraces, 
 
 And beat with faithful pulse for me. 
 Thoughts like these, with strong appealings, 
 
 Tinged with hopes, and touched with fears. 
 Only asked for human feelings. 
 
 And I answered with my tears. 
 
 Thus that Sabbath-chime, though simple. 
 
 Stirred me with its hallowed sound. 
 As a still lake's smallest dimple 
 
 Moves the whole bright surface round. 
 That sweet music, and the brightness 
 
 Of the young and buoyant day. 
 Gave to my soul new strength, new lightness, 
 
 As I journeyed on my way.
 
 79 
 
 WAR. 
 
 Scourge of the nations, and tlie bane of freedom, liope, and 
 
 life ! 
 Stem reveller in gory fields, exulting in the strife ! 
 Thou terror of ten thousand homes, thou sword-plague of 
 
 the world ! 
 When shall we see thy balefires quenched, thy blood-stained 
 
 banners furled ? 
 
 Ambition born, and power-begot, with passions dark and vile. 
 And fostered by the cruel arts of avarice and guile. 
 Thou goest forth with reckless hosts to slaughter and enslave, 
 Thou trampler upon human hearts, thou gorger of the grave ! 
 
 Thy oriflamme floats wantonly in the pure unconscious air ; 
 
 The chorus of thy drums gives out the warning note " Pre- 
 pare ; " 
 
 Thy cymbals ring, thy trumpets sing with shrill and vaunting 
 breath, 
 
 Alas ! that such vain pageantry should grace the feast of death I
 
 80 "^VAK. 
 
 Growing in peaceful splendour stands some proud and pros- 
 perous town, 
 
 Till thy dread footsteps pass her gates, and tread her glories 
 down ; 
 
 While panic sweeps her wildering streets, and all thy hounds 
 of prey, 
 
 Make riot in her homes, and leave dishonour and dismay. 
 
 Some village, nestling tranquilly amid its happy shades, 
 Girt with the calm amenities of corn-fields, streams, and 
 
 glades. 
 Beholds thee pause upon thy march, and in thy fierce employ 
 Despoil its blooming paradise of quietude and joy. 
 
 A province withers at thy frown, a kingdom mourns to see 
 Her desecrated temples torn, her towers o'erthrown by thee'; 
 Bewailsher commerce paralysed, her fields unploughedand wild, 
 And all her household sanctities invaded and defiled. 
 
 And yet the land that sends thee forth, what land soe'er it he, 
 Leaps at thy lawless victories, and lifts the voice of glee, 
 And songs are sung, and hells are rung, and merry bonfires 
 
 blaze. 
 While false, or foolish pens, distil the poison of their praise. <- 
 
 And at the crowded banquet board quick tongues diffuse thy 
 
 fame. 
 And columns lift proud capitals in honour of thy name. 
 And virgins, pure and beautiful, give their fond hearts away 
 To men who trod out human life in the carnage yesterday.
 
 WAK. 81 
 
 Thy trophies, brought in triumph home, attest ^vhat thou 
 
 hast done, 
 What valour lavished ou the foe, what fields of glory won ; 
 But men who scorn thy painful pomp, survey with blushing face 
 Such signs of sanguinary power, such symbols of disgi'ace. 
 
 Aye, strip thee of thy dainty garb, thy tinsel robe of pride, 
 Lay glistering helm, and flaunting plume, and specious 
 
 names aside,— 
 And what remains of that gay thing that dazzled us before ? 
 A monster, hideous to behold — an idol smeared with gore ! 
 
 The widow's curse is on thee, War; the orphan's suppliant 
 
 cries. 
 Mixed with the mothers malison, ascend the placid skies; 
 And bones that bleach upon the shore, and welter in the sea, 
 Appeal, — and shall it be in vain ? against thy deeds and thee. 
 
 The green earth fain would fling thee off from her polluted 
 
 breast : 
 The multitudes are yearning, too, for knowledge and for rest, 
 And lips inspired by Christian love all deprecate thy wrongs. 
 And poets fired with purer themes, disdain thee in their songs. 
 
 "The embattled corn" is lovelier far than thy embattled 
 
 hordes ; 
 One plough in Labour's honest hand is worth ten thousand 
 
 swords ; 
 The engine's steam pulse, fitly plied, hath nobler conquests made 
 Than all the congregated serfs of thy abhorrent trade.
 
 so WAH. 
 
 More courage in the miuer's heart than captain ever knew; 
 More promise in the peasant's frock than coats of scarlet hue ; 
 More honour in the craftsman's cap, and in the student's 
 
 gown; 
 More gloiy in the pastor's robe, than all thy vain renown. 
 
 England, my own, my mother land, as fair as thou art free! 
 Thou Island queen ! whose wide domains o'ersprinkle earth 
 
 and sea. 
 What need that thou should' st yearn again to conquer and 
 
 subdue ?, 
 Thy power has long been kno\vn to all, shall not thy mercy 
 
 too? 
 
 Forbear to use the cruel sword, or, if thou wilt invade, 
 Be it with palm or olive branch, that maketh none afraid; 
 Be it with Bible in thy hand, with justice in thy breast, 
 Give peaceful arts ; give Gospel light; give rectitude and rest. 
 
 If strong ambition dares to doom his weaker foe to bleed, 
 Raise high the trumpet-voice of truth against the ruthless 
 
 deed ; 
 With magnanimity of heart, with calm and fearless brow, 
 Be thou the umpire and the friend — the mediator thou. 
 
 So shall the nations look to thee, as one ordained to keep 
 The balance of the social world, the portals of the deep ; 
 And history shall m'ite thee down, with proud and willing 
 
 hand, 
 A realm of mind and majesty, a wise and Christian land !
 
 83 
 
 WINTER MUSINGS. 
 
 Stera Winter time ! thy shrouded skies oppress me, 
 
 And fling funereal shadows o'er my brain : 
 Sad thoughts and visions, spectre-like, distress me, 
 
 And waken all my sympathies to pain; 
 Sad thoughts of yonder multitudinous city. 
 
 Where care too often festers into crime : 
 Where hearts heave out their life for lack of pity, 
 
 Or, living, dread thy coming, Winter time 1 
 
 Sad thoughts of sinful and pestiferous places, 
 
 Where love, hope, joy, breeze, sunlight, never comes ; 
 Where pen and pencil never lend their graces, 
 
 Nor common comforts quiet, to their homes — 
 Oh I no, not homes, but dens— where God's on\-u creatures 
 
 Creep through the roughest ways of lowest life ; 
 Where untaught minds make savage forms and features, 
 
 And hold pei-petual fellowship with strife.
 
 84 WINTER lltTSINGS 
 
 Sad thouglits ! that virtue and that vice together 
 
 Stir the thick air with curses and with groans, 
 Pine through the day, and in the fiercest weather 
 
 Herd nightly on the cold and cruel stones; 
 Or desperate men put off their fear and starkness, 
 
 To wreak their vengeance on some guiltless head ; 
 Or women, roaming through the storm and darkness, 
 
 Barter their beauty for dishonoured bread. 
 
 Even where royalty, oppressed with splendour, 
 
 Free as the humblest from repulsive piide. 
 While ready hands and willing hearts attend her. 
 
 Walks in her gardens beautiful and wide — 
 There, even there, with gorgeous wealth surrounded, 
 
 The lost, the scorned, the outcasts of their kind, 
 Lie down a heap of indigence confounded, 
 
 Fellows in miseiy, if not in mind. 
 
 Sad thoughts ! that in yon town's bewildering mazes. 
 
 Dark veins far stretching from its giant heart, 
 Man in his saddest moods and sternest phases 
 
 Lives from all healthy influence apart: 
 Souls that have missed their way lie there benighted. 
 
 With all their sensual instincts wild and bare; 
 And hearts, once prone to love, are warped and blighted 
 
 For lack of genial sustenance and care.
 
 WINTEE MUSINGS, 85 
 
 Fathers sit brooding on the threatening morrow, 
 
 With looks of anger kindling into hate ; 
 And mothers, with a mute, but deeper sorrow, 
 
 Cease to resist the thraldom of their fate : 
 Children, grown prematurely old, are pining 
 
 In apathetic squalor, day by day ; 
 Round their young natures vicious weeds are twining, 
 
 Which thrust the flowers of purity away. 
 
 Perchance, within those lazar-deus of riot 
 
 Insidious sickness saps the shattered frame : 
 Where is the yielding couch, the room of quiet? 
 
 The pensive taper-light's unfailing flame? 
 Where is the cleanly hearthstone, blithely glowing? 
 
 The cordial offered ere the lips request? 
 Where are affection's eyes, with grief o'erflowing? 
 
 The forms that wait, yet fear, the final rest ? 
 
 Where is the skilful leech, man's health-director, 
 
 With words of honey all unmixed with gall ? 
 The pastor praying to the great Protector, 
 
 Without whose will a sparrow cannot foil ! 
 Alas ! not there I no love, no skill, no teaching, 
 
 Touches with hopeful light the hour of gloom, 
 The lorn wretch thinks high heaven beyond his reaching, 
 
 And, dying, braves the horrors of his doom!
 
 80 WINTKE MUSINGS. 
 
 Strange contrast ! lo ! yon lofty windows brigliten 
 
 From chambers as an eastern vision fair, 
 Where lips and eyes with pleasure smile and lighten, 
 
 While song and music thrill the throbbing air ; 
 Where Art hath brought her triumphs and her graces, 
 
 The glowing canvas, and the breathing stone; 
 Where rich refinements from a thousand places 
 
 Are tributes from the lauds of every zone. 
 
 There lusty lacqueys round the banquet gliding 
 
 AVith costly dainties court the pampered taste. 
 While Joy and Plenty o'er the board presiding 
 
 See southern nectars run to wanton waste ; 
 There Fortune's idol learns to love and languish, 
 
 Swathed in the splendour and the pride of birth, 
 Uncaring, or unconscious, of the anguish 
 
 That bows her lowly sisters of the earth. 
 
 And yet there are, beside the hall or palace, 
 
 Shapes of humanity unhoused, unfed, 
 Untaught, unsought, unheeded, fierce or callous, 
 
 The sky their curtain, and the earth their bed : 
 Shapes which are all of one Almighty's making. 
 
 Imploring, threatening, near the rich man's feet, 
 With sin grown savage, or with sorrow quaking, 
 
 Frenzied for food his dogs refuse to eat.
 
 WINTER MUSINGS. 87 
 
 "The poor shall cease not," God's hlest word declareth ; 
 
 But are they less of human mould than kings ? 
 Must they grow faint for what kind Nature beareth, 
 
 For what she gives to all her meaner things ? 
 Must they exist in darkness and distraction, 
 
 Doubting if Heaven be merciful and just? 
 Shut out from joy, unnerved for glorious action 
 
 And scarce uplifted from the grovelling dust ? 
 
 Formed for all fitting faculties and feelings 
 
 By Him who gives the tiniest worm a law. 
 Who fills His humblest work with high revealings, 
 
 Sustains the skies, and keeps the stars in awe,-^ 
 Shall they, oppressed with famine and wrong doing, 
 
 With crowding cares, and unassuasive pain. 
 Obey, toil, falter, msh to deeper ruin, 
 
 Reason, implore, grow mad, and all in vain ? 
 
 Forbid it, God', who deigns to guide and gift us! 
 
 Ye mild and moral principles of light — 
 Ye liberal souls that labour to uplift us — 
 
 Else up against it with resistless light : 
 And all ye holy sympathies that slumber 
 
 Unstirred, unfruitful in the human breast. 
 Spring into active phalanx without number. 
 
 And give the poor hope, help, and happier rest.
 
 88 WINTER MUSINGS. 
 
 Forbid it Pen — for tliou canst vanquisli error; 
 
 Forbid it Press — proud ally of the Pen ! 
 Forbid it Speech, that carries truth or terror 
 
 To the hard bosoms of unthinking men. 
 Pen, Press, and Speech, creators of opinion — 
 
 Oj)inion armed 'gainst ignorance and wrong — 
 League all the lands beneath your blest dominion, 
 
 Till the glad poet sings a calmer song.
 
 89 
 
 THE PARTITION OF THE EARTH. 
 
 PARAPHRASED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. 
 
 '' Take the Eavtli!" uttered God, from tlie height of his throne, 
 As he looked ou the children he made, from above : 
 
 "Take the Earth, -with its treasures, and call it your own, 
 But divide it with justice and brotherly love !" 
 
 By myriads men came when they heard the decree, — 
 Age, manhood, and youth hurried on in the race; 
 
 The husbandman ruled o'er the corn-covered lea, — 
 The forest was given to the sons of the chase. 
 
 The merchant took all that his stores would contain. 
 While the priest — holy man ! took the choicest of wine ; 
 
 The king tookthe highways and byways for gain, 
 By a law which the people believed was divine. 
 
 N
 
 90 THE PAETITIOX OF THE EARTH. 
 
 At length, when eacli mortal rejoiced in his lot, 
 
 Came the poet, who loved not the boisterous throng; 
 
 But, alas! when he came he beheld not a spot, 
 
 Save the breadth of a grave, for the pilgrim of song. 
 
 Then he threw himself downi at the throne of his Sire, 
 And cried to the Being who gave him his birth, — 
 
 " Oh ! grant a poor outcast his only desire, 
 Let the child of Thy wrath be forgotten on earth." 
 
 God said, "If thou liv'st in the empire of thought, 
 
 The cause of thy sorrow pertains not to me : — 
 
 Where, where hast thou stayed while my bidding was wrought?" 
 « 
 Said the Poet, " Oh, God! I was near unto Thee ! 
 
 " If my eyes were entranced by Thy glory and might. 
 And my ears by the music that breathes in Thy skies; 
 
 If my soul was absorbed in Thy love and Thy light, 
 Forgive that the Earth disappeared from mine eyes." 
 
 "Content thee," God said, "for Earth's riches are given, — 
 As such Avas my pleasure, and hence my decree, 
 
 Thou shalt live with thy Lord in his own blessed heaven. 
 For whenever thou coraest 'tis open to thee!"
 
 91 
 
 THE PATRIOTS BATTLE PRAYER. 
 
 PARAPHRASED FRO.M THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. 
 
 Father of Life! to Thee, to Thee I call— 
 The cannon sends its thunders to the sky; 
 
 The winged fires of slaughter round me fall ; 
 Great God of Battles! let Thy watchful eye 
 
 Look o'er and guard me in this perilous hour, 
 
 And if my cause be just, oh! arm me with Thy power! 
 
 Oh ! lead me, Father, to a glorious end. 
 To well-won freedom, or a martyr's death; 
 
 I how submissive to Thy will, and send 
 A soul -felt prayer to Thee in every breath : 
 
 Do with me as beseems Thy wisdom, Lord, 
 
 But let not guiltless blood dehlc my maiden sword!
 
 92 THE patbiot's battle prayer. 
 
 God, I acknowledge Thee, and heai- Thy tongue 
 In the soft whisper of the falling leaves. 
 
 As well as in the tumult of the throng 
 
 Arrayed for fight — this human mass that heaves 
 
 Like the vexed ocean. I adore Thy name. 
 
 Oh, bless me, God of grace, and lead me unto fame. 
 
 Oh I bless me. Father! in Thy mighty hand 
 I place what Thou hast lent — my mortal life ; 
 
 I know it will depart at thy command, 
 
 Yet will I praise Thee, God, in peace or strife ; 
 
 Living or dying, God, my voice shall raise 
 
 To Thee, Eternal Power, the words of prayer and praise ! 
 
 1 glorify thee, God, I come not here 
 To fight for false ambition, vainly brave; 
 
 I wield my patriot sword for things more dear, — 
 Home and my fatherland; the name of slave 
 
 My sons shall not inherit. God of Heaven ! 
 
 For Thee and Freedom's cause my sacred vow is given ! 
 
 God, I am dedicate to Thee for ever; 
 
 Death, which is legion here, may hem me I'ound; 
 Within my heart the invader's steel may quiver. 
 
 And spill my life-blood on the crimson ground : 
 Still am I Thine, and unto Thee I call, — 
 Father I seek the foe — forgive me if I fall I
 
 9-P, 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT SOUTHEY, 
 LATE POET LAUREATE. 
 
 From the briglit coronal of living minds, 
 
 The grace and glory of these later days, 
 
 A gem is shaken to the dust ; a star 
 
 Which rose in thought's wide hemisphere, and grew 
 
 Resplendent with the calm, sweet light of Song 
 
 Hath faded into darkness, while our eyes 
 
 Gaze with sad yearning after it — in vain ! 
 
 The fitful winds, which sweep with varying voice 
 
 O'er the broad breast of Keswick's wrinkled lake, 
 
 Sing dirges o'er the mountain-girdled grave 
 
 Where Southey sleeps. A fitting tomb for him 
 
 Whose heart did feed itself amid a scene 
 
 So strangely beautiful; for many a sound. 
 
 And silence —which is sound awful — will 
 
 Breathe about his resting place, from glens. 
 
 From green hill tops, from old time-twisted trees, 
 
 From wavc-svorn caverns in the rifted rock. 
 
 From waters, sleepless as the listening stars
 
 94 ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 On which they gaze, from breezes touched and tuned 
 
 To storms or zephyrs ; for in them he heard 
 
 What unto him was Poesy, and she 
 
 Peopled his solitude with things of joy I 
 
 Sad to remember that that laurelled brow, 
 
 Which held such wild imaginings, such powers 
 
 To clothe in lofty language lofty truths, 
 
 And sentiments which humanized and stirred, 
 
 Wears the cold hues of death. That cunning hand, 
 
 Which ti'aced upon the page the living line, 
 
 Is paralysed ; and that once piercing eye. 
 
 Lit with the reflex of an ardent soul, 
 
 Is veiled and quenched. That spark of deathless fire. 
 
 Which filled its shrine with glory, hath returned 
 
 To the pure fountain of immortal light 
 
 From whence it sprang, leaving its " darkened dust" 
 
 To mingle with its elements for ever ! 
 
 Men lightly say — " This is the common lot; " 
 But when the gifted and the good depart, 
 We stand aghast, as if some well-touched string, 
 Breathing divinest music in our ears, 
 Was snapped asunder, even while our hearts 
 Were throbbing to its tones. But have we not, 
 Within a few brief moons, been called to weep 
 O'er the sad loss of many an eloquent mind 
 Of strength and beauty? For a voice hath said. 
 That he who fixed his soul in marble lives 
 In fame alone ; that Wilkie's magic hand, 
 Which threw upon the canvass genuine life 
 Hath lost its power in the remorseless grave ;
 
 ox THE DEATH OF KOBERT SOUTHEY. i 
 
 That honest Allan, of the hardy north, 
 Hath hung his harp upon the cypress bough, 
 And jomed a nobler choir ; and Southey, last. 
 But far from least of these, hath rent away 
 The gyves of earth, and soared to happier spheres. 
 
 Yet let us not despair, — for Southey lives, — 
 Lives in the labours of a quiet life. 
 Well spent and richly fruitful. Few may claim 
 The laurel crown which he hath laid aside. 
 And wear the wreath so nobly and so long. 
 The lustrous diamond in profoundest gloom 
 Retains the light it gathered from the sun 
 From age to age ; so hath the world received 
 And treasured up the lustre of the mind 
 Of him we mourn, which shall not melt away. 
 Let us imbibe his spirit, like old wine 
 Long caverned in the earth, and mellowed down 
 To strength and purity ; but let us not, 
 Because some lees remain within the cup, 
 Reject as worthless the inspirmg draught. 
 
 Those first brief bursts of his unsullied muse — 
 Those earlier flights of her rejoicing wing, 
 Light as the lark and buoyant as his lay, . 
 Are ours to think upon and love. How well 
 He sang the sorrows of his race, and cried 
 Aloud against its wrongs I How sweetly breathed 
 His hai'p-strings, when the charms of nature wooed 
 Their eloquent voices out ! For these alone, — 
 For these few flashes of a feeling soul, 
 His laurel leaves shall keep for ever green !
 
 96 ON THE DEATH OF RORERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 Worclswortli ! 
 Thou priest and patriarcli of nature ! — thou, 
 Who wast a brother of the buried bard 
 In mind and fame ! awake thine ancient lyre 
 To one hist mournful melody, and mine 
 Shall shrink to silence at thy loftier song !
 
 A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO MY FRIEND 
 JOHN BALL. 
 
 December 1843. 
 Dear Friend, 
 
 Free for an interval of time 
 
 To sleep or thiuli, to read or rhyme, — 
 
 I hear yon steeple's measured chime, 
 
 Witla solemn weight, 
 Fling to the silent night sublime 
 
 The hour of eight. 
 
 Snug seated by the chimney-cheek, 
 
 Too calmly indolent to speak, — 
 
 An evening custom through the week, 
 
 My tube of clay 
 Sends forth a light and odorous reek. 
 
 Like ocean spray.
 
 98 FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO JOHN BALL. 
 
 The spiral cloud soars to tlie ceiling, 
 To Fancy's eye strange forms revealing, 
 Until I find around me stealing 
 
 So sweet a rest 
 That every kind and gentle feeling 
 
 Stirs in my breast. 
 
 (Thou tiny censer, burning slow, 
 AVhose fire and fragrance soothe my woe, 
 I would not willingly forego 
 
 Thy quiet power 
 For all the dainty dazzling show 
 
 Of Fashion's hour.) 
 
 The flickering fire is dancing "bright. 
 Dispensing genial warmth and light, 
 While beings pleasant to my sight 
 
 Are seated round; 
 And one doth read, and one doth write. 
 
 With scarce a sound. 
 
 Meanwhile, within the glowing grate 
 
 I see things wild and desolate, — 
 
 Eocks, mountains, towers, in gloomy state, 
 
 With other traces 
 Of monsters savagely sedate, 
 
 With gorgon faces.
 
 FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO JOHN BALL. 99 
 
 But as I gaze they slowly change 
 To i-egions beautiful aud strange, 
 Where lovely creatures seem to range 
 
 The red realm through; 
 Or English temple, cot, and grange 
 
 Stai't into view. 
 
 Outside, the myriad-fingered rain 
 Is drumming on the window pane, 
 And the strong night-winds wail in vain 
 
 To enter here : — 
 Alas ! they move upon the main 
 
 With wrath and fear I 
 
 And now cny thoughts are sent afar 
 To where the peril seeking tar. 
 Without the light of moon or star. 
 
 Battles aghast, 
 And hears his proud ship's sail and spar 
 
 Rent in the blast. 
 
 Poor souls I who tempt the dangerous wave, 
 Your home, your empire, and your grave, 
 When winds and waters round you rave 
 
 In mighty madness, 
 Who shall extend the hand to save, 
 
 And give ye gladness?
 
 100 FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO JOHN BALL. 
 
 Upbuoyed on Ocean's lieaviug flood, 
 A thousand breathing beings stood, 
 The brave, the gifted, and the good, 
 
 But yesterday, 
 Till the storm came in maddest mood,- 
 
 And where are they ? 
 
 God of the tempest-ridden sea ! 
 . The solemn secret rests with Thee, — 
 With finite sense we are not free 
 
 To scan thy law ; 
 'Tis ours alone to bow the knee 
 
 In silent awe ! 
 
 Thus the sad chidhig of the wind 
 Wakes memories of a mournful kind, 
 Which pour upon the restless mind 
 
 A tranquil balm, 
 As thoughtful here I sit reclined. 
 
 Secure and calm. 
 
 And thinking on the sleepless sea, 
 "Hungering for peace," I think of thee, 
 And how with friendly souls and free 
 
 We strayed together, 
 To talk and dream of Poesy, 
 
 In summer weather.
 
 FAMILIAR KPISTLE TO JOHN BALL. 101 
 
 I see that little rustic place 
 
 Where our ' blythe friend,' with pleasant face, 
 
 Displayed with hospitable grace 
 
 Those goodly things, 
 Which quicken Time's lame, laggard pace, 
 
 And speed his wings. 
 
 The full o'erflovving of the breast. 
 The frank and unoffending jest, 
 The bright idea well expressed, — 
 
 The laugh and song 
 The talk of Spencer, and the rest 
 
 Of Fancy's throng ; 
 
 The antique chamber, warm and small, 
 The fire-light flashing on the wall, 
 The social cup unmixed with gall, 
 
 The whole delight 
 Passed like a vision to enthrall 
 
 My memory quite. 
 
 Deferred too long ; I seize my pen, 
 (My wand of fancy now and then), 
 To tell you why, and where, and when 
 
 I scrawled this letter; 
 For in these courtesies, ye ken, 
 
 I am your debtor.
 
 102 FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO JOHN BALL. 
 
 Yon crowded town, where stunned and tossed 
 I lingered long, and to my cost. 
 Caressed to-day — to-morrow crossed, 
 
 I've left at last; 
 And as I count the moments lost 
 
 I stand aghast. 
 
 And here I am, three leagues away, 
 Earning my dinner every day 
 As I was wont, before my lay 
 
 Found willing ears — 
 Without a single friend to say 
 
 " Put off thy fears." 
 
 But yet I am not friendless— No ! 
 My wife, fond sharer of my woe, 
 And Hope, that spirit-joy below, 
 
 Ai'e with me still; 
 And God has blessings to bestow, - 
 
 I wait His will. 
 
 I have a corner in my heart 
 
 For thee, all generous ais thou art; 
 
 For thou, like me, hast felt tlie smart 
 
 Of the world's wrong; 
 And thou art loth to live apart 
 
 From darling song.
 
 FAMILIAR EPISTLK TO JOHN BALL. 103 
 
 And, therefore, do I wish to learn 
 If fortune's features grow less stern, 
 And if thou dost as yet discern 
 
 A brighter real, 
 Or of thy hidden thoughts still yearn 
 
 For the ideal. 
 
 Does Myra's cheek with gladness glow, 
 And her sweet mouth with laughter flow 
 As wont? Do all thy children grow 
 
 In sense and duty ? 
 And does thy wife put off the woe 
 
 That veils her beauty ? 
 
 With us the wretched rains and damps 
 Have turned the level fields to swamps, 
 And through the mist the drowsy lamps 
 
 Look dim and dreary; 
 But, save some fitful aches and cramps, 
 
 I'm well and cheery. 
 
 I've fallen in love, but not with Flora, 
 Nor Cynthia chaste, nor young Aurora, 
 Nor dark Gulnare, nor sweet Medora, 
 
 But with the shade 
 Of fair, fond, faithful, fervent Zora, 
 
 A Syrian Maid !
 
 104 FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO JOHN BALL. 
 
 Simply, I mean to weave a lay 
 Of love, to cheer me on my way; 
 And in my silent hours I pray 
 
 " God speed my pen," 
 To which, methinks I hear you say 
 
 "Amen! Amen!" 
 
 Night wears, and, therefore, 'gainst my will, 
 I use the last drop in my quill 
 To tell thee I esteem thee still 
 
 In shade or shine; 
 And he our lot or good or ill, 
 
 I'm ever thine, 
 
 J. C. Prince.
 
 105 
 THE POWER OF PLEASANT MEMORIES. 
 
 Low drooping o'er my toil this afternoon, 
 With downward aspect, sombre as the air 
 Which slept around me, echoes of despair 
 
 Passed through my thoughts and put them out of tune. 
 
 Strong hope, of man the blessing and the dower, 
 With the calm will to fashion dreams, which rose 
 Instinct with mental splendour and repose, 
 
 Seemed shorn of their consolatory power. 
 
 Thus as I sat with melancholy face. 
 
 Resisting sadness with a faint endeavour, 
 " A thing of beauty is a joy for ever." 
 
 That verse of truthful melody and grace 
 
 Flashed through my darkened spirit, like the smile 
 
 Of sudden sunlight on a solemn pile. 
 
 As from her trance upleaps the joyous spring. 
 Like a young virgin on her bridal morn — 
 Flushed with expanding glories newly born, 
 
 WhOe earth and air with merry greeting ring ; 
 
 And Nature, strengthened by her rest, is rife 
 With fascinating purity and gladness, 
 So did my spirit, from its sleep of sadness 
 
 Start into active and delighting life. 
 
 Straightway I stood amid the classic glooms 
 Flung from the lavish pencil of young Keats, 
 Realms of immortal shapes, of mingled sweets, 
 
 Uncloying music, and unfading blooms ; 
 
 The shadows of creations, which the boy 
 
 Nursed in his soul, and watched with silent joy.
 
 106 THE POWER OF "PLKASANT MEMORIES, 
 
 Not one, but Legion, M'ere the forms and places, 
 
 Laughing and lovely, solemn, and serene, 
 Which came wiih all their wonders and their graces 
 
 From Memory's treasure-halls, where they had been 
 Hoarded with miser passion. Spencer's sheen 
 
 And grandeur of romance ; great Shakespear's Muse, 
 Which holds all human sympathies between 
 
 The foldings of her pinions ; Milton's hues 
 Stolen from the deathless amaranths of Heaven, 
 
 And woven in his own seraphic song ; 
 These to my wakened faculties were given, 
 
 An ever moving, ever pleasing throng, 
 Until I stood, enraptured and alone. 
 In a strange world of beauty, boundless, and ray own !
 
 107 
 
 NEW YEAR'S DAY ASPIllATIONS. 
 
 Great God ! a mighty multitude of years, 
 Unnumbered as the Heaven-adorning spheres, 
 Lit, living, moving, and upheld by Thee — 
 Are gone to that interminable sea 
 Which is unknown, uufathomed, and sublime, 
 The everlasting grave of all the things of Time. 
 
 The first faint dawning of another still, 
 Bom of the sleepless goodness of Thy will, 
 Breaks newly, sweetly, through the kindling skies, 
 To which are turned our simultaneous eyes, 
 Filled with the heart's unbidden tears, which spring 
 A lowly, but a grateful offering 
 To Thee, our strength and hope from first to last 
 For blessings dropped beside our pathway of the past. 
 
 God of the world, and of the human soul 
 Held in the mystic bonds of Thy control, — 
 Maker of Virtue, Loveliness, and Trutli, 
 The sister triad of eternal youth — 
 I glorify Thee, wander though I may. 
 Blindly or weakly, from Tliy peaceful way;
 
 108 NEW YKARS DAY ASPIRATIONS. 
 
 Else -why this restless longing to inquire 
 
 Into Thy hidden wonders — this desire 
 
 To read Thy book of stars, and see Thy power 
 
 Of silent working in the Summer flower ? 
 
 Do I not worship when Thy lightnings break 
 
 Through the mid cloud-realm ; when Thy thunders speak 
 
 With a tremendous eloquence, that thrills 
 
 The stony hearts of all the stalwart hills ? 
 
 And in Thy other voices, which are heard, 
 
 From tiny organ of rejoicing bird ; 
 
 From lapse of waters, twinkling as they run : 
 
 From bees assiduous in the sultry sun ; 
 
 From leaves made tremulous by every breeze, 
 
 And the grand choir of stormy winds and seas, 
 
 Do I not hear in every sound a tone 
 
 Which speaks of Thy transcendent touch alone ? 
 
 Thy grandeur, scattered with a goodly hand 
 O'er the upheaving breast of every land, 
 Hung in the boundless palace of the skies. 
 Fleeting or fixed to my enamoured eyes ; 
 Holding an ancient solitary reign 
 O'er the mysterious empire of the main; 
 Clothing Thy change of seasons, ever rife 
 With mute and passive, loud and stirring life — 
 All glad my eye, and purify my heart 
 With joy and gloiy, of Thyself a part. 
 Till filled and blended with the things I see 
 I deem them symbols of. Thy love and Thee ! 
 
 Soul-searcher, Heart-sustainer ! humbly now, 
 With the young year's first breathings on my brow,
 
 NEW yeae's day aspikations. 109 
 
 With a fresh dawn expanding on my sight, 
 Melting the morning star's concentred light — 
 I ask thy holy henison, and pray 
 That thou wilt watch me from this very day, 
 As Wisdom watches o'er a wayward child, 
 Bidding me stand erect and uudefiled ! 
 Gird me with high resolves, and such desires 
 As fill the spirit with serener fires — 
 Which shine upon and warm, but not destroy 
 The seeds of virtue, and the flowers of joy. 
 Let not the worldling with insidious power, 
 Beguile me from Thee for a single hour ; 
 Xor dim the "magic mirror" of my mind, 
 Hoodwink my judgment, smite my reason blind; 
 Nor freeze the well of charity, that flows 
 Freighted with feelings for all human woes ; 
 Nor stir my meaner passions, till I rise 
 A strange anomaly to good mens' eyes. 
 But let the lamp, which Thou hast lit within 
 This frail receptacle of grief and sin. 
 Fed by the life of Thine enduring love 
 Burn on, aspiring to its source above — 
 A pure and steady guiding light to fame, 
 A sacred altar-fire in honour of Thy name. 
 And as Thou spar'st me for a little while. 
 Lend me Thy heart-regenerating smile ; 
 Expunge my countless errors of the past, 
 Till my life's record, stainless at the last, — 
 The good acknowledged, and the ill forgiven, 
 Stand as my passport to Thy blessed Heaven !
 
 no 
 
 TO A YOUNG POETESS. 
 
 I know thou hast within thee, child of dreams, 
 
 Songs which have not been uttered — veins of thought 
 As rich and rare as ever genius wrought, 
 
 Brightening thine inmost soul with golden gleams. 
 
 Enthusiast of the Muse! thy dark eye beams 
 Light intellectual; thy youthful cheek 
 Looks tinged with fancies which thou wilt not speak, 
 
 And through thy heart affection's current streams. 
 
 Vanish thy maiden fears ! it well beseems 
 A gifted one of Poesy to sing : 
 Pisanimate thy harp and bid it ring 
 
 Loudly, but sweetly, to a thousand themes — 
 
 Express the yearnings of thy soul, till fame 
 
 Yield thee a wreath of light to crown thy after name.
 
 Ill 
 
 A STRAY LEAF. 
 
 I am a commercial clerk, and a bachelor, on the shady slope of fortj, 
 doubtful concerning the advantages of single blessedness, but decidedly 
 confirmed in my attachment to books and brown studies. Undisturbed by 
 conjugal claims, cares, and responsibilities ; hokling myself aloof from the 
 stir and turmoil of the volatile or vexed world, I give myself up to the 
 indulgence of such quiet enjoyments as nature and the productions of 
 great minds cheaply and abundantly afford me. Politics I instinctively eschew; 
 poetry, in all her forms, has exhaustless treasures and attractions for me. 
 One is, to me, as the whirl and confusion of the maelstrom ; the other the 
 tranquillizing lapse and music of a summer stream. Such being my pre- 
 dilections, my evening hours are generally spent sweetly and profitably with 
 my pen, my books, my music, and the delicious reveries they superinduce, 
 I forget for a time the hard, matter of fact monotonies of the ledger, for 
 the loftier meanings of diviner pages, and deep, and solemn, and consolatory 
 are my communings with my own soul, and the deathless legacies of genius 
 that lie about me. Nor does the slowly burning incense of my friendly 
 pipe — vulgar and prosaic as many deem such an indulgence — deaden or 
 deteriorate my mental recreations. On the contrary, it disposes me to a 
 calm, reflective, and benevolent frame of mind, it re-awakes the dormant 
 memory, and loosens far a wider flight the impatient wings of imagination. 
 Many a graceful vision have I seen coming dimly out from its undulating 
 clouds. Under its soothing influence many a gorgeous castle have I built ; 
 many a fairy region have I conjured up in the glowing cinders of my even- 
 ing fire. Many a bright picture of the future has hope created for me ; 
 many a glad and gloomy resurrection of fast things has memory brought
 
 112 A STRAY LEAF. 
 
 vividly before me — things which visit us like dreams, and which are not 
 without their mission, could we but feel them aright, and be encouraged to 
 good, restrained from evil, by their silent and mysterious counsels. At 
 such times, and under such moods, it has often occurred to me that such 
 flitting fancies, such involuntary reminiscences, if immediately seized and 
 recorded, might be rendered interesting, not only to ourselves, to whom 
 they would be as connecting links in our life's history, but to others whose 
 modes of thought and feeling were more or less in harmony with our own. 
 Acting upon this idea, I have, at uncertain intervals, filled a goodly volume 
 with miscellaneous memoranda, fancies, and recollections, of which the 
 following may be taken as " A Stray Leaf." 
 
 THE WELL SPRING. 
 
 " In what does the beauty of an English landscape consist ?" says Lord 
 Jeffrey, " not in the mere mixture of colours and forms, but in the picture 
 of human happiness that is presented to our imaginations and affections, 
 and in the visible and unequivocal signs of comfort, and peaceful and 
 cheerful enjoyment, and of that secure and successful industry which in- 
 sures its continuance, and of the piety by which it is exalted, and by the 
 simplicity by which it is contrasted with the guilt and the fever of a city 
 life — in the images of health, and temperance, and plenty, which it ex- 
 hibits to every eye, — and in the glimpses which it affords to warmer im- 
 aginations of those primitive or fabulous times, when man was not corrupted 
 by luxury and ambition, — and of those humble retreats in which we delight 
 to imagine that love and philosophy may find an unpolluted asylum." 
 
 This passage contains much beauty and truth. All that pertains to the 
 country; its external features, its legends and customs, its hardy and un- 
 sophisticated people, all have an irresistable and undefinable charm sought 
 after and relished by every rank and condition of life, from first childhood 
 of four years to second childhood of four score ; from the rich and refined 
 to the rough, ignorant, and lowly born ; from the lofty in intellect and 
 scholarly acquirements to the poor and helpless idiot, who suns himself by 
 the way-side. "God made the country," says our English-hearted Cowper, 
 and what a multitude of delicious, nay lioly, associations are awakened by
 
 A STRAY LEAF. 113 
 
 the words ! Yes, every object of the fresh, unpolluted country, however 
 grand or minute, is a text upon which a man of genius and feeling might 
 expatiate most largely and eloquently. Nor have our Poets or Essayists 
 left them untouched and unembellished ; if that which is essentially beauti- 
 ful from the hand of God need embellishment from the meaner hand of 
 man. The field-paths and forest-paths, time out of mind the poor man's 
 privileges and possessions, how few would like to see prohibited or de- 
 stroyed ! Old stiles are rife with recollections to which childhood, and 
 even dawning manhood, cling with constant faithfulness and delight. An 
 old dusty mill with its wheel, seeming almost coeval with the stream that 
 propels it, is always a peaceful and picturesque feature in a quiet landscape. 
 A cottage, "garden-girt and ivy-crowned," is not less so. Lovely is a 
 pasture with kine ; a meadow with its mowers ,• a corn-field with its sun- 
 embrowned reapers and gleaners ; vineyards, orchards, and hop-grounds, 
 with their merry fruit gatherers of both sexes. Sublime with its many 
 waters is a mountain pass, and a thunder-storm here does not belie the 
 grandeur of its name and character. Magnificent is a rainbow, flinging its 
 bridge of braided splendours over a broad valley, while every object with 
 its span stands out in clear relief, as in a colossal frame of emerald and 
 gold. Glorious is a stretch of billowy woodland, slumbering in leafy quiet, 
 and serene its sylvan accessaries of stream and dingle, glade, and thicket, 
 thronged with the free denizens of nature. Sweet, with all its litter, and 
 not unmusical, is a farm-yard on a summer's evening. Breezy in homely 
 beauty is a village green; melodious, from association and otherwise, are 
 Tillage bells ; venerable, without gloom, is a village church ; solemn, with- 
 out being repulsive, is a village grave-yard; and is not a village child the 
 very type of hardy freedom and sturdy joy ? And a village maiden, if not 
 spoiled by adventitious circumstances, a specimen of glowing health and 
 inartificial grace ? Pleasant to the eye is an old gate (the more rickety the 
 better) ; a rustic bridge, with a brook slipping musically beneath it ; and 
 pleasant to many senses is an old moss-lined, fern-fringed, and hawthorn- 
 shaded Spring Well ! 
 
 Aye, the Spring Well! From time immemorial has it been an object 
 of interest. How often does its sweet name occur in Sacred Writ. In 
 imagination I behold Jacob, weary, athirst, and reflective, sit down by the 
 Well of Haran ; and I see approaching, for the purpose of drawing water, 
 
 I
 
 114 A STRAY LEAF, 
 
 a graceful, dignified, and dark-eyod maiden. She hesitates at sight of the 
 stranger; it is but for a moment. With the instinctive kindness and cour- 
 tesy of a true woman, she draws near, and the stranger, rising and ap- 
 proaching her, salutes her with a frank but respectful kiss. He then takes 
 her vessel, plunges it into the pure lymph, and bears it, cool and brim- 
 ming, to her panting flock, while her large oriental eyes gaze after him as 
 he performs the kindly office. By the feeling awakened in her heart at 
 beholding this simple action of good nature has Eachael unconsciously 
 plighted herself to her future husband, and Jacob has, as unconsciously 
 reciprocated it, as with a smile of earnest admiration he reads the blushing 
 face of the damsel. 
 
 Perhaps you are not travelled, dear reader : no more am I ; but let us 
 fancy a Well, and bow immeasurably welcome it must be, in the Desert. 
 The laden and promiscously assembled caravan has held its toilsome way 
 over the burning and trackless waste, beneath the blaze of a blistering sun, 
 for many daj's, and ivilhuut tvater. The terrible simoom has crossed 
 them, darkening the sky, breathing death, and leaving many a beast of 
 burden, many a human being, festering in the hot sands, as evidences of 
 its wrath. The shattered remnant of adventurers toil on, till the horses 
 and camels scent water afar off, and are difficult to be restrained. They 
 near the well, they see it, they reach it, and having satisfied the impatient 
 cravings of nature, they encamp around it for the night. In the midst of 
 a little oasis bubbles up the well, whose superfluous waters keep fresh and 
 green a rood's breadth of otherwise arid ground. Perhaps a solitary palm 
 spires up beside it, and with the shadow of its broad plumes keeps cool 
 the pellucid blessing. Here the travellers gather in picturesque groups ; 
 and some who but an hour ago felt it pain to talk, and were startled at the 
 sound of their own voices, are grown suddenly loquacious. The tale of 
 past adventure is recounted, the song of hope and home is sung, the prayer, 
 different in form as in faith, is offered up, and each betakes himself to 
 slumber or contemplation, — with, oh ! what dreams and memories ! — while 
 the placid stars, shining more and more intensely as the night sets deeply 
 in, bestrew the heavens, a wilderness of splendour — more splendid because 
 in contrast to the dark and sterile vastness of the wilderness beneath. 
 With the first glimpse of the returning sun comes busy preparation, for 
 the caravan, knowing that " Cairo sickens at the long delay," is mustering
 
 A STEAY LEAF. 115 
 
 for the march. Another keen draught is taken from the precious spring, 
 vessels are replenished, haggage is replaced and buckled on, the word for 
 departure is given, and with many a wistful look behind, the Desert 
 Wanderers slowly proceed on their perilous and dreary journey. But sup- 
 pose that the Well had been found dry — choked up with drifting sands — 
 a not unfrequent occurrence in these desolate regions, who may paint the 
 horror, the helplessness, the despair, the utter abandonment of exertion, 
 consequent upon so deplorable a disappointment ? Imagination droops 
 before the picture she has drawn, and forbears description. 
 
 But luy business is chiefly with English Well Springs. Is there an 
 English heart so dead to nature and memory as not to thrill with pleasure 
 at the name ? The English Well is to be found in green lanes and bosky 
 nooks, on hill sides, and even on mountain tops. In a fit of poetical en- 
 thusiasm I made the ascent of Suowdon, in 1842. It was in the middle 
 of June; the day was gloriously clear, but intensely overpowering. The 
 ascent was long and toilsome, and with a want of foresight which cannot 
 be laid to the charge of mountain tourists generally, I had not provided 
 myself with refreshment, wherewith to sustain myself by the way. Nei- 
 ther scrip nor flask dangled from my shoulders. Completely exhausted and 
 burning with thirst I reached the summit, with the pleasant reflection, 
 that two or three mortal hours must intervene ere I could gratify my un- 
 conquerable craving for drink. Notwithstanding this, I felt the full beauty 
 and grandeur of the scene ; yet the lakes in the hollows of the hills, with 
 a most tantalizing freshness and placidity, seemed to beckon me afar off. 
 Sauntering about in a mood of abstraction, I observed a line of moisture, 
 stealing along, and greening in its course the scanty heath. Following this 
 to its source, I came upon a tiny well, " Scarce broader than a maiden's 
 looking glass," which bubbled up with a clearness and coolness delicious in 
 the extreme. Need I say how it was enjoyed, and how the little Naiad 
 that presided over it was thanked from my inmost heart? And what a 
 sublime locality for a Spring Well — placed amid utter solitude and silence 
 more than three thousand feet above the ordinary level of the earth ! How 
 calmly it lies araong the wildest scenes and Oi?erations of nature ! The 
 winds sing mournfully around it ; the lightening quivers on its tranquil 
 face; thundera shake it into ripples; the clouds sit softly down upon it; 
 the rain beats it into a thousand dimples ; the snow-llake melts into its
 
 116 A STRAY LEAF. 
 
 limpid bosom ; the frost turns it into a transparent petrifaction, a solid mir- 
 ror for the stars, which crowd it with half a hemisphere of eternal 
 splendours ; the lordly eagle makes it his drinking cup ; the lonely sheep 
 dip their patient noses in it; and, oh I superlative bathos! the well-con- 
 ditioned cockney tourist draws therefrom a qualification for the too ardent 
 fire of his brandy-flask, and owns that, next to the view from Greenwich 
 Hill, the sceneUs "chawming." Poor, narrow, muddy, pigmy souls! how 
 came ye here ? 
 
 One of the saddest and sweetest recollections of my early life is asso- 
 ciated with a spring well, which I have not seen these twenty-five years, 
 but which is indelibly impressed upon my memory. It is, or was, situated 
 on the borders of an old forest, in a secluded nook, which the peasantry of 
 that romantic region knew by the sweet name of " Bluebell IIollow," from 
 the lavish number of that graceful flower that grew there, and tinged with 
 sleepy azure the neighbouring slopes. I was then a stripling on a summer 
 ■visit to the family of an uncle I had not before seen. I was received with 
 a most cordial welcome by the whole family, among which was a fair-haired, 
 blue-eyed, and sunny-spirited female cousin, about my own age. She 
 attached me immediately, by a new, delicious, and mysterious sympathy, 
 which I took no pains to inquire into or control. I became in a few days 
 as one of the household, taking part in their labours, hopes, joys, and 
 pastimes. I was a favourite and familiar with all ; but my sweetest, hap- 
 piest, and most romantic hours, were spent with my bewitching cousin, 
 Fanny Franklin. It was her evening custom to repair to the fountain of 
 " Bluebell Hollow" for water, and it became my custom, and my pleasure 
 too, to bear her company. How we toyed by the way ; how we lingered 
 at the well in confidential chat, till the twilight set in, or the unwelcome 
 presence of gossiping villagers sent us away, — how I insisted upon re- 
 lieving her of her burden, and chose the smoothest paths for her, and helped 
 her over the styles, and opened the crazy gates for her, and kicked the 
 obstructing stones from beneath her footsteps, and how she with a bewitch- 
 ing and provoking coquetry opposed my wishes, and laughed at my anxiety 
 till the startled woods rang again — matters little to my readers. Let it 
 suffice that my soul was immersed in the fulness and freshness of a pure, 
 unselfish, and unreasoning first love. 
 
 Alas! just, when my hopes of securing her love began to brighten —
 
 A STRAY LEAF. 1 1 T 
 
 just, as I fondly imagined that she inclined a more serious ear to my awk- 
 ward but earnest wooing ; when the meadows were in the fulness of their 
 beauty, when the mowers were looking up and sharpening their scythes for 
 the harvest, and when I anticipated sharing with her the delightful labours 
 of the sweet and sunny fields, — poor Fanny was seized with a malignant 
 fever, which almost cost her life. 
 
 With skilful aid and excellent nursing, in which I was ever ready to 
 take a devoted part, she passed the doubtful crisis of the disease, and hope 
 once more beamed on our anxious faces. One bright afternoon, when she 
 no longer needed constant attendance, and while the family were busy re- 
 moving and housing the remains of the harvest, I stole up into her little 
 chamber — a snug dormitory, and a fitting sanctuary for so fair a thing. 
 Through [the small open lattice, bedecked with snowy curtains, came the 
 mingled odours of the woodbine and the hayfield, and a stray bee hummed 
 to and fro a low and drowsy song. Fanny lay musingly awake, pale but 
 beautiful — languid, but exceeding lovely. She lifted up her eyes, and 
 murmured as she recognized me, — " Ah ! dear Cousin ; is that you ? I 
 have been making pictures with my eyes shut ; I have been looking in at 
 ' Bluebell Hollow,' and fancying how delicious a draught of water would 
 be, fresh from the well. I really believe it would do me good." " And if 
 you believe so," I said eagerly, " you shall have it. Be patient for fifteen 
 minutes — and not a word of my purpose." I slid out of the house with a 
 pitcher, took the nearest and shadiest way, filled my vessel at the spring, 
 covered it with broad fern leaves, and wreathed it about with bunches of 
 bluebells, hurried back, and reached the little sick room, undiscovered by 
 the family. I raised the dear invalid, and held the brimming and odourous 
 vessel to her parched lips. She drank eagerly and deeply, repaying me 
 with a glance of such grateful and elocjueut meaning that I was overpowered 
 with joy. From that moment she recovered rapidly, and ere another fort- 
 night elapsed, I led her leaning on my arm once more to " Bluebell Hollow," 
 where I spent an hour with her of such pure, trancjuil, and unmixed hap- 
 piness as has not since fallen to my lot. Yet this golden opportunity failed 
 to inspire me with the courage to declare my love. I too fondly flattered 
 myself that my impassioned looks, tender but vague words, and delicate 
 attentions, could not but be correctly interpreted in my favour ; and when 
 shortly afterwards I was compelled to return home, when I had taken her
 
 118 A STRAY LEAF. 
 
 by the hand, and uttered the sad word " Farewell," she looked wistfully 
 and sorrowfully in my face, as if she expected me to say more — something 
 more warm than the ordinary words of parting friends. Alas! the feelings 
 which were tumultuous in my heart were too big for speech, and kissing 
 her pale cheek I hurried away, catching a brief glance at her drooping 
 figure as an abrupt turn in the road shut her out from my view. 
 
 The crowd and turmoil of our mighty town brought a temporary relief 
 to my regretful spirit; but as I settled down to my everyday avocations, 
 the sweet vision of Fanny Franklin, leaning on the well side in " Bluebell 
 Hollow," rose frequently before me, and blotted out the objects that were 
 actually around me. Even amid the bustle of the busy street I beheld it, 
 and on my pillow I took a melancholy pleasure in contemplating it, till it 
 gradually melted into my sleep, and coloured all my dreams. Months 
 passed, and my passion still haunted me, more intense, more powerful if 
 possible, than at first; but with my usual timidity and procrastination I 
 forbore to acquaint the dear object of it with the real state of my feelings. 
 At length, however, I made a desparate effort, wrote a long letter, glowing 
 and explicit, and despatched it at once, with the secret triumph of one con- 
 fident of success. It urns too late. I received for answer that another had 
 offered and been accepted, and that preparations were even then making for 
 the wedding, at which I was invited, but not strongly urged, to be present. 
 I was laid prostrate for a time, but not being destined to die of the heart- 
 ache, 1 survived the shock, and became utterly indifferent to the whole 
 sex. I did not shun their society ; on the contrary, I took a pleasure in 
 it — but I was invulnerable to love , my first passion for woman had budded, 
 bloomed, was withered, and buried in my heart, and there was no room for 
 a second. Like a young and imaginative reader, who had revelled in, and 
 just finished, a new and wondrous book, I had reached the end of my ro- 
 mance; but unlike that reader, I dared not open another, lest the delightful 
 impressions of one should be obliterated by the cold common places of an 
 inferior volume. I resumed my constitution gravity and tranquillity, but 
 the brief light which gave warmth and colour to my inner existence was 
 gone, and nothing might replace it. 
 
 Seven years fiew over my head, and I was settling down into a sedate 
 bachelor, when one holiday, busied with the quietest but most eloquent 
 companions — my books, a visitor was announced, and ere I could well rise
 
 A STRAY LEAF. 1 1 9 
 
 from my chair, I was met by the goodly presence of a plump, rosy woman, 
 followed by a man of rough, stalwart proportions, holding by the hand two 
 bonny, boisterous children. Could it be ? Yes, it was — cousin Fanny, 
 my quondam idol, but how different ! I left her a very sylph — airy, delicate, 
 and gleesome as Ariel ; I found her fair, fat, and not " forty," but twenty- 
 six, a matronly, comfortable-looking, and rattle-pated, pleasant woman, 
 but divested of the poetry with which my memory and imagination had de- 
 lighted to encircle her. I was surprised to see her, and, considering our 
 old acriuaintance, confused and awkward at receiving her. She soon put 
 me to rights, however, by her cordial off-hand manner, introduced her hus- 
 band, evidently a worthy but prosaic fellow, and her children, one of which 
 she had named after myself, in consideration, as she said, of our early 
 friendship. Friendship ! too light and cold a word for my own young feel- 
 ings; whether for her's or not she alone could tell. After a few days I 
 parted with " cousin Fanny" with kindly feelings, but with perfect uncon- 
 cern, for I could not, somehow, identify her with my youthful passion, but 
 "cousin Fanny" as she was, enshrined in the shadow and greenery of 
 " Bluebell Hollow," is still a pleasant memory, a poetic reminiscence of 
 my early days. 
 
 Another recollection of a Spring Well remains to be told. Two miles 
 from my native town was a little woody dingle, named Barley-brook Wood, 
 It was my favourite resort between ray childhood and boyhood. Many a 
 happy afternoon stolen from school have I passed in that shadowy retreat. 
 There, with some glorious book, such as the Arabian Nights, the Seven 
 Champions of C'liristendom, or Robinson Crusoe, have I revelled in the 
 mysteries and splendors of poetry and romance. At the bottom of the 
 dingle ran a brooklet ever clear and musical. Near to the brook was a 
 well, ancient, mossy, and constantly brimful. What delicious draughts 
 have I imbibed therefrom, during the sultry days of summer 1 In what 
 delicious reveries have I plunged my spirit as I sat quiet and absorbed on 
 its dripping brink, while bird, bee, brook, and breeze soothed my ear and 
 heart with their mingled and harmonious sounds. Close to the well was 
 an enormous stone, at least a ton in weight, smoothed and rounded by the 
 winds and rains of countless seasons. How ic came their nobody could tell. 
 There were no rocky eminences from which it could have fallen ; there were 
 no other stones about it larger than the common pebbles of the brook ; it
 
 1''iO A STRAY LEAF. 
 
 bore no marks of the hand of man ; it did not appear as if it had been hewn 
 from the quarry. As far as my memory serves me it was a vast boulder, 
 standing alone, and remarkable for its singularity. There was a tradition, 
 or saying, among the simple of the neighbouring hamlets that this Fairy 
 Stone, as it was usually called, when it heard the curfew bell of the distant 
 town, turned round thrice, and settled in its original position. I had never 
 an opportunity of witnessing with my own eyes the evening gyrations of 
 this wonderful stone, yet with the ready credulity of childhood I implicitly 
 believed in its ascribed mysterious powers of motion. As my thinking 
 faculties expanded I discovered a lurking, artful evasiveness in the words 
 " when it heard" the sound of the bell, and the romantic spell was dis- 
 solved. But the well : how many picturesque groups have I seen about 
 it! Many a slim waist have I seen encircled, many a rosy lip impressed 
 there. Many a soul-sent laugh, many a sad old ballad have I heard 
 wakening the echoes of the dingle. To many an artless confession of 
 love ; to many a tale of village scandal have I been the unheeded listener 
 by that'old well. Many a time as the summer twilight fell upon it, and 
 deepened the umbrage of its neighbouring trees, have I sauntered home, 
 careless of the chiding or the chastisement that awaited me for my wander- 
 ing propensities, wrapt in the fancies that indicated the incipient poetry in 
 my soul, fancies which have since found a voice, feeble perchance, but 
 such as has not been wholly unheard and unappreciated. 
 
 I left this romantic locality while yet a boy, while there was yet " a 
 splendour in the grass, a glory in the flower." But the " boy was father 
 of the man," and after twenty years of toil, sorrow, and shifting about, I 
 revisited the spot, — now, alas, how changed ! No, well, no]^ trees, no Fairy 
 Stone, presented themselves to my bewildered view. The brook was therei, 
 but foul and streaming with the gas and refuse of an adjacent manufactory. 
 The dingle could be traced, but it was being gradually filled and blackened 
 with the rubbish of a profitable coal mine beneath. Hugh chimneys 
 poured blackness on the eye, aud defiled all the landscape, while the whirr 
 of wheels, the clang of hammers, the boom of gigantic engines, smote the 
 ear, and confused the imagination. Science and Enterprise had invaded 
 the ground ; Nature had succumbed, thrown off her external charms, and 
 rendered up the secrets of her bosom to the indomitable energy of man. 
 Silence, and beauty, and poetry, had retreated to remoter places, perhaps
 
 A STRAY LEAF. 1"21 
 
 to be again disturbed by the ever-advancing footsteps of that spirit of 
 change and progress which is the prevailing characteristic of our stirring 
 times. Disappointed, but not despairing, I left the spot, and my thoughts 
 and feelings, taking the shape of verse, found inadequate utterance in the 
 following poem, which brings to a conclusion a few of my recollec- 
 tions and associations of Spring Wells, and thus ends one of my " Stray 
 Leaves." 
 
 R
 
 122 
 
 THE WOODLAND WELL. 
 
 I shall ever remember that morning of May 
 
 When I wandered to watch the first footsteps of day ; 
 
 When I made a green path through the silvery dew, 
 
 And trampled the feather-like fern where it grew. 
 
 Untutored, but thoughtful, I then was a child, 
 
 In love with the silence that reigned in the wild. 
 
 And thus by the power of invisible spell, 
 
 I was led to the brink of the bright Woodland Well ! 
 
 Sweet shadowy place of my musing, thy spring 
 Seemed ever a buoyant and beautiful thing, 
 As its waters leapt up from the depths of the ground 
 With a flash and a sparkle, a bubble and bound : 
 They sang in the shade, and they laughed in the light, 
 As blythe as the birds in their first summer flight, — 
 Then onward they went with a low pleasant voice, 
 Like bees in the sunshine let loose to rejoice. 
 Through banks sloping down from the green twilight bowers, 
 On — on was their march through a legion of flowers, 
 Which, shaking their bells as the waters passed by, 
 Paid homage in many an odorous sigh ;
 
 THE WOODLAND WELL. 123 
 
 Let fancy pursue them for many a mile, 
 
 Througli forests that frown, and through meadows that smile, 
 
 Through many a valley, and corn-field, and lea, 
 
 Till they mingle with rivers that rush to the sea. 
 
 Come back to the woodland, come back to the well, 
 That musical mirror of Barley- wood dell, — 
 That treasure of crystal, to memory dear, 
 Exhaustless and restless for many a year. 
 When the I'ose folded up at the close of the day. 
 And the rich hues of sunset waned slowly away. 
 The light-footed maiden would step o'er the stile, 
 To I'eplenish her pitcher, and tarry awhile, 
 Till her lover would steal through the shadowy bower 
 To snatch from e.N:istence one rapturous hour ; 
 They would talk and caress, they would laugh, they would sing, 
 Till the bird in the bough, with a tremulous wing. 
 Would start from its slumber, and wheel round its nest. 
 Till silence restored brought it back to its rest. 
 Could that fountain have told all the secrets that fell 
 From the lips of the loving that met in the dell, 
 What a stoiy of truthfulness, sorrow, or gladness. 
 Of moments of ecstacy, followed by sadness, 
 Of vows that were uttered too soon to be broken. 
 Of hearts that were won by the words that were spoken. 
 Some lovely and lost one might thither repair. 
 And drop in its waters the tears of despair ; 
 Perchance e'en the faitliful, the tender, the true, 
 Might return to the spot former joys to renew. 
 And allude to the past, with no wish to forget 
 The enchantment fhat hung round the place where they met.
 
 124 THE WOODLAND WELL, 
 
 In gloomy December, or glorious June, 
 
 That fountain unceasingly rairror'd the skies ; 
 The meteor, the sun, and the silver-bowed moon. 
 The stars, with their numberless magical eyes ; 
 The vapour-built cloud, with its protean form, 
 Whether pausing in calm, or pursued by the storm. 
 All — all in their turn o'er its surface would pass, 
 Like dreams over Fancy's mysterious glass ; 
 Those visions of splendour and darkness that creep 
 Through the brain of the Bard in the season of sleep. 
 
 Such — such was the well that I knew as a child, 
 In its green nook of quietness never defiled ; 
 But, alas ! after twenty long winters of strife 
 In the crowded arena of many-hued life, 
 I flew to revisit with feelings of joy 
 The scene which had made my romance when a boy, 
 And found it, not what I had left it, a spot 
 Where quiet, and beauty, and pleasure were not ; 
 For the bold foot of Mammon had dared to intnide 
 On the sylvan recesses of Barley-brook Wood. 
 The trees were uprooted, the fern and the flowers 
 No longer grew gay in the sunlight and showers ; 
 The well was laid bare, and its waters conveyed 
 To be tortured and tossed in the uses of Trade ; 
 And the scene which was once my retreat and delight 
 Lay withered, and blackened, and bleak to my sight. 
 No longer the voice of the maiden was heard. 
 Nor the lisp of the leaf, nor the song of the bird. 
 Nor the lapse of the rill, nor the musical moan 
 Of the stream, as it danced over pebble and stone;
 
 THE WOODLAND WELL. 
 
 1^5 
 
 But sounds of rude clangour invaded the ear, 
 Whicli changed mto discord the wild echoes near ; 
 Like a pilgrim returned to the home of his birth, 
 When all that he loved has departed from earth, 
 I linger'd awhile in the thraldom of thought, 
 To mourn o'er the ruin that Mammon had brought, 
 Then turned me away from the desolate scene, 
 As though, save in fancy, it never had been. 
 
 But still in my moments of grief and of gloom. 
 It comes, like a picture, in beauty and bloom. 
 As green and as silent, as fresh and as bright. 
 As when I first found it by May's morning light, 
 And though I look back with a sigh of regret, 
 The Well and the Woodland remain with me yet.
 
 120 
 
 JANUARY. 
 
 A FRAG51ENT. 
 
 He cometli! — the elder-born child of the year, 
 With a turbulent voice, and a visage austere ; 
 But his cold callous hand, and his boreal breath, 
 Prepare for new life the loni relics of death ! 
 To-day he is sullen, and solemn, and wild, — 
 To-morrow, as calm as a slumbering child. 
 To-day he is weeping a black, chilly dew, — 
 To-morrow, he smileth the weary waste through. 
 To-day he enrobes him in hues of the night, — 
 To-morrow in garments respleudently white. 
 A changeling in temper, but ever sublime, 
 Is this moody, "mad offspring of stern winter time. 
 
 ' Tis eventide. Roof d and shut in from the storm, 
 How dear is the hearthstone, so laughing and warm ! 
 Where my cat sits composing her puritan face, 
 And my dog at my feet has his privileged place ; 
 While a friend I have tried, and a wife that is true. 
 And a sweet child of promise, all smile in my view ! 
 With the blessing of books, and a spirit to feel 
 The glory and goodness their pages reveal, 
 I cling to the gods of my household — and hark ! 
 Like a sorrowful outcast, that roams in the dark : 
 The wind waileth by, and the fierce falling rain 
 Kuockcth loud at my window, but knocketh in vain.
 
 JANUARY. 127 
 
 With the time-cherished legend, the heart-waking song, 
 
 With the prattle of childhood that never seems wrong ; 
 
 With the voice of my friend in good humoured dehate, 
 
 And the smile of my wife, as she listens sedate. 
 
 I feel the infusion of Heavenly things 
 
 As the hours huny past on invisible wings : 
 
 Then a shake of the hand, and a look at the sky 
 
 Where the stars through a cloud-rift are winking on high. 
 
 And I turn with a satisfied calmness of breast 
 
 Unto sleep, and the dream-life that covers my rest. 
 
 We sleep ! But the Giver of sleep is awake, 
 For the snow, with its frost-fashioned, feathery flake, 
 Floats earthward, and falls on the bosom of night 
 With as silent a touch as the pulses of light. 
 Behold! through the mist of the dubious morn,— 
 His round, ruddy face of its bright tresses shorn, 
 The sun, like a reveller stealing to bed, 
 Affords but a glimpse of his comfortless head ; 
 But he freshens, and lo ! like a fame-eaten scroll 
 Back — back from its beamings the fog-billow's roll, 
 And we mark with delight on our dim lattice pane. 
 But yesterday dull'd with a deluge of rain — 
 Quaint pictures of wavelet, and tendril, and cui'l, 
 Arrayed in the moon-coloured tints of the pearl ; 
 And woodland and waterfall, temple and tree. 
 And shapes of the coralline depths of the sea 
 In dainty confusion most cunningly tossed 
 By the fanciful pencil of frolicsome Frost. 
 
 I am out. (Who would prison his senses by walls, 
 When health-holy natui'e so lonngly calls ?)
 
 128 OANUART. 
 
 I am out — and my veins and my vision are rife 
 With a positive feeling of glorious life : 
 For my step is a triumph, my breathing a joy, 
 My thoughts a sweet madness unmixed with alloy. 
 I am out in the country, and who will gainsay 
 That pleasure and profit await me to-day ? 
 
 I am pacing the fields, where a rabble-rout crew . 
 With foot-ball and snow-ball their pastime subdue. 
 I have passed the rude hamlet, all lonely and still, 
 Overtop'd by the fir-feathered crest of the hill ; 
 I am walking the woodlands, whose tribe of old trees, 
 Erect in adversity, baffle the breeze ; 
 Where the many-armed, weather- warped, long-honored oak 
 Seemeth bent with the weight of his white winter cloak ; 
 Where berries, like ruby drops, nestle between 
 The leaves of the holly bough, glossy and green ; 
 Where the pool hath no ripple, the river no sound, 
 And the petrified rill hangs aloof from the ground ; 
 Where the sociable robin, alone on the spray, 
 Saluteth my ear with his querulous lay. 
 And shaketh to earth by the stir of his wings 
 Such jewels as deck not the ermine of kings ! 
 Where the scene hath a beauty no words can disclose, 
 As it lies in a solemn, but splendid repose, 
 And the whole realm of majesty, silence, and light, 
 In the trance of mid-winter, appears to my sight 
 Like the worship of mute and inanimate things. 
 Overshadowed and hushed by Omnipotent wings : 
 And my soul, in accordance with nature lies bare, 
 Overburthened with wordless, but eloquent prayer !
 
 129 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 Sighing, storming, singing, smiling, 
 With her many moods beguiling, 
 
 April walks the wakening earth ; 
 Wheresoe'er she looks and lingers, 
 Wheresoe'er she lays her fingers, 
 
 Some new charm starts into birth. 
 
 Fitful clouds about her sweeping — 
 Coming, going, frowning, weeping — 
 
 Melt in fertile blessings round ; 
 Frequent rainbows that embrace her. 
 And with gorgeous girdles grace her, 
 
 Drop in flowers upon the ground. 
 
 Gay and green the fields beneath her, 
 Blue the broad unfathomed ether 
 
 Bending o'er her bright domain ; 
 Full the buds her hands are wreathing, 
 Fresh the breezes round her breathing. 
 
 Fair her footprints on the plain.
 
 130 APRfL. 
 
 Daisies sprinkle mead aud moimtaiu, 
 Violets by the mossy fountain 
 
 Ope their velvet vesture wide ; 
 Cowslips bloom in open splendour, 
 But the primrose, pale and tender. 
 
 In lone places doth abide. 
 
 Nature now hath many voices — 
 Every living thing rejoices 
 
 In the spirit of the time ; 
 Winds with leaves in whispers dally, 
 Streams run singing down the valley, 
 
 In the gladness of the prime. 
 
 Larks have long been up and chanting, 
 And the woodland is not wanting 
 
 In the sounds we love to hear ; 
 For the thrush calls long and loudly. 
 And quaint echo answers proudly 
 
 From romantic hollows near. 
 
 Now the cuckoo, " blythe new comer," 
 Faithful seeker of the summer 
 
 Wheresoe'er its footsteps be. 
 Sits in places calm and lonely 
 And, in measured cadence only. 
 
 Sends wild music o'er the lea.
 
 APRIL. 131 
 
 Who doth not delight to hear her ? 
 Children's careless ej'es grow cleai'er 
 
 As they look and listen long ; 
 Manhood pauses on his travel, 
 Age endeavours to unravel 
 
 Old thoughts waking at her song. 
 
 Unbeliever, wan and wasted. 
 
 If the cup which thou hast tasted 
 
 Turns to poison as it flows, 
 Come, while gentler spirits call thee, 
 Let her summons disenthrall thee 
 
 Of thy weakness and thy woes. 
 
 With the world if thou art wearv. 
 If with doubt thy soul be dreary — 
 
 Crushed thy generous heart with care- 
 There is hope and there is healing. 
 Purer fancy, nobler feeling, 
 
 In this free, untainted air. 
 
 Mark this flowret, sweetly peeping 
 From the sod, where safe and sleeping 
 
 It hath lain the winter through — 
 How it opens with soft seeming, 
 To the breeze, and to the beaming 
 
 Of the sun-shower and the dew.
 
 132 APRIL. 
 
 God hath made it, fed it, trained it 
 Into beauty, and maintained it 
 
 For thy use and solace, man ; 
 Can such Guardian be forgetful 
 Of the selfish, sinful, fretful 
 
 Human portion of his plan ? 
 
 All is gladness, all is beauty — 
 Nature with instinctive duty 
 
 Lifts her joyous homage high ; — 
 Why should'st thou, with gloom ungrateful, 
 Turn on goodly things a hateful 
 
 Thankless heart, a scornful eye ? 
 
 Wayward, wilful though thou seemest, 
 Dark and doubtful though thou deemest 
 
 The Eternal's glory, power, and name ; 
 Nature, true to her designing, 
 Goeth on without repining, 
 
 Ever changing, yet the same. 
 
 All thy thoughts are full of error ; 
 Disappointment, strife, and terror 
 
 Make thy journey sad and rough ; 
 Nature never can deceive thee, 
 But of half thy cares relieve thee, 
 
 If thou have but faith enough :
 
 APRIL. ]33 
 
 Faith to feel that all her wonders, 
 
 Stars, flowers, seasons, calms, and thunders. 
 
 Seas that rave, and streams that roll, 
 Are God's every day revealings — 
 Mute and many-toned appealings 
 
 To thine apathetic soul. 
 
 Come and v.oo her — she will bless thee ; 
 Let her fresh free winds caress thee — 
 
 Let her smiles thy love repay : 
 Come while she is proudly wearing 
 Bridal gai-ments, and preparing 
 
 For the festival of May.
 
 134 
 
 JULY. 
 
 Proudly, lovely, and serenely, 
 
 Power and passion in lier eye, 
 With an aspect calm and queenly, 
 
 Comes tlie summer nympb, July — 
 Crowned with azure, clothed with spleudour, 
 
 Gorgeous as an eastern bride, 
 While the glowing hours attend her 
 
 O'er the languid landscape wide, 
 
 Now the mantle of Aurora 
 
 Streams along the morning skies, 
 But the bridal wreath of Flora 
 
 Loses half its sweets and dyes. 
 Fierce the noontide glory gushes, 
 
 From the fountains of the sun, 
 And a thousand stains and flushes 
 
 Strew the heavens when day is done.
 
 JULY. 135 
 
 Then the heavy dew-pearls glisten 
 
 In the twilight pure and pale, 
 And the drooping roses listen 
 
 To the love-lorn nightingale : 
 While the stars come out and cluster 
 
 With a dim and dreamy light, 
 And the moon's pervading lustre 
 
 Takes the sternness from the night. 
 
 Scarce the weary lark betakes him 
 
 To his ground-nest on the plain, 
 Than retmniing day-spring wakes him 
 
 Into gladsome voice again ; 
 Scarce the dew hatli wet the grasses, 
 
 Or the wild flower's curved cup, 
 Than the thirsty sunbeam passes. 
 
 Drinking all its nectar up. 
 
 Now the lurid lightning breaketh 
 
 Through the dull and lingering rack, 
 And the solemn thunder speaketh 
 
 From its cloud-throne bronzed and black. 
 Gleaming in the fitful flashes. 
 
 Swathing all the welkin round, 
 Rain, smit earthward, dances, dashes, 
 
 With a quick, tumultuous sound,
 
 130 JULT. 
 
 As the lightening, rain, and thunder, 
 
 Vanish with the cloven gloom, 
 All the breadth of nature under 
 
 Wakes to beauty and perfume. 
 Birds again essay their voices ; 
 
 Bees renew their devious toil ; 
 Man with grateful heart rejoices 
 
 O'er the promise of the soil. 
 
 Now the harvest-gathered meadows 
 
 With a second green are gay ; 
 Now the wood's enwoven shadows 
 
 Lure us from the dusty way ; 
 More than wont the streams delight us, 
 
 As they run their pleasant race — 
 And the lucid pools invite us 
 
 To their calm and cool embrace. 
 
 Shall T not, as here I wander. 
 
 Soul, and sense, and footstep free. 
 Where the fretful streams meander, 
 
 With a music dear to me — 
 Shall I not remember sadly 
 
 Those who have nor hope nor rest, — 
 Those who cannot know how gladly 
 
 Nature welcomes every guest?
 
 JULY. 137 
 
 Would the dwellers of tlie alleys, 
 
 In the city's stony heart, 
 Could behold these blythesome valleys, 
 
 From their wants and cares apart. 
 Would the pale and patient maiden, 
 
 Martyred at the shrine of Wealth, 
 Could but feel these breezes, laden 
 
 With the priceless blessing, health. 
 
 Would the tiny toiling creatures 
 
 In the noisome mine and mill. 
 On whose withered hearts and features 
 
 Moral mischief works its will ; 
 Would that they might lift their faces 
 
 In this liberal light and air. 
 And perceive the nameless graces 
 
 Of a scene so passing fair. 
 
 Let me homeward by the river, 
 As the golden sunset glows. 
 
 Where the corn-fields swell and shiver 
 To the blandest wind that blows. 
 
 By the woodland brooks that darkle 
 Through the tangles of the glade ; 
 
 By the mossy wells that sparkle 
 
 In the hawthorn's chequered shade.
 
 1 38 JULY. 
 
 Through the dingle deep and bowery, 
 
 Up the pasture paths above, 
 Through the silent lane and flowery, 
 
 Sacred to the vows of love. 
 Homeward, yet I pause, exploring " 
 
 All thy burning breadth of sky. 
 While my spirit sings, adoring 
 
 Him, thy God and mine, July.
 
 139 
 
 C T B E E 
 
 October, a blithe and benevolent fellow, 
 
 Is here with his tresses enwreathed with the vine ; 
 
 His broad visage glowing with purple and yellow, 
 As if he had quaffed of his o\\'n barley-wine. 
 
 His cloud-car of shifting and shadowy whiteness, 
 Up caught in mid air through the welkin careers ; 
 
 His shield is the harvest moon, blest in her brightness, 
 His sword a light sickle, untarnished with tears. 
 
 His crown is a corn-sheaf — magnificent, truly I 
 Which whispers of peace as it waves to and fro ; 
 
 His mantle of forest leaves, shaken down newly, 
 Is clasped with a belt of ripe apple and sloe, 
 
 'Tis a time for thanksgiving, oh let us be grateful 
 For beauties and bounties the season hath brought ! 
 
 The heart of that being is woeful or hateful 
 Who can not, or will not, rejoice as he ought,
 
 MO OCTOBEK. 
 
 The grain in tlie garner, the grape in the presses, 
 Give earnest of plenty, and promise of joy ; 
 
 And the soul, in the language of silence, confesses 
 His goodness, whose mandate can make or destroy. 
 
 Come, walk we the landscape, and cheerfully follow 
 The beck of our free-footed fancies to-day, — 
 
 By wild-wood and river-path, hill-side and hollow. 
 From shadows and sounds of the city away ; 
 
 For children are out on their devious ramble, 
 (Sweet childhood ! I cling to thy memories yet) 
 
 Who rifle the hazle-bough, halt by the bramble. 
 And stain laughing lips with its fruitage of jet. 
 
 How golden the garment of sunlight that covers 
 Earth's manifold features of glory and grace ! 
 
 How teeming with silver the cloud-fleece that hovers 
 Above, in the measureless marvel of space ! 
 
 The solemn old woods how they sadden ! and slumber 
 In gorgeous tranquility, fading though fair, 
 
 As if some rich sunset of hues, without number. 
 Had fallen, and rested in permanence there.
 
 OCTOBER. 141 
 
 The cuckoo is gone, and the swallow prepareth 
 To wing his broad passage to far distant bowers ; 
 
 Some region of splendours and spices, that weareth 
 The freshly-bom beauties of bright summer hoiu's. 
 
 Now turn we our steps, for the lusty sun lieth, 
 O'erhung with his banners of flame, in the west; 
 
 The rook to his cloud-gazing citadel flyeth. 
 
 The hind to his homestead, the steer to his rest. 
 
 Let us feast upon nature, for silence and sadness 
 Will fling their stern fetters about her, ere long ; 
 
 But the heart that is wont to partake of her gladness 
 Will find her, still living and blooming, in song. 
 
 High thought ! that the soul of our mould is immortal ! 
 
 Unwithered, unwasted, by season or time ; 
 That a springtide eternal may open its portal. 
 
 And beckon us in to a happier clime !
 
 143 
 
 AUTUMN 
 
 " Sweet is the quiet prime of Autumn time !" 
 
 A voice, like happy boyhood's, seemed to sing, 
 As half unconscious of the idle rhyme. 
 
 He carroled gaily, like a thoughtless thing. 
 
 " Sweet Autumn time ! though jocund Spring be gone, 
 And Summer's fuller glories, one by one, — 
 Spring, with her lavish wealth of early flowers. 
 And early music in her festal bowers ; 
 Her brief, resplendent rainbows, and her breeze 
 Pdch with the breath of blossom-bearing trees. 
 Which drink the genial sunlight, as 'twere wine 
 Poured from a golden chalice half divine ! 
 Summer, with languishing yet ardent looks 
 That stilled the fretful brawling of the brooks, 
 Till lightnings, born of many a labouring cloud, 
 Elanced their fires, and thunders, low or loud, — 
 Shook to the grateful earth the loosened rain, 
 And woke the waters into voice again. 
 When unmown meadow-lands were full and fair. 
 When slumbrous sounds were in the stirless air
 
 AUTUMN. 113 
 
 Of bee that wavered on its suuuy way, 
 Or weary song-birds' half forgotten lay ; 
 When pleasure dimpled on the shadowy pool, 
 And tangled wood-haunts, still, remote, and cool, 
 Seemed full of sylvan \-isions, quaint and wild, 
 The dainty dream-life of the poet-child, — 
 Though these are gone. Autumnal season, thou 
 Wilt be my teacher and companion now. 
 
 Thy fields all golden with the " embattled " grain ; 
 Thy woods that glow with many a gorgeous stain ; 
 Thy homestead orchards with fair fruit that blush ; 
 Thy jet-bright berries on the bramble bush; 
 Thy rough, ripe, clustering nuts, that hang between 
 The lowly umbrage of the hazel green ; 
 Thy shifting shadows on the silent waste ; 
 Thy lightsome, lonely, lofty clouds that haste 
 Athwart the ethereal wilderness, and stray 
 Like wild flocks scattered on a trackless way ! 
 These, and thy buoyant winds that come and go, 
 While com, fruit, foliage, waver to and fro ;- — 
 These, while the sturdy swain with skilful ease 
 Eeaps the proud produce of the fertile leas, 
 Flinging his merry harvest songs around 
 With the unstinted tribute of the ground, — 
 These can delight, can thrill with nameless joy 
 The restless spirit of the roving boy. 
 
 "A generous, joyous prime hath Autumn time," 
 A voice, like hardy manhood's, seemed to ciy, 
 Breathing a loud, heart-uttered, earnest rhyme, 
 Which rang beneath the mellow morning sky!
 
 144 AUTUMN. 
 
 " Glad Autumn time ! liow leaps the expectant heart 
 At thy blythe coming, laden as thou art 
 With wine to cheer, ■with bread to feed the frame, — 
 Autumn, there's hope and promise in thy name ! 
 Mothers and maids, young men and elders, see 
 What blest abundance clothes the quiet lea, 
 Bring forth the sickle, — bare the encumbered brow, 
 And nerve the lusty arm to labour now ! 
 Behold how droops the heavy harvest down, 
 A gi'aceful plume for Plenty's golden crown ! 
 There, let us bind the prostrate sheaves, the while 
 The noontide sun looks on with kindly smile, 
 And leave the poor man's progeny to glean 
 The scattered wheat-ears that we drop between ! 
 'Tis done : and now the strong and ample wain 
 Receives its load of life-sustaining grain. 
 Uppiled, a trembling pyramid of gold, 
 It moves through stubble, pasture field, and fold, — 
 Through woodland shades, by old romantic ways, 
 Beneath the low broad moon's unclouded gaze. 
 Until we store it, warm and weather proof. 
 Beneath the granary's capacious roof ; 
 And anxious neighbours, unforbidden, come. 
 To share the triumph of our harvest home. 
 The cup is filled, the liberal board is set. 
 But ere we banquet, let us not forget 
 To lift the heart's best homage unto God 
 Who breathed His blessing on the pregnant sod ! 
 Nor let us slight the unexampled few, 
 True to themselves, to natural justice time.
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 U5 
 
 Who crushed the mighty error, and the power 
 That crippled commerce and withheld her dower; 
 That laid its selfish hands upon the soil, 
 Nor sought, nor soothed the home — the heart of toil. 
 That wrong is swept away, and other wrongs, 
 Scared by the eloquence of truthful tongues, — 
 Awed by the press, and perilled by the pen, 
 Shall cease to lord it o'er enlightened men ! 
 Drink we in temperate draughts of generous ale — 
 God speed the plough, the sickle, and the flail ! 
 Ye vintage gatherers, a lowly baud, 
 Ye tillers of the ground in every land ; 
 Men at the spindle, women at the loom, — 
 Poor sempstress, pining in the sunless room, 
 Workers that weary in the perilous mine. 
 Ye toilers, tossed upon the stormy brine ; 
 Smith at the anvil, grinder at the wheel. 
 Lone fisher leaning on thy venturous keel ; 
 Hewers of stone, and builders of the wall, 
 Craftsmen that labour at the bench and stall ; — 
 May health, hope, freedom, plenty, peace, prepare 
 To bless your toils, and make your futvu-e fair ! 
 Help is at hand, the darkness breaks away 
 From the quick dawning of serener day, 
 When ye shall sing in many a grateful rhyme 
 The gifts and glories of the Autumn time." 
 
 " A sweet, yet solemn prime hath Autumn time !" 
 A pensive voice, like Age's, seemed to say, — 
 
 " Each of its warnings hath a tone sublime, 
 Each feature tells of splendour in decay !" 
 
 u
 
 146 AUTUMN. 
 
 Sad Autumn time ! sweet symbol of repose. 
 
 Can I behold thy rich harmonious close, — 
 
 All duties done, all promises fulfilled. 
 
 As an unerring Providence hath willed. 
 
 Nor feel, as Christian ought, a calm desire 
 
 Like thee in finished glory to expire ? 
 
 I hear thy sere leaves, reft by every breeze 
 
 From the forsaken branches of the trees, 
 
 Shiver in air, and fall upon the ground 
 
 With a mysterious eloquence of sound ! 
 
 I hear thy winds witla mournful music sing 
 
 O'er naked fields that wait another spring ; 
 
 Through woods that answer with a fitful moan 
 
 That make their solitudes seem doubly lone ; 
 
 But there's a language in thy tone, a power 
 
 That arms my spirit for the final hour ; — 
 
 A language of high teaching, rich and rife 
 
 With happy promise of immortal life. 
 
 These trees shall bud again — these shades rejoice 
 
 With a full concert of melodious voice ; 
 
 These fields shall smile, these sombre waters play 
 
 In the glad light of renovated day ; 
 
 These skies shall put a gayer garment on 
 
 When needful Winter and his storms are gone : 
 
 But I must lay me in the quiet sod, 
 
 My faith unshaken in the love of God, 
 
 To re-awake in that celestial clime 
 
 Where perfect beauty reigns and knows no fading tune.'
 
 U7 
 
 NORTH WALES. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A POET-FEIEND. 
 
 These records of thy wanderings awake 
 Dear memories of that bold romantic laud, 
 That mingling of the beautiful and grand 
 By God in nature moulded ; where the lake 
 Sleeps in gigantic shadows, and the tower, 
 (Which, crumbling, yet outlives the human power 
 That raised it) of the past records a troublous hourr 
 
 Make holiday once more ; thou hast not seen 
 Cloud-girdled Snowdon's majesty of mien, 
 With all his rock-realm, w'onderful and wide, 
 Where stern Llanberris lifts on either side 
 Twin lakes, his storm-rent citadels of stone, 
 Dark, splintered, inaccessible, and lone ! 
 
 Thou hast not travelled up the sinuous lengtli 
 Of pastoral Conway ; nor beheld the strength 
 And beauty of its waters, as they boom 
 And flash, down leaping, in their glens of gloom.
 
 148 KOKTH WALES. 
 
 Tliou hast not fettered fancy with a spell 
 In grey Carnarvon, stalwart in decay, 
 Which calmly looks npon the busy bay 
 
 With all its chambers desolate and cold, 
 A gaunt " romance in stone," which seems to tell 
 
 A wild, strange story of the days of old. 
 
 Thou hast not trod \nth. pilgiim foot the ground 
 
 Where sleeps the canine martyr of distrust, 
 Poor Gelert, famed in song, as brave a hound 
 As ever guarded homestead, hut, or hall, 
 Or leapt exulting at tlie hunter's call ;. 
 As ever grateful man consigned to dusL 
 
 Enthusiast as thou art, thou hast not heard,. 
 In fair Llangollen's wilderness of chai'ms, 
 (Aloof from city vices and alai'ms.) 
 The bleat of many flocks ; the voice of bird 
 Sweet issuing from the sylvan depths of green 
 Which clothe the quiet slopes of that secluded scene. 
 
 Thou hast not passed the threshold of those homes, 
 Peaceful and far apart, o'er vale and hill — 
 Wliere those of ancient tongue, a simple race, 
 Cherish such virtues as in lordly halls 
 
 Die of neglect, and with glad heart and face 
 Perform harsh duties with a strenuous will. 
 
 Thou hast not listened by their evening fivea 
 To lore, descended unto sons from sires^
 
 NOKTH WALES. 14:9 
 
 Of ghastly legend aucl of oral song 
 
 By Cadwallador and Taleisen made, 
 Eeeording deeds of straggle, stomn, and wrong, 
 When from the Roman's red resistless blade 
 They fled amazed, in peril's bloodiest hour, 
 And in their mountain land withstood the invader's power. 
 
 Would we could go together, and explore, 
 
 With ready means, and minds of kindred mood, 
 Each quiet place that slumbers by the shore. 
 
 And all the inner haunts of solitude ; 
 The cloud-crowned mountain, and the cloven glen. 
 
 Through -which the fretful river leaps and flows ; 
 Swart moors far stretching from the homes of men 
 
 In sullen silence, savage in repose ; 
 Remnants of feudal pride and monkish power, 
 
 By the tenacious ivy clothed and graced, 
 And shepherd-peopled hamlets, grey and mid, 
 
 By circling hills and crowding woods embraced, 
 Where clustering graves, and consecrated tower. 
 Mementos of a hopeful creed and mild. 
 Stand solemnly apart, for feelings undefiled. 
 
 Lakes gjfthered in stern hollows of the land, 
 Swept by the winds in their sublimest might — 
 
 Our eyes should gaze upon, and we should stand 
 Wrapt in tumultuous, but mute delight. 
 
 In presence of fierce watci's, drinking in, 
 
 Till sense and soul were filled, their grandeur and their 
 din.
 
 150 NORTH WALES. 
 
 Aucl we would wauder peusively along 
 
 The yellow beach, communing with the ocean, 
 Oi" sit and listen to the fisher's song, 
 
 Our hearts expanding with a sweet emotion. 
 Till sunset's magical and mingling hues 
 
 Had burned and faded, one by one, away. 
 Leaving the tender twilight to diffuse 
 A silent softness, a transparent grey 
 O'er sky and wave ; till o'er the mountain's rim 
 The moon and her one vassal-star should swim. 
 In the deep ether, with a dreamy light, 
 And call forth other stars to beautify the night. 
 Then for an hour or two we would abide 
 By the snug hostel's ample chimney-side ; 
 Exult o'er toils o'ercome, recount our pleasures, 
 And linger fondly over memory's treasures ; 
 Old times, old rhymes, old bards, old books, old places. 
 New dreams, new hopes, new knowledge, and new faces. 
 
 And we would visit (curious to behold 
 
 The moods, the manners, and the homely life 
 Of Cambria's hardy children, fair and bold, 
 
 The sire, the son, the husband, and the wife.) 
 Quaint towns on festival and market days. 
 
 See bargains made, see purse and pannier laden ; 
 Admire the lusty dance, and in its maze 
 
 Take hands ourselves, with some blythe pleasant 
 maiden ; 
 Exchange the courteous cup, and join the song, 
 (Well as we could in so uncouth a tongue)
 
 NORTH WALES. 151 
 
 Snatch joy from the occasion, and increase 
 
 Our love of social unity and peace ; 
 
 Or, when the Sabbath bell with morning chime 
 
 Broke on the holy stillness of the time — 
 
 To village churches quietly repair, 
 
 And oflfer up the heart's best homage there, 
 
 Eejoicing to behold good seed take birth 
 
 In such remote recesses of the earth ; 
 
 And we would linger by the graves to know 
 
 How lived, how died, the occupant below. 
 
 Learn how the living sorrowed at the loss. 
 
 Yet leaned for strength and comfort on the cross. 
 
 So would we move and meditate awhile 
 In this, the loveliest corner of our isle ; 
 Deep in its glooms and glories would we roam, 
 Till duty and affection called us home . 
 Here to admiring listeners we would tell 
 Of mountain cleft, rough cataract, and dell, 
 That stayed us on our pilgrimage ; of nooks 
 Peopled and peaceful — all untold in books ; 
 Or, left to silence and our thoughts, recall 
 From out the dimness of our cottage wall, 
 Shapes of stern grandeur, looming into light 
 And spots of beauty, soothing to the sight, 
 Transmissions of the memory to drown 
 The common-places of our crowded town : 
 From such warm solace what warm soul can sever ? 
 " A thing of Beauty is a Joy for ever ! "
 
 15-3 
 
 THE MERCHANT AND THE MOURNER. 
 
 I lingered at a lordly gate, before a lordly hall 
 With grove and garden girt around with low and mossy wall, 
 And from the gate a gravelled path swept gracefully and wide, 
 Up to the stately steps beneath the pillared door of pride. 
 
 Within that princely dwelling-place the Painter's master hand 
 Had hung the walls with Poesy from many a lovely land : 
 There soft Italia's sunny vales in quiet semblance smiled, 
 With mountain, lake, and waterfall, from Switzerland the wild. 
 
 And there were books of mental life, in student-like array, 
 More for the solace of the soul than splendour and display ; 
 And goodly instruments of sound were placed in order there. 
 And woke to pleasant voice beneath the fingers of the fair. 
 
 And mirrors, set in massy gold, shed lustre on the sight, 
 And lamps of cunning workmanship diffused a mellow light. 
 And costly carpets clothed the floor, and couches offered ease. 
 And every fireside comfort met the child of wealth to please. 
 
 And in the far-extended grounds triumphant Art had been. 
 To bring within her proper bounds the wild luxuriant scene; 
 There built the rook, there sang the bird of homely English dyes ; 
 There flowers and fruitage blushed and bloomed, in spite of 
 angry skies.
 
 THE MEECIIANT AN-D THE MOURNEB. lo3 
 
 There bowers of shady sotitude alhired the musiug mind, 
 Sweet spots of sylvau lovelmess secure from sun and wmd ; 
 And there, reflecting cloud and star, transparent waters lay, 
 Scarce ruffled by the swan that moved along her silent way. 
 
 And he who owned that paradise, the Merchant of renown. 
 The honoured of the hamlet, and the flattered of the town, 
 "Who duly went to Church and 'Change, and sought the shades 
 
 of woe. 
 Was, in the spring- tide of his years, among the lowest low. 
 
 But kindness entered in his soul, even in his boyish days, 
 Give him the means of giving peace, he did not wish for 
 
 praise ; 
 The best of human sympathies awoke within his breast, 
 His words, his deeds, his secret tears, the gentle power 
 
 confessed. 
 
 More kindly grew his honest heart to all the human race. 
 The language of benevolence was written on his face ; 
 With self-denying prudence he, without or fear or guile. 
 Wooed Fortune in her mazy haunts until she deigned to 
 smile. 
 
 Wealth came, but did not bring the mien of insolence and 
 
 pride, 
 Respectful to the powerful, he loved all else beside : 
 Thus, with his gold and gentleness he blessed the needy 
 
 throng, 
 A constant guai'dian to the weak, a pattern to the .sti'oug. 
 
 X
 
 154 THE MERCFTANT AND THE MOURNER. 
 
 At length, to please a polished taste, he bought him house 
 
 and land. 
 And paid for household luxuries -with large and liberal hand ; 
 Sat down in peace and plenitude, with mind unwarped and free, 
 " Like wisdom," so the poet sings, " with children round his 
 
 knee." 
 
 I lingered at his lordly gate, the while my feelings rose 
 In silent homage to the man. and prayed for his repose ; 
 And o'er my mental vision passed a scene remembered well, 
 Linked with a little history, which I essay to tell. 
 
 One evening in my wanderings near to our noisy town. 
 When Autum breathed upon the woods, and turned their 
 
 foliage brown, 
 I paused beside a lowly cot that looked upon the road. 
 Lifted the latch, and stood within the comfortless abode. 
 
 I saw beside the tireless earth a woman's well-known form. 
 Whose haggard features bore the marks of many a bitter 
 
 storm ; 
 The fire of joy, the bloom of health, from eye and cheek 
 
 were fled. 
 And grief had sown its early grey upon that drooping head. 
 
 Her sombre garments hung around her, labour-stained and 
 
 wild. 
 And on her milkless bosom lay a weak and wailing child; 
 The cleanly cap of widowhood around her visage pale. 
 With her decayed and dreary weeds, disclosed too sad a tale.
 
 THE MEECHANT AND THE M0UENEK. 155 
 
 I knew it all : — six months before, in the veiy prime of spring, 
 When bird, and bee, and butterfly, were roving on the wing; 
 When every hue was loveliness, when eveiy sound was mirth, 
 A sudden cloud and silence fell upon the joyous earth. 
 
 Her loving husband, ailing long, with his departing breath 
 Muttered a blessing on her cheek, and slept the sleep of 
 
 death ; 
 Gone was the father, firm, though fond, the husband true and 
 
 kind, 
 But woe, despair, and poverty, alas ! remained behind. 
 
 His violin hung on the wall, the hat he used to wear, 
 
 There in the corner leaned his staff, there stood his vacant 
 
 chair ; 
 His favourite bird yet sang aloft at its capricious will, 
 And the old Bible that he loved lay in the window stUl. 
 
 But nearly all beside had gone for scanty means of life, 
 But net without a parting pang of deep and inward strife; 
 Then, even then, her eldest bom dead on the pallet lay;— 
 Calmly the mother-mourner said, " She died but yesterday." 
 
 Dear God! what could that woman do, and all her helpless 
 
 brood, 
 Within the wide and thoughtless v,-orld for shelter and for 
 
 food? 
 Who would bestow upon her child a coffin and a grave? — 
 I prayed within my inmost soul that Heaven would stoop to 
 
 save !
 
 156 THE MERCHANT AND THE MOIJENEK. 
 
 Startling my thoughts, some gentle hand smote the rude 
 
 cottage door, 
 And one well known in soiTOw's haunts stepped o'er the sanded 
 
 floor ; 
 The merchant's daughter fair and young, by many a heart 
 
 beloved, 
 Her father's graceful almoner where'er her footsteps moved. 
 
 She gazed aroun d the sad abode with quick and mute surprise, 
 While precious drops of sympathy suffused her earnest eyes ; 
 She sat her down all pensively, with joy -abandoned air, 
 And for a moment seemed to breathe her soul in secret prayer. 
 
 With unobtrusive questions she drew forth the widow's woe, 
 While the rich blood upon her cheek went flitting to and fro ; 
 AVith patient ear, and parted lip.s, the dark account she heard. 
 Till the deep fountains of her heart with kindred grief were 
 stirred. 
 
 She laid a purse of tinkling gold within the widow's palm, 
 Rose to depart, and spake again with voice subdued and calm: 
 •'Mourner, the God who gave us wealth has sent his servant 
 
 here. 
 Remember, in thy after need, my father's house is near." 
 
 She went with blessings on her head, with beauty in her face, 
 A sister of sweet Charity, a messenger of Grace, 
 She went in virgin holiness, bent on her pure employ, 
 Leaving within the mourner's heart peace, thankfulness, antl
 
 THE MERCHANT AND THE MOUKNER. 157 
 
 Like dews aud sliowers in summer hours, shed from the 
 
 ■wings of night, 
 Felt as a blessing on the earth when wakes the morning light, 
 The merchant's bounty fell abroad spontaneous and the same, 
 Refreshing many a languid soul that wist not whence it came. 
 
 When Heaven exalteth such as he, what hand would bring 
 
 them down? 
 What heart would fret when Worth succeeds, what face at 
 
 Virtue frown? 
 As well the fields might curse the clouds because they ride so 
 
 high, 
 Or envious flowers upbraid the stars that bum along the sky, 
 
 It is a rare and pleasant task to sing of generous power. 
 
 Oh ! for a theme so beautiful for every passing hour ! 
 
 When shall our mournful harps forget that sad, unheeded 
 
 song 
 Of wants and woes, of toils and tears, too truthful and too 
 
 long ?
 
 158 
 
 VINDICATORY STANZAS, 
 
 Whate'er I am, whatever sign I wear upon my sleeve, 
 Whatever creed my inmost heart may prompt me to believe, 
 Whatever right I recognize, whatever wrong endure, 
 I ne'er can yield my honest love for freedom and the poor. 
 
 The lowly and the suffering, the life-blood of the earth, 
 I'm one of them, to one of them I owe my children's birth; 
 And in my after years of life, however high my state, 
 I never can forget to plead for their unhappy fate. 
 
 For freedom did I say ? ah, yes ! for freedom just and true. 
 But not the lawless monster of the rancour-breathing few. 
 Who glide, like serpents, into hearts by toil and sorrow 
 
 torn ; 
 On them and their unholy deeds I fling my proudest scorn.
 
 VINDICATORY TTANZAS. 159 
 
 Freedom, whose law is Order, and whose action, wide and strong, 
 Can raise the wretched from the dust, and quell the rebel throng ; 
 Can weigh, adjust, withhold, bestow, Avith calm and steady hand, 
 And work in beauty, peace, and truth, for all within the land ! 
 
 The poetry of England, in all its forms and hues ; 
 The glowing words, the living thoughts of her transcendent muse ; 
 The poetry that clings around her temples, halls, and towers, 
 And nestles in the sylvan depths of all her vales and bowers ; 
 
 The poetry that clothes alike the cottage and the throne, 
 And speaks from every classic haunt, with high, majestic tone; 
 These have my deepest reverence, in these my thoughts rejoice ; 
 "But the poetry of poverty should have a fitting voice." 
 
 It has a voice, a stirring voice, sent from a thousand tongues. 
 From hearts that wish for all its rights, and feel for all its 
 
 wrongs 
 
 'Tis not the voice of fierce complaint, loud insolence and threat. 
 But that of calm, persuasive power, — the best and surest yet. 
 
 And mine, too, feeble though it be, and of a fitful sound. 
 But still the echo of a soul of sympathies pi'ofound. 
 Shall sometimes mingle with the rest, in pain's or peril's hour, 
 To warn, cheer, teach, and elevate,— if such may be its power. 
 
 Perchance my lay hath ever been unsuited to the ear 
 Of those who feast on fiery thought, on bitter taunt and jeer ; 
 But I am not of those who deem that words unwise and wild, 
 Can win one blessing for the poor, and make men reconciled.
 
 160 VINDICATORY STANZAS, 
 
 A little song of cheerfulness to make their labours light ; 
 A sti'ain to open out their souls, and make them think aright ; 
 A lesson which may lead them on to mend their common weal, 
 But not the stern anathema of false and factious zeal. 
 
 There are who with a puny pride my outward errors scan, 
 Alas ! what little power is theirs to judge the inner man ! 
 They think that my poor yielding heart, that impulse still 
 
 controls. 
 Is narrow as their sympathies, and niggard as their souls. 
 
 Could they but read the hidden book, the life-book in my 
 
 breast, 
 With sorrows, which they never knew, a thousand fold 
 
 impressed,— 
 Could they but see its sentiments, its yearning, love, and 
 
 trust, ^ 
 
 And weigh its good against the ill, they could not but be just. 
 
 But that is not for them, and I dare not presume to claim 
 More virtues than the lowliest who bear a human name. 
 But in this world where men applaud, mistake, misjudge, 
 
 condemn, 
 I only ask that charity which I would yield to them. 
 
 There's good in all things, and 'tis well to seek it every- 
 where. 
 And when 'tis found, to honour it, and cherish it with care ; 
 There's good in all the various forms of still and stirring life. 
 For all the boundless universe with excellence is rife.
 
 VISDDICATORY STANZAS. 161 
 
 And man hath always something good, or be he high or low 
 In intellect or circumstance, in happiness or woe ; 
 His errors pity and remove, with mild and manly will, 
 And be his higher gifts your care and admiration still. 
 
 My badge is that which singles me from out the lower clay ; 
 My motto, hope and thankfulness for blessings day by day ; 
 My creed, that holy creed of love which Christ himself hath 
 
 given ; 
 My party, all who walk the earth anticipating Heaven !
 
 103 
 
 CONTRITION. 
 
 Lord ! in a \vea17 labyrinth, 
 
 A wilderness of ways, 
 I've passed the freshness of my youth,- 
 
 The summer of my days ; 
 Playing with Fancy's bubble thoughts, 
 
 Which as they glittered brake, 
 Snatching at flowers to feel the thorn, 
 
 Or venom of the snake. 
 
 But now I lay me at Thy feet, 
 
 With sad and trembling heart, 
 Or ere my better feelings fail, 
 
 My higher hopes depart 
 I come — so late a sinful slave 
 
 In folly's low employ, — 
 To ask those better means of life 
 
 Which lead to holier joy.
 
 CONTKITION. 163 
 
 In the calm hour of solitude 
 
 I lift my pensive eye 
 To read the burning language writ 
 
 Upon the silent sky ; 
 And feel that He who lit the stars 
 
 And bade the planets roll, 
 Can chase the shadow and the strife 
 
 That linger in my soul. 
 
 With sweet and simultaneous voice 
 
 All universal things 
 Speak of Thy watchful care, and feel 
 
 The shadow of Thy wings ; 
 The placid and prolific earth, 
 
 The ever wakeful sea, 
 And heaven's serene and starry depths, 
 
 Declare Thy love and Thee. 
 
 And wilt thou not console me, Lord, 
 
 Admonish me and guide. 
 In tribulation's troublous time, 
 
 And in the hour of pride ? 
 And wilt thou not vouchsafe, at last. 
 
 By thine own means, to win 
 Back to thy fold an erring child 
 
 Of frailty, grief, and sin.
 
 164 CONTRITION. 
 
 Thou canst, and when it seemetli good, 
 
 Thou wilt afford the clue 
 Whereby to leave the tangled path 
 
 My faltering feet pursue ; — 
 Oh ! bring me from the chilling gloom,. 
 
 The cavern of despair, 
 That I may see the open day, 
 
 And breathe a purer air ! 
 
 Oh ! help me in my deepest need, 
 
 IVIy Father, Friend, and Lord 1 
 And make me drink with eager lip 
 
 The waters of Thy word ! 
 So I may rise refreshed and glad. 
 
 Unbowed by earthly ill, 
 My business and my pleasure both 
 
 To do Thy holy will. 
 
 For His dear sake who left Thy side 
 
 A fallen race to save. 
 To take all agony from death, 
 
 All terror from the grave, 
 Receive me 'mong the chosen ones 
 
 Who journey towards the sky, 
 And fit me for that Perfect Home 
 
 Where bliss can never die.
 
 165 
 
 EOUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLER/ 
 
 BEVEREXCE FOB THE DEAD : A EOMAXTIC THOUGHT. 
 
 Were I in the possession of broad, beautiful lands, and tlie decrees of 
 Providence bereaved me of some beloved object, I would deposit its 
 dust in some secluded spot, in some quiet and all but inaccessible 
 valley, or in the twilight labyrinths of some forest solitude. I would 
 build over it a small, simple gothic temple, which I would store with 
 such cherished things as would conjure up remembrances of the worth, 
 intellect, or loveliness of the being I mourned for. There, at the first 
 wakening of the day, at mid noon, at the hallowed hour of evening, 
 and in the impressive silence of the middle night, would I retire to 
 commune with the departed spirit ; not with the violence of impious and 
 unavailing sorrow, but in the calm consciousness that, though our 
 earthly intercourse was cut off by the cliasm of the grave, our love was 
 not utterly extinguished, but would be renewed in exalted purity, and 
 in a region where it would exist for ever. Were the lost one a parent, 
 whose power of mind or goodness of heart had been so beneficially exer- 
 cised, and so widely extended, as to win the esteem and admiration of 
 the world, then should the world come and render proper homage at 
 
 • These notes are extracted from a series of letters which appeared in a provincial 
 periodical some years ago. Those letters, the Author has since discovered, contained 
 many crude tlioughts, some hasty and unjust conclusions, and some misrepresenta- 
 tions, wliich, though given in ignorance at tlie time, lie regrets having published. 
 These arc the reasons why the jvltole of the letters have not been Iransfeired to this 
 volume.
 
 IfiO ROUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLER. 
 
 tlie tomb of its benefactor, wliile I -would stand a silent witness of its 
 sincerity, and bless God tliat I was the son of a parent so honoured and 
 so beloved. Were it a child — a young and yet unpolluted child — 
 which Providence, in his wisdom, had taken from me, then should 
 happy children, with whom heaven is peopled, bring offerings of wild 
 flowers wherewith to deck my darling's resting place, and I would 
 watch them, with their tiny hands linked together, look down with 
 puzzled and serious faces on the grassy mould, and wonder why their 
 little brother mortal and former playmate was covered up there, and 
 whether he would come up again, and roam with them as was his wont, 
 through pleasant fields and wood-side haunts all day long. T would 
 not talk to them of the awful and mysterious coming of death to throw 
 a shadow over their joy ; I would not juirposely bring tears into those 
 l^right eyes which after years might cause to weep too soon and without 
 measure, for assuredly the gladness of children is more pleasing in the 
 eight of God than their sorrow. Why should such young creatures, 
 whose souls have not been darkened by the wings of sin, whose hearts 
 have not been awakened to a sense of the ills incident to human life, 
 be banished before their time from the little Eden that surrounds 
 them ? No ; I would let them laugh, and leajD, and sing, according to 
 the impulses of their nature, and love them for his sake whose ashes 
 lay undisturbed beneath their frolic feet. But were it a wife over whom 
 I had raised a sanctuary for sorrow, then would selfishness enter into 
 my grief. No rude voice of cold condolence should break the silence of 
 the hallowed spot ; no obtrusive eye should gaze within its walls ; no 
 profane foot should trample on the sacred sward ; no unfeeling mul- 
 titude desecrate the treasure-house of my buried joys. That wife might 
 have been nothing to the world, though all the world to me ; then 
 how could it partake of my luxury of sorrow? 
 
 To a man in any condition of life, a constant, affectionate, and 
 much enduring woman is the most inestimable blessing which God has 
 given him. Who may tell the bitter ordeal tlnough which many women 
 have to pass on their journey to the grave ? Who may recount the 
 patience, the privation, the self-denial, the disinterested devotion 
 through good and ill, which a faithful partner feels for a too often 
 unworthy husband? Her sphere of useful action is certainly limited;
 
 ROUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLER. 167 
 
 but does she not, by her exemplary couduct, enable tlie object of her 
 love to become more useful than he would otherwise be ? Is he rich — 
 does not her sweet companionship give him a purer relish for the en- 
 joyment of riches? Is he poor — does not her gentle and enduring 
 affection, and uni'epining behaviour, make him less regret his poverty ? 
 Has he difficulties to contend with — does she not arm him to meet 
 them ? And is he intoxicated with success — does she not remind him 
 that he is a man ? She adds to his pleasures ; she lightens his dis- 
 tresses; she watches over him, and prays for him in sickness; she re- 
 rejoices in his health — glories in his honour ; and should disgrace 
 overtake him, and he is shunned by all men, she clings to him with 
 a tenacity of love enduring as life. She is the first to discover his good 
 qualities, and when the world proclaims his faults, she is the last to 
 believe them, and shrining him, as it were, in her heart's core, she 
 worships him with an inward fervour which not even despair can de- 
 stroy ! She lives for him and his offspring, and for them only ; and 
 should it be his sad lot to see her consigned to the grave, he should be 
 the deepest, truest mourner — for if he loved her as she deserved, all 
 other sorrow compared with his would be an insult and a mockery. 
 
 A THOUGHT IN COVENTRY. 
 
 I have a fancy that clusters of streets, churches, towers, and pub- 
 lic buildings, have a much more imposing appearance during the quiet 
 interval of the Sabbath, or when they seem to repose beneath the mel- 
 low lustre of a full and cloudless moon, at the dead of night, than at 
 all other times. Often at the latter hour have I walked along some 
 vast thoroughfare partially lit up with softened glory, partially en- 
 veloped in strongly-defined shadows, and dreamed of the romantic 
 cities of proud Spain or delicious Italy. The illusion has been so com- 
 plete with me, that I have almost expected to hear the tinkle of some 
 lover's guitar; the song of some enamoured gondolier; or, in turning 
 a dark angle, to encounter the stiletto of some needy desperado. Per- 
 chance imagination would conjure up a picture of love-sick .Juliet,
 
 168 KOUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLER. 
 
 stooping from the window of her father's bouse, and putting aside the 
 luxuriant tendrils of the vine, to hold sweet parlance with the adored 
 Eomeo, and when the excess of their love could find no utterance, 
 the lorn nightingale would break the silence with most plaintive music, 
 as though it were the passionate echo of their own enraptured souls. 
 
 Feelings similar to these possessed me as I took an hour's ramble 
 through the highways and byeways of Coventry. The streets were 
 comparatively a solitude, broken only by the chance footstep of some 
 pedestrian, or the short-lived rattle of some stage coach bound for 
 other towns. The spires of the two cathedrals, which, after the lapse 
 of centuries, are crumbling to decay, shot up into the blessed sunlight, 
 and stood in grand relief against the deep-blue heavens. Looking up 
 at the wooden effigy of the much celebrated " Peeping Tom," who, 
 with a face expressive of eager curiosity is peering down the street, I 
 could almost fancy I beheld the beautiful and virtuous Godiva, with 
 her long luxuriant hair streaming, like a veil, over her snowy limbs, 
 riding gently and bashfully along in the performance of her singular 
 but benevolent exploit. 
 
 A REFLECTIOX NEAR KEXILWORTH. 
 
 When I saw the cottagers standing at their doors, the dames with 
 snowy aprons and mob caps, and the men stripjied to their shirt sleeves, 
 enjoying the serenity of the evening, I thought how much more natural 
 it seemed for man to win his bread by the cultivation of the soil, than to 
 earn it amid the unwholesome and immoral atmosi)here of overgrown 
 manufactories. But, then, happy and comfortable as these unsophis- 
 ticated peasants appeared, there was, doubtless, much suffering behind 
 the scene, many a groan which the world heard not — many a tear 
 which the world would not heed. After all they have, at least, the 
 blessed advantage of breathing a pure healthy air. They are not sur- 
 rounded by beer-shops and gin-palaces ; by gambling-houses ; by brothels, 
 and all the inexplicable and corrupting influences of populous towns. 
 They are not tainted by the vices, made callous by the every-day miseries,
 
 EOUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLER. 169 
 
 nor subject to tlie sudden and overwlielming reverses, of the caintals of 
 commerce. Living in isolated and rural spots, tliey have few artificial 
 ■wants, and are, therefore, satisfied with plain, warm clothing, simple 
 and wholesome food, and clean but humble lodging. If they are less 
 intelligent than their city-bred fellow-mortals — a thing to be lamented — 
 they have the same love of country and kindred; the same affection for 
 parent, or wife, or child ; are as capable of honest friendship, and, I will 
 venture to say, possess many of these qualities in a stronger and sincerer 
 degree than the children of that solitude of the heart — the Metropolis 
 of England. Then, let us respect the tillers of the soil — the followers 
 of the plough — ^the denizens of fields and woods — the producers of food, 
 and who, though partakers of the pains incident to life, and common to 
 the great human family, might be made by an enlightened and liberal 
 government the happiest portion of the industrious population of my 
 own dignified and beautiful land. 
 
 APPROACH TO SHAKESPE.i.R 8 BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 I left the fine, frowning, feudal-looking castle of Warwick, and set 
 out on my way to Stratford-upon-Avon — a place far more sacred to me 
 than the strongholds of ancient misused power. The country through 
 which I was passing presented every variety of pleasing feature, corn 
 and meadow land, patches of wood, bits of garden, strips of silvery 
 streams, and, lining the roadside, the humble but not despised gorse, 
 clustered thick with its wealth of golden lozenges. And in that in- 
 terval of highway between Warwick and Stratford, what snatches of 
 intellectual memory I did enjoy ! I thought of poor Keats, who talks 
 of walking "ancle deep in lilies of the vale;"' of Burns, "who learned 
 his trade from every tuneful bough ;" of Shelly, who had so pure and 
 passionate a love of nature; of wayward Byron, who, worshipping in- 
 animate loveliness, seemed to despise the most wonderful of God's 
 works — man, forgetting that he himself was one; of gentle and Ini- 
 manizing Leigh Hunt, who gossips so pleasantly about pleasant things . 
 of modest Charles Lamb, whose writings savour of a thousand pure feel- 
 z
 
 170 EOUGH N0TE3 OF A KAMBLEE. 
 
 ings of bonhomie and good-will ; of Bamford, the Burns, deservedly so 
 called, of Lancashire ; of Miller, the basket-maker, whom genius hath 
 brought into the heart of a great city, and where, I dare say, he is less 
 happy than when wandering in the leafy labyrinths of his native Sher- 
 wood ; of the veteran Bards of " Hope" and " Memory;" of Wordsworth, 
 the philosopher on mountains and by the side of waters, seeing poetry 
 in the humblest thing which God has made ; and as the crowning and 
 consummate capital of this splendid pillar — of the inimitable and im- 
 mortal Shakespear, whose sacred dust had drawn me so many miles 
 from home. 
 
 I came at length in sight of the village of Stratford. The first 
 glimpse of the church spire, which I knew rose immediately above the 
 grave of the undying one, awakened in me feelings of the newest and 
 most indescribable nature. The village was unfolding itself feature by 
 feature, from the embraces of a commonwealth of trees that lie on the 
 landscape. Overcome by the strangeness of my thoughts, I sat down 
 by the side of a milestone, feeling that the spot was, in the eyes of those 
 who have partaken of the richness and prodigality of Shakespear's 
 genius, consecrated and hallowed, and had it not been a violation 
 of common usages, I could most religiously have walked bare-footed to 
 the grave of the Bard of Mankind. 
 
 THE GRAVE oy SHAKESPEAR. 
 
 On setting my foot on the floor of the sacred edifice — sacred in a 
 double sense — I involuntary uncovered my head, and paused for a mo- 
 ment ere I approached the Poet's grave! The stone which covers his 
 remains is a plain slab, worn by many feet, and bearing the simple in- 
 scription of dates, together with the four lines of his own impressive 
 epitaph. This stone, however, unassuming though it be, has attracted 
 the gaze of a greater number of eyes, perhaps, than any sculptured, 
 emblazoned, or Latin-inscribed mausoleum in the world. The window 
 let fall no gorgeous hues upon the pavement, yet its light had a dim 
 softness which fully compensated for their absence, giving a befitting
 
 ROUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLES. 171 
 
 religious twiliglit to the shriue of departed genius. As I looked upon 
 that narrow sjiot of earth, I seemed to lose all sense of outward being. 
 My fancy jjeopled the solemn and silent aisles of the old church with a 
 gathering crowd of those characters which that gigantic, all-sympathiz- 
 mind had created. Mournful and mirthful were there, of all sexes, 
 aspects, and conditions. The wicked and unfortunate monarch — the 
 agonized murderer and his victims — the sternly-sedate wise and the 
 laughter-waking foolish — the ruthless conqueror and the cunning 
 clown — the crafty statesman and the imperious priest — the honest 
 soldier and the faithful follower — the injured queen and the love-sick 
 maiden — the implacable Jew and the desjpairiug Christian — the magi- 
 cian and the beldame — the dainty Ariel and the uncouth Caliban — the 
 real of human life and the spiritual of the imagination — all, all were 
 there ! The type of every vice, the representative of every virtue, the 
 embodiment of every passion, were before me, stalking and jostling, 
 frowning and smiling, weeping and laughing, in one great and tumul- 
 tuous medley. The raging of remorse and the singing of innocence — 
 the wailing of sorrow and the outburst of joy — the thunder-boom of war 
 and the sweet voice of peace — the fierce denunciation and the supplicat- 
 ing prayer — the obstreperous shouts of multitudes and the soft melodies 
 of unearthly .spirits — arose simultaneously, shaking every rafter of the 
 temple, and making a chorus at once so strange, so awful, so terrible, 
 yet withal so entrancing, that I was compelled, as it were, to hear and 
 see, to wonder at and endure, the vision my own busy fancy had con- 
 jured up. 
 
 This splendid dream, however, was in a moment dispersed by a plain, 
 short, anti-jioetieal specimen of female humanity, attired in a dingy 
 gown, who, touching me on the arm, reminded me of the expected shil- 
 ling fee. What a sudden fall for the imagination — from Sliakespear to 
 a shilling ! from the intellectual and soul-felt impress of an immortal 
 Poet, to the metallic impress of the features of a Guelph ! At that mo- 
 ment I felt as though a cup of nectar had been dashed from my lips, 
 and a dose of verjuice forced down my throat. 
 
 Here I must be permitted to enter my humble protest against the 
 practice of turning God's house into an exhibition room at any price; 
 more especially when its walls contain the precious relics of a Shnke-
 
 173 ROUGH NOTES OF A IIAMBLEE. 
 
 sijear, a Milton, a Newton, a Franklin, a Howard, or a Watt, or the 
 great and good of any age or clime. Such relics ought, in common 
 justice, to be the common property of the world, and all who have the 
 desire should be able to visit them without impediment, pecuniary or 
 otherwise. Such raree-show work is unworthy a great nation like ours 
 and is the cause of constant reproach from foreigners. The money ex- 
 acted is not begrudged by those who visit such places; but the principle 
 is an illiberal one, and the sooner it is abolished the better. 
 
 MY LAST SIGH FOR THE PAST. 
 
 This is a wonderful age in which we live ; a high-pressure, matter- 
 of-fact, utilitarian age, which seems as though it would annihilate all 
 poetry, and remove or destroy all the old objects of poetical association. 
 Huge factories are built in once lovely valleys — tremendoiis railways 
 stride over plains, and pierce through mountains — narrow and stagnant 
 canals, which drag their lazy length through the land, become antiquated 
 and almost useless — rivers are contaminated by the refuse of innumerable 
 manufactories — we are whirled over the earth without a chance of dis- 
 tinguishing its featuresof beauty or grandeur — steam-ploughs are doing 
 away with the plough-boy of our ballads, and fast silencing the sound 
 of the flail — burial-grounds are of a most formal and mathematical cut, 
 where a person is emi^loyed to bury his fellow-mortals in quite a 
 business-like way, with as little trouble and as little feeling as suits his 
 convenience — time-honoured ruins are removed as nuisances, and coal- 
 pits and brick-fields destroy their whereabouts — even old way-side inns, 
 with their snug nooks, where our forefathers were wont occasionally to 
 forget their toils and cares, are either becoming untenanted or levelled 
 with the earth. The face of everything, save Heaven, is undergoing a 
 complete change ; and though that change is productive of great good 
 to the mass of mankind, yet the poet will not be censured for turning 
 to the past, and sighing for the things that were. Still the uninvaded 
 skies will be left him, for no human power can rend away their clouds, 
 or traniiile out their stars. Some portion of Earth's beauties will re-
 
 ROUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLEK. 173 
 
 main for him : Spring tcill bud and blossom ; Summer zvill grow into 
 gorgeous maturity; Autumn zr(7Z put on his many-tinted mantle, and 
 scatter corn and fruitage over the land ; and Winter, sternly-magnificent 
 Winter, will cast his pall upon the slumbering earth, and sing his 
 stormy anthems over it, till the bland breathing of another year shall 
 warn him to depart. Man's heart will continue to have its feelings and 
 affections, and his soul retain its hopes, visions, and lofty aspirations, 
 woman will be lovely, kind, and virtuous as heretofore, and children 
 not the less fascinating and joyous. Then let the Poet despair not, for 
 poetry and the agents which give it birth, can never be exhausted ; for 
 they are as indestructible as the universe itself ! 
 
 AX EVEXIXG IX COXWAr, KOBTH WALES. 
 
 Let it suffice that I thought the castle of Conway a noble and im- 
 posing ruin, well situated and compact. I was very much interested 
 with it, and could not choose but give a loose to my fancy, and recall 
 the days of its palmy splendour and importance, at the same time 
 rejoicing that the circumstances which called such strongholds into 
 existence had passed away. I often wonder how it is, that, though we 
 deprecate war in all its forms, and lament its painful results ; though 
 we look back to the days of feudal barbarism and bloodshed with feel- 
 ings of horror, yet we linger at the scoots where such things have been, 
 and contemplate with a pleasing and romantic interest the remains of 
 those monuments of misused power which are scattered over the world. 
 It is not merely the situation and the picturesque beauty of the object 
 that charms us, but its associations ; and the more dark and awful its 
 history, the more we love to loiter and meditate within its shattered 
 walls. Is it that we are glad to see such evils at an end, and that, 
 wishing to gather knowledge and experience by judging of the past, we 
 look upon these crumbling towers as landmarks to guide us through 
 the wild and uncertain labyrinths of bygone ages ? Or is it, being 
 naturally fond of romance, and wishing to escape occasionally fiom the 
 common-place and unromantic character of our own day, that we turn
 
 174 ROUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLER. 
 
 for relief to tlie records of the savage and stirring events of distant 
 times ? The purest advocate of universal peace and Christianity cannot 
 but gaze with pleasure upon such ruins as Conway and Carnarvon, 
 chiefly for association's sake ; but if history had informed us that they 
 were ancient foundries and factories, how many tourists would have 
 stepped out of their way to visit them ? Few indeed. 
 
 After making an entire circuit of the town, and having peeped into 
 various nooks and corners, I sat down on an eminence outside the 
 walls, and taking a survey of the country around me, it presented a 
 picture as beautiful as it was new. Nor were pleasant sounds wanting 
 to add to the pleasure I felt. My favourite songster, the lark, had not 
 yet descended to the earth, but poured from upper air a j)rofusion of 
 melody. My old friend, the throstle, perched on the corner of an ivied 
 tower, sang in the full strength and confidence of his voice. A com- 
 pany of corn-craiks, with their peculiar monotone, answered each other 
 from the neighbouring fields. The poor redbreast breathed his plain- 
 tive and querulous notes from a blooming hawthorn, and birds of every 
 kind seemed bent upon singing as much as they could, ere the setting 
 of the sun warned them to their nests. Before me, and in the fore- 
 ground, lay the town, shut in by its ancient mural girdle, a mass of 
 house tops and chimneys, a church and steeple, and the clustered 
 turrets of its regal castle. Farther on stretched the country through 
 which I had passed, the highway like a white belt, winding round the 
 base of distant hills till lost to view. On my right the lovely vale of 
 Conway opened its bosom of wood and waters, and seemed to invite me 
 into- its peaceful and picturesque solitudes. On my left gleamed the 
 silvery river, with its little skiffs going gently down on the receding 
 tide ; and farther still, the dazzling deep, in whose waves the sun was 
 just dipping his burning rim, lay quivering like molten gold in 
 splendid contrast to the calm blue skies above it. Behind me, to com- 
 plete the circle, stood, in dark and distant grandeur, with splintered and 
 fantastic summits, the frontier mountains of Snowdouia — one of the 
 most beautiful and sublime regions of its kind in Great Britain. Filled 
 with subdued delight and admiration of the glorious scene, I sat till 
 the sun went down, and every feature became dim and indistinct. At 
 length almost every sound died away, the flowers began to throw their
 
 ROUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLER. 175 
 
 odours out more profusely, " and in embalmed darkness " I returned to 
 my hostelry for the nigbt. 
 
 A STORM, AND A BIT OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Up to the time of my leaving Stratford the skies had worn one stain- 
 less and unbroken blue, though the air had been close and sultry ; but 
 now a light gusty breeze sprung up, which, I felt, betokened a storm. 
 I had scarcely proceeded a mile when scattered clouds began to form, 
 increasing in magnitude, and deepening in darkness every moment. 
 In half an hour the whole heavens were covered with a dense rolling 
 mass of clouds piled upon each other, and having that aspect of bronze 
 and blackness which is common to summer storms. As is usual with 
 me at these times, I felt extremely languid — an oppressive weight lay 
 on my temples, and, to add to my distress, there was not a house 
 within sight. I have long had a presentiment, a groundless one may 
 be, arising from a nervous temperament, that I should one day be 
 killed by lightning, and though I love to see the awful grandeur of 
 the tempest, I fear it at the same time. On this occasion, the loneliness 
 of the spot, with not a human being, perhaps, within miles, increased my 
 uneasiness, and I was undecided whether to jiroceed or return. When 
 we are in the presence of real or fancied danger, how active is the 
 mind, how vivid the memory, recalling in a single instant the scenes 
 and events of a whole life. Mine naturally reverted to home, my wife, 
 my children, smiling in hapjiy unconsciousness of my thoughts. I 
 could see parents, brothers, sisters, friends, seated round the social 
 board, passing cruel jokes, and singing unfeeling songs. I thought 
 how dreadful it would be to meet my doom there, alonf, not an eye to 
 see me fall, not one being whom I loved to be near me at the terrible 
 moment. While these childish fancies were passing through my mind, 
 visible as pictures to the internal sense, the storm was ripening. A 
 portentous stillness reigned, broken only by the sound of a distant axe, 
 which came singularly sharp to the ear. Not the twittering of a bird, 
 not the fluttering of a leaf was to be heard, while the clouds seemed to 
 droop almost to the tree tops with the fire and rain they had gathered. 
 At length came another gust of wind, which nuried the dust along the
 
 176 EOUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLER. 
 
 road in a revolving pillar, and still the heavens were dumb. I was in 
 a state of acute suspense when some drops of rain began to fall ; 
 another breezy sigh passed my ear, a sudden flash met me in the face, 
 and after a brief pause the thunder burst from its lair, when down 
 came the loosened waters in all the savage glory of the storm. At this 
 moment I heard the sound of wheels behind me — it was the mail. 
 I hailed it — mounted the box — and enveloping myself in the folds of an 
 oil-cloth, was better able to brave the fury, and watch the progress of 
 the contending elements. 
 
 In company I felt much more at ease, for there is a principle in hu- 
 man nature that makes us dread being alone in the hour of danger ; 
 and we can resign ourselves to an awful fate with greater fortitude 
 when we have companions to share the peril and the pain. How 
 strangely are we linked together ; how inexplicably are we influenced 
 by the presence of each other ! Singly, how manifest is our feebleness ; 
 brought together, how daring we become. 
 
 The storm continued for upwards of an hour beautifully wild. The 
 lightning wrapt us about like a fiery garment, and the thunder revelled 
 among the cliifs of Clondland almost without intermission. The rain 
 fell with a steady violence, and now and then a gust of wind would 
 whirl it into a thousand misty eddies through the neighbouring valleys. 
 Gradually, however, the Heavens giive their burden to the Earth — strips 
 of blue sky broke forth — the lightning became less frequent and in- 
 tense — the thunder retired to other regions and muttered at a distance — 
 the rain totally ceased, and ere the fall of twilight, the scene was as 
 verdant, calm, and deliciously cool as could be desired. The sounds of 
 life were to be heard again ; the low of cattle in the fields ; the singing 
 of birds to the setting sun ; — all attuned the soul to gratitude and peace, 
 and made it conscious of a renewed, clear, and thoughtful serenity, in 
 perfect harmony with the tranquil aspect of the scene. 
 
 A SOUTH OF ENGLA3JD VILLAGE. 
 
 How exceedingly happy, calm, and refreshing appear the irregularly 
 built, but always picturesque villages in the south of England — with
 
 ROUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLER. 177 
 
 Iheir straggling coloured houses — snug liostelries with swing-sign 
 boards, bearing the dim and doubtful semblance of some king's head, 
 red lion, or white hart, waggon and horses, or hare and hounds ; and 
 in immediate proximity the jolly blacksmith and farrier's shop, which 
 has been there few know how long. And then the wide breezy com- 
 mon, having a large pool where flocks of geese lave their snowy 
 plumage, or, ceasing to nibble the short grass, lift up their heads to hiss 
 at the passing pedestrian. Stand here in the middle of this waste, and 
 cast your eyes around, what a circle of secluded loveliness. Yonder, on 
 a green sloping eminence, is the dwelling of the respectable and sub- 
 stantial farmer. ^Vllat an air of comfort about it! How neatly yonder 
 portly hay-ricks lift their covered heads ! how clean and orderly is the 
 farm-yard, with its barn and outhouses, its strong carts and ploughs, 
 and its shining milk-cans hung on the arms of an old tree ! Look at 
 that orchard which flanks the house, how full of foliage and fruitful 
 promise ; and how trim and free from weeds is that bit of garden, gor- 
 geous with summer flowers. 
 
 There are other homesteads scattered promiscuously about, though 
 of an humble kind, but all of them have an air of cleanliness and com- 
 fort ; and though they owe little to splendid furniture and gaudy 
 decoration, they have ornaments much more beautiful — externally the 
 woodbine and the rose tree — internally, dutiful wives and healthy 
 children, which are the poetry of the poor man's home. Look to the 
 other side of the common ; stretching far into the distance are rich 
 corn fields, fresh green pastures, and waving meadows, lifting their 
 golden faces to receive the light sighs of the summer breeze. Now let 
 us wander a little farther towards the skirts of the village. Here is 
 the small old church, with its antique dial, looked up to as an ancient 
 friend by all the inhabitants of the neiglibourhood. Let us enter the 
 simple but solemn pile. What an impressive silence reigns in its 
 unadorned aisles! what a subdued light falls from its stained windows! 
 how snug and adapted for devotional ease are its polished oaken pews! 
 what an air of grace in the time-tinted banners that droop from its 
 walls. Now let us loiter among the graves — its quiet burying place. 
 Behold these scattered and rudely carved headstones, like so many 
 leaves in the book of death. How many a tale of household sorrow is 
 ] A
 
 ITS ROUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLER. 
 
 written in these rude memorials and epitapTis. Here lies the son of an 
 affectionate father and mother. Wliat a history of broken hopes is 
 here, — a boy, a laughing, joyous, roay-eheeked, bright-eyed, golden- 
 haired boy, perchance, has been suddenly snatched from the adoring 
 sight of his parents, from the domestic circle of which he was the star 
 and the flower, from the dwelling which echoed to the shouts of bis 
 sweet and cheerful voice. Here reposes the -maiden of eighteen years. 
 Does not some youthful lover come in the calm hour of twilight to 
 weep over this grassy mound, and recall the delicious time when he 
 walked with her by the woodsides, or through the green lanes and 
 field-paths, expressing in simple but earnest language the sincere affec- 
 tion of his soul ; the hopes and anticipations of a long bright future 
 with her as a companion and a wife ? Here sleeps a mother, and you 
 may tell by the few simjole shrubs and flowers which are growing on 
 the spot, how much she has been loved, lamented, and missed. The 
 lonely husband and the motherless child are mourners here, and we 
 may imagine, but cannot express, the utter desolation of the home she 
 has left, and the hearts which ache for her loss. Here rests the hus- 
 band of the widow, and' this conjures up a picture even more j)ainful 
 than the last, for the weaker is left to struggle with the bitter viccissi- 
 tudes of the world. Here lie others who died in a green old age, who 
 dropped like mellow fruit from the tree of life at the full and proper 
 season. These were, doubtless, the " village patriarchs," the experi- 
 enced oracles of the peasantry, the bookless historians of the hamlet, 
 who, sitting under the shadow of an old tree, or beneath the ample fire- 
 place on a winter's evening, were wont to recount with garrulous pride 
 the legends and traditions of past times, the lives and changes of past 
 generations. How much might be written about the villages of Eng- 
 land ! what a pleasant book might be made out of their oral histories ! 
 
 THE POETS. 
 
 Oh ! how deeply I venerate, how ^lassionately I admire the Poets of 
 all ages and climes, from Moses down to the latest light of our own
 
 ROUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLER. 179 
 
 day! From the first clawu of poetic taste in my miucl, the amount ot 
 pure enjoyment, and elevating instruction I have received from these, 
 "the living of the earth," makes me grateful to the Power that inspired 
 them, and sent them into the world as the prophets and purifiers of their 
 race. I would not have blotted out from my memory the thrilling and 
 melodious language, the benevolent and exalted sentiments, and the 
 enchanting pictures which the Poets have given to us, for all the mere 
 wealth and power with which the world could endow me. How often, 
 in my thoughtful boyhood, have I stolen away from too early and too 
 painful toil; from the miseries and privations of my paternal dwelling, 
 to snatch a brief mental feast from the pages of a Pope, a Prior, a Gay, 
 and more especially a Goldsmith, a Cowper, and a Burns. How often, 
 in my no less struggling manhood, have I loaded my person with stray 
 volumes of Byrou and his illustrious cotemporaries, and taking ad- 
 vantage of the tranquil summer day, gone far into the country, and in 
 the green nook of some favourite wood, become unconscious of all save 
 the beauty of the scene, and the dreams and feelings of the genius 
 whose spirit enthralled me! How often have I pilfered from my. 
 self a few hours of needful rest, and in the awful noon of the dreamy 
 night, detached myself from the world, and on the wings of another's 
 fancy and my own, "soared into the heaven of heavens, and drank em- 
 pyrean air." Blessings on the Poets — I love them all! 
 
 s X o w D o X. 
 
 In order to prepare myself for the ascent of Snowdon, I took some 
 rest and refreshment at a modest inn in the vale of Llanberris. The 
 room in which I was seated was small, clean, and simply furnished; 
 and what I thought was rare in these regions, the table was covered 
 with books, amongst whicli I found poetry and works of fiction by our 
 best modern authors. The casement was open, and gave to the eye 
 a perfect and delicious picture — clear, sunny, and varied with all that 
 constitutes beauty in a landscape. The window was shadowed and fes- 
 tooned by the woodbine and the rose, whose sweets, mingling with those
 
 180 ROUGH NOTES OF A RAMBLER. 
 
 of the wallflower in the garden beneath, came fresh to the sense, and 
 recalled to the memory scenes, thoughts, and feelings of pure and past 
 enjoyments. The air was silent and sultry, broken only by a snatch of 
 song from the old gardener, or the soothing hum of the desultory bee. 
 The window view presented a long perspective of grey and inaccessible 
 rocks ; mountains streaked with every variety of colour ; the blue trans- 
 liarent lake, and the one solitary and ruined tower of Dolbadern 
 Castle, with here and there strips of rich meadow, and clusters of trees. 
 The whole formed a scene where the harrassed mind and stricken heart 
 might hope for renewed peace and happiness, and, inspired by the pre- 
 sence of beauty and wonder, utter songs of thanksgiving to the God of 
 beneficence and power! 
 
 I started at length; taking a rude path, and passing through a 
 cluster of fir-trees, through which a brooklet, issuing from an unseen 
 source, made its devious way. I continued my journey alone with a 
 buoyant and determined spirit, and though I was not aware but that the 
 ascent might be both difficult and dangerous, I felt a kind of anticipated 
 triumph in overcoming all. I was glad to be alone, for common-place 
 conversation, or even the mutual communication of exalted thought, 
 under such circumstances, seems to me utterly out of place, preventing 
 the mind from condensing those sensations of admiration and wonder 
 which are awakened by the sublime objects around us. 
 
 With these feelings, I toiled up the steep, frequently pausing to look 
 back ujion the world below. The path, which winds to the summit of 
 the mountain, being composed of loose stones, afibrds uncertain footing, 
 and cannot be missed by the adventurer, except in misty weather. As 
 I ascended, the rocks of Llanberris and the neighboiu'ing mountains 
 appeared to be on a level with my feet ; the large inn in the vale 
 dwindled to the size of a bird-cage; the castle of Dolbadern, which 
 stands near it, to a mere toy ; the lakes which wash its base, to two 
 compact blue mirrors, occasionally spotted with the reflection of white 
 clouds passing over them. The horizon, expanding at every step I 
 took, presented a multitude of new and interesting objects on every side. 
 Higher still, and the silence, the intense awful silence of mountain 
 solitudes, broken only by the bleating of sheep, or the reverberating 
 explosions in the slate quarries, became more and more impressive.
 
 BOUGH NOTES OF A KAMBLEE. 181 
 
 By this time I liad reached the most difficult part of the ascent, and 
 weary, panting, and burning with thirst, I sat down on the fragment of 
 a rock, looked wistfully towards the summit, the highest point of which 
 was yet concealed, and almost despaired of gaining the object of my 
 ambition. I rallied again ; and in a short time I reached a ridge of 
 the mountain where I could look over the tremendous precipices which 
 rise from the pass of Llanberris. Absolutely fascinated by the grandeur 
 and the danger, I drew near to the verge of the rocks, and felt an al- 
 most irresistable desire to look over them ; but a sense of faintness 
 coming over me, I fell backwards on the heath and closed my eyes. 
 After a minute or two, I tore myself away from the spot, and continued 
 my upward way. Steeper and steeper became the path ; wilder and 
 wilder the scene ; till the pinnacle of stones raised on the very crown 
 of Snowdon appeared to my view. Ten minutes more and I was crawl- 
 ing over a narrow ledge three yards wide, and the highest point of laud, 
 perhaps, in Great Britain, was gained ! 
 
 Enduring an agony of thirst, and having heard of a spring of water 
 being on the top of the mountain, I looked for it some time without 
 success; but observing some appearance of moisture among the gravel, 
 I traced it to its source, and found a deliciously cool and clear well of 
 water, about two spans in breadth, turning up a jet of sand, which 
 sparkled in the sun like grains of gold. Need I say that I stooped and 
 drank with the most exquisite delight and satisfaction ? 
 
 As yet I had scarcely time or inclination, fi-om excessive fatigue, to 
 survey the wonders and beauties which encircled my mountain throne, 
 but taking a sweeping glance round the horizon, and into the valleys 
 beneath my feet, I was spell-bound by the vastness and extent, the 
 glory and grandeur of a scene which is beyond the power of my i^en to 
 describe. The whole was fearfully sublime, and as I reflected on the 
 immense height of my situation; the abrujit and awful chasms that 
 yawned on every side ; the lone character and almost unearthly silence 
 of the place, I felt as I never felt before — a sensation of mingled love, 
 wonder, and terror, a deep and inward worship of the Creator who had 
 scattered such mighty evidences of his power. 
 
 On the utmost verge of the horizon could be seen the distant haze 
 of the Scottish coast, the Isle of Man, tlie map-like surface of the island
 
 183 ROUGH KOTES OF A RAMBLER. 
 
 of Anglesea, a portion of Ireland, the hills of Cumberland, Lancasliire, 
 and Yorkshire, a great part of England to the south, and nearly the 
 whole wild and rugged face of the principality. But the objects that 
 struck me most were centred in the neighbouring region of Snowdonia. 
 Vast hills on every side, though inferior to their monarch, of the most 
 sublime character ; high, peaked, black, and shattered crags, casting 
 their enormous shadows across the vales ; strange, savage, and solitary 
 mountain hollows, where winds and waters are only heard, and where 
 the storm revels in all its glory ; innumerable lakes turning up their 
 beautiful faces to the sky, and seeming from afar as if their surfaces 
 were never broken by a ripple ; rude fragments of ancient castles 
 perched on elevated promontories, or seated on the banks of rivers; and 
 cultivated uplands speckled with flocks; and whitewashed cottages, 
 altogether formed a picture, or multitude of pictures, which can 
 scarcely be surpassed in any country. Such, at least, was my impres- 
 sion on the si^ot, as I audibly recalled a fine stanza from Ebenezer 
 Elliott's "Win Hill:"— 
 
 ." King of Snowdonia, thou, throned and crowned, 
 That reign'st o'er many a stream and many a vale! 
 Star-loved, and meteor-sought, and tempest-found ! 
 Proud centre of a mountain circle, hail ! 
 The might of man may triumph or may fail, 
 But, eldest brother of the air and light, 
 Firm shalt thou stand when demi-gods turn pale, 
 For thou, ere science dawned on reason's night, 
 Wast, and will be when mind shall rule all other might 1" 
 
 After an hour on this seat of sublimity — a mere atom of time for the 
 soul's gratification — I took another draught from the mountain spring, 
 and prepared to descend. My downward journey, though not so toil- 
 some, was sufBciently laborious ; and after the expiration of four hours 
 irom the commencement of my task, I regained the little inn in the 
 vale of Llanberris, through the lengtli of whose wild pass I made my 
 way back to the village of Capel Cerig.
 
 183 
 
 L E N R E . 
 
 Oh I for a clay of that departed time 
 
 When thou and I, lost Leonore, were young ! 
 That dawn of feeling, that delicious prime 
 
 When Hope sang for us an unceasing song ! 
 When life was love, and love was joy unworn, 
 
 And clouds turned all their silver to om* gaze ; 
 When each sweet night brought forth a sweeter morn- 
 
 Where art thou, dearest of my early days ? 
 
 Oh ! what a world of poesy was ours, 
 
 And poesy with passion undefiled ! 
 Heaven with its stars, and earth with all her flowers, 
 
 Seemed made for us, for us alone they smiled ; 
 Fused in each others dreams, a constant spring, 
 
 One, yet apart, we trod all pleasant ways, 
 Sat down with Nature, heard her teach and sing, — 
 
 Where art thou, dearest of my early days ?
 
 18-i 
 
 LEOXORE. 
 
 With thee all beauty wore a lovelier face ; 
 
 With thee all grandeur a suhlimer mein ; 
 With thee all music was a holier grace ; 
 
 With thee all motion ecstacy unseen ; 
 Without thee life was colourless and vain, 
 
 And common pleasure a bewildering maze, 
 All thought was langour, and all effort vain, — 
 
 Where art thou, dearest of my early days ? 
 
 I loved, how well let this worn cheek attest, 
 
 And these sad eyes with fresh tears streaming o'er ; 
 Deep in the hidden chambers of my breast 
 
 The fire bums on, but ne'er to bless me more : — 
 Oh ! Nevermore! a dreaiy word that falls 
 
 Like a dread knell that sets the brain acraze, 
 A word of doom that withers and appals, — 
 
 Where art thou, dearest of my early days ? 
 
 We loved, but one with unrelenting power, 
 
 With selfish soul intent on cruel schemes — 
 Stepped in between us one disastrous hour. 
 
 And swept to ruin all our hopes and dreams ; 
 And we were parted, thou to share the life 
 
 Of the gay crowd that dazzles and betrays, 
 I to contend with penury and strife, — 
 
 Where art thou, dearest of my early days ?
 
 LEONORE. 185 
 
 I see tnee as I saw tliee " long ago," 
 
 (A. fond, yet fatal time for tliee and me), 
 When with the eloquence of love and woe 
 
 We blessed each other 'neath the alder tree ; 
 The aged alder, whose umbrageous boughs 
 
 Sigh where our native river sings and plays ; 
 Which heard our earliest and our latest vows, — 
 
 Where art thou, dearest of my early days ? 
 
 I see thee as I saw, when, one sweet eve, 
 
 I dared to pour my passion in thine ear, 
 And thou didst lean to listen and believe, 
 
 With mixed emotions of delight and fear ; 
 I see the quick blush flitting o'er thy cheek, 
 
 And the soft fire of thy confiding gaze, 
 I feel thy heart in throbbing language speak, — 
 
 Where art thou, dearest of my early days ? 
 
 I see thee as I saw thee every^vhere. 
 
 In the calm household graceful, quiet, kind. 
 In the broad sunshine and the breezy air 
 
 Bright as the beam, and buoyant as the wind ; 
 I see thee flushed, and floating like a cloud 
 
 In the gay festival's enchanting maze, 
 And, lovelier still, in prayer serenely bowed, — 
 
 Where art thou, dearest of my early days ? 
 1 B
 
 186 
 
 LEOXORE . 
 
 Thou wast my earliest Muse: from theef'ffl^w 
 
 My inspiration, ■which hath found a tongue, 
 The feeling quickened, germinated, grew, 
 
 Till I was shadowed with a bower of song ; 
 And now men hail and syllable my name, — 
 
 Would thou couldst share the glory and the praise. 
 Thy love would lift me to a loftier fame,— 
 
 Where art thou, dearest of my early days? 
 
 Art thou of earth, sweet spirit of the past? 
 
 The lost and mourned, the adored, and unforgot ! 
 Hast thou been beaten by Misfortune's blast? 
 
 Or dost thou revel in a brighter lot? 
 Is there another whom thine eyes approve ? 
 
 Is there another whom thy heart obeys? — 
 Or dost thou sorrow o'er thy blighted love ? 
 
 Where art thou, dearest of my early days? 
 
 Art thou of Heaven? and dost thou now behold. 
 
 Stooping, in pity, from thy sainted sphere — 
 Thy poor, forsaken worshipper of old, 
 
 Despairing, desolate, and darkling here? 
 I look for thee, I long for thee, I languish 
 
 To press thee, bless thee, ere my life decays ; 
 Still my lorn soul cries after thee with anguish, 
 
 Where art thou, dearest of my early days ?
 
 187 
 
 THE POET'S WELCOME. 
 
 EXTEMPORE LINES BEAD AT A LITERARY MEETING IN 18i2. 
 
 Welcome ! ye worshippers of that sweet power, 
 The sweet mysterious power of Poesy, 
 That echo of the beautiful in shape, 
 Sound, hue, and fragrance ; that calm voice 
 Of man's affections, aspirations, dreams ; 
 That strange, impalpable, and blessed thing 
 Whose home is narrow as the human heart. 
 And wide as is the universe; that shade 
 Of God which passes through the mind of man, 
 And wakes within him thoughts which, wed to words. 
 Become the thoughts of millions ; that pure ray 
 Sent down from the eternal fount of glory, 
 A sign and earnest of immortal life 
 Beyond the dim, dread barriers of Death ! 
 
 Welcome ! ye lovers of that spellful art 
 Which few possess, yet thousands can enjoy : 
 Welcome to this our festival of soul 
 And heart, where we may interchange the things 
 Which lie enshrined within us, — mental flowers
 
 188 IHE POETS WELCOME. 
 
 Whicli soon might languish, perish, pass away 
 
 Unnoticed of the world, did we not seek 
 
 To bring them from their solitudes, and throw 
 
 The light of friendship round them, in the hope 
 
 That Fame will stoop to gather them ere long. 
 
 And weave them into wreaths for her eternal shrines;. 
 
 The Poet's soul, bless Heaven, is rife with means 
 To multiply the pleasures of his race : 
 His warm heart thrills in sympathy with all 
 The suffering of the earth. The great and good 
 To him are ever glorious, and he yearns 
 "To throw those feelings out which bear him up" 
 Against the storms and sorrows of the world I 
 The scattered sons of humanizing song. 
 Like twilight stars ought not to reigir apart. 
 As jealous of each other's light; but come 
 Clustering in one most glorious galaxy 
 Of mental splendour, as I see ye now ! 
 
 Welcome again to this our old retreat. 
 This corner of antiquity ! This group 
 Of wilding flowers which open to the night. 
 Breathing the holy incense of high thought, 
 May one day send its odours through the wai'ldl
 
 139 
 
 "THE TEMPTATION" AND "THE EXPULSION." 
 
 EXTEMPORE LINES SUGGESTED BY DUBUFFE's PICTtJKES 0» 
 THAI XAME. 
 
 Stranger! -wouldst thou be charmed, here staud thee still 
 And scan that canvas, \Nhere the Poet's pen, 
 The Painter's pencil, and the hues of heaven, 
 Have made a mimic Pai'adise. How fair! 
 How femininely fair that perfect form 
 Of gentle Eve I — who, leaning on the ground 
 In sidelong loveliness, bribes Adam's hand 
 With the rich fruit of the forbidden tree ! 
 That seraph-face, sweet, yearning, full of love, 
 With passionate appeal upturned to his, 
 Might almost tempt an angel form to sin, 
 Though kindred forms stood by. Observe thee, too. 
 The troubled aspect of our human sire : — 
 Full of a natural dignity and grace — 
 Is sad with doubts, perplexities and fears, 
 As trembling 'twLxt the e\i\ and the good. 
 He sits in mute uncertainty. " Beware I" 
 For so our busy faucics seem to say —
 
 1 90 " THE temptation" AND " THE EXPULSION. " 
 
 "Timely beware! nor touch the fatal fruit ; 
 Seal up thine ear against the insidious words 
 Of her thou lovest, for a pitiless Fiend, 
 God's enemy and thine, inspires her tongue 
 With more than mortal eloquence and power. 
 Gird up thy spirit to resist her plea — 
 Think on the tenure of thy happy state. 
 Lest thy infraction of Divine command 
 Bring sin, tears, ruin, on thy after race!" 
 
 Stranger ! thy steps depart not, for behold 
 The great, dread deed at which the infant earth 
 Shuddered through all her veins; while angels wept 
 In unavailing pity — hath drawn down 
 The long and awful curse. Oh ! what a change 
 Hath come upon that Eden, which, but now, 
 Smiled, the abode of purity and joy. 
 And peaceful compact 'tween all living things. 
 The elements are up in warfare ; clouds 
 Hang hot and heavy in the troubled air, 
 Save where a lurid and mysterious light 
 Streams through the cloven darkness, and reveals 
 All other horrors of that fearful scene ! 
 Look on our guilty parents, what dismay 
 And terror in the wild uplifted look 
 Of our primeval mother, as she lies 
 Prone, encircled by the eager arms 
 Of him who shares the peril and the pain ! 
 Half kneeling, with a face of strange distress, 
 Mbced with compassion, wonder, and despair, 
 He bends above the bringer of his fate,
 
 "THE temptation" AKD "THE EXPULSION." 191 
 
 As if to shield her from the dread effect 
 
 Of God's most just displeasure ; ^vhile the Fiend, 
 
 Exulting in the havoc he hath made, 
 
 Askant surveys his victims, breathing flame, 
 
 The fire of that interminable hate 
 
 Which shut him out eternally from Heaven ! 
 
 Thus man's conception and designing hand, 
 With the sweet aid of many-coloured light, 
 Have boldly given to our admiring eyes 
 Twin pictures, vivid, truthful, and sublime ; 
 And as we ponder on the solemn theme 
 Which gave them birth, involuntary thought 
 Pays silent tribute to the Pamter's power 
 
 !
 
 199 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF A DECEASED FPJEXD. 
 
 'Mid the harsli Babel of the busy crowd 
 A sudden voice my inward spirit bowed, 
 
 A friendly voice, that told me of thy doom ; — 
 That years, and sorrows, and the world's rude strife. 
 Had pushed thee from the battle-ground of life 
 
 To the oblivious calm that dwelleth in the tomb. 
 
 Shade of my friend ! although my languid lyre 
 Withheld the mournful tribute of its fire. 
 
 Not the less dear thy memory to me ; 
 Deep in my heart the solemn feeling lay. 
 Till the renewed remembrance of to-day 
 
 Came forth in feeble language, all unworthy thee ! 
 
 Warm was thy soul, without or pride or guile; 
 Thy liberal hand, thy sympathising smile, 
 
 Were prompt the suffering wretch to cheer and raise 
 To God devoted, and to nature true, 
 Gentle and genial as the summer dew 
 
 Thy silent bounty fell, nor asked for human praise.
 
 TO THE MEMOEY OF A DECEASED FRIEND. 193 
 
 And I have marked thy countenance and mien, 
 Quiet, but kindly — watchful, but serene, 
 
 Govern thy household more by love than fear ; 
 And I have seen thy manly features glow. 
 And heard thy lips with eloquent speech o'erflow. 
 
 When souls of kindred mood around thy board drew near. 
 
 Scorning vain show, thy not untutored mind 
 Cherished a lofty sense of things refined, — 
 
 Things that adom, and dignify, and bless ; 
 And loving Truth for her sweet sake divine- 
 That best religion of the heart was thine, 
 
 A yearning evermore to make man's sorrows less. 
 
 And thou did'st glory in the poet's song,— 
 Poet thyself, though nameless mid the throng 
 
 That cheer, charm, elevate the human race ; 
 But now thou hear'st the everlasting hymn. 
 The harps and voices of the seraphim 
 
 That kneel in radiant ranks before the throne of grace. 
 
 If e'er again my vagrant footsteps stray 
 Along each pleasant and romantic way 
 
 We trod together in the summer glow, 
 Each form and feature of the varied scene 
 Will wake sad memories of what hath been, 
 
 And lift my chastened thoughts from transient things below. 
 
 1 c
 
 194 TO THE MEMOEY OF A DECEASED FRIEND, 
 
 In lofty Marsden's cultivated glades, 
 
 In lordly Gisborne's proud, patrician shades, 
 
 By gentle Calder's ever-tuneful stream, 
 On cloud-communing Pendle's barren side, 
 'Mid Whalley's ruins of monastic pride, 
 
 Fancy will raise thee up, to stir me like a dream. 
 
 In grassy Craven's long-withdrawing dales. 
 In gloomy Gordale, where the storm prevails, 
 
 By IMalham s giant cliff and secret wave, 
 And by that lonely tarn where once we sang, 
 Till the rough rocks with startled echoes rang. 
 
 Some thought of thee will come, and whisper of the grave. 
 
 Friend of my later days ! thou sleepest well ; 
 And many a grateful tongue is left to tell 
 
 What gentle thoughts, what generous deeds, were thine ; 
 And in that calm and consecrated spot, 
 Where thou, forgetting, wilt not be forgot, — 
 
 With thy dear childrens' tears I fain would mingle mine.
 
 195 
 
 OX THE DEATH OF TWO INFANT CHILDREN. 
 
 Alas for me ! 
 Two bonny buds but newly-blown, 
 But into winning beauty grown, 
 From my domestic garden torn, 
 Have left me feeble and forlorn ; 
 I miss tliem from my household ti'ee, — 
 
 Alas for me ! 
 
 Alas for me ! 
 Two lambs, a blessing to behold. 
 Are taken from their earthly fold. 
 Mid fau-er pasture-fields to roam, 
 Eound the great Shepherd's happier home ; 
 And though I bow submissive knee, 
 
 Alas for me ! 
 
 Alas for me ! 
 Two jewels rarest of the treasure 
 Set in my crown of human pleasure. 
 Are shaken earthward, and each gem 
 Recalled to God's own diadem. 
 To shine where sinless seraphs be, — 
 
 Alas for me !
 
 196 ON THE DEATH OF TWO INFANT CHILDREN. 
 
 Alas for me ! 
 Two love-beams, sent from heaven to cheer 
 My lot of storm and darkness here, 
 Are gathered to the central light 
 Of climes unknown to death or night ; 
 Would that my own sad soul were free — 
 
 Alas for me ! 
 
 Alas for thee ! 
 My own, my true, my patient wife. 
 Dear antidote of care and strife ; 
 Fond mother of my babes that rest 
 In the mute earth's maternal breast ! 
 What must thy double sorrow be ? 
 
 Alas for thee ! 
 
 But why repine ? 
 Though the cold earth enshrines ray dears ; 
 Though moments scarcely count our tears, 
 A little hope, a little trust, 
 A little thought beyond the dust, 
 ]\lay fit us for that home of joy 
 * Where tlieij can never feel annoy. 
 
 Where theij, perchance, keep watch, and wait 
 Our coming to that radiant gate 
 That opens into life divine, — 
 
 Then why repine ?
 
 197 
 
 SABBATH EVEXIXG THOUGHTS. 
 
 In the calm shadow of this Sabbath night, 
 Eestraining vicious thought and vain deske, 
 
 I sit "with sober, but unseen delight, 
 
 In the blythe presence of my flickering fire ; — 
 
 Becall my struggles with the stormy past, 
 
 And wonder how my heart withstood the trying blast. 
 
 And yet it beats within my quiet breast 
 
 As warmly, not as wildly, as of old ; 
 Perchance a little better for the test 
 
 Of human sorrows, mLxed and manifold : 
 Perchance more fitted to repel or bear 
 The now familiar stings of poverty and c^re. 
 
 Books are about me, full of glorious things, 
 Left by the good and gifted of the earth, — 
 
 Pearls shaken, like the dews, from Fancy's wings. 
 Burnings of pathos, scintillings of mirth ; 
 
 And, what is nearer unto Heaven allied, 
 
 The Christian's treasure-page, and comforter, and guide !
 
 193 SABBATH EVENING THOUGHTS. 
 
 Beings, how clearly loved ! are circled round, 
 
 Talking togetlaer in an undertone 
 Of pleasant voices, lest too rude a sound 
 
 Should wake the dreamer from his musings lone : 
 While the old cricket in his corner dim, 
 Pours on my passive ear his undisturbing hymn. 
 
 My street bound home is unadorned and small, 
 
 With an accessible and ready door; — 
 No picture smiling on the plaster wall, 
 
 No carpet sleeping on the stony floor ; 
 No graceful garniture, no couch of down, 
 No rich array of robes to make the envious frown. 
 
 But there is food prepared from day to day, 
 
 Won by the energies of hand and brain ; 
 A hard, but grateful bed, -whereon to lay 
 
 The limb of labour, and the head of pain : 
 And peace is -with my household morn and night, 
 ^Vllile through life's passing clouds love looks with purer light. 
 
 Beholding others sinking deeper still 
 
 On the rough road of our uncertain life. 
 Feeble, indeed, though resolute in will. 
 
 Waging with fortune a perpetual strife ; 
 Partly forgetful of my darker days, 
 My silent soul sends up involuntary praise.
 
 199 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN RHUDDLAN CASTLE, NORTH WALES. 
 
 Retreat of our fathers, who battled and bled 
 Against the unhallowed invasion of Rome, 
 
 "Who, vanquished by numbers, were scattered and fled 
 To find mid these solitudes freedom and home, 
 
 Preserving through son-ows and changes untold. 
 
 The firmness, the feelings, the language of old. 
 
 I come, in the light of the blue summer sides. 
 To visit thy beauties wild Cambrian land ! 
 
 Already thy mountains rise dark on my eyes, 
 And blooming before me thy valleys expand ; 
 
 Thy rude rocks invite me, thy floods as they flow 
 
 Allure me to follow wherever they go. 
 
 I will muse in thy castles, I'll look from thy hills, 
 I'll plunge in the depths of thy forests and vales ; 
 
 I will climb to thy cataracts, drink at thy rills, 
 And list to thy songs and thy stories, old Wales ! 
 
 I will dream by thy rivers, and proudly explore 
 
 Every path which Tradition hath trodden before.
 
 200 LINES. 
 
 A pilgrim I am, and a pilgrim I've been, 
 
 And a pilgrim I would be ^Yhile vigour remains. 
 
 My fond feet have wandered o'er many a scene, 
 
 But none wliicli surpasses tliy mountains and plains ; 
 
 And I marvel tliat e'er I could linger to see 
 
 A land less encliantiug, less glorious than thee. 
 
 There are beings I love without coldness or guile, 
 There are friends I would cling to whatever betide, 
 
 My absence from these may be borne for awhile, 
 But the other will mourn me away from their side ; 
 
 Yet a season will come when my manhood is past. 
 
 That will bind me to one little circle at last. 
 
 "With a feeling of wonder I pause on my way. 
 
 In a ruin where monarchs held splendour and place. 
 
 But pleasures await me for many a day, 
 In a region of poesy, grandeur, and grace ; 
 
 For a time I will linger by hill, stream, and glen, 
 
 Then back to the common existence of men, 
 
 John Williamson, Printer, Asliton-uuder-Lyne.
 
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