•■- - . ■■■■•-.'. J ■ . 
 
 5699 
 T85s> 
 
 ■ ■ 
 
 
 III
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD 
 ENDOWMENT FUND
 
 POEMS
 
 SMALL TABLEAUX 
 
 BY THE 
 
 REV. CHARLES TURNER 
 
 VICAR OF GRASBY, LINCOLN 
 
 ETasce breves, oro pictor, ne sperne tabellas 
 
 M. S. 
 
 bonbon 
 
 MACMILLAH AND CO. 
 
 1868
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODB AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 My Fibst and Last Strophe 3 
 
 The Gold- crested Wren 4 
 
 The Holy Emerald 5 
 
 St. Augustine and Monica ...... 6 
 
 Nehemiah's Night Eide 7 
 
 Salome 8 
 
 Continued ......... 9 
 
 Charlotte Corday 10 
 
 Wolf and the Casket 11 
 
 Philoctetes . . . . . . . . .12 
 
 Continued . . . . . . • • .13 
 
 On an Old Eoman Shield found in the Thames . 14 
 
 On the Same 15 
 
 The Bier of the Ghristian Soldier . . . .16 
 The Illumination of the English and French Fleets 
 
 at Portsmouth . . . . . . .17 
 
 On a Picture of Armida and Kinaldo, with the 
 
 Decoy-Nymph 18 
 
 Art and Faith 19 
 
 Lucy 20 
 
 Mary — A Reminiscence 21 
 
 Continued .......... 22 
 
 Morning Sorrows 23 
 
 Minnie and Her Dove . . . . . .24 
 
 765707
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Eustace and Edith 25 
 
 Continued — Make-believe Hunting . . . .26 
 The School-Boy's Dream ox the Night before the 
 
 Holidays ........ 27 
 
 The Rogue's Nightmare 28 
 
 Little Phosbe ......... 29 
 
 Alice Wade yersus Small-pox 30 
 
 Ellen 31 
 
 Annie and Ambrose 32 
 
 Going Home 33 
 
 Jealousy .......... 34 
 
 The Half-Rainbow 35 
 
 The Parting-Gate . . . . . . . .36 
 
 Hero and Leander ........ 37 
 
 Drowned in the Tropics 38 
 
 Continued — The Sea-Fairies' Answer . . .39 
 Vienna and in Memoriam . . . . . .40 
 
 To a Little Child who asked for a Laurel Crown . 41 
 
 Continued — A Recantation . . . . .42 
 
 Little Samuel 43 
 
 A Brilliant Day 44 
 
 The Starling 45 
 
 No Nightingales, or Compensation . . . .46 
 
 The Wood-Rose ........ 47 
 
 The Home-Field. Evening . . . . . .48 
 
 Maggie's Star ......... 49 
 
 A Summer Night in the Beehive 50 
 
 The Bee-Wisp 51 
 
 The Fly's Lecture 52 
 
 The Rookery . . 53
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Vll 
 
 PAGE 
 
 On a Vase of Gold-Fish 54 
 
 The Plea of the Shot Swallow 55 
 
 The Last Sweep of the Scythe 56 
 
 Harvest-Home 57 
 
 The Storm — A Harvest Memory 58 
 
 The First "Week in October 59 
 
 From Harvest to January ...... 60 
 
 Last Year's Harvest . . . . . . .61 
 
 The Steam Threshing Machine 62 
 
 Continued ......... 63 
 
 November Sunshine and the House-Flies . . .64 
 
 The Drunkard's Last Market 65 
 
 The Late Pastor of Woldsby Ebriorum . . .66 
 On the Eclipse of the Moon of October 1865 . . 67 
 On an Annular Eclipse of the Sun in a Storm . 68 
 
 I'm: Moon and Sin, an Illustration . . . .69 
 
 Orion 70 
 
 Fanaticism, A Night Scene in the Open Air . . 71 
 Bussing the Meteors, 1866 72 
 
 Continued — A Lsok-oct for Thirty Years . . 73 
 The Moorland Tree in the Garden . . . .7-1 
 
 Is and out of the Pine-Wood 75 
 
 Sclent Praise 76 
 
 A Fori st Si wset 77 
 
 Written at the Wood-Sale of Messrs. Blank and Co., 
 
 Non-resident I'kopkietors 78 
 
 The Needles' Lighthouse from Kiyhavkn, Hampshire 79 
 Danger a Personification ...... 80 
 
 A Farewelj to the [sle of Wight . . . .81 
 
 The White Eorse oi Westbury 82
 
 Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Beau Nash 83 
 
 A Photograph on the Red Gold 84 
 
 On Board a Jersey Steamer 85 
 
 Vie de Jesus ......... 86 
 
 Poor Hodge and the Ket. Sans Pot . . . .87 
 
 Prat, Think, and Strive 88 
 
 The .ZEolian Harp 89 
 
 The Ocean 90 
 
 A Summer Twilight 91 
 
 The Kiss of Betrothal 92 
 
 An English Church 93 
 
 A Porest Lake 94 
 
 Jot came from Heaven 95 
 
 The Rainbow 96 
 
 Collision of the Ayr and Comet Steamboats . . 97 
 
 Silkworms and Spiders 98 
 
 Perseverance ......... 99 
 
 Martial Ardour in Age 100 
 
 Autumn 101 
 
 A Calm Evening 102 
 
 On a Genius of Lowlt Estate 103 
 
 On Startling some Pigeons 104 
 
 The Butterfly 105 
 
 On a Picture of the Fates . . . . . .106 
 
 Decadence of Greece, 1830 107 
 
 A Birthday 108 
 
 To 109 
 
 On Seeing a Child Blush on his First View of a Corpse 110 
 O God, Impart Tht Blessing to my Cries . . .111 
 
 Notes 113
 
 SMALL TABLEAUX.
 
 MY FIRST AND /.AST STROPHE. 
 On being asked to write an Ode by a Fi 
 
 Dear friend ! I had commenced the ' soaring ode '- 
 
 But oh ! I felt, despite thy flattering talk, 
 
 Like some poor spam >\v, captured by a hawk, 
 
 And borne on alien wings from his abode 
 
 Beneath the sheltering eaves. It is an art 
 
 Beyond my scope and pitch ; I stare and pant 
 
 In this Pindaric clutch, and feel my want 
 
 Of force; henceforth I shall grow faint at heart 
 
 To see a falcon tower. Let lyrics be; 
 
 For, though I do not love to say thee nay, 
 
 For m \ poor muse it is too late a day 
 
 To mrll with strophe and antistrophe ! 
 
 VVli.'ti odes are paramount, 'tis best for me 
 
 To house and peep, lest I be swooped away. 
 
 u 2
 
 THE GOLD-CRESTED WREN. 
 
 His relation to the Sonnet. 
 
 When my hand closed upon thee, worn and spent 
 
 With idly dashing on the window-pane, 
 
 Or clinging to the cornice — I, that meant 
 
 At once to free thee, could not but detain ; 
 
 I dropt my pen, I left th' unfinished lay, 
 
 To give thee back to freedom ; but I took — 
 
 Oh, charm of sweet occasion ! — one brief look 
 
 At thy bright eyes and innocent dismay ; 
 
 Then forth I sent thee on thy homeward quest, 
 
 My lesson learnt — thy beauty got by heart : 
 
 And if, at times, my sonnet-muse would rest 
 
 Short of her topmost skill, her little best, 
 
 The memory of thy delicate gold crest 
 
 »Shall plead for one last touch, — the crown of Art.
 
 THE HOLY EMERALD 
 
 ■ Said to be the only true likeness of Christ. 
 
 The gem, to -which the artist did entrust 
 
 That Face which now outshines the Cherubim, 
 
 Gave up, full willingly, its emerald dust, 
 
 To take Christ's likeness, to make room for Him. 
 
 So must it be, if thou wouldst bear about 
 
 Thy Lord — thy shining surface must be lowered, 
 
 Thy goodly prominence be chipt and scored, 
 
 Till those deep scars have brought His features out : 
 
 Sharp be the stroke and true, make no complaints ; 
 
 F< -r heavenly lines thou givest earthy grit : 
 
 But oh ! how oft our coward spirit faints, 
 
 "When we are called our jewels to submit 
 
 T" this keen graver, which so oft hath writ 
 
 'I'lic Saviour's image on His wounded saints !
 
 ST. AUGUSTINE AND MONICA. 
 
 When Monica's young son had felt her kiss — 
 
 Her weeping kiss — for years, her sorrow flowed 
 
 At last into his wilful blood ; he owed 
 
 To her his after-life of truth and bliss : 
 
 And her own joy, what words, what thoughts could paint ! 
 
 When o'er his soul, with sweet constraining force, 
 
 Came Penitence— a fusion from remorse — 
 
 And made her boy a glorious Christian saint. 
 
 Oh ye, who tend the young through doubtful years 
 
 Along the busy path from birth to death, 
 
 Parents and friends ! forget not in your fears 
 
 The secret strength of prayer, the holy breath 
 
 That swathes your darlings ; think how Austin's faith 
 
 Rose like a star upon his mother's tears !
 
 NEHEMIAH'S NlGET BILK. 
 
 When Neheiniah rode into the dark, 
 And stones of ruin cumbered his advance. 
 And old localities were hard to mark, 
 Methinks he spent some moments in a trance 
 Of sounds from past and future — Abraham's foot 
 With Isaac's on Moriah; then the sigh 
 Of Moses, beyond Jordan doomed to die, 
 So near the soil wherein his heart had root : 
 'Ay!' thought he, ' and my own fond suit was met 
 By earthly and by heavenlv sympathy ! ' 
 Then came sweet tones from far Gennesaret, 
 A plash, as from the easting of a net, 
 Tlie noise as of a Cross grounded and set 
 Hard by him, and a loud and lonely cry !
 
 8 
 
 SALOME. 
 
 How little didst thou think, while tripping down 
 
 To meet Herodias, from that wild carouse, 
 
 That thou shouldst win such terrible renown, 
 
 And men should name thy name with heavy brows ! 
 
 For, in the fierce light of thy mother's guilt, 
 
 Before the nations thou art dancing still 
 
 Up to the wine-cups ! Holy life was spilt, 
 
 And thy fair girlhood served a murderous will : 
 
 And so thou fillest up th' historic page 
 
 With the keen Scribe and ruthless Pharisee, 
 
 And, linked with all the furies of the age, 
 
 Hast found no pitying heart to plead for thee ; 
 
 For, lo ! thy dancing-dress is bloody -red, 
 
 And thy young hands have borne John Baptist's head !
 
 Continued. 
 
 But didst thou not relent 9 our pity asks ; 
 Didst thou not shudder at that daring deed ? 
 Though voices from the flagons and the flasks 
 Bade thee and the slain prophet's head good speed 
 To the Queen's chamber ? Herod rued his oath, 
 And shuddered in the net his hands had drawn 
 About himself, and wished his vow unsworn : 
 And was the tender maiden nothing loth 
 To lend herself to that foul deed of hate, 
 Whose issue is the world's eternal blame ? 
 Didst thou not rather bend, in silent shame, 
 O'er the cold lips, so eloquent of late, 
 From which the breath of holy anger came 
 As pure as the wild honey which he ate?
 
 10 
 
 CHARLOTTE COED AY, 
 
 A Memoir of a Hand. 
 
 A child's small hand, lost in her father's — twined 
 In springtide round the stems of earliest flowers, 
 Which she had found in fields and orchard -bowers, 
 With earnest eyes, that best deserve to find ; 
 A woman's hand — whose pulses ever glowed 
 With eager purpose, running bolder blood 
 Than childhood's ; though the loving teardrops flowed 
 Whene'er she clasped in dreams her country's good : 
 An armed hand ! fresh from the stricken throat 
 Of that fierce homicide, whose rage of heart 
 Woke counter-rage, that came and saw and smote ; 
 Ah ! maiden's hand ! blood-stained at last ! thou art 
 The very symbol of th' unnatural time 
 When Norman Charlotte dared her noble crime.
 
 II 
 
 WOLF AND TEE CASKET, 
 
 Or the Unity of the Iliud. 
 
 Though Wolf, in hyperergic zeal, insists * 
 
 On breaking up that old Ionian harp, 
 
 And parcels out to many melodists 
 
 The Chiau's lonely fame, — he cannot warp 
 
 Our common sense, pervert our natural taste ; 
 
 Great Aristotle, and that warrior-youth 
 
 Of old, held simpler views of Epic truth ; 
 
 Master and pupil felt his unity ; 
 
 And, when the monarch in his casket placed 
 
 The roll, the verdict of a world he took : 
 
 In truth, a plural Homer cannot be ' 
 
 One Muse maintains the quarrels and the loves, 
 
 One ardent voice, like Heaven-sent Ossa, moves 
 
 The war from fight to fight, from book to book.
 
 12 
 
 PHILOCTETES. 
 
 Silent they gaze from Hion's battlements — 
 Ton sail to-day has brought her latest foe ; 
 Silent they gaze upon the plain below. 
 And hear glad voices from the Grecian tents : 
 Not now Achilles, shouting from the trench, 
 Dismays them — but that friend of Hercules, 
 Armed with the Hydra's blood to fight for Greece, 
 Though once deported for his rueful stench ; 
 The cruel shafts will soon be on the wing, 
 So brief is that beleaguered city's span ; 
 The leech has gone to that ill- savoured man : 
 The foot of Philoctetes yearns to spring 
 Like young Protesilaiis ! Troy hath learned 
 Her fate, — the ten-years' exile hath returned !
 
 *3 
 
 Continued. 
 PHILOCTETES. 
 
 Onward the fatal hours and minutes steal, 
 
 To-morrow shall his archery commence, 
 
 And Troy's proud walls be left without defence, 
 
 Open and mortal as Achilles' heel : 
 
 To-morrow that old suitor shall exact 
 
 Grim vengeance, now for ten years overdue — 
 
 For Menelaiis and (Enone too — 
 
 Th" adulterer shall be slain — the city sackt : 
 
 Night falls — The mighty bow lies still on board, 
 
 And dips and rises with the heaving wave : 
 
 The ship-light nickers on that thirsty hoard 
 
 Of arrows, which the twelve-fold labourer gave ; 
 
 The night-watch halts beside it, pondering all 
 
 The dreadful purport of his chief's recall.
 
 H 
 
 ON AN OLD ROMAN SHIELD FOUND IN 
 THE THAMES. 
 
 Drowned for long ages, lost to human reach, 
 
 At last the Roman buckler reajDpears, 
 
 And makes an old-world clang upon the beach, 
 
 Its first faint voice for many a hundred years ; 
 
 Not the weird noises on the battle-field 
 
 Of Marathon, as thrilling legends tell, 
 
 Could speak more sadly than this ancient shield, 
 
 As ringing at the fisher's feet it fell. 
 
 How cam'st thou to be grappled thus, and hauled 
 
 To shore, when other prey was sought, not thou ? 
 
 How strangely was thy long-lost chime recalled, 
 
 As when the arrows struck thee ! Then, as now, 
 
 The tented plain was thronged with armed men ; 
 
 Our weapons change, we quarrel now as then !
 
 *5 
 
 ON THE SAME. 
 
 He drew it home— lie heaved it to the bank— 
 
 No modern waif, but an old Eoman targe ; 
 
 The mild familiar swan in terror shrank 
 
 From the rude plash, and left the weltering marge. 
 
 Low rang the iron boss ; the fisher stared 
 
 At his new capture, while, in mystic tones, 
 
 The lost shield called its legion, whose death-groans 
 
 And clash of onset it had seen and heard. 
 
 Oh ! when shall better thoughts be dear to man, 
 
 Than rapine and ambition, fraud and hate : J 
 
 Oh ! when shaU War, like this old buckler, fall 
 
 linn disuse, drowned by its own dead weight ? 
 
 And ( 'oinmerce, buoyant as the living swan, 
 
 Push boldly to the shore, the friend of all ?
 
 i6 
 
 THE BIER OF THE CHRISTIAN SOLDIER. 
 
 When first the blackthorn blossomed, thou wast brave 
 
 And strong, but April left thee faint and sick ; 
 
 The May-wasp dipt into thine open grave, 
 
 And struck the velvets of thy hearse — so quick 
 
 Thy summons came. Disease and languor stole 
 
 The pulses of thy young heroic hands ; 
 
 But thou didst ever bow to Heaven's commands, 
 
 And so the act of dying made thy soul 
 
 An instant guest in Paradise ! How calm 
 
 And still lay those brave hands, which ever yearned 
 
 For prayer, yet never from the combat turned ! 
 
 Though sundered for dispatch of martial deeds, 
 
 Each with its weapon, serving fiery needs, 
 
 They longed to press each other, palm to palm.
 
 17 
 
 THE ILLUMINATION OF THE ENGLISH AND 
 FRENCH FLEETS AT PORTSMOUTH. 
 
 Thanks to those festal fires ! mankind shall be 
 All brothers now ! since France and England met, 
 The far-seen glow of their great amity 
 Hangs on the world's horizons : they have set 
 A glorious fashion ! On th' illumined Hood 
 Their two great navies, like some mighty raft. 
 Rode in their oneness ; without spleen or craft, 
 They mei in light — God saw that it was good; 
 And, oh ! those long-drawn rockets, how they climbed, 
 To fill the very heaven with tricolors ! 
 What healths we drank, by booming cannon timed ' 
 And how the city swarmed from all her doors 
 To greei the Frenchman on our English shores' 
 Ami how the bells of welcome pealed and chimed ' 
 
 c
 
 i8 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF ABMIDA AND BINALDO, 
 WITH THE DECOY-NYMPH. 
 
 Dear is that picture for my childhood's sake, — 
 
 The man asleep, so near 'to love or harm ; 
 
 The winged boy, that stays Armida's arm, 
 
 The siren-girl, all-hushed, lest he awake ; 
 
 While, in the background of that pictured tale, 
 
 .Sown with enchanted herbs, and clad with gloom, 
 
 A sombre eminence o'erlooks the vale, 
 
 A purple hill, where all my dreams found room : 
 
 'Tis strange, with how few touches of a brush, 
 
 That painter's hand supplied, in life's fresh morn, 
 
 The mystic thoughts I loved ! Sweet thoughts! deep-drawn 
 
 Far-destined ; cherished still without a blush ; 
 
 Deep-drawn — from God's own founts of mystery ; 
 
 Far-destined — for my soul must ever be.
 
 *9 
 
 ART AND FAITE. 
 
 When first I home returned, and took my part 
 Once more in rural duties, I had brought 
 A memory stored with forms of ancient art, 
 And faithful visions kept them in my thought ; 
 Day after day Apollo stretched his arm, 
 And gazed in triumph, o'er our village road; 
 While Fancy heard, aloof, the noise of harm, 
 That reached the Python from the Archer-god. 
 
 me not leave thee, O my Lord, for these, 
 Nor merge in Art my Christian fealty ! 
 Through all the winsome sculptures of old Greece 
 Keep Thou an open walk for Thee and me ! 
 No whiteness is like Thine, All-pure and good ! 
 No marble weighs against Thy precious Blood. 
 
 i 2
 
 20 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 The sculptor carves the stone, till he beholds 
 
 Its lessening bulk his finer thought fulfil ; 
 
 The flesh and blood our heavenly Artist moulds, 
 
 Waxed fuller, while He wrought it fairer still, 
 
 As Lucy grew to woman. Not a girl 
 
 In all the village wore her gracious look : 
 
 But each her dear pre-eminence could brook, 
 
 Nor wished a duller gloss on the least curl 
 
 Of her bright auburn hair. Love came to woo 
 
 In humblest guise, yet no coquettish guile 
 
 Depraved the honest beauty of her smile ; 
 
 Her goodness raised and bettered those who drew 
 
 The lot of the rejected, for they knew 
 
 Her utter truth and sweetness all the while !
 
 21 
 
 Mu 1 B F— . 1 B EMINISCENCE. 
 
 She died in June, while yet the woodbine sprays 
 
 Waved o'er the outlet of this garden-dell ; 
 
 Before the advent of these Autumn days 
 
 And dark unblossomed verdure. As befel, 
 
 I from my window gazed, yearning to forge 
 
 Some comfort out of anguish so forlorn : 
 
 The dull rain streamed before the bloomless gorge. 
 
 By which, erewhile, on each less genial morn, 
 
 Our Mary passed, to gain her sheltered lawn, 
 
 With Death's disastrous rose upon her cheek. 
 
 Eow often had I watched her, pale and meek. 
 
 Pacing the sward ! and now I daily seek 
 
 The track, by those slow pausing footsteps worn, 
 
 Eow faintly worn! 1 hough trodden week by week.
 
 22 
 
 Contiivued. 
 
 And when I seek the chamber where she dwelt, 
 Near one loved chair a well-worn spot I see, 
 Worn by the shifting of a feeble knee 
 While the poor head bowed lowly — it would melt 
 The worldling's heart with instant sympathy : 
 The match-box and the manual, lying there, 
 Those sad sweet signs of wakefulness and prayer, 
 Are darling tokens of the Past to me ; 
 The little rasping sound of taper lit 
 At midnight, which aroused her slumbering bird : 
 The motion of her languid frame that stirred 
 For ease in some new posture — tho' a word 
 Perchance, of sudden anguish, followed it ; 
 All this how often had I seen and heard !
 
 23 
 
 MOBXIXG SORBOWS. 
 
 Sad memory wakes anew at morning's touch 
 
 And, as some muscles move without our will. 
 
 She seizes, with involuntary clutch, 
 
 The sorrow that we hate, our bosom ill ; 
 
 But we are formed with such fine wisdom, such 
 
 A Providence our moral need supplies, 
 
 Thai we can seldom overrate our sighs 
 
 N( »r prize our organs of regret too much ; 
 
 Then welcome still these ever-new returns 
 
 Of anguish ! Who escapes or can escape 
 
 The burthen, while the great world sins and mourns ? 
 
 < rrief comes to all, whatever be her shape 
 
 To each, but we are framed with pain to cope ; 
 
 And, when we bow, we help <>ur climbing hope.
 
 2 4 
 
 MINNIE AND HER DOVE. 
 
 Two days she missed her dove, and then, alas ! 
 A knot of soft gray feathers met her view, 
 So light, their stirring hardly broke the dew 
 That hung on the blue violets and the grass ; 
 A kite had struck her fondling as he passed ; 
 And o'er that fleeting, downy, epitaph 
 The poor child lingered, weeping ; her gay laugh 
 Was mute that day, her little heart o'ercast. 
 Ah ! Minnie, if thou livest, thou wilt prove 
 Intenser pangs — less tearful, though less brief; 
 Thou'lt weep for dearer death and sweeter love, 
 And spiritual woe, of woes the chief, 
 Until the full-grown wings of human grief 
 Eclipse thy memory of the kite and dove.
 
 25 
 
 EUSTACE AND EDITH, 
 
 Or the old Rocking-horse. 
 
 Poor rocking-horse ! Eustace, and Edith too, 
 
 Mount living- steeds : she leans her dainty whip 
 
 Across thy smooth -worn flank, and feels thee dip 
 
 Beneath the pressure, while she dons a shoe, 
 
 Or lifts a glove, and thinks ' My childhood's gone ! ' 
 
 While the young statesman, with high hopes possest, 
 
 Lays a light hand upon thy yielding crest, 
 
 And rocks thee vaqantly and passes on. 
 
 Yet they both love thee — nor would either brook 
 
 Thine absence from this hall, tho' other aims 
 
 And interests have supplanted thy mute claims, 
 
 And thou must be content with casual look 
 
 From those, who sought thee once with earnest will, 
 
 Ami galloped thee with all their might ami skill.
 
 26 
 
 Continued. 
 MAKE-BELIEVE HUNTING. 
 
 How often, when the Meet was at the hall, 
 
 Those babes took horse, and, in their joy and pride, 
 
 Drew half the coverts of the country side ; 
 
 Sweet innocents ! for little Spot was all 
 
 Their kennel ; hapless Reynard never knew 
 
 Hoav wide a field his enemies embraced, 
 
 How both in fact and fancy he was chased, 
 
 And what that staunch old rocking-horse could do ! 
 
 Oh ! give him kindly greeting, man and maid, 
 
 And pat him, as you pass, with friendly hands, 
 
 In that dim window where disused he stands, 
 
 While o'er him breaks the limewalk's flickering shade: 
 
 No provender, no mate, no groom, has he — 
 
 His stall and pasture is your memory.
 
 2 7 
 
 THE SCHOOL-BOTS DREAM ON THE NIGHT 
 BEFORE THE HOLIDAYS. 
 
 'Twas the half-year's last day, a festal one ; 
 
 Light tasks and feast and sport, hoop, cricket, kite, 
 
 Employed ns fully, till the summer-night 
 
 Stole o'er the roofs of happy Alderton. 
 
 Homer indoors, and field-games out of school, 
 
 Made medley of my dreams; for. when I slept, 
 
 The quaintest vision o'er my fancy swept, 
 
 That ever served th£ lordship of misrule : 
 
 Our hoops through gods and heroes ran a-muck ; 
 
 Our kites o'erhung the fleet, a public gaze ! 
 
 And one wild ball the great Achilles struck — 
 
 Oh ! how he towered and lightened at the stroke ! 
 
 But, tho' his formal pardon I bespoke, 
 
 I told him plainly 'twas our holidays.
 
 28 
 
 THE ROGUE'S NIGHTMARE. 
 
 One who, the self-same morning', had decoyed 
 The widow and her son with glozing talk, 
 At eve through springing pastures walked abroad, 
 And, after his poor sort, enjoyed his walk. 
 That night he dreamed : fresh flowers and April grass 
 Smothered his cruel pen : the white lamb kneeled 
 Upon his crafty parchments, signed and sealed 
 By victim hands ; a babbling- stream did pass 
 Sheer through those written wiles, till that base ink, 
 Which robbed the widow's mite, the orphan's dole, 
 Lost colour. But that dream-begotten blink 
 Of damage waked at once his mammon-soul ; 
 From his keen glance all vernal tokens shrink 
 While Fraud and Twilight watch the lying* scroll.
 
 2 9 
 
 LITTLE PHCEBE, 
 Or the second gathering of the Sea-shells. 
 
 The rain had poured all day, but cleared at night . 
 When, with her little basket on her arm, 
 She left the door- step of that seaside farm ; 
 The weeping tamarisk glistened in the light, 
 And chanticleer's green feathers softly waved 
 Against the dying sunshine. Forth she fared, 
 Our host's sweet child, his Phoebe golden-haired, 
 To gather shells, wherewith the beach was paved ; 
 At dusk, she took the homeward path that led 
 Beneath yon dark -blue ridge, when, sad to tell, 
 On her fair head the gloomy Lias fell, 
 Crumbled by storms, — they found her bruised and dead 
 Eer basket-store was scattered by the fall, 
 But loving hands replaced and kept them all.
 
 3° 
 
 ALICE WADE VERSUS SMALL-POX. 
 
 Thy golden hair is left — its silky mesh 
 
 The spoiler shall not mar, whate'er he takes ; 
 
 Nor that still-brilliant eye, that sleeps and wakes 
 
 Among the flowing sores : but thy fair flesh, 
 
 All-confluent now, and molten by disease, 
 
 Must keep the stamp which this sick fortnight gave, 
 
 Even till that latest fusion in the grave 
 
 Runs off our ingrained evils ; but for these 
 
 Sweet relics of thyself, and what thou wert 
 
 A brief moon since, I should be half afraid 
 
 That Love might shrink, and merry Hymen flirt 
 
 His robe at thy lost hopes, my little maid ! 
 
 Thou smilest ! Ah ! I see no power can hurt 
 
 The fortunes or the loves of Alice Wade !
 
 3' 
 
 ELLEN, 
 
 Or First Love and Death. 
 
 That summer dawn, to Love and Edwin dear, 
 Her sky-blue gown, lier happy tears and smiles ; 
 And the broad harvests, stirring* far and near, 
 And softly floating to the gates and stiles ; 
 The meadow sweet and wild rose dew-besprent, 
 And her pure words of troth, where are they now ? 
 And the gay lark, that rose at once, and spent 
 His morning- music on her earliest vow ? 
 He treads the sodden grass with weary fool 
 A t twilight, weeping for his promised bride : 
 The wind blows cold; the corn has long been cut; 
 And, three moons since, his plighted Ellen died ! 
 But lo ! that glimmer in the watery rut ! 
 Tt is a star — in Heaven, yet by his side.
 
 32 
 
 ANNIE AND AMBROSE, 
 
 Or a Winter- Grove with a Summer -Memory . 
 
 Seldom we see such crude cold winter times ; 
 
 Yon sooty patch upon the snow-clad weald — 
 
 Is that, indeed, the bower of honied limes ? 
 
 The balm- grove, where a ten-years' wound was healed ? 
 
 Where Annie sat with Ambrose ? where she tried . 
 
 A cure more sweet than Gilead's pharmacy? 
 
 And did she read him his rich destiny 
 
 In that dark holt that blurs the white hill-side ? 
 
 The brook, I trow, is bound in frosty bands, 
 
 Where Rover plashed, and, venting merry tones, 
 
 Trod in the summer-light that swam the sands ; 
 
 While, sportive in their bliss, those plighted ones 
 
 Confused his eager ear with dropping stones, 
 
 But evermore reclasped their happy hands.
 
 33 
 
 GOING HOME, 
 
 Or a Death in the Thcbuid. 
 
 The ancient river glimmered in its bed, 
 High overhead the stars of Egypt burned, 
 When our slow-dying Edith joined the dead ; 
 She whom the Arab and the Nubian mourned : 
 How in the shadow of old Thebes we wept, 
 And down the long-drawn Nile from day to day ! 
 Her sweet face gone — her bright hair hid away — 
 Save what the ring or gleaming locket kept ; 
 And, when we felt the Midland waters rise 
 Beneath our keel, and England nearer come — 
 'Mid <>iir forecasting questions and replies, 
 Back came the sorrow like a sad surprise; 
 Those dear white cliff's would never greet her 
 • her cheek flush, to find herself at home. 
 
 D
 
 3* 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 
 Alas ! sad Jealousy ! the scalding tear 
 
 Drops on her hands — her brow aches sadly too ; 
 
 This morn she wandered half the country through. 
 
 Weeping, with those false eyes for ever near : 
 
 She, who looked boldly in the front of Love, 
 
 And searched his glittering face, so proud and fair, 
 
 Must droop her gaze, declining from above, 
 
 And clasp his feet, and shed her sorrows there : 
 
 Or, like some aged lazar must she lie, 
 
 Some palsied crone, who hath no voice but tears — 
 
 Who sees the long-expected leech pass by 
 
 Her couch, to whisper hope in younger ears ; 
 
 And her heart trembles, dying, yet astir; 
 
 She knows the healer can do nought for her !
 
 35 
 
 THE HALF-RAINBOW. 
 
 The groups of Autumn flowers were all ablaze ; 
 The hollyhock and scarlet crane's-bill burned 
 Like merry household fires ; but when he turned 
 To search the distance, all was blocked with haze 
 Then came a brightness over rick and roof; 
 He gladdened, as the running sunshine laughed 
 Its way from sheaf to sheaf, while, high aloof, 
 The rainbow lingered in one glorious shaft; 
 Then, in that light of promise, he appealed 
 To her who Avas his heart's best hope ; she heard 
 The tender suit his trembling' lips preferred, 
 And in imperfect words her love revealed; 
 Eer faltering accents gave a pledge divine, 
 Like Heaven's half-bow, a true tho' broken sign.
 
 36 
 
 THE PARTING-GATE. 
 
 In that old beech-walk, now bestrewn with mast, 
 And roaring loud — they lingered long* and late ; 
 Harsh was the clang of the last homeward gate 
 That latch'd itself behind them, as they pass'd — 
 Then kissed and parted. Soon her funeral knell 
 Tolled from a foreign clime ; he did not talk 
 Nor weep, but shuddered at that stern farewell ; 
 'Twas the last gate in all their lovers'-walk 
 Without the kiss beyond it ! Was it good 
 To leave him thus, alone with his sad mood, 
 In that dear footpath, haunted by her smile ? 
 Where they had laughed and loitered, sat and stood? 
 Alone in life ! alone in Moreham wood ! 
 Through all that sweet, forsaken, forest-mile !
 
 37 
 
 HEh'o AND LEANDEB, 
 Or the Boy's Hellespont. 
 
 No colder local records did I crave, 
 
 Two lovers' names were all my Hellespont ; 
 
 How oft, methought, the swimming youth was wont 
 
 To kiss the waters, where the lighted wave 
 
 Came trembling out from Sestos ! When the gale 
 
 Dimmed his fond eyes, and chilled each supple limb, 
 
 I broke my heart for both, without avail, 
 
 I wept with her ! J sobbed and sank with him ! 
 
 And if, at times, th' historic muse would fill 
 
 The strait with forms more secular and vast, 
 
 The torch of Hero lived behind them still ! 
 
 And wide-spread sails of war ran glowing past 
 
 Love's vratch-fire, till, again, th' impassioned lighl 
 
 Bursl "ii the lonely swimmer, doubly bright.
 
 38 
 
 BROWNED IN THE TROPICS. 
 
 The Mother's Questions. 
 
 Drowned, say you ? Tell me, tell me, how she fares, 
 My drowned one ? Has she met the finny shoal ? 
 And rolled into that glancing march of theirs 
 Her attitudes of death, with no control 
 Of living will ? Perchance, her feeble form 
 Falters about wild headlands in the dark, 
 Where no expectant mother's voice bids ' Hark ! 
 'Tis our own Mary ! ' Or the tropic storm, 
 With its fierce lightning rends her lonely face ; 
 Or waterspouts, with writhing motion, suck 
 At her dear relics ; prey-birds bless their luck 
 To find her ; or the shark and sea-dog trace 
 From far my fair-eyed fondling — cruel chase 
 After a helpless prey, already struck !
 
 39 
 
 Continued. 
 TEE SEA-FAIRIES' ANSWER. 
 
 Our spells shall keep her floating*, yet unchanged ; 
 
 The nautilus shall push his purple sail 
 
 Across her happy shadow ; in the gale 
 
 The storm-blown land -bird, which too far hath ranged. 
 
 Shall trust her look, and perch, and close his eye : 
 
 Around her shall the graceful prOas move, 
 
 And fling their garland- gifts of awe and love ; 
 
 And, when the tropic midnight veils the sky, 
 
 On fair phosphoric seas thy child shall rest, 
 
 And morn shall find her, when the day comes back. 
 
 Laid, as in Heaven's own river, in the track 
 
 Of sunrise o'er the waters — to suggest 
 
 In symbol, that her soul is pure and blest, 
 
 And floats from light to light, and cannot die.
 
 
 40 
 
 VIENNA AND IN MEMOBIAM. 
 
 Roused by the war-note, in review I passed 
 
 The polities of nations — their intrigues — 
 
 Their long-drawn wars and hates — their loves and 
 
 leagues ; 
 But when I came on sad Yienna, last, 
 Her scroll of annals, timidly unrolled, 
 Ran backward from my helpless hands ! the woe 
 Of that one hour that laid our Arthur low, 
 Made all her chronicle look blank and cold : 
 Then turned I to that Book of memory, 
 Which is to grieving hearts like the sweet south 
 To the parched meadow, or the dying tree ; 
 Which fills with elegy the craving mouth 
 Of sorrow — slakes with song her piteous drouth, 
 And leaves her calm, though weeping silently !
 
 4i 
 
 TO A LITTLE CHILD WHO ASKED FOB A 
 LAUREL CROWN. 
 
 The laurels with their heritage of light, 
 
 So thickly planted in our garden-ground, 
 
 Like thee, in winter time make all things bright, 
 
 And strike each other with a cheery sound. 
 
 Well, then ! Of these a garland shall be made 
 
 Just for the nonce, for they are fresh and green ; 
 
 But soon a gayer coronal I'll braid, 
 
 When Summer comes to match thy merry mien : 
 
 Woodbine and jessamine shall then enclose 
 
 Thy fair young head, well woven with choicest art ; 
 
 And many a sprig of verdure interpose, 
 
 And pinks and rich carnations bear their part, 
 
 White lilies, and the hollow balmy rose, 
 
 A i n 1 pansy, with the day-spring at her heart.
 
 42 
 
 To the same little Child. 
 A RECANTATION. 
 
 The conqueror's chaplet doth not suit at all 
 Those girlish azure orbs, and tresses' flow : 
 Above — the victor wreath of ravaged Gaul — 
 The fairy-land of thy sweet face below, 
 Unscathed and clear ! Ill fancy ! that I wrought 
 A garland for thee of such stern device ; 
 I made a monster, Katie, when I brought 
 The Caesar's shadow o'er thy sunny eyes ; 
 But I must kiss thee, darling, all the same ; 
 What, peevish ! and this one brief kiss my dole ! 
 Well — as it seems but half a kiss I stole, 
 Now thou art but half Katie, I will claim 
 The other half when thou art Katie whole, 
 Uncrost by martial hints and Roman fame.
 
 43 
 
 LITTLE SAMUEL, 
 Or Light and Gloom by the Fireside. 
 
 These changes at our weather-wisdom mock ; 
 But yesterday, the lord of all the year 
 Upon the front of this white marble clock 
 Sat like a star of honour, keen and clear, 
 Small as a spark : to-day, the mantelshelf 
 And time-piece mirror not his living beams ; 
 Nought but wan window -lights and pallid gleams, 
 Where burned, in miniature, the Sun himself ! 
 Then frost, now cloudy thaw. In gilded coat 
 Above the clock, the infant Samuel kneels ; 
 1 1 1 shine or shade, or when the thunder peals, 
 He lifts his praying hands and murmurs not : 
 Oh ! may such holy temper be my lot, 
 Whatever mood each passing day reveals !
 
 44 
 
 A BRILLIANT LAY. 
 
 O keen pellucid air ! nothing can lurk 
 Or disavow itself on this bright day ; 
 The small rain-plashes shine from far away, 
 The tiny emmet glitters at his work ; 
 The bee looks blithe and gay, and as she plies 
 Her task, and moves and sidles round the cup 
 Of this spring flower, to drink its honey up, 
 Her glassy wings, like oars that dip and rise, 
 Gleam momently. Pure-bosomed, clear of fog, 
 The long lake glistens, while the glorious beam 
 Bespangles the wet joints and floating leaves 
 Of water-plants, whose every point receives 
 His light ; and jellies of the spawning frog, 
 Unmarked before, like piles of jewels seem!
 
 45 
 
 TEE STABLING, 
 
 Or Ned-talk and Fear-talk. 
 
 Poor bird ! why with such energy reprove 
 
 My presence ? why that tone which pines and grieves ? 
 
 At early dawn, thy sweet voice from the eaves 
 
 Hath g-one between us oft, a voice of love, 
 
 A bond of peace. Why should I ever plot 
 
 Thy ruin, or thy fond affections baulk? 
 
 Dost thou not send me down thy happy talk 
 
 Even to my pillow, though thou seest me not ? 
 
 How should I harm thee ? yet thy timid eye 
 
 Is on me, and a harsh rebuke succeeds ; 
 
 Nbl like the tender brooding note that pleads 
 
 Thy cause so well, so ail-unconsciously ; 
 
 Yet shall to-morrow's dawning hear thy strain 
 
 Renewed, and knit our indoor bond again.
 
 4 6 
 
 NO NIGHTINGALES, OB COMPENSATION. 
 
 Right of 31s< of May. 
 
 Long time I waited for the nightingale, 
 Befooled by that dumb coppice ; till the dove 
 And finch descried me watching in the grove, 
 Poor client of the darkness, worn and pale : 
 But oh ! how often is our frustrate hope 
 Exchanged by Heaven for unexpected mirth ! 
 Though baulked and sleepless, yet I could not mope 
 'Mid the full matins of the awakened earth ; 
 Bold chanticleer, alighting from his perch, 
 'The night birds play thee false,' he said — and crowed ; 
 ' Welcome to truth and day ! ' The lark uprode 
 And carolled. Thus, amid my weary search 
 For song in bowers of silence, June was born, 
 And tuneless night exchanged for choral morn.
 
 47 
 
 TEE WOOD-ROSE. 
 
 When Wordsworth found those beds of daffodil 
 Beside the lake, a pleasant sight he saw ; 
 I came upon a sweetbriar near a rill, 
 In all its summer bloom, without a flaw : 
 The set of all its flowers uiy thought recalls, 
 And how they took the wind with easy grace ; 
 They rode their arches, shook their coronals, 
 And stirred their streamers o'er the water's face. 
 And oh ! to watch those azure demoiselles 
 Glimpsing about the rosy sprays, that dipt 
 Among the weeds, — how daintily equipt 
 They were ! how pure their blue against the pink ! 
 Light, flitting forms, that haunt our ponds and wells. 
 Been, lost and seen, along the reedy brink.
 
 48 
 
 THE HOME-FIELD. EVENING. 
 
 'Tis sweet, when slanting- light the field adorns, 
 
 To see the new-shorn flocks recline or browse ; 
 
 While swallows flit among the restful cows, 
 
 Their gurgling dew-laps, and their harmless horns ; 
 
 Or flirt the aged hunter, in his dose, 
 
 With passing wing ; yet with no thought to grieve 
 
 His mild, unjealous, innocent repose, 
 
 With those keen contrasts our sad hearts conceive. 
 
 And then, perchance, the evening wind awakes 
 
 With sudden tumult, and the bowery ash 
 
 Goes storming o'er the golden moon, whose flash 
 
 Fills and refills its breezy gaps and breaks ; 
 
 The weeping willow at her neighbour floats, 
 
 And busy rustlings stir the wheat and oats.
 
 49 
 
 MAGGIE'S STAB. 
 To the White Star on the forehead of a favourite old Metre. 
 
 White star ! that travellest at old Maggie's pace 
 About my field, where'er a wandering mouth, 
 And foot, that slowly shifts from place to place, 
 Conduct thee, — East or West, or North or South 
 A loving eye is my best chart to find 
 Thy whereabouts at dawn or dusk ; but when 
 She dreams at noun, with heel a-tilt behind, 
 And pendent lip,~I mark thee fairest then; 
 I see thee dip and vanish, when she rolls 
 On earth, supine ; then with one rousing shake 
 Reculminate ; but, most, thou lov'st to take 
 A quiet onward course — Heaven's law controls 
 The mild, progressive motion thou dost make 
 Alberl thy path is scarce above the mole's. 
 
 E
 
 50 
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT IN THE BEEHIVE. 
 
 The little bee returns with evening's gloom, 
 
 To join her comrades in the braided hive, 
 
 Where, housed beside their mighty honeycomb, 
 
 They dream their polity shall long survive. 
 
 Still falls the summer night — the browsing horse 
 
 Fills the low portal with a grassy sound 
 
 From the near paddock, while the water-course 
 
 Sends them sweet murmurs from the meadow-ground : 
 
 None but such peaceful noises break the hush, 
 
 Save Pussy, growling, in the thyme and sage, 
 
 Over the thievish mouse, in happy rage : 
 
 At last, the flowers against the threshold brush 
 
 In morning airs — fair shines the uprisen sun, 
 
 Another day of honey has begun !
 
 5i 
 
 THE BEE- WISP. 
 
 Our window-panes enthral our summer bees ; 
 (To insect woes I give this little page) — 
 We hear them threshing in their idle rage 
 Those crystal floors of famine, while, at ease, 
 Their outdoor comrades probe the nectaries 
 Of flowers, and into all sweet blossoms dive ; 
 Then home, at sundown, to the happy hive, 
 On forward wing, straight through the dancing flies 
 For such poor strays a full-plumed wisp I keep, 
 And when I see them pining, worn, and vext, 
 I brush them softly with a downward sweep 
 To the raised sash — all-angered and perplext : 
 So man, the insect, stands on his defence 
 .Vjiiin-t the very hand of Providence.
 
 52 
 
 THE FLY'S LECTURE. 
 
 Once on a time, when, tempted to repine, 
 
 In yon green nook I nursed a sullen theme, 
 
 A fly lit near me, lovelier than a dream, 
 
 With burnished plates of sight, and pennons fine 
 
 His wondrous beauty struck and fixt my view, 
 
 As, ere he mingled with the shades of eve, 
 
 With silent feet he trod the honeydew, 
 
 In that lone spot, where I had come to grieve : 
 
 And still, whene'er the hour of sorrow brings, 
 
 Once more, the humours and the doubts of grief, 
 
 In my mind's eye, from that moist forest-leaf 
 
 ( )nce more I see the glorious insect rise ! 
 
 My faith is lifted on two gauzy wings, 
 
 And served with light by two metallic eyes.
 
 53 
 
 THE EOOKEBY. 
 
 Methought, as 1 beheld the rookery pass 
 Homeward at dnsk upon the rising wind, 
 How every heart in that close-flying mass 
 Was well befriended by th' Almighty mind : 
 He marks each sable wing that soars or drops, 
 He sees them forth at morning to their fare, 
 He sets them floating on His evening air, 
 
 Ml 
 
 He sends them home to rest on the tree-tops : 
 
 And when through umbered leaves the night-winds pour 
 
 With lusty impulse rocking all the grove — 
 
 The stress is measured by an eye of love, 
 
 N 1 1 root is burst, though all the branches roar ; 
 
 And, in the morning, cheerly as before, 
 
 The dark clan talks, the social instincts move.
 
 54 
 
 ON A VASE OF GOLD-FISH. 
 
 The tortured mullet served the Roman's pride 
 By darting- round the crystal vase, whose heat 
 Ensured his woe and beauty till he died : 
 These unharmed gold-fish yield as rich a treat ; 
 Seen thus, in parlour-twilight, they appear 
 As though the hand of Midas, hovering o'er, 
 Wrought on the waters, as his touch drew near, 
 And set them glancing with his golden power, 
 The flash of transmutation ! In their glass 
 They float and glitter, by no anguish rackt ; 
 And, though we see them swelling as they pass, 
 'Tis but a painless and phantasmal act, 
 The trick of their own bellying walls, which charms 
 All eyes — themselves it vexes not, nor harms.
 
 55 
 
 THE PLEA OF THE SHOT SWALLOW. 
 
 In Teos once, bedewed with odours fine, 
 
 The happy dove slept on his master's lyre ; 
 
 A little homeless swallow clings to mine, 
 
 A spirit-bird — he looks for something- higher 
 
 Than songs and odours ; pity and remorse 
 
 He claims — an elegy of words and tears : 
 
 He asks me why they swept him from his peers, 
 
 When wheeling' gaily in his wondrous course ; 
 
 And now he conies, with trembling wings, to plead 
 
 F< >r some brief record of his cruel fate ; 
 
 Some note of tuneful sorrow for the deed 
 
 Which struck him from the side of his dear mate. 
 
 Poor bird ! had I the Teian's melody. 
 
 Sweet as his dainty Ode thy dirge should be.
 
 56 
 
 THE LAST SWEEP OF THE SCYTHE. 
 
 The year had rushed along through May and June, 
 
 And my own natal month, her goal to win ; 
 
 And now the fruitful sheaves were coming in; 
 
 The glow of August made the barren moon 
 
 As mellow as the corn-lands. One bright field, 
 
 Which to the southward sloped, enhancing all 
 
 The beauty of the view, was last to fall 
 
 Before the sweeping scythe. Its doom was sealed ; 
 
 I grieved to think how fleet and fugitive 
 
 Are all our joys, how near to change or harm : 
 
 And how that azure distance would outlive 
 
 Its golden foreground, losing half its charm ! 
 
 But I remembered, ere I looked again, 
 
 That fallen corn is bread, and many a loss true gain.
 
 57 
 
 HARVEST-HOME. 
 
 All day we watched th' unintermitted fume 
 
 Of clouds, but still there was no downward rush 
 
 Of rain ; then evening came and brought a flush 
 
 Of windy redness, in the place of gloom ; 
 
 None but sweet hues and pleasant airs remained ; 
 
 The dry light gust that swept the dancing sprays, 
 
 And a white moon, astir in rosy haze 
 
 Above our latest labours ; none complained 
 
 Of that sharp toil. The sheaves flew fast and thick 
 
 From fork to fork, to feed the growing rick ; 
 
 Each waved its farewell, as it took the leap ; 
 
 Some blest the God of harvest, some their luck ; 
 
 The horses' weary feet their thresholds struck, 
 
 And the hinds supt, and slept a happy sleep.
 
 58 
 
 TEE STORM— A HARVEST MEMORY. 
 
 The specialties of that dark hour of grief 
 
 On my retentive heart have prest their seal ; 
 
 Yes ! I remember even the spider's wheel, 
 
 Which stretched and lightened on the gusty leaf 
 
 Of that wild August morn ! The blasts were driven 
 
 Across the new-mown fields, fitful and brief, 
 
 And tossed the tresses of the barley-sheaf, 
 
 And rode the streaming willow into Heaven : 
 
 The features of the tempest, all and each, 
 
 I still recall, and shall thy ruthful gaze 
 
 Not be remembered ? nor those winning ways 
 
 Which brought my soul within thy pity's reach ? 
 
 I keep the natural impress of the hour, 
 
 And shall thy loving kindness have less power ?
 
 59 
 
 TEE FIRST WEEK IN OCTOBER. 
 
 Once on an autumn day as I reposed 
 Beneath a noon-beam, pallid yet not dull, 
 The branch above my head dipt itself full 
 Of that white sunshine momently, and closed ; 
 While, ever and anon, the ashen keys 
 Dropt down beside the tarnished hollyhocks, 
 The scarlet crane's-bill, and the faded stocks, — 
 Flung from the* shuffling leafage by the breeze. 
 How wistfully I marked the year's decay, 
 Forecasting all the dreary wind and rain ; 
 'Twas the last week the swallow would remain — 
 How jealously I watched his circling play '. 
 A few brief hours, and he would dart away, 
 No more to turn upon himself again.
 
 6o 
 
 FROM HARVEST TO JANUARY. 
 
 The hay has long been built into the stack 
 
 And now the grain ; anon the hunter's moon 
 
 Shall wax and wane in cooler skies, and soon 
 
 Again re-orbed, speed on her wonted track, 
 
 To spend her snowy light upon the rack 
 
 Of dark November, while her brother Sun 
 
 Shall get iip later for his eight-hours' run 
 
 In that cold section of the Zodiac : 
 
 Far from the Lion, from the Virgin far ! 
 
 Then onward through the last dim month shall go 
 
 The two great lights, to where the kalendar 
 
 Splits the mid-winter ; and the feathery snow 
 
 Ushering another spring, with falling flakes 
 
 Shall nurse the soil for next year's scythes and rakes.
 
 6i 
 
 LAST YEAR'S HARVEST. 
 
 Since harvest passed from ont this lonely gate, 
 Which strains and clatters now in winter's flaw — 
 With all the merry groups that stirred or sate 
 Among the red wheat, stemmed with amber straw, 
 How changed is all the scene ! changed by the law 
 Of death — and I a weary term must wait, 
 Till once again the seasons reinstate 
 The glory and the beaut)' which I saw ! 
 'Twas here I watched the mighty landscape stretched 
 To the far hills, through green and azure grades ; 
 'Twas here I studied all its lights and shades; 
 And from this field, one golden morn, I fetched 
 Some hues for those small tablets, where I paint 
 .Mv sweetest thoughts, ere they wax cold and faint.
 
 62 
 
 THE STEAM THRESHING MACHINE 
 
 With the Straw Carrier. 
 
 Flush with the pond the lurid furnace burned 
 At eve, while smoke and vapour filled the yard 
 The gloomy winter sky was dimly starred, 
 The fly-wheel with a mellow murmur turned ; 
 While, ever rising on its mystic stair 
 In the dim light, from secret chambers borne, 
 The straw of harvest, severed from the corn, 
 Climbed, and fell over, in the murky air. 
 I thought of mind and matter, will and law, 
 And then of him, who set his stately seal 
 Of Roman words on all the forms he saw 
 Of old-world husbandry : I could but feel 
 With what a rich precision lie would draw 
 The endless ladder, and the booming wheel !
 
 63 
 
 Continued. 
 
 Did any seer of ancient time forebode 
 This mighty engine, which we daily see 
 Accepting our full harvests, like a god, 
 With clouds about his shoulders, — it might be 
 Some poet-husbandman, some lord of verse, 
 Old Hesiod, or the wizard Mantuan 
 Who catalogued in rich hexameters 
 The Eake, the Roller, and the mystic Van : 
 Or else some priest of Ceres, it might seem, 
 Who witnessed, as he trod the silent fane, 
 The notes and auguries of coming change, 
 < )i other iiiinistrants in shrine and grange, 
 The sweating statue, — and her sacred wain 
 Low-booming with the prophecy of steam!
 
 64 
 
 NOVEMBER SUNSHINE AND THE HOUSE- 
 
 FLIES. 
 
 When the dawn struck on Meninon, as they say, 
 The child of morning' answered ; so the stroke 
 Of this warm sunshine on the room, awoke 
 To song those lesser children of the day, 
 The window-flies ; I watched each mazy track, 
 I saw them deftly treading' the smooth pane, 
 Or, haply, flitting - with prone wings and back, 
 To the near cornice, to return again. 
 Ah ! little ones ! your joy is brief and vain : 
 Full soon the brush shall sweep your tiny forms, 
 Supine and dumb, into the wind and rain ; 
 'Tis sad to be swept out into the storms, 
 'Twere sadder to revive, and cast about 
 For foothold, in that roaring world without !
 
 65 
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S LAST MARKET. 
 
 The taper wastes within yon window-pane, 
 And the blind flutters, where his fevered hand 
 Has raised the sash, to cool his burning brain ; 
 But he has passed away from house and land. 
 Cheerly and proudly through the gusty dark 
 The red cock crows ! the new-dropt lambkin tries 
 His earliest voice in the home-field, while stark 
 And stiff, on his own bed, the drunkard lies; 
 < )Vrdone by that steep ride, his weary horse 
 foists his battered feet and cannot feed ; 
 From the near moorland hill, the brawling force 
 ( lalls loudly — but the dead man takes no heed ; 
 While Keeper howls his notice of alarm, 
 And thrills wit i i awe the dusky mountain farm. 
 
 P
 
 6b 
 
 THE LATE PASTOR OF WOLDSBY EBBIOBUM 
 
 A shepherd sleeps where this fair tombstone stands, 
 
 Who made on this wild hill his fixt abode — 
 
 Who grasped in love the drunkard's trembling' hands 
 
 And touched his heavy heart with thoughts of God ; 
 
 He taught his flock by deeds and words and books ; 
 
 The peace of many a sobered hearth he shared : 
 
 And many a sottish aspect was prepared 
 
 By hope in death, to answer the bright looks 
 
 Of their upbearing angels ! Bless his name, 
 
 Who purged your grandsires' lives, and still control 
 
 Your own, and saves you from remorse and shame ; 
 
 O happy race ! to you in them he came ! 
 
 O deep infolded blessing ! which unrolls 
 
 From sire to son — a charter for your souls !
 
 67 
 
 ON THE ECLIPSE OF THE MOON OF 
 OCTOBER 1865. 
 
 One little noise of life remained — I heard 
 
 The train pause in the distance, then rush by, 
 
 Brawling and hushing, like some busy fly 
 
 That murmurs and then settles ; nothing stirred 
 
 Beside. The shadow of our travelling earth 
 
 Hung on the silver moon, which mutely went 
 
 Through that grand process, without token sent, 
 
 Or any sign to call a gazer forth, 
 
 I J id I not chanced to see ; dumb was the vault 
 
 Of heaven, and dumb the fields — no zephyr swept 
 
 The forest walks, or through the coppice crept ; 
 
 Nor other sound the stillness did assault, 
 
 Save that faint-brawling railway's move and halt ; 
 
 8 > perfect was the silence Nature kept. 
 
 i 2
 
 68 
 
 ON AN ANNULAR ECLIPSE OF THE SUN IN 
 
 A STORM. 
 
 ' To-morrow is the great Eclipse,' we said: 
 ' The moon shall be an island in the sun ! ' 
 Though, when we came to gaze, the rack went on 
 Tumultuousfy, and all our hopes betrayed ; 
 But, where the scud ran thinner, we perceived 
 Hustling along, a strange-compounded form, 
 Half glitter and half gloom — the sun aggrieved, 
 And the black moon, confederate with the storm 
 Against mankind. My next thought brought me ease : 
 Methought, ' A segment of yon hard dark sphere 
 Shall borrow light for us, and reappear, 
 Friendly as Hesper, — and, i' th' evening breeze, 
 Wander and flash behind the dusking trees, 
 Or guide the boatman on yon stormy mere.'
 
 6 9 
 
 THE MOON AND SIN, jIN ILLUSTRATION. 
 
 When the moon's edge grows dim, then blurred and 
 
 rough, 
 And darkness quarries in her lessening orb, 
 She yields an image, true and stern enough, 
 Of all those crimes and sorrows, which absorb 
 Our hope and life ! The thievish shadow sits 
 On her smooth rim at first, like Adam's sin ; 
 But soon th' encroaching gloom its way doth win, 
 And with a stealth that never intermits, 
 Eats out her gloiy ; but the moon expands 
 Once more, and brightens to a perfect sphere, 
 A blessed restoration, full and clear ; 
 So ( Jhrist refills our waning world, and stands 
 Fur her lost light : Saviour ever dear ! 
 Soon shall Thy name be known throughout all lands.
 
 70 
 
 OBION. 
 
 How oft I've watched thee from the garden croft, 
 In silence, when the busy day was done, 
 Shining with wondrous brilliancy aloft, 
 And flickering like a casement 'gainst the sun : 
 I've seen thee soar from out some snowy cloud, 
 Which held the frozen breath of land and sea, 
 Yet broke and severed as the wind grew loud — 
 But earth-bound winds could not dismember thee. 
 Nor shake thy frame of jewels ; I have guessed 
 At thy strange shape and function, haply felt 
 The charm of that old myth about thy belt 
 And sword ; but, most, my spirit was possest 
 By His great presence, Who is never far 
 From his light-bearers, whether man or star.
 
 7i 
 
 FANATICISM, A NIGHT-SCENE IN THE 
 OPEN AIB. 
 
 These sectaries deal in parodies of truth — 
 
 Their narrow-minded fancies, crude and mean, 
 
 Uttered with gestures wild and words uncouth 
 
 In nature's mighty presence, move our spleen. 
 
 When they should move our tears. The gale blew loud, 
 
 But still the raving and the rant were heard — 
 
 Just then I marked, how, from a flying cloud, 
 
 Orion swiftly drew his belt and sword, 
 
 As he would mount to higher heavens, and go 
 
 Still further from the earth ! how little dreamed 
 
 The hot fanatic, breathing flames and woe, 
 
 Of that ineffable contrast ! Stars that gleamed, 
 
 Free winds and fleecy drift, how pure they seemed, 
 
 How alien from the hearts that grovelled so !
 
 7 2 
 
 MISSING THE METEORS, 1866. 
 
 A hint of rain — a touch of lazy doubt — 
 Sent me to bedward on that prime of nights, 
 When the air met and burst the aerolites, 
 Making the men stare and the children shout : 
 Why did no beam from all that rout and rush 
 Of darting meteors, pierce my drowsed head 9 
 Strike on the portals of my sleep ? and flush 
 My spirit through mine eyelids, in the stead 
 Of that poor vapid dream ? My soul was pained, 
 My very soul, to have slept while others woke, 
 While little children their delight outspoke, 
 And in their eyes' small chambers entertained 
 Far motions of the Kosmos ! I mistook 
 The purport of that night — it had not rained.
 
 73 
 
 Continued. 
 A LOOK-OUT FOB THIRTY YEARS. 
 
 Oh ! deaf to Science and her faithful words ! 
 
 I counted on those fires of prophecy 
 
 No more than on some flight of midnight birds, 
 
 That pass, unheralded, with sudden cry, — 
 
 That never travelled under Humboldt's eye, 
 
 Nor owed themselves at Greenwich. Thirty years 
 
 Must pass ere such bright vision reappears, 
 
 And then I shalljbe dead or near to die ; 
 
 Or, should my life bridge over that great gap, 
 
 I cannot vouch for my decrepit self, 
 
 With feeble knees, weak eyes, and velvet cap, 
 
 And all my forethought laid upon the shelf; 
 
 But some good youth, or maid, or rosy elf, 
 
 Shall set my thin face heavenward, it may hap.
 
 74 
 
 THE MOORLAND TREE IN THE GARDEN. 
 
 Brought from afar, but with no studied choice, 
 And roughly carted, as thou cam'st to hand, 
 By the rude peasant, — how we all rejoice 
 To see thee grown so beautiful and grand ! 
 In thy old site thou mightst have still been poor 
 And meagre — or, at best, the summer breeze 
 Had set thee floating on the lonely moor, 
 No human hearts to teach, no eyes to please : 
 Kind Heaven foreknew the boon we all received ; 
 Tor us, the moral of thy drooping boughs — 
 And, for thyself, how different is thy lot ! 
 From the bare heath, skirted by distant ploughs, 
 To all this dear honie-honour thou hast got ; 
 Thou good man's model, lowly though full-leaved
 
 75 
 
 IN AND OUT OF THE PINE-WOOD. 
 A Simile. 
 
 Beyond the pine-wood all looked bright and clear — 
 
 And, ever by our side, as on we drove, 
 
 The star of eve ran glimpsing- through the grove, 
 
 To meet us in the open atmosphere ; 
 
 As some fair thought, of heavenly light and force, 
 
 Will move and flash behind a transient screen 
 
 Of dim expression, glittering in its course 
 
 Through many loop-holes, till its face is seen ; 
 
 Some thoughts ne'er pass beyond their close confines ; 
 
 Theirs is the little taper's homely lot, 
 
 A woodside glimmer, distanced and forgot — 
 
 Whose trivial gleam, that twinkles more than shines, 
 
 Is left behind to die among the pines; 
 
 Our stars are carried out, and vanish not !
 
 7 6 
 
 SILENT PRAISE. 
 
 Thou, Who givest to the woodland wren 
 
 A throat, like to a little light-set door, 
 
 That opens to his early joy — to men 
 
 The spirit of true worship, which is more 
 
 Than all this sylvan rapture : what a world 
 
 Is Thine, O Lord ! — skies, earth, men, beasts, and birds ! 
 
 The poet and the painter have unfurled 
 
 Their love and wonder in descriptive words, 
 
 Or sprightly hues — each, after his own sort, 
 
 Emptying his heart of its delicious hoards ; 
 
 But all self-conscious blazonry comes short 
 
 Of that still sense no active mood affords, 
 
 Ere yet the brush is dipt, or uttered phrase 
 
 Hath breathed abroad those folds of silent praise !
 
 77 
 
 A FOREST SUNSET. 
 
 Once on a glorious and resplendent eve, 
 
 Through copse and underwood my path I broke ; 
 
 The shining sun was on the point to leave, 
 
 And flashed through thickets of the pine and oak ; 
 
 'Twas sweet to see those vari-coloured rays 
 
 Come pouring through the coverts silently ; 
 
 Through little fluttering loop-holes, set ablaze. 
 
 Or blinkt, at will, by shifting of an eye ; 
 
 That evening's charms were rich and manifold, 
 
 Beyond the reach of my best utterance ; 
 
 'Twas some kind Providence, no common chance, 
 
 Which made mine eyes wink at those wells of gold 
 
 Sprung in the glooming leafage, while the dance 
 
 ( tf wilding-boughs was pleasant to behold.
 
 78 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE WOOD-SALE OF MESSRS. 
 BLANK AND GO. NON-RESIDENT PROPRIETORS. 
 
 Shall not the phantom-axe, with viewless strokes, 
 The qniet purlieus of your traffic vex? 
 And the grim voice of all these aged oaks 
 Go storming o'er your ledgers, to perplex 
 Your clerks with sylvan horror ? This fair haunt 
 Of light and shadow, and divine repose, 
 Low-fallen at last beneath your ruthless blows, 
 Waits its last shame, the hammer. Do not vaunt 
 The pelf your ravage brings you ; for the ban 
 Of all the woods is on you ! you have spared 
 No shelter for the dreams of god or man — 
 Who stirred the wood-god's bile, what risks he ran 
 Of old ! ay, even the heedless swain, who dared 
 To tune his pipe across the nose of Pan !
 
 79 
 
 THE NEEDLES' LIGHTHOUSE FROM 
 KEYHAVEN, HAMPSHIRE. 
 
 The downs and tender-tinted cliffs are lost, 
 And nothing but the guardian fire remains — 
 That crimson-headed tower on the rough coast, 
 Whose steady lustre ceases not, nor wanes, 
 Till sunrise from the east reveals to us 
 The mighty Vectian wold, and tawny tract 
 Of shingle, seen through bowers of arbutus, 
 Like some fair coiai-field, mellow and compact. 
 How that deep glow the deepening gloom attests ! 
 11 "\y much is by that noble lighthouse taught ! 
 Mine eye rests on it, as the spirit rests 
 In sorrow, on some holy, ardent thought. 
 The sole beam in our darkness! Those who dwell 
 Near these great beacons are instructed well.
 
 8o 
 
 DANGER— A PERSONIFICATION. 
 
 Grim Danger left his home in chartless wastes 
 
 To count his chances in our narrow seas ; 
 
 What anchors he might drag, what noble masts 
 
 Disable, on the rock or in the breeze : 
 
 And while he rode the waves from place to place 
 
 Like Hermes, his rude eyes the lighthouse met ; 
 
 And, as it seemed to scan his heathen face 
 
 At leisure, he was dazzled and beset. 
 
 Morn dawn'd — in haste he bade the winds prepare 
 
 To wreck at eve th' outgoing fisherman : 
 
 But Fitzroy heard — the storm-drum rose in air, 
 
 And not a coble but had changed its plan ; 
 
 While in his ears the spit-buoys swung their bells. 
 
 He could not dodge our English sentinels.
 
 8i 
 
 A FAREWELL TO THE L8LE OF WIGHT. 
 
 Silent I gazed upon our foaming wake, 
 
 And silent on the Island hills I gazed, 
 
 As up the ebbing stream we bore, to make 
 
 Our harbour, while the West athwart us blazed. 
 
 Keen were my thoughts : my memory wandered back 
 
 To those fair shores — the Needles and the Downs — 
 
 The happy woodlands and the little towns — 
 
 For every day a new and pleasant track ; 
 
 How grieved was I those social walks to leave, 
 
 Those friendly hands ! The shadow of our mast 
 
 And sail ran sadly o'er the fruitless ooze 
 
 At sunset, as between the banks we passed 
 
 Of that tide-fallen river, speeding fast 
 
 To land, and further from those fond adieus. 
 
 G
 
 82 
 
 THE WHITE HORSE OF WESTBURY. 
 
 As from tlie Dorset shore I travelled home, 
 
 I saw the charger of the Wiltshire wold ; 
 
 A far-seen figure, stately to behold, 
 
 Whose groom the shepherd is, the hoe his comb ; 
 
 His wizard-spell even sober daylight owned ; 
 
 That night I dreamed him into living will ; 
 
 He neighed — and, straight, the chalk poured down 
 
 the hill ; 
 He shook himself, and all beneath was stoned; 
 Hengist and Horsa shouted o'er my sleep, 
 Like fierce Achilles ; while that storm-blanched hoi 
 Sprang to the van of all the Saxon force, 
 And pushed the Britons to the Western deep ; 
 Then, dream -wise, as it were a thing of course, 
 He floated upwards, and regained the steep.
 
 »3 
 
 BEAU NASH. 
 
 ' Alas, alas ! ' said Mosclius in his woe, 
 
 When Bion died, ' he conies not back to sing 
 
 His songs, nor other lip his notes can bring 
 
 From the same pipe.' So Bath regrets her Beau : 
 
 Her waters bubble upward without stop, 
 
 Each market sees her flowers and fruits replaced ; 
 
 Potherbs and roses — plums of every taste — 
 
 And peaches, brimming with ambrosial slop ; 
 
 All this repeats itself, a constant birth ; 
 
 But mighty Nash, strong-willed and bold and shrewd, 
 
 Who awed and charmed that modish multitude, 
 
 Ilutli found no heirs, and to the hollow earth 
 
 Bequeaths his fame; for none his place may take; — 
 
 Long have such honours slept, and may not reawake ! 
 
 G 'I
 
 8 4 
 
 A PHOTOGRAPH ON THE BED GOLD. 
 
 Jersey, 1867. 
 
 About the knoll the airs blew fresh and brisk, 
 
 And, musing as I sat, I held my watch 
 
 Upon my open palm ; its smooth bright disk 
 
 Was uppermost, and so it came to catch, 
 
 And dwarf, the figure of a waving tree, 
 
 Backed by the West. A tiny sunshine peeped 
 
 About a tiny elm, — and both were steeped 
 
 In royal metal, flaming ruddily : 
 
 How lovely was that vision to behold ! 
 
 How passing sweet that fairy miniature, 
 
 That streamed and flickered o'er the burning gold ! 
 
 God of small things and great ! do Thou ensure 
 
 Thy gift of sight, till all my days are told, 
 
 Bless all its bliss, and keep its pleasures pure !
 
 »5 
 
 OX BO ABB A JERSEY STEAMER. 
 
 A Midsummer Sunrise. 
 
 Long had I watched, and, summoned by the ray 
 
 From those small window-lights, that dipt and bowed 
 
 Down to the glimpsing waters, made my way 
 
 On deck, while the sun rose without a cloud ; 
 
 The brazen plates upon the steerage -wheel 
 
 Flashed forth ; the steersman's face came full in view ; 
 
 Found at his post, he met the bright appeal 
 
 Of morning-tide, and answered ' I am true ! ' 
 
 Then back again into my berth I crept, 
 
 And lay awhile, at gaze, with upward eye, 
 
 Where gleams and shadows from the ocean swept, 
 
 And nickered wildly o'er the dreaming fly, 
 
 That clung to the low ceiling. Then I slept 
 
 And woke, and sought once more the sea and sky.
 
 86 
 
 VIE DE JfiSUS. 
 On hearing of a forthcoming cheap edition. 
 
 A book of pleasant phrase, but narrow span 
 
 Of thought, is coming, in its cheapest guise, 
 
 Home to the hearths of each poor artisan 
 
 Throughout unhappy France — to make him wise 
 
 With a false gospel ; and that, so enticed, 
 
 And flushed with petty raptures, he may give 
 
 His horny hands to this Parisian Christ, 
 
 Who lacks the strength to lift them ! Shall it live, 
 
 This pleasant book ? Oh ! join with one accord ! 
 
 Reject the lore, which — void of spleen or joke, 
 
 And in wild earnest — cuts down at one stroke 
 
 The measure of the stature of our Lord, 
 
 To this unscriptural pigmy ! nor invoke 
 
 A frail young saint, in lieu of God the Word !
 
 8 7 
 
 POOR HODGE AND THE REV. SANS FOY. 
 
 Christmas. 
 
 Poor Hodge prays hard — the wise man smiles em- 
 bowered ; - • 
 The priest-philosopher, who lurks within 
 That screen of Christmas hollies, though empowered 
 For other ends, takes pay for conscious sin : 
 What does the white-robed hireling, simpering thus 
 At his poor neighbour's spiritual desire ? 
 Of all that honest faith incredulous, 
 The tainted vestal mocks the holy fire ! 
 He lives beneath that little twinkling creed 
 Which counts for light at Tubingen ; his list 
 Of Christian sympathies is brief indeed : 
 And yet he speaks right loyally for Christ ! 
 Ah ! traitorous lips ! so Judas falsely kissed 
 The Truth, with thirty pieces for his meed.
 
 88 
 
 PRAY, THINK, AND STRIVE! 
 
 Wcmldst thou be safe from those, who plead or sneer 
 
 Against the virtue of our ancient frame 
 
 Of thought, and noble models ; wouldst thou claim 
 
 A full exemption from this modern Fear, 
 
 Pray, think, and strive ! with God's good Book for guide 
 
 Be proof against the sweet word or the scoff: 
 
 A light-laid faith will soon be lifted off 
 
 Into some scorner's nostrils, when his pride 
 
 Smells at your simple creed in free disdain ; 
 
 Nor let the smile of gentler critics fix 
 
 Their spells upon you — they who deftly mix 
 
 Some Christian truth with errors black as Styx ; 
 
 Charming to sleep the conscience and the brain, 
 
 Without the spleen of coarser heretics.
 
 8 9 
 
 [The following Sonnets were Published in 1830, and are now 
 Republished with a few Alterations.] 
 
 THE MOLIAN HARP. 
 
 take that airy harp frora out the gale, 
 Its troubles call from such a distant bourne, 
 Now that the wind has wooed it to its tale 
 Of bygone bliss, that never can return ; 
 
 Hark ! with what dreamy sadness it is swelling ! 
 How sweet it falls, unwinding from the breeze ! 
 Disordered music, deep and tear-compelling, 
 Like siren-voices pealing o'er the seas. 
 Nay, take it not, for now my tears are stealing, 
 But when it brake upon my mirthful hour, 
 And spake to joy of sorrow past the healing, 
 
 1 shrank beneath the soft subduing power ; 
 Nay, take it not ; replace it by my bower — 
 The soul can thrill with no diviner feeling.
 
 9° 
 
 TEE OGEAX. 
 
 The Ocean, at the bidding of the Moon, 
 For ever changes with his restless tide ; 
 Flung shoreward now, to be regathered soon 
 With kingly pauses of reluctant pride, 
 And semblance of return. Anon from home 
 He issues forth again, high ridged and free ; 
 The seething hiss of his tumultuous foam, 
 Like armies whispering where great echoes be ! 
 Oh ! leave me here upon this beach to rove, 
 Mute listener to that sound so grand and lone — 
 A glorious sound, deep-drawn and strongly thrown, 
 And reaching those on mountain heights above ; 
 To British ears, as who shall scorn to own, 
 A tutelar fond voice, a Saviour-tone of love !
 
 9 1 
 
 A SUMMER TWILIGB1. 
 
 It is a Summer twilight, balmy-sweet, 
 A twilight brightened by an infant moon, 
 Fraught with the fairest light of middle June ; 
 The lonely garden echoes to my feet, 
 And hark ! hear I not the gentle dews, 
 Fretting the silent forest in his sleep ? 
 Or does the stir of housing insects creep 
 Thus faintly on mine ear ? Day's many hues 
 Waned with the paling light and are no more, 
 And none but reptile pinions beat the air : 
 The bat is hunting softly by my door, 
 And, noiseless as the snow-flake, leaves his lair ; 
 O'er the still copses flitting here and there, 
 Wheeling the self-same circuit o'er and o'er.
 
 9 2 
 
 THE KISS OF BETROTHAL. 
 
 When lovers' lips from kissing disunite 
 With sound as soft as mellow fruitage breaking, 
 They loathe to leave what was so sweet in taking, 
 So fraught with breathless magical delight ; 
 The scent of flowers is long before it fade, 
 Long dwells upon the gale the Vesper-tone, 
 Far floats the wake the lightest skiff has made, 
 The closest kiss, when once imprest, is gone ; 
 What marvel, then, that each so closely kisseth ? 
 Sweet is the fourfold touch, the living seal — 
 What marvel, then, with sorrow each dismisseth 
 This thrilling pledge of all they hope and feel ? 
 While on their lingering steps the shadows steal, 
 And each true heart beats as the other wisheth.
 
 93 
 
 AN ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 The bells awake the Sabbath's choral prime, 
 By breezes softened to a harp-like tone ; 
 Lowly and sweetly from the distance thrown, 
 They greet the ear with jubilee and chime ; 
 Follow the sound, and it will lead thee on 
 Into an English church, the home of Prayer, 
 For who shall say she is not lovelier there, 
 Than in all other fanes beneath the Sun ? 
 There, if thou doubtest, may it not impart 
 Fresh hope, to learn that others' hope is sure ? 
 There, duly as the merchant to the mart, 
 Come aged men, whom daily death makes fewer ; 
 There all the spirit of a Christian heart 
 Is bodied forth in gentle rites and pure.
 
 94 
 
 A FOREST LAKE. 
 
 O Lake of sylvan shore ! when gentle Spring 
 
 Slopes down upon thee from the mountain side, 
 
 When birds begin to build and brood and sing ; 
 
 Or, in maturer season, when the pied 
 
 And fragrant turf is thronged with blossoms rare 
 
 In the frore sweetness of the breathing morn, 
 
 When the loud echoes of the herdsman's horn 
 
 Do sally forth upon the silent air 
 
 Of thy thick forestry, may I be there, 
 
 While the wood waits to see its phantom born 
 
 At clearing twilight, in thy glassy breast ; 
 
 Or, when cool eve is busy, on thy shores, 
 
 With trails of purple shadow from the West, 
 
 Or dusking in the wake of tardy oars.
 
 95 
 
 JOY CAME FROM HEAVEN. 
 
 Joy came from heaven, for men were mad with pain, 
 And sought a mansion on this earth below ; 
 He could not settle on the wrinkled brow, 
 Close-gathered to repel him ; and, again, 
 Upon the cheek he sought repose in vain ; 
 He found that pillow all too chill and cold, 
 Where sorrow's streams might float him from his hold, 
 ( ';i light sleeping in their channel. Th' eye would fain 
 Receive the stranger on her slippery sphere, 
 Where life had purer effluence than elsewhere, 
 But where no barrier might forbid the tear 
 To sweep it, when it listed. So not there 
 He staid, nor could the lips his couch prepare, 
 Shifting untenably from smile to sneer.
 
 Q 6 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Hung- on the shower that fronts the golden West, 
 
 The Rainbow bursts like magic on mine eyes ! 
 
 In hues of ancient promise there imprest ; 
 
 Frail in its date, eternal in its guise ; 
 
 The vision is so lovely, that I feel 
 
 My heart imbued with beauty like its own, 
 
 And taking an indissoluble seal 
 
 From what is here a moment, and is gone ; 
 
 It lies so soft on the full-breasted storm, 
 
 New-born o' the middle air, and dewy-pure, 
 
 And tricked in Nature's choicest garniture ; 
 
 What can be seen of lovelier dye or form ? 
 
 While all the groves assume a ghastly stain, 
 
 Caught from the leaden rack and shining rain !
 
 97 
 
 COLLISION OF TEE AYE AND COMET 
 STEAMBOATS. 
 
 Vessel of Britain ! proudly wert thou going, 
 
 Thy strong foundations seated in the sea, 
 
 Yet moving like the wind. The hearts were srlowino- 
 
 *— ' Oct 
 
 The steps were light, the melody was free, 
 
 That ushered in that midnight jollity ; 
 
 Sad was the shock, and fearful was the doom, 
 
 That quenched those happy hearts so suddenly ; 
 
 And sad it was to see their kindred come 
 
 In quest o' the dearest brow, with hushing breath ; 
 
 Oh ! that those blessed days should ne'er return, 
 
 When Christ was ready at the gates of Death 
 
 To bid them back, whom widowed souls would mourn ! 
 
 To make the parents' hope revive and burn, 
 
 ' Why soiTowest thou? thy child but slumberetli. 
 
 H
 
 9 8 
 
 SILKWORMS AND SPIDERS. 
 
 The worm long fosters his transforming sleep, 
 But claims th' inalienable life again, 
 Which, tho' it be but one,, yet seemeth twain, 
 The trance between is all so deadly deep ; 
 The careful spider spreads before his lair 
 The web he gathers near his filmy heart, 
 Without the throe of any vital smart, 
 And of his entrails makes a useful snare : 
 In both a mighty mystery resides, 
 A truth, on whose development they thrive ; 
 One for the cravings of his life provides, 
 One weaves himself another way to live ; 
 To search the secret is beyond our lore, 
 And we must rest, till God shall tell us more.
 
 99 
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 On, on, in firm progression, sure and slow, 
 More scorning hindrance, as je meet it more ; 
 Surmounting what ye cannot thorough go, 
 And forcing what ye fail in climbing o'er ; 
 Soon shall ye gaze upon the bliss attained, 
 And worth attainment fourfold as severe ; 
 The glorious meed for zealous souls ordained. 
 Shall shine upon you, palpable and clear ; 
 Then when the starry coronal of Fame 
 Shall gird your brows, all-perdurably bright : 
 When ye have seen the solitary flame, 
 That burns upon the solitary height, 
 Ye will not, then, your daily cares misname 
 As toil — well spent, for rapture to requite : 
 
 ii 2
 
 100 
 
 MARTIAL ARDOUR IN AGE. 
 
 Oh ! if ye marvel that mine eye doth glow 
 
 Now every pulse of fervid youth is lost, 
 
 Ye never heard the kingly trumpets blow, 
 
 Nor felt the fieldward stirring of a host ; 
 
 Nor how the bayonet assures the hand 
 
 That it can never fail, while Death doth stand 
 
 Amid the thunders of the reckless drum, 
 
 And the loud scorn of fifes, ashamed and dumb ! 
 
 Nor, when the noble revel dies away, 
 
 How proud they lie upon the stained mould, 
 
 A presence, too majestic to gainsay, 
 
 Of lordly martial bearing, mute and cold, 
 
 Which Honour knows o' th' instant ! such as lay 
 
 On Morat late, or Marathon of old !
 
 101 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 The softest shadows mantle o'er his form, 
 And the curved sickle in his grasp appears, 
 Glooming and brightening : while a wreath of ears 
 Circles his sallow brow, which th' angry storm 
 Gusts down at intervals ; about him stray 
 The volant sweets o' the trailing mignionette, 
 And odours vague, that haunt the year's decay ; 
 The crush of leaves is heard beneath his feet, 
 Mixt, as he onward goes, with softer sound, 
 As tho' his heel were sinking into snows : 
 Full soon a sadder landscape opens round, 
 With, here and there, a latter-flowering rose, 
 Child of the Summer hours, though blooming here 
 Far down the vista of the fading yea r.
 
 102 
 
 A CALM EVENING. 
 
 Seest tliou liow clear and sharp the shadows are 
 
 Among the cattle on yon ridgy field, 
 
 So softly glooming- amid light so fair? 
 
 Yon mighty trees no blast may dare to wield ; 
 
 The things that own most motion and most sound 
 
 Are tranced and silent ; all is mute around. 
 
 Where is the wind ? Not in yon glassy sky, 
 
 Not in the trees, — what deep tranquillity 
 
 Has hushed his voice ? Methinks so calm should fall 
 
 The eve before the great millennial morn, 
 
 Before the first of those high da} T s is born, 
 
 Whose placid tenor shall be peace to all. 
 
 Sink deeply in my heart, surpassing scene ! 
 
 And be thy memory clear, for I would live therein !
 
 103 
 
 ON A GENIUS OF LOWLY ESTATE. 
 
 Where may not souls be found to greatness true *? 
 
 Born with no loftier hope or prouder aim 
 
 Than lineage lowly, like his own, could claim, 
 
 How did he guess at his immortal due ? 
 
 How was the fire first smitten from the steel ? 
 
 When came that strange enforcement of his will? 
 
 How did his mind, 'mid poverty and ill, 
 
 Find leisure to endow itself so well ? 
 
 Methiuks, one summer's eve, he first did hear 
 
 The rise and fall of music in his heart ; 
 
 Wild notes, a-dropping downward without art 
 
 To a sweet close, that fell upon his ear 
 
 Unutterably soft, and yet most clear, 
 
 And seeming from his bosom's depth to start.
 
 IC4 
 
 ON STARTLING SOME PIGEONS. 
 
 A hundred wings are dropt as soft as one, 
 Now ye are lighted ! Pleasing to my sight 
 The fearful circle of your wondering flight, 
 Rapid and loud, and drawing homeward soon ; 
 And then, the sober chiding of your tone, 
 As there ye sit, from your own roofs arraigning 
 My trespass on your haunts, so boldly done, 
 Sounds like a solemn and a just complaining : 
 O happy, happy race ! for though there clings 
 A feeble fear about your timid clan, 
 Yet are ye blest ! with not a thought that brings 
 Disquietude, — while proud and sorrowing man, 
 An eagle, weary of his mighty wings, 
 With anxious inquest fills his mortal span !
 
 io 5 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Alexis seized a prisoned butterfly 
 
 To set it free, on a bright morn of May ; 
 
 But the kind touch brushed half the tints away 
 
 From the rich wings, though handled tenderly. 
 
 Then spake he out to bashful Isabel, — 
 
 ' Behold sweet Nature's venturous faith ! and say, 
 
 Why thou dost aye refuse thy heart to stay 
 
 On mine, that is so fond and loves so well ? 
 
 Is beauty trusted to the morning dews ? 
 
 And to the butterfly's mischanceful wing ? 
 
 To the dissolving cloud in rainbow hues ? 
 
 To the frail tenure of an early spring, 
 
 In blossoms and in dyes? And must I lose 
 
 Claim to such trust,— all Nature's underling? '
 
 io6 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF THE FATES. 
 
 Ye dull and loathy sisterhood forlorn ! 
 Why did the fabling soul of ancient song 
 Build up a falsehood of such dreary scorn, 
 As that to you our being should belong ? 
 Likening a life that feels so much of heaven, 
 And so divinely sensible of joy, 
 To a frail thread at your cold mandate riven, 
 For hands so pale to weave and to destroy ? 
 Soul-deadening lore ! that had long since its birth, 
 When the strange perjury of ancient creed 
 Jarred in full discord, — now our hearts are freed, 
 And solemn Reason dictates to the Earth, 
 Since that most perfect Law shone forth to bless, 
 That hath no peer in moral loveliness.
 
 io 7 
 
 DECADENCE OF GREECE, 1830. 
 
 To 
 
 Young tourist to the land whose hope has passed ! 
 
 Fain would I seek with thee those shores sublime 
 
 That hear no promise from the lips of Time, 
 
 Of hours so bright as those He overcast ! 
 
 There is that Athens ! still in ruin fair, 
 
 Though long gone by her intellectual reign ; 
 
 Arcadia waits in patient beauty there, 
 
 To hear her lingering shepherd's voice again ! 
 
 Too oft our travellers ply a clumsy art 
 
 Here in the West ! No faithful light they lend ; 
 
 But keep the dues of Fame so ill apart, 
 
 That the great claims of mount and valley blend ; 
 
 Misname the passes with incurious ease, 
 
 And mix the records of the plashing seas !
 
 io8 
 
 A BIRTHDAY. 
 
 The summer tide lias brought my natal hour: 
 Comes it to usher days of bliss or bane ? 
 To set a seal on grief? or to empower 
 With tenfold strength the tyranny of pain ? 
 Oh ! might we summon back by charm of art, 
 Those days of bloodless food and placid sleep, 
 Which crept, exhaling from the mother's heart, 
 So holy, dreamless, innocent, and deep ! 
 We leave the womb to slumber on the breast, 
 We leave the breast to climb upon the knee, 
 Soon beckoned off by dolour and unrest, 
 Till our first sympathies are hard to see, 
 Which passion's heavy overgrowths invest, 
 Scarce disentwined by keen Philosophy !
 
 109 
 
 TO 
 
 Thought travels past thee with intenser glow, 
 And nobler visions burn upon thine eye, 
 Than other souls e'er knew of, or can know ; 
 Massing delicious thought, and fancies high, 
 From hour to hour, thy spirit teems with joy, 
 Nor seldom with unrest; for, when the mind 
 O'er many themes keeps survey unconfined, 
 Death Avill be one ; — 'tis surely sad to die ! 
 Placed at the limit of all mortal being, 
 The mute unquestionable shadow stands, 
 Whose simple mandate binds the giant's hands 
 Helpless, and seals the keenest eye from seeing ! 
 We own his power, but know not whence he came ; 
 We call him Death — he telleth not his name !
 
 I 10 
 
 ON SEEING A CHILD BLUSH ON HIS FIRST 
 VIEW OF A CORPSE. 
 
 'Tis good our earliest sympathies to trace ! 
 
 And I would muse upon a little thing ; 
 
 What brought the blush into that infant's face 
 
 When first confronted with the rueful king ? 
 
 He boldly came — what made his courage less ? 
 
 A signal for the heart to beat less free 
 
 Are all imperial presences, and he 
 
 Was awed by Death's consummate kingliness ; 
 
 A strange bewildered look of shame he wore ; 
 
 'Twas the first mortal hint that crossed the lad ; 
 
 He feared the stranger, though he knew no more, 
 
 Surmising and surprised, but, most, afraid, 
 
 As Crusoe, wandering on the desert shore, 
 
 Saw but an alien footmark and was sad !
 
 Ill 
 
 GOD, IMPART THY BLESSING TO MY 
 
 CRIES. 
 
 God, impart Thy blessing to my cries ! 
 
 1 trust but faintly, and I daily err ; 
 The waters of my heart are oft astir, 
 An angel's there ! and yet I cannot rise ! 
 
 Ah ! would my Lord were here amongst us still, 
 
 Proffering His bosom to His servant's brow ; 
 
 Too oft that holy life comes o'er us now, 
 
 Like twilight ecnoes from a distant hill ; 
 
 We long for His pure looks and words sublime ; 
 
 His lowly-lofty innocence and grace ; 
 
 The talk sweet-toned, and blessing all the time ; 
 
 The mountain sermon and the ruthful gaze; 
 
 The cheerly credence gathered from His face; 
 
 His voice in village-groups at eve or prime !
 
 NOTES. 
 
 NEHEMIAH'S NIGHT RIDE. Page 7. 
 Nehemiah ii. 
 
 WOLF AND THE CASKET. Page 11 ,lmes 13 and 14. 
 
 Mera $4 criptatv "Ocraa 8e5j;ei, 
 'Orpvvova' Uvai, Atbs &yye\os. — Iliad, ii. 93,94. 
 
 TO A LITTLE CHILD WHO ASKED FOR A LAUREL 
 CROWN— A RECANTATION. Page 42, line 1. 
 
 1 have substituted our garden laurel (Lauro cerasus) for the 
 classical Laurus, or bay. ' Heritage of light ' would scarcely 
 apply to the latter. 
 
 THE PLEA OF THE SHOT SWALLOW. Page 05, line 2. 
 
 €7r' avrif 
 Tip /3ap/3n-<f> KadtvSw. 
 \iiar. Ei'i neptaTcpav. 
 
 THE STEAM THRESHING MACHINE. Page 63. 
 
 Lines 3 and 4 : — 
 
 Nube candentes humeros amictus.— 7A>r. 
 
 Line 8 : — 
 
 Mystica vannus Iacchi. — Vikgil, Georgics. 
 
 I
 
 1 1 4 NOTES. 
 
 MISSING THE METEORS, 1866.— .4 LOOK-OUT FOR 
 THIRTY YEARS. Page 73. 
 
 Thirty-three, I believe, is the accurate number, dating from 
 1866. 
 
 n RITTEN AT THE WOOD-SALE OF MESSRS. BLANK 
 AND CO., NON-RESIDENT PROPRIETORS. Page 78. 
 
 The last four lines of the sonnet allude to these of the Idyll : — "' 
 
 Oil defxis, ci iroijiav, to fxeo-a/xfipivbi', ov 64/j.is dp.fj.LV 
 ~S,vpiaSev • rbv Tlava 8e5oiKa.fj.es, rj yap an' dypas 
 Tavlxa KtKfiaKus dfAiraveTar evrt ye TUKphs, 
 Kai ol del SpL/xela ^oAa ttotI pivl KdO-qrai. 
 
 Theoce. £(5uA\iok a'. 
 
 BEAU NASH. Page 83. 
 
 Aj at, ral /xa\dxai /J.iv, eirdv Kara kuttov liXoovrat, 
 *H to. ^Atopa ffeXiva, t6 t' ev6a\es oii\ov avqdov, 
 "Tarepov av £wovtl koX els eros dWo (pvovri • 
 "Appc: 5' ol jj.eyd.Xoi na\ Kaprepol 7) crocpol dvSpes 
 'OmroTe irpaTa 6avcop.es, avanooi ev ^flcwl /coiAot 
 EliSoixes ev fid\a fxatcphv drepfxova vqyperov virvov. 
 
 Moschi Epitaph. Bionis. 
 
 SPOTUSWOODE AND CO., PHINTERS, MW-SIltEEI SQCARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET.
 
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