THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 WAYSIDE WARBLES
 
 WAYSIDE WARBLES. 
 
 BY EDWARD CAPERN. 
 
 RURAL POSTMAN OP BIDEFORD, DEVON. 
 AUTHOR OF " POEMS," " BALLADS AND SONGS," AND THE 
 
 " How often have I paused on every charm, — 
 
 The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 
 
 The never failing brook, the busy mill, 
 
 The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill. 
 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made." 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SAMPSON LOW, SON, AND MARSTON, 
 
 MILTON HOUSE, LUDGATE HILL. 
 
 1865. 
 
 The right of translation is reserved.
 
 ?R 
 
 t^r 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 \N sending forth a third volume of his 
 lyrics to the world, the author is de- 
 sirous of saying a few words in prose, 
 which may prove acceptable to some 
 of his friends. 
 
 First of all these poems are what their title indi- 
 cates them to be, genuine Wayside Warbles, the 
 major part of them having been thought out and 
 written by him in the open air, while doing duty 
 as a rural postman. It may also be of interest to 
 give some little idea of the manner in which they 
 have been worked up. Some object or incident, 
 or a conversation with a rustic by the roadside, has 
 often suggested matter for a short song, which the 
 author has frequently thrown off at the moment in 
 the presence of a fair in^pirer, or a more brawny 
 
 8 

 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 companion. Having sung his ditty as he com- 
 posed it — as in the case of " Bonnie Maggie 
 Ikon," " Merry Labour," " A Song in Sunshine," 
 and othei-s, — his next care has been to rescue such 
 as he has deemed worthy from oblivion. Hence 
 the rude bar of a Devonshire stile oi- field-gate 
 has often served him for a writing-desk. Or 
 seated on the side of some friendly hedge, his 
 post-bag resting on his knees, he has pencilled out 
 his thoughts in the rough, to be polished up in 
 the little cottage when he arrives at the end of his 
 outward journey. 
 
 Whether what little genius for singing he is said 
 to possess is essentially IjTical or not, he cannot 
 say; certain it is, circumstances have made it so: his 
 occupation having broken his time up into frag- 
 ments, thereby compelling him to be content with 
 penning a short piece when he might otherwise 
 have attempted a longer poem. It is very pleasant, 
 however, for him to think that his songs, short and 
 simple as they are, have found favour in the eyes 
 of those whose praise is honour, if not fame, and to 
 know that that favour is daily increasing; as a proof 
 of which he would mention thatdurinsj the last two
 
 PREFACE. VU 
 
 or three years he has been repeatedly solicited by 
 all classes of his countrymen to publish another 
 volume. To that call he has responded by making 
 a selection from his unpublished jottings; and his 
 earnest hope is that the same originality, freshness, 
 and simplicity, which marked his former works 
 may be found in the present one, with some little 
 certain sign of poetic growth. 
 
 One word touching that portion of the volume 
 entitled " Willow Leaves." To those who have 
 passed through a great sorrow like the writer no 
 word of excuse is at all necessary ; to those who 
 have not, the only apology he would make must 
 be in the words of our own beloved Coleridge : — 
 " The communicativeness of our nature leads us 
 to describe our own sorrows ; in the endeavour to 
 describe them, intellectual activity is exerted; and 
 from intellectual activity there residts a pleasure, 
 which is gradually associated, and mingles as a cor- 
 rective, with the painful subject of the description. 
 ' True ! ' it may be answered, ' but how is the 
 public interested in your sorrows or your descrip- 
 tions?' What is ' the public' but a term for a 
 number of scattered individuals? of whom as
 
 Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 many will be interested in these sorrows, as have 
 experienced the same or similar : 
 
 ' Holy be the lay 
 Which, mourning, soothes the mourner on his way.' '' 
 
 And now, in taking leave of his readers, he 
 would ask them kindly to bear in mind, that those 
 of his lyrics illustrating some phase of human ex- 
 perience, were written under the influence of their 
 corresponding moods of mirth and sadness, joy and 
 sorrow ; the pen oftentimes doing the bidding of 
 the heart more than the fancy, while the author has 
 ever aimed to be natural rather than fine, always 
 bearing in mind a critique on one of his poems 
 which an old village dame once pronounced: " 'Tis 
 as natural as life, and if it isn't true, it ought to be." 
 
 E. C. 
 
 Marine Gardens, Bideford, 
 July 8th, 1865.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Watside Warbles 
 
 EDICATION 
 The Poet's Duty 
 My Excuse 
 A Warble 
 
 When the Cuckoo comes 
 
 My Little Young Thing 
 
 Why so very Jealous grown ? 
 
 The Drouo-ht 
 
 The Missing Star 
 
 Welcome to the May 
 
 A Song in Sunshine 
 
 A Maytime Wish 
 
 Bonnie Maggie Ilton 
 
 The Bracken is springing 
 
 Kezzie .... 
 
 The Whistling Milkman . 
 
 A Spring Ditty 
 
 When I went courting Nanny 
 
 The Old Well 
 
 My pretty little Cottage in the 
 
 The Holiday of Spring 
 
 West Countree 
 
 Page 
 3 
 .5 
 7 
 9 
 11 
 13 
 15 
 17 
 18 
 19 
 21 
 22 
 25 
 27 
 28 
 30 
 32 
 33 
 35 
 37 
 39
 
 X CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 
 Page 
 
 A Cot at Weargifford and Janie for me ... 42 
 
 To the Seagull .... 
 
 
 
 44 
 
 England's Work and her Prospects . 
 
 
 
 45 
 
 Epitaph ..... 
 
 
 
 47 
 
 The Two Wooers .... 
 
 
 
 47 
 
 Our Path was where the Willows bloom 
 
 
 
 49 
 
 Just like Life 
 
 
 
 51 
 
 My Song ..... 
 
 
 
 53 
 
 Love's Long Day .... 
 
 
 
 54 
 
 My Little Love .... 
 
 
 
 55 
 
 A Thanksgiving Song 
 
 
 
 57 
 
 What is Duty ? . . . . 
 
 
 
 58 
 
 My Retreat ..... 
 
 
 
 61 
 
 The Heavens declare His Glory 
 
 
 
 62 
 
 Holbeck Plowors .... 
 
 
 
 63 
 
 Where and Whien ? . 
 
 
 
 65 
 
 The Sketch 
 
 
 
 67 
 
 More happy than a King 
 
 
 
 68 
 
 Wooed and Won . 
 
 
 
 70 
 
 To Music 
 
 
 
 72 
 
 The Sunny Slopes of Oldiscleave 
 
 
 
 73 
 
 Work and Labour .... 
 
 
 
 75 
 
 Merry Labour .... 
 
 
 
 78 
 
 Ela 
 
 
 
 79 
 
 The llobins' Chorus 
 
 
 
 80 
 
 To a Goldfinch .... 
 
 
 
 81 
 
 The Secret 
 
 
 
 83 
 
 Little Mattie 
 
 
 
 84 
 
 Jack's Return .... 
 
 
 
 87 
 
 The Cottage Matron 
 
 
 
 88 
 
 The Old Parish Clerk . 
 
 
 
 90 
 
 Cornisli Bards ..... 
 
 
 
 91 
 
 Song of the Devonian .... 
 
 
 
 94 
 
 The Banks of the Dart .... 
 
 
 
 96 
 
 The " Hobby" Clovelly .... 
 
 
 
 97
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XI 
 
 
 Page 
 
 To Bideforcl, in Prospect of leaving it 
 
 101 
 
 St. Mary's BeUs, Birleford .... 
 
 104 
 
 The Turridge 
 
 105 
 
 One of the Olden Time . , • . . 
 
 108 
 
 Land's End • 
 
 111 
 
 Steady, old Lass !...... 
 
 113 
 
 The Vine 
 
 115 
 
 The Poet 
 
 118 
 
 Willow Leaves. 
 
 The Kobin is weeping 
 
 A Song in Sorrow . 
 
 Dead! . 
 
 Under the Snow 
 
 By her Grave . 
 
 Faith 
 
 Disconsolate 
 
 Consolation 
 
 Our Destiny 
 
 Milly 
 
 In the Valley of the Shadow of Death 
 
 Silent ..... 
 
 Who now will sing my Songs to me 
 
 Under the Cloud 
 
 Lost! Lost! .... 
 
 The Two Minstrels 
 
 The Vision .... 
 
 My Guardian Angel 
 
 The Robin .... 
 
 The Anniversary 
 
 The Vow .... 
 
 The Voice from the Cloud 
 
 Ellie Dale .... 
 
 123 
 125 
 127 
 131 
 132 
 134 
 135 
 137 
 138 
 140 
 145 
 146 
 148 
 150 
 153 
 156 
 158 
 160 
 162 
 164 
 166 
 168 
 173
 
 Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 Sonnets, Page 
 
 ToW. C. Bennett 177 
 
 Faith .178 
 
 Hope 179 
 
 Meekness 180 
 
 Truth 181 
 
 Innocence ........ 182 
 
 Grief 183 
 
 Patience 184 
 
 Resignation ........ 185 
 
 Written in London . . . ' . . . 186 
 
 Nun-recognition ....... 187 
 
 Ephemera ........ 188 
 
 To the Torridge 189 
 
 Earth 190 
 
 Heaven ......... 191 
 
 Legends. 
 
 The Legend of the Logan 195 
 
 Elena 198 
 
 Jemmo's Curse ..... . . 201 
 
 The " Yeth^' Hounds 204 
 
 ':>^X
 
 WAYSIDE WARBLES. 
 
 ^^i^^
 
 Hark to Nature's lesson given 
 By the blessed birds of heaven ! 
 
 Every bush and tufted tree 
 Warbles sweet philosophy." 
 
 Heber.
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO WILLIAM FREDERICK ROCK, ESQ. 
 
 O thee, the foster-father of my lays, 
 Who found me warbling in my tune- 
 ful nook, 
 And proffer'd both thy friendship and 
 thy praise, 
 In Love's sweet name I dedicate this book. 
 
 A homespun-thread, on which I hope to string- 
 Some gems of Nature to a pleasant tune, 
 
 Pearls gather'd from the fragrant lap of Spring, 
 And rubies from the radiant hand of June. 
 
 Not mine those brilliant ornaments of song, 
 Which learning to the bard delights to give;
 
 4 DEDICATION. 
 
 Or those rich streams of thought, clear, deep, and 
 strong, 
 Which in the hnes of mightier singers live. 
 
 A gentle lover of the lane and field, 
 
 My jewels in gold meadow-buds I find, 
 
 Proud if my little rills of rhyme but yield 
 One sparkling drop of pleasure to my kind. 
 
 Here primrose, through the year with lamb-like 
 face. 
 
 And golden dimple on her modest cheek. 
 Will smile out with the same old saintly grace 
 
 Which made the minstrel-fathers call her meek. 
 
 While from the woodage running down the side 
 Of the steep hill, or bristling on the plain, 
 
 Some happy bird at morn and eventide 
 
 Will give, like me, his wild untutor'd strain. 
 
 And here the echo of the peasant's joy 
 Will carol out in many a rustic note, 
 
 And Sorrow, with her pale-faced orphan boy. 
 Sob her deep anguish with a grief-choked throat.
 
 THE POET S DUTY. 
 
 True to my instincts, both in woe and mirth, 
 I've follow'd Nature, learning her sweet art, 
 
 Findiner more sweets than bitters on the earth, 
 And made the fancy handmaid of the heart. 
 
 THE POET'S DUTY. 
 
 HEN God is talking to thy soul. 
 Bard, let thy tongue speak out ; 
 No matter what the cry may be, 
 For peace or battle-shout. 
 
 Then shall thy words, as living fire. 
 
 Flash on the souls of men : 
 And Wisdom's children everywhere 
 
 Shall hail thy faithful pen. 
 
 Is there a wrong thy spirit feels? 
 
 Drink deep into its woe : 
 Then boldly ask thy fellow men, 
 
 If God would have it so ?
 
 6 THE poet's duty. 
 
 And though they curl the lip in scorn, 
 
 And darken into frown ; 
 Or lift the hand to smite thee — yet, 
 
 Down with the evil, down ! 
 
 A prophet of the Lord art thou, 
 To teach His righteous will ; 
 
 To stand before the tyrant's sword. 
 And shield the weak from ill. 
 
 Up, then ! and do thy Master's work, 
 'Tis Heaven commands. Obey ! 
 
 He mighty is who hath a God 
 To teach him what to say.
 
 MY EXCUSE. 
 
 HEY ask'd me for a dulcet strain, 
 To suit the ruling fashion ; 
 I told them that I could not sintr 
 Without my native passion. 
 I love the wild and pathless wood, 
 
 Tree, flower, and tangled bramble : 
 My muse disdains the beaten track, 
 When she essays to ramble. 
 
 Let me but share dear Nature's force, 
 
 That impulse, song-compelling. 
 Found in the cottage of the poor. 
 
 As well as princely dwelling. 
 Then Hope exultant spreads her wing, 
 
 Near Reverence lowly kneeling : 
 And Joy comes smiling like the Spring, 
 
 With an ecstatic feeling. 
 
 With it my lips begin to dance, 
 My blood begins to tingle :
 
 MY EXCUSE. 
 
 Without it all is vapid rhyme, 
 
 And empty, idle jingle. 
 With it the soul informs the verse, 
 
 And moves me to devotion : 
 Without it every stanza lacks 
 
 The life of an emotion. 
 
 Then will I sing my own true note, 
 
 And wait the inspiration 
 Which gives out to the listening world 
 
 The echo of creation. 
 When Summer to her own sweet tune 
 
 Goes dancing down the valley, 
 And lusty Autumn sings her song 
 
 In every leafy alley. 
 
 The lonely bird, that wakes the night 
 
 Down in the dingle-bushes. 
 Ne'er imitates the skylark's note. 
 
 Nor warble of the thrushes. 
 The linnets, too, have their own song, 
 
 The happy little darlings ! 
 And next the oratorio 
 
 Loud chaunted by the starlings:
 
 A WARBLE. 
 
 9 
 
 The storm-cock braves the wintry blast, 
 
 In his bold lay delighting, 
 And sings, like me, the loudest oft, 
 
 When winds are cold and biting. 
 Each has its own delicious way 
 
 In trilling Nature's praises ; 
 And I have mine, which sweetest sounds 
 
 Among my native daisies. 
 
 A WARBLE. 
 
 HE balm-breathing hawthorn is blowing 
 again. 
 
 The rocks by the roadside are yellow 
 with broom, 
 The lilac is sweet with the fresh summer rain. 
 And the peasant's white cottage is rosy with 
 bloom. 
 
 The red-blossom'd orchards, in beauty array'd. 
 Are rich with the promise of fruit to the eye,
 
 10 A WARBLE. 
 
 And down in the meadow there carols a maid, 
 As blithe as the gay little bird of the sky. 
 
 Tlie farmer leans over the old-fashion'd stile, 
 And gives out a pleasanter word as I pass ; 
 
 Beef, butter, and barley, his musings beguile. 
 As he watches his cattle knee-deep in the grass. 
 
 The woodruff hath lit up her cluster of stars, 
 The sweetest of wildlings, and fairest, I ween ; 
 
 The campion rivals the planet of Mars, 
 
 And larches are out in their tenderest green. 
 
 The cuckoo to silence is giving a tongue. 
 
 The blackbird is playing his flute in the thorn ; 
 
 The thrush leads the air in the fuU-chorus'd song, 
 And the post blows a merrier blast on his horn. 
 
 The palmated chesnut is rearing its spikes 
 
 Of pink-spotted blossoms in park and in lawn, 
 
 And daisies are painting the slopes of the dykes. 
 And young lambs are leaping as light as the fawn.
 
 WHEN THE CUCKOO COMES. 11 
 
 The little ones group in the sunniest way, 
 With health on their faces as bright as their 
 flowers ; 
 
 The dog-rose is flaunting aloft in the spray, 
 
 And bees tune their harps in the sycamore bowers. 
 
 The brooks sing a happier note as they run, 
 The hills in their delicate verdure are drest ; 
 
 But yet there's a shadow that darkens my sun, 
 My love is away and alone in her nest. 
 
 WHEN THE CUCKOO COMES. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 H, why that falling tear? 
 Cheer up, my darling, cheer ! 
 Health will call again, my dear, 
 When the cuckoo comes. 
 When windy March is gone. 
 With his heart as cold as stone. 
 In the bonny, merry moon. 
 When the cuckoo comes.
 
 I 
 
 12 WHEN THE CUCKOO COMES. 
 
 The streams, like polish'd glass, 
 Tinkle music as they pass, 
 To each merry milking lass, 
 When the cuckoo comes. 
 O, then to seek the glade. 
 And to linger in the shade, 
 In the bonny, merry moon, 
 When the cuckoo comes ! 
 
 The Devon-hedges blow 
 With purple, gold, and snow. 
 And crowtoe-goblets glow. 
 When the cuckoo comes. 
 And all creation rinsrs 
 With the glory-song it sings, 
 In the bonny, merry moon, 
 When the cuckoo comes. 
 
 I will tell a tale to thee 
 Underneath the hawthorn-tree. 
 Where you told your love to me. 
 When the cuckoo comes. 
 And, forgetting present pain, 
 We will dream the past again, 
 In the bonny, merry moon, 
 When the cuckoo comes.
 
 13 
 
 MY LITTLE YOUNG THING. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 FOUND a lamb without a fold, 
 
 A wee and sweetly young thing ; 
 The beating hail fell sharp and cold 
 Upon my little young thing : 
 I knew I had a humble shed 
 
 To shield it from the pelter, 
 And so the little lamb I led 
 Unto its cosy shelter. 
 O, the little young thing, 
 That wee and sweetly young thing ! 
 The wintry storm shall beat no more 
 Upon that little young thing. 
 
 I spied a bud upon a tree, 
 
 A wee and sweetly young thing, 
 
 As drench'd as any bud could be, 
 And sorely torn, the young thing.
 
 14 M\ LITTLE YOUNG THING. 
 
 1 ask'd, who was the truest fi'iend — 
 
 The one who left the blossom, 
 Or I, whom its sad fate had pain'd, 
 Who pluck'd it for my bosom ? 
 O, the little young thing, 
 That wee and sweetly young thing ! 
 The drowning rain no more shall fall 
 Upon that little young thing. 
 
 I saw a little bonny bird, 
 
 A wee and sweetly young thing, 
 Just when the wind was loudest heard, 
 
 And nestless was the young thing. 
 I took it to my ingle-side. 
 
 And fed it with each dainty. 
 But soon my little birdie died. 
 And left the land of plenty. 
 O, the little young thing, 
 That wee and sweetly young thing ! 
 The wintry wind shall blow no more 
 Upon my little young thing. 
 
 They bore a coffin on the road, 
 A coffin with a young thing;
 
 WHY SO VERY JEALOUS GROWN ? 15 
 
 And oh ! my heart had such a load 
 
 Of sorrow for that young thing. 
 They laid her in the quiet grave, 
 
 All on a downy pillow, 
 Where Love in tears delights to wave 
 A branch of weeping willow. 
 O, my little young thing. 
 My wee and sweetly young thing ! 
 I would that I were in my grave, 
 A-nestling with my j'^oung thing ! 
 
 7 
 
 WHY SO VERY JEALOUS GROWN? 
 
 ;HY so very jealous grown? 
 
 Tell me, darling, tell me, why ? 
 
 What ! a pout, and no reply ? 
 She was charming, I must own. 
 But whoe'er a daisy chose 
 In the presence of a rose? 
 
 True, I sang the maid a song, 
 Praised the beauty of her cheek-
 
 16 WHY SO VERY JEALOUS GROWN ? 
 
 Said her locks were very sleek : 
 Tell me, sweetest, was I wrong ? 
 When the sun is not in sight 
 Little stars will show their light. 
 
 Know the bee, that haunts thy bower, 
 Making all its silence ring 
 With the music of his wing. 
 Oft will leave a favourite flower, 
 And a distant journey make. 
 Kissing others for its sake. 
 
 So I heard an insect say. 
 As I listen'd to his tale, 
 When the little lily pale 
 Chided him one summer-day. 
 Thus you will perceive, ray fair, 
 That my conduct is not rare. 
 
 Who would listen to a wren, 
 When the mavis tunes his pipe? 
 When the bloomy grape is ripe, 
 Do we eat the damson then ? 
 And the village maid in green, 
 What is she beside the Queen ?
 
 THE DROUGHT. 17 
 
 Answer me in this, I pray, 
 Which is fairest, March or June ? 
 Which is brightest, morn or noon ? 
 Is September sweet as May? 
 She was water, thou art wine, 
 She was human, thou divine. 
 
 THE DROUGHT. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 IY heart was like the drowthy ground 
 Beneath a burning summer sky, 
 Where not a blade or drop was found 
 To cheer the weary traveller's eye : 
 But with thy sweetly loving words, 
 
 Descending like the gentle rain, 
 Came second Spring, with songs of birds. 
 And all was bright and green again. 
 
 Believe me there's no drought, my dear, 
 Like that which nips Affection's shoot, 
 
 Which makes too soon the green leaf sere, 
 And robs us of our sweetest fruit : 
 c
 
 18 THE MISSING STAR. 
 
 When hate meets liate^ and souls once knit 
 
 Together by the holiest ties. 
 Apart in sullen silence sit, 
 
 Till Hope himself despairing dies. 
 
 Then let us live those early days, 
 
 When Love was passion, heart, and soul, 
 When Life was one sweet song of praise, 
 
 And Gentleness e'er held control. 
 Say they were times of folly — true ! 
 
 But since our wise ones bring us pain, 
 Let's, dearest, without more ado. 
 
 Live o'er our foolish houi'S again. 
 
 THE MISSING STAR. 
 
 ENUS ! for the sake of Love, 
 Stay awhile thy silver car ! 
 Have you, from your sphere above, 
 Lost a little dazzling star ? 
 If you have, then I divine 
 Here the missing light doth shine.
 
 WELCOME TO THE MAY. 19 
 
 Venus, credit me you may, 
 
 We the wanderer have found. 
 An incarnate melody, 
 
 Breathing a celestial sound : 
 'Tis not madness — I am sane, 
 And we call the stranger *' Jane." 
 
 WELCOME TO THE MAY. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 OME, my dark-eyed darling, 
 Let us hie away, 
 Where the birds are singing 
 Welcome to the May. 
 How the Prince's feathers 
 
 Sweeten every breeze, 
 Lilac-scented Littleham 
 Telleth with its trees. 
 
 Skipping o'er the cornfields, 
 
 Dancing in the grove. 
 Trilling in the meadows 
 
 Merry lays o' love:
 
 •20 WELCOME TO THE MAY. 
 
 With a woven fillet 
 
 Made of hawthorn bloom, 
 Trimm'd with daisy-buttons 
 
 And a chesnut plume. 
 
 Bursting like a June-rose, 
 
 Smiling like a bride. 
 Sparkling as the sunlight 
 
 On a summer tide, 
 Blushing like the morning 
 
 At the peep o' day, 
 Kirtled all in green, O ! 
 
 Comes the maiden May. 
 
 Nymph of love and beauty. 
 
 Whither hast thou been ? 
 We were weary waiting* 
 
 For thee, bonny queen, 
 We have had no cuckoo, 
 
 We have had no showers. 
 Welcome, lady, welcome ! 
 
 With thy rain of flowers. 
 
 * This poem was written several years since, when the 
 spring was so late that we scarcely got a gleam of sunshine 
 till the end of April.
 
 •21 
 
 A SONG IN SUNSHINE. 
 
 SONG, 
 
 ING away, ye joyous birds, 
 While the sun is o'er us ! 
 If I only knew your words, 
 I would swell the chorus. 
 Sing, ye warblers of the sky ! 
 
 Sing, ye happy thrushes ! 
 And ye little ones, that lie 
 Down among the rushes ! 
 
 Softly as an angel's wing 
 Comes an inspiration : 
 
 that my poor soul could sing 
 Worthy of creation ! 
 
 Like the solemn chaunting tree — 
 
 Nature in devotion : 
 Like the merry harping bee, — 
 
 Harmony in motion. 
 
 1 would sound a note of joy. 
 Through the vales o' Devon,
 
 22 A MAYTIME WISH. 
 
 Sweet as Love's, when he a boy 
 Newly came from heaven. 
 
 Till the busy world beguiled 
 With its echoes' ringing, 
 
 Shouted, " Hark ! for Nature's child 
 Her own songr is singino;." 
 
 A MAYTIME WISH. 
 
 WOULD the world could see thee as I 
 
 behold thee. May, 
 With eyes like sapphires gleaming 
 through the oi'chards by the way, 
 With the campion and the crowfoot on thy daisy- 
 
 jewell'd vest, 
 And a wreath of apjjle blossoms dropping down 
 upon thy breast. 
 
 I would all eyes could see thee as I behold thee 
 
 now. 
 With the woodruff and the bluebell, and the lily on 
 
 thy brow ;
 
 A MAYTIME WISH. 23 
 
 With thy kirtle richly purfled with the gorse's 
 
 golden boss, 
 And the orchis and the violet, the primrose and 
 
 the moss. 
 
 I would all ears could listen to thy merry-making, 
 
 May, 
 Could listen as I listen to thy happy roundelay ; 
 Then a louder sono- would greet us from thv 
 
 orchestra of leaves, 
 For fewer birds would break their hearts because of 
 
 little thieves. 
 
 A form of life and beauty, I see thee, lovely May, 
 Breathing balm upon the meadows from each sweetly 
 
 scented spray ; 
 From the lilac and the hawthorn, and the furze 
 
 upon the down. 
 And the wall-flower by the wayside in its dress of 
 
 cottage-brown. 
 
 Would you see her as I see her, you must be where 
 
 I have been, 
 Where the oak-tree, and the elm-tree, and the 
 
 beechen tree are seen ;
 
 24 A MAYTIME WISH. 
 
 Where tlie bright and silvery poplars in their leafy 
 
 beauty shine, 
 And the bees are quaffing deeply from their chalices 
 
 of wine. 
 
 You must linger, as I linger, in the shadow of each 
 
 nook, 
 You must listen, as I listen, to the prattle of the 
 
 brook ; 
 You must woo her, as I woo her, with a bosom full 
 
 of love. 
 And the maid will stand before you like a vision 
 
 from above.
 
 25 
 
 BONNIE MAGGIE ILTON. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 lONNIE MAGGIE ILTON, wi' the 
 dark grey ee, 
 Bonnie Maggie Ilton made a happy 
 slave o' me ! 
 Bound me wi' the sweetest and tenderest o' ties, 
 Saft and silvery glances from bonnie Maggie's eyes. 
 I'd nae thought o' wooing till by chance I met, 
 Bonnie Maggie Ilton, wi' her glossy locks o' jet, 
 Smiling like the sunshine upon the brow o' spring, 
 And to bonnie Maggie I began to sing : 
 
 O bonnie Maggie Ilton, charming Maggie Ilton, 
 
 Bonnie Maggie Ilton wi' the dark grey ee ! 
 O bonnie Maggie Ilton, charming Maggie Ilton, 
 Bonnie Maggie Ilton is the merry maid for me ! 
 
 " Jamie," quoth the maiden, *' when you go to sea, 
 You, like other sailor-lads, will make a fool o' me :
 
 26 BONNIE MAGGIE ILTON. 
 
 Fair enow ye are ashore, but when upon the main, 
 
 bonnie Maggie Ilton will never haunt your 
 
 brain." 
 " Bonnie Maggie Ilton," I at once replied, 
 " Never truer lad than I sail'd the saucy tide ; 
 I've a honest heart, my dear, and I've an able hand, 
 And both are thine to wed, my love : what more 
 wouldst thou demand?" 
 O bonnie Maffsjie Ilton, charming Maggie Ilton, 
 
 Bonnie Maggie Ilton wi' the dark grey ee ! 
 O bonnie Maggie Ilton. charming Maggie Ilton, 
 Bonnie Maggie Ilton is the merry maid for me ! 
 
 Spite o' Maggie's malison, " Wherever ye may 
 
 be, 
 A plague upon ye, Jamie, for trifling so wi' me ! " 
 
 1 turn'd and look'd upon the maid, her heart was 
 
 in her eyes. 
 And love, all trembling eloquence, thus answer'd 
 
 in her sighs : 
 " O Jamie, gallant Jamie, since ye've come courting 
 
 me, 
 ( ), I will be thine own true love, and make a wife 
 
 for thee !
 
 THE BRACKEN IS SPRINGING. 27 
 
 Yes, Jamie, gallant Jamie, and the day that makes 
 
 us one 
 Shall hr'mrr a heart more true to thee than earth is 
 to the sun." 
 O bonnie Maggie Ilton, charming Maggie Ilton, 
 
 Bonnie Maggie Ilton wi' the dark grey ee ! 
 O bonnie Maggie Ilton, charming Maggie Ilton, 
 Bonnie Maggie Ilton is the best o' wives to me ! 
 
 THE BRACKEN IS SPRINGING. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 HE bracken is springing, my Janie, I 
 
 see, 
 And curling its droplets all golden for 
 thee ; 
 The oak's budding branches with leaflets are brown, 
 And Nature is out in her green cottage-gown. 
 
 There's balm in the air, love, and bloom on the trees. 
 And warbling of woodlands, and humming of bees ;
 
 28 
 
 KEZZIE. 
 
 While bright are the meadows and sunny the skies, 
 And everywhere glory to gladden the eyes. 
 
 Yet, Janie my dai-ling, there's something beside 
 The fields in their beauty, the woods in their pride, 
 To give me the pleasure my soul would desire. 
 Thy presence, dear Janie, my song to inspire. 
 
 Oh, cruel it is to imprison those charms, 
 That rose on thy cheek, and that bud in thy arms ; 
 Come out in the sunlight, here roses should blow, 
 And give me the Eden I covet below. 
 
 KEZZIE. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 IS the maid of Weargifford, fair Kezzie, 
 I spy, 
 Where the banks of the Torridsre are 
 seen in their pride ; 
 With her cheek in her palm, and a tear in each eye, 
 She wails her low dirge to the pitiless tide.
 
 KEZZIE. 29 
 
 '* O treacherous waters, how cruel," cries she, 
 " To rob his dear Kezzie so soon of his love ; 
 
 Now sad and lone hearted I ever must be, 
 
 And mourn my lost mate like the widowed dove. 
 
 " 'Twas here that he praised my bright auburn hair, 
 Compared each gold tress to the locks of the morn ; 
 
 And swore by my eyes that my face was as fair 
 As the blossom that grew on the May-scented 
 thorn. 
 
 " Flow softly, ye waters, where Robbie is lying, 
 Press gently the lid on his bonny blue eye, 
 
 Say Kezzie's sole thought is the pleasure of dying, 
 To meet her dear Robbie again in the sky."
 
 30 
 
 THE WHISTLING MILKMAN. 
 
 ^ITH bis weather-worn hat, and a jacket 
 to match, 
 And breeches of okl corduroy, 
 You may see him at dawn, as be whistles bis snatch, 
 With the smile of a merry-eyed boy. 
 
 For thirty long summers his yoke be has borne, 
 
 With scarcely the sign of a stoop ; 
 His milkcans, as bright as the face of the morn, 
 
 Making love to a lily-white hoop. 
 
 Though bound by that fetter, yet still he is free 
 As the lark that sings over his head; 
 
 And none are more welcome I trow, lads, than he 
 To Mary, the housekeeping maid. 
 
 She hears Dicky's whistle, and dropping her brush. 
 She scampers away to the door.
 
 THE WHISTLING MILKMAN. 31 
 
 With '' Dicky, my darling, I thought 'twas a thrush 
 A-whistling of ' Rory o' More.' " 
 
 " Indeed," he replies, as he hands her her milk, • 
 '' Do you know, were it not for your nose. 
 
 And your locks, my dear Mary, as glossy as silk, 
 I should take you, ray love, for a rose?" 
 
 Then tramping away to his merriest tune, 
 
 He calls at a neighbour's, to find 
 Sweet Betsy as red as a rose-bud in June, 
 
 With a heart most uncommonly kind. 
 
 'Tis thus he is bother'd from year unto year. 
 And a hundred such sweethearts hath he. 
 
 So to all he says, " Wait till next summer, my 
 dear, 
 And I'll buy a * new nothing' for thee."
 
 32 
 
 A SPRING DITTY. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 f^^l^^ ARK ! the missel-thrush is singing, 
 ^^ fi Singing on the tree ; 
 '^iis^S'i^M All around his notes are ringing, 
 Ringing merrily. 
 Sitting in the spray above, 
 
 Thus he warbles to his love, 
 " Cheer, my darling birdie, cheer ! 
 Joy and thy true love are near." 
 
 Now a wand'ring bard is trilling. 
 
 Trilling out his song. 
 Heaven's high vault with music filling, 
 
 As he trips along. 
 Happy as the bii'd is he. 
 
 As he carols cheerily, 
 " Love's own joy is in thy strain, 
 
 Sing, my bonny bird, again."
 
 33 
 
 WHEN I WENT COURTING NANNY. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Y Nanny O ! my Nanny O ! 
 
 ^ When I went courting Nanny, 
 'Twas in the spring, 
 The merry spring. 
 When linnets in love beg-an to sinsr. 
 That I went courting Nanny. 
 
 My Nanny O ! my Nanny O ! 
 When I went courting Nanny, 
 I fear'd no care, 
 Nor loving snare, 
 Though mother said at times, " Beware !" 
 When I went courting Nanny. 
 
 My Nanny O ! my Nanny O ! 
 Went I went courting Nanny, 
 'Twas naught but shine. 
 And dreams divine. 
 Life's river ran like rosy wine, 
 When I went courting Nanny. 
 
 D
 
 34 WHEN I WENT COURTING NANNY. 
 
 My Nanny O ! my Nanny O ! 
 When I went courting Nanny, 
 I said, " Your eyes 
 Are summer skies. 
 Your lips the only fruit I prize," 
 When I went courting Nanny. 
 
 My Nanny O ! my Nanny O ! 
 Since I went courting Nanny, 
 I've learnt old care. 
 Kept cupboards bare. 
 And found both love and money rare. 
 Since I went courting Nanny. 
 
 My Nanny O ! my Nanny O ! 
 Yet if I had my Nanny, 
 I'd laugh at care 
 And cupboards bare, 
 And make the foulest day look fair, 
 O that I had my Nanny !
 
 35 
 
 THE OLD WELL. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 KNOW an old well in a daffodil nook, 
 
 Where gossiping finches are seen, 
 Near a rill running: down to a water- 
 cress brook, 
 In a channel of russet and green. 
 
 The summer frog "quilks" in the cool of its shade, 
 The hart's-tongue curls under its crown ; 
 
 And willow-weeds fresh and unwillinof to fade. 
 On its moss-cover'd margin look down. 
 
 'Twas there I first met with a Devonshire maid, 
 On a midsummer-morn when a boy, 
 
 With a wreath of forget-me-nots circling her head, 
 And I gave her a heart in my joy. 
 
 A red earthen water-pot stood by her side, 
 Which she winningly press'd me to dip ;
 
 36 
 
 THE OLD WELL. 
 
 I ask'd, What's the fee ? And she quaintly replied 
 With a sweet cherry pout of her lip. 
 
 When I pass the dear spot and I see the blue eyes 
 Of those old-fashion'd tokens of love, 
 
 I fancy them angel-wrought gems of the skies, 
 Dropp'd down by my darling above. 
 
 O, that ivy-capp'd well in that daffodil nook 
 
 No hand of the spoiler shall harm, 
 While I as a solitaire dwell by the brook. 
 
 The spell-loving slave of its charm !
 
 37 
 
 MY PRETTY LITTLE COTTAGE IN 
 THE WEST COUNTREE. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 HERE are many happy homes, in this 
 
 happy little isle, 
 Where happy children prattle, and happy 
 mothers smile ; 
 But of all those happy homes, there is none so dear 
 
 to me 
 As a pretty little cottage in the West Countree. 
 
 There the honeysuckle twines, and the bird sings 
 
 in the bough. 
 And the sweet milk flows in streams from the 
 
 dainty Devon cow. 
 And the brooklet sings its ditty as it dances to the 
 
 sea — 
 O that pretty little cottage in the West Countree ! 
 
 There a happy little woman in that happy little home 
 Is singing to her little ones the song of " Dadda, 
 come !
 
 38 MY PRETTY LITTLE COTTAGE. 
 
 the happy, happy day when he returns to see 
 His pretty cottage blossoms in the West Countree." 
 
 Methinks I see her now with her sparkling eyes o' 
 
 fire, 
 And hands that never weary, and feet that never tire, 
 Embracing my fond treasures and kissing them for 
 
 me. 
 In my pretty little cottage in the West Countree. 
 
 1 fain would tarry with you, but the hour is drawing 
 
 nigh 
 When the breast shall throb with sadness as the lips 
 
 shall say " Good-bye," 
 But however fortune varies, or wherever you may be, 
 I will feast upon your kindness in the West 
 
 Countree. 
 
 Then join with me in singing, ere we part perhaps 
 
 for aye, 
 Though the cheeks be wet with weeping, yet the 
 
 heart should still be gay. 
 And the tears that dim the vision shall briefhter 
 
 make my " ee," 
 In my pretty little cottage in the West Countree.
 
 39 
 
 THE HOLIDAY OF SPRING. 
 
 I love to saunter out 
 Where lusty throstles shout, 
 And list the happy twitter 
 Of the sparrows in the eaves, 
 And watch the orb of day 
 Chase the lingering clouds away, 
 And mark the sunbeams smiling 
 Through the young green of the leaves. 
 
 When that dandy little bird 
 In the yellow vest is heard 
 Running down its native gamut. 
 In the golden spangled glade ; 
 And the little fussy wren. 
 Chirping gaily in the glen, 
 Hops rustling through the herbage 
 In the primrose dappled shade.
 
 40 THE HOLIDAY OF SPRING. 
 
 When the pinky tassel' d larch, 
 With its fairy buds of March, 
 Throws the spruce-fir into shadow, 
 And the Caledonian pine, 
 When that queen of all her race 
 Trails her flowing robes of grace, 
 Which the Master's hand hath tinted 
 With a lustre most divine. 
 
 And minstrels of the air. 
 
 Making men-y everywhere. 
 
 Sing glory, glory, glory, 
 
 As they mount upon the breeze : 
 
 And rooks caw out their loves 
 
 As tenderly as doves, 
 
 In all the joy of indolence, 
 
 On old baronial trees. 
 
 When a brightly glowing gleam 
 Of sunshme on the stream. 
 Turns each wavelet into silver 
 In its journey to the main ;
 
 THE HOLIDAY OF SPRING. 41 
 
 When the zenith is so blue, 
 
 That the heavens look down to view 
 
 The image of their beauty 
 
 In the mirror of the plain. 
 
 O delicious is the bliss 
 
 Of the morning's early kiss, 
 
 As the zephyrs flit about me 
 
 On their ever-busy wing; 
 
 When the orchis glows with pride, 
 
 And the violet as his bride 
 
 Invites me to her banquet 
 
 In the holiday of Spring.
 
 42 
 
 A COT AT WEARGIFFORD AND 
 JANIE FOR ME. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 SIGH not for honour, I covet not 
 station, 
 A man may be noble, though lowly 
 his birth. 
 The world 's my domain, and my home is creation. 
 
 And proud as a monarch I traverse the earth. 
 Yet still there's a wish in my bosom I cherish, 
 I long for a spot where the soul may be free ; 
 A fig for ambition, and gold let it perish, 
 A cot at WeargifFord and Janie for me. 
 
 Sweet vale of green Devon, wood-shelter'd and cosy. 
 How blest are thy maidens, and happy thy men ! 
 
 Thy little ones all, like thy gardens, are rosy. 
 Thy orchards are fruitful, and fertile thy plain !
 
 A COT AT WEARGIFFORD AND JANIE FOR ME. 43 
 
 Long, long may thy hall throw its shade on the 
 river, 
 The beautiful Tor winding up from the sea — 
 Thy woods, herds, and flocks, and thy sunsets for 
 ever, 
 A cot at WeargifFord and Janie for me. 
 
 And O, the sweet bees and their hives full of honey ! 
 
 And O, the gay warblers that pipe there in spring ! 
 And O, the fair banks and their blossoms so bonny. 
 
 And the sweet village bells with their ding-a- 
 donff-dino; ! 
 I hate to be bound by the fetters of fashion, 
 
 The town hath its chains for the soul that is free ; 
 My love for dear Nature was ever a passion, 
 
 A cot at Weargifford and Janie for me.
 
 44 
 
 TO THE SEAGULL. 
 
 HAVE seen thee, fairy sea-bird, come 
 
 sailing from afar, 
 And ffleam out in the welkin like the 
 shooting of a star. 
 Next, dropping in a shallow, dot the wave with silver 
 
 white, 
 Then hover a fair beauty o'er thy dainty shade of 
 light.
 
 45 
 
 ENGLAND'S WORK AND HER 
 PROSPECTS. 
 
 ,P, up, ye sons of Britain, and put forth 
 your mighty power, 
 'Tis yours to give the impress to the 
 future page of time, 
 'Tis yours to give the purpose to each ever-changing 
 hour, 
 And write the wide world's history in characters 
 sublime. 
 
 We have a host of hero-hearts in harness for the 
 strife, 
 A noble band — a glorious band — and many 
 thousands strong, 
 Who labour without ceasing, in the great highways 
 of life. 
 To bring the coming glory in with trumpet, shout, 
 and song.
 
 46 England's work and her prospects. 
 
 O call it not Utopian, or a poet's idle dream, 
 Behold, like torrents tumbling down a broken 
 mountain's side, 
 It is coming on us flashing with a vivid lightning 
 gleam. 
 And its rivers, big with energy, are running deep 
 and wide. 
 
 In the city, by the hamlet, through the village and 
 the town, 
 It flows in strength and beauty, bearing health 
 upon its breast, 
 And the pallid sons of penury, who once were 
 trodden down. 
 Sing, " The Lord's good time is coming for the 
 needy and oppressed."
 
 47 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 ^OR my love I built a nest, 
 With two birdies we were blest; 
 Raven-death this way did fly, 
 Slew them both, and here they lie. 
 
 THE TWO WOOERS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 AME an old man wooing. 
 
 Wooing in the May, 
 Wild his locks were flowinc:. 
 White as winter's dav : 
 " Maiden o' the red cheek. 
 
 Thy fair hand I crave, 
 Be an old man's darling, 
 Not a young man's slave,"
 
 48 THE TWO WOOERS. 
 
 Spake the lovely maiden, 
 
 " Do the birds o' spring 
 Wait until the winter 
 
 Ere o' love they sing ? 
 Youth's the time for wooing, 
 
 Youth's the time to wed, 
 Age should think of going 
 
 Down among the dead." 
 
 Came a young man wooing, 
 
 Wooing in the May, 
 Bright his eyes were glowing 
 
 Like a summer day : 
 " Maiden o' the red cheek, 
 
 If thy hand is free. 
 Mine is thine to labour 
 
 Ever, love, for thee. 
 
 Spake the maiden blushing, 
 Eyes towards the ground, 
 
 " Love in life's young season 
 Oft is empty sound."
 
 OUR PATH. 49 
 
 " Nay, sweet creature, prove me," 
 Quoth the gentle swain : 
 Smiled the maiden on him, 
 Wedded were the twain. 
 
 OUR PATH WAS WHERE THE 
 WILLOWS BLOOM. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 UR path was where the willows bloom, 
 And daffodils are seen, 
 Where catkins dally with the wind. 
 Before the sloe is green ; 
 Where primroses on mossy banks 
 
 With fragrant voices speak. 
 And violets wear their virgin blush 
 Upon their purple cheek. 
 
 I told her while the year was young 
 The youthful heart should love. 
 
 And pointed at a little lark 
 That twinkled far above ; 
 
 E
 
 50 OUK PATH. 
 
 Then where a limpid streamlet breathed 
 Its soft and soothing hush, 
 
 I ask'd her why those happy birds 
 Were playing in the bush. 
 
 She turn'd the sweetest glance on me — 
 
 '' O trifle not," she cried ; 
 " O who would ever lonely be, 
 
 Like that complaining tide ! 
 Speak out the secrets of thy heart, 
 
 Perchance they chime with mine, 
 And, like the little loving bird, 
 
 Will warble, ' I am thine ! ' "
 
 51 
 
 JUST LIKE LIFE. 
 
 T chanc'd upon a pleasant day, 
 
 When heaven and earth were shining, 
 A lark pursued its upward way, 
 And left the world repining. 
 
 " Why is it," squeak'd a peevish mole, 
 
 Beside a silver runnel, 
 " That I, a poor laborious soul. 
 
 Am doom'd this earth to tunnel ? 
 
 " While that ambitious thing above. 
 His golden way is wending, 
 
 And, trilling out his song of love. 
 Is evermore ascending ? 
 
 " Or idling by the moor is found, 
 
 Or playing in the heather. 
 Or, nestling on the mossy ground. 
 
 He trims each ruffled feather ?
 
 52 JUST LIKE LIFE. 
 
 " 'Tis very hard that one must dig 
 
 And delve so for a living, 
 And see him for a song and jig 
 
 Both love and fame receiving." 
 
 " 'Tis very true," croak'd out a toad, 
 
 Behind a patch of daisies ; 
 " He sings and dances up his road 
 
 Amid a shower of praises. 
 
 " But you, sir, with your velvet coat. 
 Should not be found complaining." 
 
 " Right, Mister Toad/' chimed in a stoat, 
 A little friendship feigning ; 
 
 " Still he who digs and he who sings 
 May surely love each other ; 
 
 But he who has a skylark's wings 
 Must soar above his brother."
 
 53 
 
 MY SONG. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 ;IIEN the lusty Spring appears, 
 All mirth and melody, 
 I shout, " This is no time for tears, 
 Whate'er my woe may be ;" 
 And when the Summer trips with grace 
 
 Across the fields of June, 
 I strive to wear a brighter face, 
 And pipe a gayer tune. 
 
 Thus year by year I sing, you see, 
 
 Liffht-hearted as a bov ; 
 The wheels of life move heavily 
 Without the oil of joy. 
 
 Then Autumn comes with harvest-time, 
 
 The tribute of the year, 
 And Winter rings its Christmas chime 
 
 Of fellowship and cheer.
 
 54 love's long day. 
 
 Yet whatsoe'er the change may be, 
 
 I keep my heart as green 
 As when I whisper'd tenderly 
 My love to blushing '' Jean." 
 
 Thus year by year I sing, you see. 
 
 Light-hearted as a boy 5 
 The wheels of life move heavily 
 Without the oil of joy. 
 
 LOVE'S LONG DAY. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 'HE red sun has thrown off his misty 
 white shroud, love, 
 And spurns the black night like a spirit 
 the tomb. 
 And golden atop the grey easternmost cloud, love. 
 His pathway is mark'd by a beautiful " strome." 
 Why tarriest thou in the cool of the morning, 
 
 My hope, my beloved, my bosom's delight ? 
 Haste, haste, my sweet charmer of Nature's adorning, 
 Nor linger, I pray, till the red sun is white.
 
 MY LITTLE LOVE. 55 
 
 The white sun is up in the high noon careering, 
 
 O maid of the dark eye, my heart yearns for thee ! 
 The red sun of even is fast disappearing, 
 
 Oh, why is thy smiling face hidden from me ? 
 The fair star of eve which thou lovest is shininor. 
 
 And pensively waits for the light of thine eye ; 
 The moon for thy presence, my Janie, is pining, — 
 
 Oh, why dost thou tarry, beloved, oh, why ? 
 
 MY LITTLE LOVE. 
 
 HAVE a love at Aston Hall, 
 
 A little prattling darling, 
 She's very, very, very small, 
 And chatters like a starling : 
 Her hair is light, her eye blue bright, 
 
 Her cheek is like a posy. 
 And if you wish her name outright, 
 'Tis little Baby Rosy.
 
 56 MY LITTLE LOVE. 
 
 She's such a sweet, wee, winsome thing, 
 
 That, spite of my endeavour 
 To give the witch the cruel fling, 
 
 I fear that I must have her : 
 She comes and peers into my eyes, 
 
 And climbs up o'er my shoulder, 
 Or snares me by some fond surprise. 
 
 Till I am forc'd to hold her. 
 
 And then she pulls me by the beard, 
 
 Or clutches at my glasses, 
 Till I begin to be afear'd 
 
 She'll beat my Devon lasses. 
 God keep her little loving heart; 
 
 I wish her well and cosy, 
 And may no evil bring a smart 
 
 To my sweet Baby Rosy.
 
 57 
 
 A THANKSGIVING SONG. 
 
 RISE, and lift the voice 
 In grateful harmony, 
 In God the Lord let us rejoice, 
 
 For great and good is He. 
 
 He saw us in our need, 
 
 And heard our earnest cry, 
 
 And on the newly-scatter'd seed 
 
 Dropt fatness from on high. 
 
 Lo ! on the barren plain 
 
 A glow of life is seen, 
 
 Where, cherish'd by the sun and rain, 
 
 Upshoots the tender gi'een. 
 
 Now in a gleaming sea 
 
 The heavy wheat-ears nod, jf^ 
 
 As balmy winds skim sportively 
 
 The golden hills of God. 
 
 Those pledges of His good. 
 
 Those tokens of His care.
 
 58 WHAT IS DUTY? 
 
 We now in all their plenitude 
 
 Of heavenly blessings share. 
 
 The music of the wains, 
 
 Returning from the field, 
 
 Is rich with loud thanksgiving strains 
 
 For earth's most bounteous yield. 
 
 Then let us lift the voice 
 
 In sacred harmony, 
 
 In God the Lord we will rejoice, 
 
 For great and good is He. 
 
 Aug. 18, 1863. 
 
 WHAT IS DUTY? 
 
 IS not by dreaming and delay, 
 But doing something every day, 
 That wins the laurel and the bay, 
 And crowns the work of duty. 
 
 Be satisfied that thou art riofht. 
 And that thy deed will bear the light. 
 Then execute it with thy might. 
 For that will be thy duty.
 
 WHAT IS DUTY ? 59 
 
 Tliere is a true sublimity 
 In every work of God we see, 
 And this is what it teacheth thee, 
 Arise, and do thy duty ! 
 
 It may be like the lowly flower 
 Which grows in silence, hour by hour, 
 Thou art to manifest thy power, 
 And do thy humble duty. 
 
 Or, like the grandly solemn trees 
 Which thunder like the boomingr seas 
 In tempest, — thou must, spurning ease. 
 Perform the work of duty. 
 
 Or, like the cataract that leaps 
 From crag to crag, and never sleeps. 
 You may descend life's rugged steeps, 
 
 And find the path of duty. 
 
 >• 
 In passive or in active life. 
 In peace or in tumultuous strife. 
 To father, mother, friend, and wife, 
 
 Be constant in thy duty.
 
 60 WHAT IS DUTY ? 
 
 In Nature's boundless universe 
 Thou wilt not see that dreadful curse, 
 An atom to its work averse, 
 An idler shirking duty. 
 
 The planets as they roll on high. 
 The river as it rusheth by, 
 For ever and for ever cry, 
 
 " On, man, and do thy duty ! " 
 
 All, all is working everywhere. 
 In earth, in heaven, in sea, and air, 
 And nothing indolent is there 
 To mar the perfect beauty.
 
 61 
 
 MY RETREAT. 
 
 [NCE more alone with Nature, yes, alone! 
 And yet not lonely whilst the eye can see 
 A thread of silver rippling o'er a stone, 
 Or ear drink in the music of the bee, 
 A weedy pebble in the limpid brook, 
 A mossy tuft upon a wayside wall, 
 A young fern curling like a bishop's crook, 
 A spleenwort sprouting from a ruin'd hall, 
 The pennywort close clinging to the rock, 
 The tiniest wildling, and the simplest flower, 
 The footpath with its shepherd's purse and clock, 
 And lichen gilding o'er an old church tower, — 
 All yield a charm unknown when with my kind, 
 A pleasant feeling near akin to bliss, 
 A calm enjoyment which pervades the mind. 
 And, once experienced, pains the soul to miss. 
 Sing on, ye birds, and you, ye streamlets, run ! 
 Breathe gently, O ye winds, and low, ye kine ! 
 Bleat, my loved flocks, and roll, O glorious sun ! 
 And the sweet work of worship shall be mine.
 
 62 
 
 THE HEAVENS DECLARE HIS GLORY. 
 
 Pj-^^HE faithless ask for miracles, 
 The fool requires a sign, 
 When God is ever manifest 
 In wonders most divine. 
 
 I see Him girt about with storms, 
 
 His chariot is the wind, 
 His pathway is the universe, 
 
 Profound and unconfined. 
 
 He binds the earth with iron bands. 
 
 And chains it to the sun ; 
 He rolls the stars into the heavens, 
 
 And evermore they run. 
 
 The lightnings blaze along His path. 
 And turn the night to day. 
 
 As in His cloudy car of wrath 
 He thunders on His way.
 
 HOLBECK FLOWERS. 63 
 
 'Tis He appoints the thirsty hill 
 
 To drink the falling shower, 
 And bids the river seek the vale, 
 
 The dew-drop feed the flower. 
 
 Behold Him stooping from the sky, 
 
 To paint the harvest brown ; 
 While manna, streaming from the sun, 
 
 With every ray comes down. 
 
 HOLBECK FLOWERS. 
 
 ONDER she dwells beside the kirk, 
 Amid the suffocating mirk, 
 Where not a patch of grass is green, 
 Save that upon the graveyard seen. 
 
 I cannot praise her rosy cheek, 
 For sooth within her ringlets sleek 
 No tint of the queen-flower remains 
 To speak of breezy hills and plains.
 
 64 HOLBECK FLOWERS. 
 
 A pale-faced lily of the street 
 Is the dear lassie honey-sweet ; 
 With all the floweret's lowly grace 
 And pensive look about her face. 
 
 I talk'd to her of fields and stiles, 
 She lit up like a sea of smiles ; 
 For, thinking of her native bowers, 
 And ankle-deep amid her flowers : 
 
 Sweet old familiar notes she heard, 
 The warblings of her woodland-bird. 
 And, heedless of the factory din, 
 Paced once more by her merry lynn. 
 
 As guileless as a daisy, she 
 Stood lost in silent reverie ; 
 When, lo ! her tears came welling up 
 Like bubbles in a crystal cup. 
 
 Then sweetly she began to sing, 
 " O how I love the bonny spring !" 
 And dreaming of her father's cot, 
 She conjured up its bloomy knot.
 
 WHERE AND WHEN ? 65 
 
 " Have you a garden plot?" said I ; 
 When thus the lassie made reply, 
 " I'd like some flowers, but dare-na see 
 Them stifled by the mirk and dee." 
 
 WHERE AND WHEN 
 
 SONG, DUET. 
 
 'HERE wilt thou nestle, my Janie ? 
 Where wilt thou nestle, my Jane ? 
 Near the bank of some warbling- river, 
 Where willow-herb reddens the lane ? 
 
 Where, love, where ? 
 Where wilt thou nestle, my Janie ? 
 
 Where, love, whtere ? " 
 " Where will I nestle, my Jamie? 
 Where will I nestle, love, where? 
 On the Taw, where the meadowsweet, Jamie, 
 Seenteth the hot summer air ! 
 
 There, love, there ! 
 There will I nestle, my Jamie, 
 There, love, there ! " 
 
 F
 
 66 WHERE AND WHEN ? 
 
 " When wilt thou marry me, Janie ? 
 When wilt thou marry me, Jane ? 
 Why thus so cruelly pain me, 
 Making sweet loving a bane ? 
 
 When wilt thou marry me, Janie ? 
 
 When, love, when?" 
 " When will I marry thee, Jamie ? 
 When will I marry thee, when ? 
 When the goldfinches are wooing. 
 And ringdoves build down in the glen. 
 
 Then, love, then, 
 Then will I marry thee, Jamie, 
 
 Then, love, then !"
 
 67 
 
 THE SKETCH. 
 
 O sketch a rustic cot 'twere easy, 
 And anyone in that may please ye ; 
 But when a palace, rich in charms 
 Of sculpture and heraldic arms, 
 With turrets o'er the highest story. 
 And columns rich in classic glory, 
 Demands the pencil's utmost skill, 
 A genius must the task fulfil. 
 And such, Eliza, is thy grace. 
 And love-irradiated face, 
 And such the lustre of thine eye, 
 That 'tis in vain my pen must try 
 To seize thy lineaments divine. 
 And prison them in my poor line. 
 As volatile as air are they. 
 Now tinged with sadness, and now gay. 
 Now pensive as the weary moon. 
 Now joyous as a day in June.
 
 ()8 MORE HAPPY THAN A KING. 
 
 Yet, dearest maiden, do not start, 
 I think that I have caught thy heart, 
 And drawn it in its kindliest mood. 
 For Nature says the sketch is good. 
 
 MORE HAPPY THAN A KING. 
 
 IVE me the bright bird palaces. 
 Where Joy delights to dwell, 
 The fragrant grove of sycamore. 
 The odour-breathing dell. 
 'Tis there, with rapture in my soul, 
 I sit in bliss and sing, 
 " Good bye to care, for here I feel 
 More happy than a king." 
 
 Yes, I have known the ecstasy 
 Which comes in sunny days. 
 Of gazing on the silent heavens. 
 Till I was dumb with praise :
 
 MORE HAPPY THAN A KING. 69 
 
 To quaff the sunshine of the skies 
 Till drunken with its wine, 
 Then, shouting, tell the listening world 
 The draught was most divine. 
 
 Aye ! and this pleasure thou may'st share, 
 
 If thou wilt only go 
 
 Where Nature is the antidote 
 
 Of half our mortal woe. 
 
 With hearty purpose in thy soul. 
 
 Go, hear the minstrels sing. 
 
 And thou shalt feel, as I have felt. 
 
 More happy than a king.
 
 70 
 
 WOOED AND WON. 
 
 ER eyes were like two radiant seas, 
 Which gleam beneath the summer-light, 
 And 'twas my joy to sit at ease, 
 And see them tremble with deliofht. 
 
 I sat and watch'd them day by day. 
 And dallied with her downy cheek, 
 I felt she knew what I would say, 
 But love is strong and words are weak. 
 
 I breathed my life away in sighs, 
 I wooed her with each winning smile, 
 She drank my soul in through her eyes. 
 And only gave a cruel smile. 
 
 I pray'd that I might touch her hand, 
 She granted me my fond request. 
 For well she knew it was a wand 
 To draw me closer to her breast.
 
 WOOED AND WON. 71 
 
 And then I sought to find her ear, 
 
 Alas ! 'twas hid beneath a curl, — 
 
 " What have you there," I ask'd, " my dear? 
 
 A pretty tiny shell of pearl ? 
 
 But tell me why 'tis buried so. 
 
 To hide a jewel is not meet?" 
 
 " Were I that dainty thing to show, 
 
 'Twould catch too many whispers, sweet." 
 
 I told a love-tale to the maid, 
 I saw her lips curl round with play. 
 And kissing them for what they said, 
 I stole her wicked heart away.
 
 72 
 
 TO MUSIC. 
 
 FOR some sweet, simple tune, 
 Like the melodies of June ; 
 Lifrlitsome as the wanton air, 
 Flitting here and everywhere ; 
 Wild as an ^olian strain, 
 Let the sounding note complain. 
 Till my spirit, sore distrest, 
 Solaced, slumbers into rest. 
 Music, brush thy silver wings. 
 O'er the harp's responsive strings, 
 Or from out thy golden throat 
 Breathe the sympathetic note ; 
 Wake again thy dulcet lute. 
 And the warble of the flute ; 
 Let the violin be heard, 
 Like a lone lamenting bird ; 
 Chaunt to me an olden psalm, 
 Till a soft, harmonious calm
 
 THE SUNNY SLOPES OF OLDISCLEAVE. 73 
 
 Settles down upon my soul, 
 Sweet as soothing Love's control. 
 Come, O come, melodious wind, 
 Healer of the wounded mind, 
 Like a ripple on the shore. 
 When the sea forgets to roar ; 
 Like the organ's gentle swells. 
 Or the mellow sound of bells 
 Murmuring in an ancient shrine. 
 Break, O Melody divine. 
 
 THE 
 
 SUNNY SLOPES OF OLDISCLEAVE. 
 
 ^^ HE sunny slopes of Oldiscleave ! 
 No woods are half so bonny, O, 
 'Twas there upon an April-eve 
 I wander'd with my Janie, O ! 
 The sky came winking through the trees, 
 The sun came glinting golden, O, 
 And many a passing tell-tale breeze, 
 Flew by and caught us courting, O.
 
 74 THE SUNNy SLOPES OF OLDISCLEA.VE. 
 
 The white owl sat with folded wing, 
 And laugh 'd his wicked whoo-o-o ; 
 And every bird essay'd to sing 
 The first note of his roundel, O ! 
 While on the sands a silvery row 
 Of seagulls talk'd of loving, O, 
 Or, like a thousand flakes of snow. 
 Danced high up in the ether, O. 
 
 My Janie has a witching eye. 
 So black and bright with lustre, O, 
 That night has often with a sigh 
 Wish'd 'twere a star in heaven, O ; 
 And such a cheek and rosy mouth — 
 In honey- wine we'll pledge them, O — 
 That bees have from the flowery south 
 Come oft to sip their nectar, O. 
 
 And Janie has a loving heart, 
 So closely knit to mine, I trow, 
 That death has often strove to part 
 The twain, but ne'er succeeded, O.
 
 WORK AND LABOUR. 75 
 
 The sunny slopes of Oldiscleave, 
 No woods are half so bonny, O, 
 'Tis there on every pleasant eve 
 I'd wander with my Janie, O ! 
 
 WORK AND LABOUR. 
 
 |URMUR not, my fellow-worker, 
 To thy sentence meekly bow ; 
 'Twas not all in anger spoken, 
 '* By the sweating of thy brow 
 Thou shalt earn thy daily morsel, 
 'Mid the thistle and the thorn :" 
 Joy comes not unto the idle, 
 Wretchedness from sloth is born ; 
 All the wise are busy workers. 
 Work is the best cure for strife, 
 And our dying is but working 
 Upward to the perfect life. 
 Hark, Creation groans with labour. 
 Bidding earth's huge pillars shake.
 
 76 WORK AXD LABOUR. 
 
 Where the burning: heart of Etna 
 
 Makes its iron mountain quake ! 
 
 Know the roaring of the thunder 
 
 Is the lightning's labour fret, 
 
 And the heavy dewy morning 
 
 Is old Nature in a sweat. 
 
 Have you watch'd the modest brooklet 
 
 Gliding by its bank of green, 
 
 Like an unpretentious virtue 
 
 By its quiet action seen ? 
 
 Mark'd the river in the valley 
 
 Ploughing out its graceful course. 
 
 As it travell'd in its beauty. 
 
 With its own sweet gentle force ? 
 
 And the torrent fiercely raging 
 
 In its fury down the glen, 
 
 Wrestling with the rocks, and swirling 
 
 Down into its hollow den ? 
 
 Work and labour is their mission, 
 
 And a lovely harmony 
 
 Rill, and cataract, and river. 
 
 Make with bird and honey-bee. 
 
 But for labour not a blossom 
 
 E'er would fill us with delight;
 
 WORK AMD LABOUR. 77 
 
 But for work no luscious wine-fruit 
 
 E'er would burst upon our sight. 
 
 Beauty is the crown of labour. 
 
 Comfort is its golden wage, 
 
 And the toiling youth shall gather 
 
 Blessings for his silver age. 
 
 Work, the universe is working, 
 
 Ocean pants with every wave ; 
 
 Stars are heaven's fleet steeds in harness, 
 
 And the sun is but a slave. 
 
 Work, for God the Lord is working 
 
 In the mystic infinite, 
 
 Rolling from His throne of glory 
 
 Seas of love, in life and light.
 
 78 
 
 MERRY LABOUR. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 ARK ! merrv Labour is singinfj his sonjr, 
 P Singing his song with its tira la le ! 
 Blithesome as summer he carols along, 
 Show me a monarch as happy as he ! 
 
 Red are his cheeks, and round as the sun, 
 Bright his blue eyes with beauty and glee; 
 Love is the string that he playeth upon, 
 And never a care beside hath he. 
 
 Joy to the peasant ! his pride is his team, 
 Hark how he whistles aloud on the lea ! 
 Straight as an arrow he plougheth his seam, 
 And no man sleepeth sounder than he. 
 
 Talk not to him of the king on his throne, 
 Where the bird warbles aloft on the tree : 
 There Merry Labour is toiling alone, 
 Singing his song with its tira la le.
 
 79 
 
 ELA. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 HE weary sun sank down to rest 
 Behind the lonely sea, 
 Like guinea gold shone out the west 
 To my true love and me. 
 
 The silent night en wrapt the globe 
 
 In deep and solemn gloom, 
 And when departing trail'd her robe 
 
 Across my Ela's room. 
 
 The young dawn led the blushing morn 
 
 Forth from his amber gate. 
 The merle piped on his mellow horn 
 
 Beside his gentle mate. 
 
 The sun is in his highest noon, 
 
 My Ela, where is she ? 
 Cold, dead ! and paler than the moon 
 
 Upon a winter sea.
 
 80 
 
 THE ROBINS' CHORUS, 
 
 [AY, my little robins, 
 Singing on the bough, 
 Heralding the Autumn 
 With her yellow brow, 
 Why the woods are vocal 
 With your merry lays, 
 While our summer songsters 
 Sleep away their days ? 
 
 Lovingly I linger'd, 
 Listening to their tale. 
 When a gush of music 
 Answer'd through the vale ; 
 Every hedge was vocal. 
 Every tree and bush, 
 Singing, Little Robin 
 Is October's thrush.
 
 TO A GOLDFINCH. 81 
 
 *' When the Spring and Summer 
 Make all nature gay, 
 Other minstrels warble 
 Through the sunny day : 
 'Tis their joy and pleasure, 
 But our office, know, 
 Is to carol comfort 
 In the hour of woe." 
 
 TO A GOLDFINCH. 
 
 OS not for thy golden wing, 
 ''^^ Gem of the grove. 
 
 That here in an ecstasy, 
 Glowing with love, 
 I linger to listen. 
 
 Enchanted by thee ; 
 But because of the song 
 Thou art giving to me. 
 
 Thou bright little elf 
 
 With the red-ruffled throat, 
 
 G
 
 82 TO A GOLDFINCH. 
 
 There's something so beautiful 
 
 Heard in thy note : 
 So mellow, so melting, 
 
 So tender and sweet, 
 That it lulls me to sleep 
 
 In this pleasant retreat. 
 
 Like a mountain-born minstrel 
 
 Of sunny Savoy, 
 The thrush pipes his roundel 
 
 Of freedom and joy ; 
 That wild flying rapture, 
 
 The skylark again, 
 There's more of ambition 
 
 Than love in his strain : 
 
 But the call-note tliy pretty tongue 
 
 Gives in the May, 
 For thy bonny wee wife 
 
 In the apple-tree spray. 
 Is such as a serajih 
 
 Might envy above. 
 Thy dear little melody 
 
 Made up of love.
 
 83 
 
 THE SECRET. 
 
 'N winter, with the prospect drear, 
 How is it you so loudly sing ? 
 Your old familiar voice we hear 
 As blithesome as the thrush in spring?" 
 
 " When light brims o'er in summer days, 
 To some sweet sunny nook I haste, 
 
 And husband up the vagrant rays, 
 Nor let the sunshine run to waste. 
 
 " Thus when the stormy rack comes down, 
 And all around is dark as doom, 
 
 I smile at each tempestuous frown. 
 
 And fling my sunshine o'er the gloom."
 
 84 
 
 LITTLE MATTIE. 
 
 •T was a calm October morn, 
 When robins pipe in every thorn 
 Like thrushes in the Spring. 
 And here the elm with golden crown, 
 And there the oak in sober brown, 
 Compel the lips to sing. 
 
 Sweet Nature on enjoyment bent, 
 The very picture of Content, 
 
 Was happy everywhere. 
 And all the leaves that strew'd the way, 
 At " round we go," were fast at play. 
 
 With a true elfin air. 
 
 I chose a pleasant road which wound 
 Its sinuous length along the ground, 
 
 An undulating lane — 
 And pass'd where red Virginians creep 
 Across the window-sill to peep 
 
 In at the lattice pane.
 
 LITTLE MATTIE. 85 
 
 The golden pippin where it shone 
 And the bright crimson'd floridon, 
 
 Their laden branches bend ; 
 While the pale ash-leaf lay below, — 
 The last to come and first to go, — 
 
 Like many a faithless friend. 
 
 Above, a lark went soaring high, 
 Thinking he saw a summer's sky 
 
 In one wee blink o' blue : 
 When in a shady wayside well. 
 Hid in the dimple of a dell, 
 
 Two pitchers met my view. 
 
 Two tiny things by potters wrought. 
 For little hands to bear methought ; 
 
 " But wherefore do they lie 
 Thus deep beneath the limpid wave ?" 
 I ask'd an old man looking grave, 
 
 Whom I saw standing by. 
 
 " Ah !" he replied, and shook his head, 
 " 'Twas little Mattie's, pretty maid ; 
 But never never more
 
 86 LITTLE MATTIE. 
 
 Will she come hither, laughing dear, 
 Her course of water hence to bear 
 Home to her father's door. 
 
 " With cheeks all rose and voice all song, 
 ' Mother,' rang out her birdlike tongue,^ — 
 
 For she was only seven, — 
 I think if you will let me go, 
 I'll fetch you in a turn or so ;' 
 
 Not dreaming then of heaven. 
 
 " ' What makes my precious darling stay,'- 
 The mother to her fears would say, — 
 
 ' The clock 's half after nine ! ' 
 Then call'd her name in shrillest tone, 
 And, all ear, listen'd there alone, 
 But Mattie gave no sign. 
 
 " Then speeding hither, swoon'd when she 
 Nausfht but the fatal door could see. 
 
 The well door open wide." 
 And thus I gather'd how they found 
 Poor little Mattie Burnard drown'd, 
 
 There by the coppice side.
 
 87 
 
 JACK'S RETURN. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O you love me now, my darling, 
 As you loved when last we met, 
 When your lips with sorrow quiver'd, 
 
 And your rosy cheeks were wet ? 
 
 When you shook my hand, and parted. 
 
 To linger on the plain. 
 
 And running back to kiss me, 
 
 You shook it o'er again ? 
 
 I never saw you, Emily, 
 
 So beautiful as then ; 
 
 The long sad lingering look you gave 
 
 Was exquisite with pain : 
 
 I treasured every silver tear 
 
 With memory's subtle art, 
 
 And bore it with me round the world, 
 
 Lock'd in my faithful heart.
 
 88 THE COTTAGE MATRON. 
 
 I saw you by your cottage door 
 
 When we were under weigh, 
 
 And bless'd the handkerchief you waved 
 
 To cheer me in the bay. 
 
 That precious signal now I crave, 
 
 It is a sacred thing, 
 
 And I will give you in exchange 
 
 A golden wedding ring. 
 
 THE COTTAGE MATRON. 
 
 HE has a pair of loving eyes, 
 A happy, smiling face. 
 As sunny as the summer skies 
 And her sweet name is Grace. 
 
 Her chief ambition's like her sire's — 
 
 A cottage in a lane, 
 With red-geranium-lighted fires 
 
 Behind her window pane.
 
 THE COTTAGE MATRON. 
 
 89 
 
 Her gown which, rustling like the sedge, 
 
 Is sweeten'd with pei'fume. 
 Was dried upon her garden hedge, 
 
 When hawthorns were in bloom. 
 
 A tender-hearted soul is she 
 
 To everything that's small, 
 And not a bird upon the tree 
 
 But answers to her call. 
 
 And proud to clear her honest way, 
 She deems her home her place, 
 
 And sweet Content calls every day 
 To see her sister Grace.
 
 90 
 
 THE OLD PARISH CLERK. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 •5. t: ^^^HE old clerk lived at the si^ o' the 
 Bell, 
 A sturdy six foot " lord " was he. 
 And not a neighbour but loved him well, 
 For a better heart there never could be. 
 
 He laugh'd and wept, and wept and laugh'd, 
 Was joyous now, and now was grave ; 
 
 Merry was he when ale he quafF'd, 
 Could tickle a fiddle or pipe a stave. 
 
 His dame was all a woman could be, 
 And none could fill her place so well ; 
 
 His son a stalwart lad was he, 
 And love was warm at the sign o' the Bell.
 
 CORNISH BARDS. 
 
 91 
 
 Now cold beneath the churchyard tree, 
 A grave is seen among the dead, 
 
 And oft each neighbour halts to see 
 
 The spot where the dear old pair are laid. 
 
 CORNISH BARDS.* 
 
 ORNWALLIA needs no minstrel, 
 She sings her own great song, 
 Her crags are grand with eloquence, 
 Each cavern has a tongue. 
 
 A grey bard is St. Michael's, 
 And there he stands and plays, 
 Recounting deeds of chivalry 
 In long forgotten days. 
 
 Carn Brae the wildest music 
 Gives out in solemn tones ; 
 
 * Written on being asked, when there, to sing a song on 
 Cornwall.
 
 92 CORNISH BARDS. 
 
 Go, hear him in the tempest, brush 
 His harp of granite stones. 
 
 At Castle Treyn rude Nature 
 Discourses most sublime, 
 And Kynance sings : How beautiful 
 The earth was in her prime ! 
 
 And under fair Pendarvis 
 Some priests, with oaken wands, 
 Sang psalms in sacred worship 
 Where the grey cromlech stands. 
 
 On lofty Carn Mennellez, 
 In solemn conclave met, 
 A white-hair'd band of Druids 
 Knelt on the heather wet. 
 
 And listening to a minstrel 
 Within the mystic ring, 
 The priest and all the people 
 A song of war did sing.
 
 CORNISH BARDS. 93 
 
 At every cross a pilgrim 
 Intoned a solemn prayer, 
 And every wayside fountain 
 San^ a reliji^ious air. 
 
 And thou, my love, Penjerrick, 
 What melody I heard 
 From him who bade me welcome, 
 Famed friend of beast and bird. 
 
 And how his life is music 
 Bolenowe's bard can tell. 
 Who sings in sweetest numbers 
 Of earn, and croft, and dell. 
 
 Thus every spot is vocal 
 With some enchanting tongue ; 
 Cornwallia needs no minstrel, 
 She sings her own great song.
 
 94 
 
 SONG OF THE DEVONIAN. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I OME of the beautiful, home of the brave, 
 p Where the bright sea-gull troops whiten 
 S* the wave, 
 
 Where the bold crags in their glory appear, 
 Haunt of wild horses and bonny red deer. 
 
 Mother of heroes, my best song be thine. 
 Beauty, ineffable beauty is mine ; 
 Ringdoves that glow with each orient hue. 
 And highlands enveloped in visions of blue. 
 
 Where the grey " Tor," as in ages of yore, 
 Mocks the mad war of the storm on the " moor," 
 Bravely exposing its huge granite crest. 
 Or wrapt in a cloud like an angel at rest. 
 
 Where the fair orchards in beauty are seen, 
 Shaking their carmine bloom over the green :
 
 SONG OF THE DEVONIAN. 9»5 
 
 And lily-white love-cots perch high on each hill, 
 Or nestle like swans by the river and rill. 
 
 Where the red-Devon is blowing his horn, 
 And crimson-lipp'd poppies are wooing the corn, 
 There, like an emerald sprinkled with foam, 
 There is the land of my love and my home. 
 
 Soft are her winds, as the breath of her kine. 
 Fragrant her breeze, as the odour of wine ; 
 Rich are the roses that sweeten the air. 
 And richer the maidens that carry them there. 
 
 Garden of wood-cover'd grottoes, and streams. 
 Where the blue sky of fair Italy gleams. 
 Where the thrush warbles, and meadow-lark springs. 
 To carol his tune to the beat of his wings. 
 
 Love to thy matrons, and joy to thy sires, 
 Happy am I when I sit by thy fires. 
 Wine from the elder, and wine from the bee. 
 And wine from the apple, are waiting for me.
 
 96 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE DART. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 SING on, for thy lay, like a ripple, is 
 stealing 
 Far down to the depths of my womanly 
 heart ! 
 Sint^ on, for my soul is alive with the feeling 
 Which touch'd me to tears on the banks of the Dart. 
 
 More mellow than bells in the eventide chiming 
 Was the musical vow which he utter'd to me ; 
 And tenderer far than a love-poet's rhyming, 
 The sigh which he breathed by the old willow tree. 
 
 He sang me a song overflowing with pity. 
 And threw its sweet meaning so into his eyes, 
 That when the fond minstrel had finish'd his ditty, 
 1 found my fair bosom a prison of sighs.
 
 THE " HOBBY," CLOVELLY. 97 
 
 Of passion he sang, and the truest devotion, 
 The triumphs of beauty, the pride of the brave, 
 Till I found my young spirit alive with emotion, 
 And love in a whisper declared me his slave. 
 
 Sing on, for thy lay, like a ripple, is stealing 
 Far down to the depths of my womanly heart ; 
 Sing on, for my soul is alive with the feeling, 
 Which touch'd me to tears on the banks of the Dart. 
 
 THE " HOBBY," CLOVELLY. 
 
 HEY told me 'twas enchanted ground. 
 The fairies' sweetest ferny haunt ; 
 I deem'd it but an empty sound, 
 A fancy, or an idle vaunt. 
 
 But when I pass'd its rustic gate, 
 My Muse, all buoyant, spread her wing, 
 And Melody, with joy elate. 
 In ecstasy began to sing — 
 
 H
 
 98 THE " HOBBY," CLOVELLY. 
 
 Of beautiful and balmy spots, 
 And pathways buried in the shade ; 
 Of sultry nooks and cooling grots, 
 And flowers that gem the sunny glade ; 
 
 Of trees depending, till the leaves 
 Rest on the roadway's rocky ground, 
 Where hares disport at summer eves, 
 Ere they into the dingles bound ; 
 
 Bright glimpses of the Severn sea. 
 Like its reflected heaven at rest. 
 Where Lundy in serenity 
 Sleeps like an island of the blest ; 
 
 Of broad sea-plains of meadowy green, 
 And witching peeps of cove and pier, 
 And boats that dot the liquid scene 
 Of blue and purpling waters near ; 
 
 Of rich oak-bosses on each height, 
 And rills that ripple down the glen. 
 Now foaming into purest white, 
 Now running into gloom agen j
 
 THE " HOBBY," CLOVELLY. 99 
 
 Of deep ravines and hollow coombs, 
 Of foxglove banks and ferny dells, 
 And a fair bay which ever booms 
 Its music as the ocean swells ; 
 
 And hawks that wildly screaming, wheel 
 Around each rude and savage cliff, 
 And sea-birds, that with downy keel 
 Skim o'er the billows like a skiff; 
 
 And trawlers which, like butterflies. 
 Flit o'er the main with tawny wing, 
 And barks whose topmasts pierce the skies, 
 And breakers ever murmuring ; 
 
 And a bluff rock with thorny crown, 
 A shelter for the timid fawn. 
 And woods for ever sloping down, 
 As smooth to sight as shaven lawn ; 
 
 A village like a waterfall. 
 Or torrent rushing to the tide. 
 Where brawny fishers, stout and tall. 
 Trip laughing down its craggy side ;
 
 100 THE " HOBBY," CLOVELLY. 
 
 Quaint bridges hung with mossy curls, 
 Where strings of polish'd ivy shine, 
 And troops of merry dark-eyed girls, 
 Who boast a beauty half divine. 
 
 My numbers fail — no human eye 
 A sweeter spot shall e'er behold ; 
 And truth must utter with a sigh, 
 Not half its glory can be told ! 
 
 The sylvan pomp and majesty, 
 Which there in harmony have met ; 
 The bay which, in the neighbouring sea, 
 A sapphire seems in em'rald set, 
 
 Enslave the vision and the thought, 
 As charm on charm is quick reveal'd, 
 Till pleasure is to rapture wrought, 
 And language is in silence seal'd.
 
 101 
 
 TO BIDEFORD, 
 
 IN PROSPECT OF LEAVING IT. 
 
 'ND must I leave thee, my adopted home, 
 Nurse of my inspiration and my vaunt, 
 Thy broad strands silver'd with the salt 
 sea-foam, 
 Each fairy inlet and each sylvan haunt ? 
 
 What visions of blue skies, and purple hills, 
 And ocean-plains will rise upon my view ! 
 And O, what melodies of birds and rills 
 Will fill the silence when I sigh, Adieu ! 
 
 I cannot say farewell without a tear ; 
 My spirit bleeds to think that we must part : 
 Yet there are claims more sacred and more dear 
 Than thine enchantments, darling of my heart !
 
 102 TO BIDEFORD. 
 
 Oft in my dreams, when far away from thee, 
 Amid thy matchless charms my soul shall stray, 
 To list the music of some wandering bee, 
 Or mark the sea-gull sporting in the bay. 
 
 Watching the stars burn through the silent sky, 
 Or the moon trembling in the rippled flood ; 
 Or listening to the tempest's lullaby 
 To drowsy Nature in a neighbouring wood. 
 
 Treading again the valley of the Yeo, 
 A dreamer in the deepening hush of eve ; 
 Or gliding where the waters gently flow 
 Beneath the shadow of sweet Oldiscleave. 
 
 Perchance the pilgrim by me hither led 
 Shall thread thy paths and syllable my name, 
 And talk of days when on thy banks I led 
 My dark-eyed joys, and married thee to fame. 
 
 'Twas here I felt that sweet, oppressive power. 
 Which beauty treasures up in solitude, 
 The Godhead's presence in the simplest flowei'. 
 The poet's passion and his gratitude.
 
 TO BIDEFORD. 103 
 
 Weak was my praise, but what I liad I gave, 
 As some return for my continuous joy ; 
 x\nd when the minstrel slumbers in his grave. 
 Think of him kindly for his loved employ. 
 
 For each dumb beauty I have found a voice, 
 Thy peasants bless me in their uncouth tongue, 
 Thy merry maidens in my lays rejoice, 
 And all thy rivers warble in my song. 
 
 Yes, I do love thee, and if I forget 
 How much I owe thee, let my right hand fail 
 To prove its cunning, till the countless debt 
 Is wiped away by some melodious tale.
 
 104 
 
 ST. MARY'S BELLS, BIDEFORD. 
 
 E mellow tongued bells, how sweetly ye 
 
 ring, 
 
 When bidding the people to worship theii' 
 King; 
 I've heard you rejoice on a festival day, 
 But O for the chiming that calls us to pray ! 
 
 Ye beautiful bells, far down in my soul 
 I feel the deep hum of your harmony roll. 
 And feelings akin to the angels' above 
 Steal into my spirit as holy as love. 
 
 Sweet bells of St. Mary, how many around, 
 Now resting in slumber, rejoiced at your sound ! 
 The thought is most solemn, yet still it is so. 
 Death gives to your music the cadence of woe. 
 
 !^^^
 
 105 
 
 THE TORRIDGE. 
 
 HAVE seen thee in thy glory, like a 
 
 virgin in her pride, 
 When a myriad suns were flashing on 
 the bosom of thy tide, 
 As the arm of the Atlantic, stretching inward from 
 
 the bay, 
 Roll'd its wave along the golden sands that pave 
 thy water-way. 
 
 I have seen thee when the May-time, in her frock of 
 
 Whitsun-white, 
 Strew'd thy banks with red rimm'd daisy flowers, 
 
 like broken clouds of light ; 
 And in Summer, when the cattle cool'd their hot 
 
 hides in the stream. 
 And thy white town on the hillside look'd the 
 
 picture of a dream.
 
 106 THE TORRIDGE. 
 
 In Autumn, too, I've watch'd thee, when the 
 
 rugged woods that slope 
 Beneath thy undulating heights seem'd like a 
 
 wither'd hope ; 
 And in Winter, when the heavy clouds were 
 
 tempest-rent and gi'ey, 
 And thy torrent, like a troubled soul, roll'd on its 
 
 turbid way. 
 
 In the morn, when the town lattices were rich with 
 
 golden fire — 
 At the noontide, when thy wavelets brush'd the old 
 
 bridge like a lyre — 
 In the even, when the dreamy sun behind the hill 
 
 went down — 
 And at night-time, when old Bideford made thee a 
 
 brilliant crown. 
 
 I have loved thee when thy shipping threw its 
 
 shadows o'er thy face, 
 As the stars came out all silently along the realms 
 
 of space ;
 
 THE TORRIDGE. 
 
 107 
 
 But when the moon was mirror'd on thy ripples 
 
 softly bright, 
 With a passion I have worshipp'd thee, my beauty 
 
 and delight. 
 
 And had I but an artist's hand, I 'd paint some 
 
 pleasant scene 
 Of thy iris-tinted waters in their richest summer 
 
 sheen, 
 When our little ones like love gods are sporting in 
 
 thine arms, 
 And I 'd envy not the lover of the Yarrow and its 
 
 charms.
 
 108 
 
 ONE OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 HE good old Hugh of Devonshire, 
 A fine old soul was he ; 
 And never a man was more renown'd 
 For deeds of Charity. 
 
 " My gold," said he, " is not my own, 
 
 My meadows, nor my kine ; 
 But lent me by my blessed Lord, 
 
 Likewise my bread and wine. 
 
 '* No jealous fears shall haunt my breast. 
 
 That men shall do me wrong ; 
 My neighbours all shall sound my name 
 
 As 'twere a pleasant song. 
 
 " My yoke, my team, my plough, be theirs 
 
 In every time of need ; 
 And blessings from the happy poor 
 
 Shall be my richest meed.
 
 ONE OF THE OLDEN TIME. 109 
 
 " And all my honest serving men 
 
 Shall joy my face to see : 
 For love, I know, begetteth love 
 
 In every country." 
 
 Thus spake the good old nobleman — 
 
 God rest his honest soul — 
 For he did honour to his word, 
 
 And kept his conscience whole. 
 
 At Easter and at " harvest home," 
 
 New Year and Christmas-tide, 
 Both rich and poor were bidden to 
 
 His happy ingle side. 
 
 The fattest ox that roam'd his park 
 
 Was slaughter'd for the feast : 
 " Good things," said he, " were not ordain'd 
 
 Alone for king and priest." 
 
 His cellar sent up crusty wines. 
 
 Mead, apple-juice, and beer; 
 And naught was wanting that could fill 
 
 His merry men with cheer.
 
 110 ONE OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 And eveiy Monday morn when he 
 
 Would give his golden store 
 To spread his table for the week, 
 He " ne'er forgot the poor." 
 
 And every beggar had his dole : 
 " For thus it pleaseth me, 
 
 To give to him that asketh alms, 
 With blessing too," said he. 
 
 Alas ! the stock is getting low 
 Of such good souls, I ween ; 
 
 So let us set his memory 
 In Love's sweet evergreen.
 
 Ill 
 
 LAND'S END. 
 
 STOOD upon its barren rock, 
 And wander'd far in thought away, 
 As inward to the foamy bay 
 Wave after wave, in summer play, 
 Came bounding like a 'wilder'd flock. 
 
 Before me stretch'd the boiling main, 
 Which broke in fury on the shore. 
 Since full three thousand miles or more 
 The ocean-wave had hurried o'er, 
 In eager quest of land again. 
 
 O many a proud day I have known, 
 To love and honour consecrate ; 
 Bright days when Nature sat in state, 
 When song first found in fame a mate, 
 And hopes as thick as stars were sown.
 
 112 land's end. 
 
 But when I grasp'd Old England's snout, 
 As she look'd out upon the sea, 
 The stern, the mighty, and the free, 
 A new joy leap'd to life in me, 
 And found an utterance in a shout. 
 
 Roll, billows, roll ! I wildly cried ; 
 I love your fierce and savage smiles 
 And laugh which o'er a thousand miles 
 Breaks in loud thunder on the isles. 
 The music of an ocean tide. 
 
 Then felt I, too, the royal joy 
 Which monarchs feel within their breast 
 When a new kingdom is possest, — 
 A feeling something more than blest, 
 The rapture of a happy boy.
 
 113 
 
 STEADY, OLD LASS ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 JTEADY, old lass, and bide thy day. 
 Maintain thy olden dignity ! 
 For thou canst keep the curs at bay, 
 That fain would tear or worry thee. 
 Let but thy sea-dogs scent the wind 
 That bears the foe to Britain's isles. 
 And fleeter than the wildest hind 
 They'll scour the seas ten thousand miles. 
 Steady, old lass, and bide thy day, 
 There's might and pluck enough in thee 
 To keep all hungry hounds at bay, 
 Or sink them in the savage sea. 
 
 Steady, old lass ! thy little rock 
 Is Europe's throne of liberty, 
 And well can bear the fiercest shock 
 While British heroes ride the sea. 
 I
 
 114 STEADY, OLD LASS ! 
 
 We scorn the puny threat of knaves, 
 And bravely can their swords defy ; 
 The love of life we leave to slaves, 
 When freedom is our battle-cry. 
 
 Steady, old lass, &c. 
 
 Yet, England, thou art only strong 
 When thy right arm of wrath is bare : 
 The nations fear to do thee wrong. 
 When thy old sea-dogs bark, " Beware ! " 
 Let others glory in their wars, 
 Our glory is in being free ; 
 And, by the help of Heaven, our tars 
 Will hold " our heritage, the sea." 
 Steady, old lass, &c.
 
 115 
 
 THE VINE. 
 
 N council met, my story says, 
 The gods decreed to give the praise 
 Unto that fair, fruit-bearing tree 
 Which gave the sweetest luxury : 
 Of course the goddesses were there, 
 And Venus, fairest of the fair. 
 
 " Go to, and search the world," said Jove, 
 " Explore each scented glade and grove; 
 The Autumn has a fragrant mouth, 
 Whene'er the wind is in the south ; 
 Thither light tripping footsteps bend, 
 While Hebe to the east I send." 
 
 Thus spoke the god of thunder, — and 
 Forth Venus flew at his command, 
 Close follow'd by the Graces, who 
 Wait on the fair, their will to do ; 
 " Success attend you !" Juno cried. 
 While Bacchus strove his joy to hide.
 
 116 THE VINE. 
 
 Next to the east sweet Hebe went, 
 Upon her errand deep intent, 
 And, crossing twice the burning line, 
 Saw Tagus and the castled Rhine, 
 And many a choice fruit gather'd she 
 From eastern and from western tree. 
 
 The orange in its golden robe. 
 The apple like a crimson globe ; 
 Plum, peach, and ripe pomegranate too. 
 And figs as sweet as honey-dew ; 
 And citron, nectarine, and pear. 
 Lush apricot, and cherries rare. 
 
 These, and a thousand dainties more. 
 Fair Hebe boasted as her store ; 
 And oft the hopeful maiden thought 
 She held the boon the gods had sought ; 
 So upward to the heavenly bowers 
 The goddess flew with fruits and flowers. 
 
 Meanwhile, much wearied, Venus lies 
 Asleep beneath the southern skies,
 
 THE VINE. 117 
 
 Within a deep and mantling shade, 
 A covert which some god had made ; 
 When Cupid, wandering tliat way, 
 Resolved upon a little play. 
 
 For eyeing some sweet berries well. 
 He pluck'd the luscious muscatel, 
 And pressing with his finger tips 
 Its juice against her rosy lips. 
 She woke and call'd the draught divine. 
 And named the heavenly liquor, Wine. 
 
 Away in quest of Jove she flew. 
 When old Silenus met her view ; 
 Then, borrowing sweet Hebe's cup, 
 She bore the sparkling nectar up. 
 Which Jove, enraptured, pass'd around. 
 And bade the Vine with fame be crown'd.
 
 118 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 ;PON a sunny bank he lay, 
 As fragrant as the new-mown hav 
 With rosy camniock flowers, 
 And watch'cl the insect people pass, 
 Like jewels glancing through the grass. 
 Or lights in fairy bowers. 
 
 And then he gazed upon the sky. 
 Until his steady dreamy eye 
 Caught the sweet quiet there ; 
 Which, settling on his restless soul. 
 Subdued it with a soft control, 
 Akin to that of prayer. 
 
 The gentlest summer gale that floats 
 Went whispering through the dancing oats, 
 And shot athwart the glade ;
 
 THE POET. 119 
 
 Then o'er the upland held its way, 
 And made the cornfield like a bay 
 Of billowy sun and shade. 
 
 There, where green hawthorns overhang, 
 " Ever at home with thee," he sang. 
 As if some one were near ; 
 But not a soul was on the hill. 
 Save the dumb grist boy o' the mill. 
 Who rode with idle ear. 
 
 And as he sung, a radiant smile. 
 Like that which lights up Lundy isle, 
 When red suns sink to rest, 
 Play'd on the lonely muser's face. 
 Which told that joy a lodging-place 
 Had found within his breast. 
 
 Then rose he from his pleasant nook. 
 And strolling by a water- brook 
 Towards a favourite dell. 
 He thank'd his God that he could find 
 Sweet joy, apart from humankind, 
 In Nature's holy cell.
 
 WILLOW LEAVES. 
 
 ^^Jif^*
 
 " There is no flock, however watch'd and tended 
 
 But one dead lamb is there. 
 There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
 
 But has one vacant chair. 
 
 " The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
 
 And mournings for the dead ; 
 The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 
 
 Will not be comforted !" 
 
 Longfellow.
 
 THE ROBIN IS WEEPING. 
 
 This Ballad is founded upon a very old superstition, which is 
 still prevalent in North Devon. When a Robin perches on 
 the top of a cottage, or on a wall or gate belonging to it, 
 and utters its plaintive monotone, which I have known it to 
 do for a day together, the cottagers say it is " weeping," and 
 that it is a certain token that the baby in the house will die. 
 
 HE robin is weeping, my baby dear ; 
 
 Woe, sweet baby, woe to me! 
 Mine eye is dim with the swelling tear : 
 My heart is big with a new-born fear, 
 Lest the little bird weeps for thee. 
 Weet, weet, weet, the robin is weeping. 
 
 Weary, oh ! weary the day-time wore; 
 
 Wearily wears the night for me. 
 Now the house-dog howls outside the door ;
 
 124 THE ROBIN IS WEEPING. 
 
 Again he howls, and my heart is sore, 
 'Tis a death-howl, babe, for thee. 
 
 Weet, weet, weet, the robin is weeping. 
 
 The robin is weeping upon the wall, 
 And a tiny new-made grave I see. 
 
 The sexton has been with a little black pall ; 
 
 Four maidens in white — fair, sad, and tall — 
 Are bearing it tenderly. 
 
 Weet, weet, weet, the robin is weeping. 
 
 The robin is now on the garden-gate ; 
 
 The mother is weeping, " woe is me ! " 
 Her husband is mourning their childless state, 
 " O God, it is hard to suffer our fate ; 
 
 God help us to bear it !" cries he. 
 
 Weet, weet, weet, the robin is weeping.
 
 125 
 
 A SONG IN SORROW. 
 
 \Y heart is sad, I cannot sing 
 Those merry strains I sang of yore ; 
 I hear the thrush salute the spring, 
 But music charms my soul no more. 
 
 I see the bonny primrose peep, 
 And eye me as I pass her by, 
 But all that I can do is weep, 
 And turn my head away and sigh. 
 
 A moan escapes with every breath, 
 My bosom is a nest of fears ; 
 The only thought I have is death, 
 And day in darkest gloom appears.
 
 126 A SONG IN SORROW. 
 
 And wherefore am I troubled so ? 
 And why aloud do I complain ? 
 My home is the abode of woe. 
 My darling is bow'd down with pain. 
 
 Whilst day by day stand by her side 
 The tender nestlings of my dove, 
 And often win her smile of pride, 
 To see their patience and their love. 
 
 And yet I show a cheerful face, 
 Whene'er I mingle with my kind ; 
 For there are none of all my race 
 Can heal the wound that pains my mind.
 
 12: 
 
 DEAD! 
 
 ,E have a little patch of hallow'd ground, 
 Which Nature's lavish hand with gems 
 hath sown, 
 
 Where richest meadow-grass did once abound, 
 But Death with his rude scythe has lately mown. 
 
 'Tis but the length of a beloved maid, 
 In childhood's sweet and ever happy prime. 
 And there, in faded loveliness, is laid 
 A flower as fair as ever bloom'd in time. 
 
 It seems a spot too beautiful for death 
 To make his loathsome and his sad domain ; 
 Yet there he stalks with poison in his breath, 
 An epicure whose draught is briny rain.
 
 128 DEAD ! 
 
 Ah, me ! that there forget-me-nots should blow, 
 And blossoms smile upon the fragrant thorn, 
 And daisies dress in sunny robes of snow, 
 And buttercups shine golden as the morn. 
 
 Yet true it is, and when the eastern sky- 
 Is radiant with the coming of the day. 
 Thicker than shafts which in the rain-storm fly, 
 The sunbeams there in lustrous troops will play. 
 
 And there the sweetest winds that fan the south 
 Will often sweep across the hallow'd green. 
 And Summer, with her roses in her mouth, 
 Strews her chief beauties o'er the pleasant scene. 
 
 Oh, I was rich, in poverty's cold shade, 
 With this one priceless jewel in my hand. 
 Until a stranger, with his ruthless spade, 
 Deep buried it in our small bit of land. 
 
 Death's prison-house, a cage which holds the bird 
 That sang the sweetest in our merry home, 
 That piped the sweetest song we ever heard. 
 Until it droop'd its wing and sought the tomb.
 
 DEAD ! 129 
 
 I saw her when health's bloom was on her cheek, 
 My fresh sweet floweret of the middle May ; 
 But never dreamt that in one fleeting week 
 My child would die and leave us but her clay. 
 
 I saw her too when fever dull'd her eye. 
 And burn'd the very vitals of her heart ; 
 Had her last kiss without her sweet good-bye, 
 And, dumb with wonder, watch'd her life depart. 
 
 Then, agony of agonies ! that blank, 
 Which never can be fill'd, amazed us all ; 
 And visions came of death-pits deep and dank, 
 And darkness hung around us like a pall. 
 
 Sleep, moved by Pity, hearing one wild wail 
 Of sorrow from the desolated soul, 
 Pass'd by her sister with the visage pale. 
 And sought awhile the mourner to console. 
 
 'Twas all in vain ! Love kept the babe alive. 
 We heard her speaking in each broken dream ; 
 In spite of death our loved one would survive. 
 And " Precious Milly" was our only theme. 
 
 K
 
 130 DEAD ! 
 
 Next morn we sought her in her silent room, 
 And gazed until our eyes in tears were drown'd ; 
 The sun was shining, yet 'twas deepest gloom, 
 As there our treasure lay in sleep profound. 
 
 And O, the wreck that cruel Death had wrought, 
 So sweetly ours when first the spoiler came ; 
 " It is not her," was our first spoken thought, 
 And doubting thus we dared not speak her name. 
 
 Buried in rosebuds now our darling lies, 
 With one white valley lily on her breast ; 
 And on her mound flowers looking to the skies, 
 Point sweetly to the region of her rest.
 
 131 
 
 UNDER THE SNOW. 
 
 WEET little loving thing, low, low, low, 
 Down in the cold, cold grave she lies ; 
 Deep 'neath the daisy-knoll under the 
 snow. 
 Silenced for ever her carols and cries. 
 
 Sweet little Dimpled chin, how she would dance ! 
 Dear little Laughing eyes, how she would smile ! 
 Still are her tiny feet now, and her glance 
 Beams not on me for a weary long while. 
 
 " Dead!" do my neighbours say? Death is a 
 
 dream : 
 In the mid-May time she went out to play ; 
 Daily I see her by meadow and stream, 
 Couch 'd 'mid the goldencups, sunny as they.
 
 132 
 
 BY HER GRAVE. 
 
 Weep, my eyes, scalding tears, weep, weep, weep ! 
 Bleed, my soul ; throb, my heart, heavy with pain ! 
 When shall my tender one wake from her sleep ? 
 When shall I gaze on my beauty again ? 
 
 Sweet little loving thing, low, low, low, 
 Down in the cold, cold grave she lies ; 
 Deep 'neath the daisy-knoll under the snow. 
 Silenced for ever her carols and cries. 
 
 BY HER GRAVE. 
 
 HOW much love I buried. 
 My precious child, with thee ! 
 A never-failing comfort 
 Thou ever wert to me. 
 
 And life's severest battle 
 
 I greeted with a smile ; 
 
 For thou couldst ease each trouble, 
 
 And darkest hours beguile.
 
 BY HER GRAVE. 133 
 
 Thou little blessed spirit, 
 A seraph in disguise, 
 With joy upon thy forehead, 
 And heaven within thine eyes ; 
 
 Why didst thou come, my sweetest, 
 Just like a thing of light, 
 A sudden flash of glory. 
 Bewildering our sight ? 
 
 The day is dark without thee. 
 No eye with gladness beams. 
 My harp is hanging silent. 
 And gone my fairy dreams. 
 
 I miss thee, yet I meet thee 
 Wherever, love, I go ; 
 But grasping at a shadow 
 Adds only woe to woe.
 
 134 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 STAND upon earth's shifting bank, 
 The grave beneath my view, 
 And watch the everlasting blank 
 Of never-ending blue ; 
 And ask if that which meets the eye, 
 And which we mortals call the sky. 
 Is a deep, broad, and boundless sea 
 Betwixt us and eternity. 
 
 And in each cloud that sails across 
 The sunny realms of space, 
 I seek the sum of all my loss. 
 The beauty of her face ; 
 My best beloved of humankind — 
 Where, where is she ? I ask the wind ; 
 Unheeding, it pursues its flight. 
 As speechless as the silent night.
 
 DISCONSOLATE. 135 
 
 Then up where happy angels sing 
 
 I strive with Faith to soar, 
 
 Nor pause till her unwearied wing 
 
 Is folded on that shore : 
 
 I pass the portals of the blest, 
 
 And seek her where the weary rest, 
 
 When, oh, the joy ! her radiant face 
 
 Beams forth with an immortal grace ! 
 
 DISCONSOLATE. 
 
 ALE, and with the mellow'd beauty 
 Poignant sorrow ever wears, 
 Doing melancholy duty, 
 Lone she sat in holy tears : 
 When a sound, mine ears assailing, 
 
 Made me list her stifled groan. 
 Solemn as the midnight wailing 
 Of a dying tempest-moan :
 
 136 DISCONSOLATE. 
 
 " Marvel not that I am weeping; ! 
 
 Didst thou mourn a child like mine, 
 Sobs would burst out in thy sleeping, 
 
 And my sorrow would be thine. 
 Child of children ! like no other 
 
 Was my precious lamb to me ; 
 (iod be thank'd I was her mother, 
 
 Nursing so much purity. 
 Bless her ! pretty, joyous creature, 
 
 Quite an angel child was she ; 
 And the sunshine of each feature 
 
 Made a little heaven for me. 
 Beautiful her form, and slender. 
 
 Soft and fair her rounded face ; 
 Dark her eyes, and sweetly tender. 
 
 Beaming with the light of grace. 
 Seraph bright, and not a fairy, 
 
 Love her life, each word a song; 
 Unobtrusive, blithe, and airy. 
 
 How I see her dance alono; ! 
 Oft the stranger, halting, bless'd her. 
 
 As she smiled within her bower ; 
 Not a being but caress'd her. 
 
 As they would a lovely flower.
 
 CONSOLATION. 137 
 
 Milly's worth ? can it be spoken ? 
 
 See my answer in my eyes ; 
 Tell me, ere my heart is broken, 
 
 Shall I meet her in the skies ?" 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 EEP on, my love, tears give relief. 
 Shed down the bitter rain, 
 Loosen the girdle of thy grief, 
 Souls crack with too much strain ; 
 Know tears are comforters to woe. 
 To grieve is to unbend the bow. 
 
 'Tis hard, dear heart, 'tis hard to bear 
 
 A trial like to thine ; 
 
 To see a form so passing fair 
 
 Grow more and more divine. 
 
 And, when each grosser part had gone, 
 
 Lie like a rose beneath a stone : 
 
 Yet better a sad weeper be 
 
 Than Heaven should be less rich for thee.
 
 138 
 
 OUR DESTINY. 
 
 STAND beneath the silent sky, 
 With upturn'd gaze, in mute despaii-, 
 And ask why came my darling, why 
 
 So soon to pine away and die — 
 
 Mine idol with the golden hair ? 
 
 From the dark womb of mystery 
 We grope to life with half-closed eyes ; 
 And what know we of that we see. 
 Of that which is, or that to be, 
 The unseen which in darkness lies ? 
 
 I know not whence my being came, 
 But strive to know for evermore ; 
 Life, the ethereal, vital flame. 
 Was it essentially the same 
 Ere flickering on this mortal shore?
 
 OUR DESTINY. 139 
 
 If SO, in the profoundest sleep 
 It lay in its august abode, 
 Far down in that unfathom'd deep, 
 Where Mystery and Silence keep 
 The outlet of an unknown road. 
 
 And Time, it is a heartless cheat. 
 In solemn league with cruel Death, 
 Upon whose fatal stage we meet. 
 And learn to dance with joyous feet. 
 Till the grim ogre chokes our breath. 
 
 Then idle is the plea of Love, 
 Truth, pity, anguish, cry in vain ; 
 The soul, like a complaining dove, 
 May wail to the huge vault above, 
 Or melt in floods of scalding rain. 
 
 The tenderest links which bind us here 
 Are broken with a ruthless hand. 
 While Fate stands by with look severe, 
 And mocks when Love lets fall a tear 
 For those pass'd to the silent land.
 
 140 
 
 MILLY. 
 
 NATIVE of the realms of light, 
 The radiant islands of the blest, 
 Where, nestling on an angel's breast. 
 She dwelt, an embryotic sprite. 
 
 From God's own sunny land she came, 
 
 A bright, consolidated smile ; 
 
 We welcomed her to earth's green isle, 
 And gave the little thing a name. 
 
 We call'd her Milly, and we thought 
 We never heard so fond a word ; 
 'Twas like the sweet note of a bird. 
 
 With Nature's simplest music fraught.
 
 MILLY. 141 
 
 And as our little darling grew, 
 We bent in worship o'er our prize, 
 And woo'd the smile from her deep eyes — 
 
 Two little orbs of silver dew. 
 
 Then Wonder came and eyed her cheek, 
 As Beauty placed a blush-rose there, 
 And kiss'd her lips and forehead fair, 
 
 And smooth'd her silken locks so sleek. 
 
 At length her little milk-white hands 
 Around our necks would fondly twine : 
 And O, the slavery divine 
 
 When fetter'd by those tender bands ! 
 
 And so enchanting, year by year, 
 And lovelier wax'd our angel child. 
 That all who mark'd her manners mild 
 
 Proclaim'd she was too good for here. 
 
 And, sooth, she had a dove-like face, 
 Which proved a gentle soul within ; 
 And such a way, all hearts to win, 
 
 With childhood's sweet and artless grace.
 
 142 MILLY. 
 
 You might have call'd the maiden Love, 
 Thinking from bright love-land she came; 
 And she had answer'd to the name, 
 
 As little cherubs do above. 
 
 So close unto our hearts we bound 
 Our tiny treasure, that the street, 
 Which once had felt her pattering feet, 
 
 Became to us most holy ground. 
 
 And every fond, endearing name. 
 Which parents to their idols give. 
 We gave her — but this truth believe. 
 
 The tenderest she put to shame. 
 
 We call'd her Precious, Lamb, and Sweet, 
 And Pretty cheek, Pet, Lily, Dove ! 
 Such names as mothers use above, 
 
 When they their missing infants greet. 
 
 But 'twas in vain : no word on earth 
 Could shadow forth the love that burn'd 
 Within our souls, and still we yearn'd 
 
 For one to svllable her worth.
 
 MILLY. 143 
 
 And so we gave her smiles instead, 
 Sweet deeds of kindness, kisses, looks, 
 Pictures of seraphs, holy books, 
 
 And blessings with her daily bread. 
 
 If such the bud, how sweet the flower! 
 
 If such the dawn, how bright the day ! 
 
 So Sj3ring grew jealous in the May, 
 And slew her in her rosy bower. 
 
 It was a bitter, bitter night, 
 
 When Death for her wove warp and woof; 
 
 His storm-wings trailed across our roof, 
 And quench'd was every starry light. 
 
 Destruction rode the scorching blast 
 And charr'd the leaves upon the trees. 
 Until they fell, like swarming bees. 
 
 To mark the way which he had pass'd. 
 
 And oh ! the agonizing smart, 
 
 When the great grim Destroyer's foot 
 Crush'd out the sweet life from our shoot. 
 
 And trod upon its tender heart.
 
 144 MILLY. 
 
 Earth is a desert with her loss, 
 A dreary region, sad and dull : 
 With her our cup of joy was full, 
 
 Now naught remains but dregs and dross. 
 
 Dead — dead, and gone for aye is she ! 
 Yea, every feature from the mind, 
 Like vapours scatter'd by the wind. 
 
 And we left, lost in mystery. 
 
 Yet still we yearn for evermore — 
 Nor can we deem it is in vain — 
 To see our darling's face again. 
 
 And walk with her the heavenly shore. 
 
 While hope in tears looks out to see 
 Her smiling on us from afar. 
 Our little shining guiding star, 
 
 To lead us to felicity.
 
 145 
 
 IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 
 OF DEATH. 
 
 WANDERER on the road of life, 
 I seek a purpose but in vain ; 
 For heart and will are e'er at strife, 
 And thought lies sluggish in the brain. 
 
 " What is the profit, after all 
 Thy toil and striving ? " mind will say ; 
 " The wine we drink is mix'd with gall, 
 And Death defies us day by day. 
 
 " We see a beam steal from a cloud, 
 We mark a bud upon a vine ; 
 While life goes dancing through the crowd, 
 And shade is lighted up by shine. 
 
 L
 
 146 SILENT. 
 
 But ere the sun in fulness breaks, 
 Before the bud to blossom turns, 
 The one has lost its glory-streaks, 
 And the dead germ our nature mourns." 
 
 SILENT. 
 
 N the marge of Death's cold river, 
 '^ SjDirit broken, lo ! I stand, 
 % Calling, calling, calling ever : 
 " Come back to our pleasant land !" 
 Onward runs the tide, unheeding 
 All my bitterness and woe : 
 And my bosom, torn and bleeding, 
 Hears not e'en the answer, " No !" 
 
 " Come back, come, my little beauty, 
 Well I know how great thy love — 
 Yes, too well — come ! thy filial duty 
 Ought to move thy soul above."
 
 SILENT. 
 
 147 
 
 Pausing now to list her talking, 
 
 As she used to talk to me, 
 
 Naught I hear save strange feet walking, 
 
 And a murmur like a sea. 
 
 " Could I love thee, my sweet treasure, 
 More than I was wont to show ? 
 Could a being yield more pleasure 
 Than I gave to thee below ? 
 Tell, O tell me, in a vision. 
 If thou canst no word impart. 
 Come down from the bright Elysian, 
 Come and ease my burden'd heart ! " 
 
 On the margin of the river. 
 
 Spirit broken, still I stand. 
 
 Calling on her, calling ever : 
 
 " Come back to our pleasant land !" 
 
 Onward runs the tide, unheeding 
 
 All my bitterness and woe ; 
 
 And my bosom, torn and bleeding, 
 
 Hears not e'en the answer, " No ! "
 
 148 
 
 WHO NOW WILL SING MY SONGS 
 TO ME? 
 
 N love with Nature more than fame, 
 I play'd the minstrel's part, 
 And penn'd my ditties as they came 
 Fresh bubbling from the heart. 
 And there was one who loved my lays, 
 And, warbling like a flute. 
 Oft carol'd them in bygone days — 
 But now her voice is mute : 
 Thus my sad burden hence must be. 
 Who now will sing my songs to me ? 
 
 A vision in the future shone. 
 Which Hope had painted fair, 
 I saw my little loving one 
 Smooth down ray silver hair ;
 
 WHO NOW WILL SING MY SONGS TO ME? 149 
 
 Then, sitting by my ingle side, 
 Trill out my strains to me; 
 But she, the glory of my pride, 
 Sleeps by the willow tree: 
 Henceforth my burden here must be, 
 Who now will sing my songs to me? 
 
 I drop in by a neighbour's fire, 
 
 And hear his children sing. 
 
 And mark the matron and the sire 
 
 As happy as the Spring ; 
 
 But every note is strange, and oh, 
 
 I feel so sad and lone ; 
 
 For no one sings my " Patty Rowe" 
 
 In Milly's cheery tone: 
 
 And thus my burden e'er must be, 
 
 Who now will sing my songs to me ? 
 
 And yet I think, when in my grave 
 
 My head is lying low, 
 
 They'll say my songs were sweet and brave. 
 
 And chaunt them as they go. 
 
 If not, no matter, for mine eyes 
 
 Will view a brighter sphere,
 
 150 UNDER THE CLOUD. 
 
 While one sweet voice in Paradise 
 Shall charm my ravish'd ear: 
 Till then my burden e'er must be, 
 Who now will sing ray songs to me 
 
 UNDER THE CLOUD. 
 
 IS love gives beauty to the earth, 
 And glory to the sun ; 
 To other lives we owe our mirth, 
 And when they die 'tis gone, 
 
 But lately light was more than light. 
 
 For love had made it so ; 
 Now day is darker than the night. 
 
 And all I see is woe. 
 
 Joy is a word that mocks me sore, 
 It has no meaning now ; 
 
 My joy is gone for evermore, 
 And smiles forsake my brow.
 
 UNDER THE CLOUD. 151 
 
 What care I whether Spring returns, 
 
 With song and revelry ! 
 The world is naught to him who mourns, 
 
 And it is naught to me. 
 
 I loved the seasons for her sake, 
 
 The bird upon the bough, 
 And meanest wildling of the brake — 
 
 But all is alter'd now. 
 
 The note that stirr'd my soul to sing 
 
 Is discord unto me ; 
 A dreamy winter is the Spring, 
 
 With Death's deformity. 
 
 It was for her I sang and play'd, 
 
 For her I read and wrote, 
 And through the winding pathway stray'd 
 
 To catch a virtrin note. 
 
 '»* 
 
 Then every dewdrop was a gem, 
 A halo crown'd each flower, 
 
 And night was Nature's diadem, 
 A miracle of power.
 
 152 UNDER THE CLOUD. 
 
 The tufted vetch, with sweet perfume, 
 Her purple blossoms spread, 
 
 And oft I pluck'd it in its bloom. 
 To wreath my darling's head. 
 
 And thus my love went with her love, 
 My eyes saw with her eyes ; 
 
 And stranger things I mark'd above 
 Than those that light the skies. 
 
 Alas ! the sweet enchantment's fled, 
 Life lacks its charmed ring ; 
 
 And weeping willows shade the bed 
 Where Death has left his sting.
 
 153 
 
 LOST! LOST! 
 
 EN years ago our darling came, 
 With her faint baby cry, 
 And when we call'd her by her name, 
 A smile was her reply. 
 
 And every year reveal'd a charm 
 We ne'er had seen before, 
 
 A dimpled cheek or dimpled arm, 
 Or note of infant lore. 
 
 And as she grew, her little eyes 
 Went wandering everywhere, 
 
 Reading the secrets of the skies. 
 And all things counted fair.
 
 154 LOST ! LOST ! 
 
 Tlie summer calm that dwells above 
 
 In heaven's ethereal blue, 
 Sank down into her heart of love, 
 
 And made it peaceful too. 
 
 And hence our souls to hers were bound 
 With life's most golden chain ; 
 
 And when she died, how deep our wound, 
 And how acute the pain ! 
 
 We never dreamt that she would die. 
 She look'd so much like life ; 
 
 While joy's own image was her eye, 
 Unclouded by a strife. 
 
 All waited with a sweet caress 
 
 The sainted child to greet ; 
 While rudest tongues she taught to bless 
 
 The music of her feet. 
 
 In vain they tell us that her sprite 
 Is now with Him who brought 
 
 A life mmortal into light, — 
 Despite the cheering thought.
 
 LOST ! LOST 
 
 155 
 
 I pine to see her smiling face, 
 
 As once I used to see, 
 And my lost darling to embrace 
 
 With love's idolatry. 
 
 If I foraret her — I have tried — 
 
 And be as I have been, 
 I hear the gentle creature chide 
 
 My spirit for my sin. 
 
 So I must think of her, and weep 
 Till light enough is given 
 
 To show me God her soul doth keep 
 Secure for me in heaven.
 
 150 
 
 THE TWO MINSTRELS. 
 
 OW while hedgerows, high and swelling, 
 Vie with clover sweetly smelling 
 In the new-made hay ; 
 Where the golden sunbeams shimmer 
 Through the leafy lanes of " simmer," 
 Drowsy with the heat and glimmer, 
 I betake my way. 
 
 List ! is that the skylark soaring ? 
 What a passionate outpouring 
 
 Of his love and joy ! 
 Hark, how loud his notes are trilling, 
 All my soul with rapture filling ! 
 So sang I with soul as willing. 
 
 When I was a boy. 
 
 See, along the plains of Heaven, 
 Mimicking the fields of Devon, 
 Snow-white swaths are seen :
 
 THE TWO MINSTRELS. 157 
 
 " Hear me, unseen meader there, 
 With thy scythe so keen and bare 
 Mowing down its liHes fair, 
 Lacking meadows green ! 
 
 " Have you not a saintly stranger 
 Freed from sorrow, death, and danger, 
 
 Like a ray of light. 
 Fairer than your snowy showers, 
 Visiting your pleasant bowers, 
 Gathering celestial flowers, 
 
 Like your blossoms white ? 
 
 " If so, 'tis my maiden Milly, 
 And, I pray thee, tell that lily, 
 
 In the fields of God, 
 Tuneful, from this desert springing 
 Oft I fly, the bright air winging, 
 But, lark-like, I cease my singing 
 
 When I touch the sod. "
 
 158 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 OU wonder, stranger, why I smiled. 
 And think I am distraught ; 
 Just then the vision of my child 
 My tender fancy caught. 
 
 That little corner pane you see 
 Up in that window there, 
 Is far more precious unto me 
 Than gems, however rare ! 
 
 Thither each morn my darling came. 
 And smiled her bright good-bye ! 
 The sweetest picture in a frame 
 That ever met my eye.
 
 THE VISION. 159 
 
 Methinks I hear her tapping now 
 To give me one kiss more, 
 Her lips all laughter, and her brow 
 With gladness running o'er. 
 
 So oft beside my garden gate, 
 Ere starting on my way, 
 I turn, my soul with joy elate, 
 To see her at her play. 
 
 Thus memory will ever strive 
 To cheat old ruthless Death, 
 While Love my lost one keeps ahve 
 With his immortal breath.
 
 160 
 
 MY GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 HERE are more sights than eye can see, 
 More sounds than ear can hear, 
 Sweet phantoms of the memory. 
 Which greet us everywhere. 
 
 We meet them in the glare of day. 
 We hear them in the night ; 
 And subtler than a fabled fay 
 They flit before our sight. 
 
 'Tis not a poet's dream, I know. 
 
 That pictures things divine ; 
 
 All have their guardian sprites, I trow, — 
 
 I feel that I have mine.
 
 MY GUARDIAN ANGEL. 161 
 
 With lamblike look, the precious dear, 
 So fondly she will smile ! 
 And then her pleading, how sincere, 
 How winsome is her wile ! 
 
 Sometimes she leads me by the hand, 
 Where daisy-buttons grow, 
 Then down upon the golden sand 
 I hear the maiden crow. 
 
 Anon a hat and cloak she wears. 
 And shakes a mass of curls, 
 And then, with eyes suffused with tears, 
 I kiss all little girls. 
 
 At other seasons she will come 
 
 In pure celestial-white. 
 
 Then Heaven is found within my home, 
 
 And faith gives place to sight. 
 
 M
 
 162 
 
 THE ROBIN. 
 
 UBBLING from a tiny breast, 
 Like water from a spring, 
 Comes an old familiar song. 
 With its most pleasant ring. 
 
 Falling on mine ear at eve, 
 The shrill sharp notes are heard, 
 And I know it is the hymn 
 Of our domestic bird. 
 
 Thoughtfully I sit and still, 
 In my favourite chair, 
 When a little presence comes 
 With a celestial air.
 
 THE ROBIN. 163 
 
 Comes and pats me on the cheek, 
 All radiant as a smile, 
 And upon my heaving breast 
 Leans her fair head awhile. 
 
 Presently the passing bell 
 Gives out its monotone, 
 Robin stops his even-song, 
 And my sweet dream is gone.
 
 164 
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 WELVE wearv moons have run their 
 round, 
 Since in her winding-sheet we bound 
 And laid our lily underground — 
 
 Our lily o' the May, 
 And yet we gather here in tears, 
 With throbbing hearts and listening ears ; 
 And as we bend above the dead, 
 We conjure up another bed 
 
 Where our sweet infant lay. 
 
 Yes, we do prize our poor dead dove, 
 
 And thouffh the stars die out above, 
 
 There's nought shall quench our flame of love. 
 
 Or dull its sacred light. 
 And long as blossoms grace the spring,
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY. 165 
 
 And golden-pinion'd finches sing, 
 For her sweet sake we'll come and strew 
 Upon her grave her violets blue, 
 And daisies silver-white. 
 
 With arrowy dartings here and there, 
 
 The screaming swifts shoot through the air, 
 
 So did they when Death sought our fair, 
 
 And blanch'd her comely bloom. 
 True heralds they of pale decay, 
 Though only in the sun they play ; 
 For when the May-bush is most sweet. 
 And lilacs scent the city street, 
 
 Our fairest fill the tomb.
 
 166 
 
 THE VOW. 
 
 HERE is a vision of beauty and love, 
 Haunting me ever by night and by day, 
 Seen in the pearly-white cloudlet above. 
 Meeting me, wander wherever I may. 
 
 Sometimes the dear little spirit will come. 
 Blessing my soul with a joyous surprise ; 
 Tripping so light with a sparkle, say some, 
 Ne'er seen before in a pair of black eyes. 
 
 Then, with an exquisite thrill of delight, 
 Upward I soar like a bird on the wing. 
 Bounding away in the strength of my might. 
 Singing as happiness only can sing.
 
 THE VOW. 167 
 
 Sometimes my darling will come in her shroud, 
 Pale as the snowdrop that blows in its nook, 
 Shadowy, fleeting, and vain as a cloud 
 Painting its vapoury form on a brook. 
 
 Then, with a pang which the desolate feel, 
 Sorrow shrinks back in the gloom of her cell. 
 Waiting till Death in his silence shall seal 
 Life with its muffled joy ringing its knell. 
 
 Lips that were red as the ruby had she, 
 Cheeks with the bloom of the sweet-scented June, 
 Blithely she sang like a bird in the tree, 
 Nature her ditty, and Love the sweet tune. 
 
 Shall I forget her, dear light of my home ? 
 No ! by the dust where the beautiful sleep : 
 Would she forget me were I in my tomb ? 
 No ! and for her I will evermore weep.
 
 168 
 
 THE VOICE FROM THE CLOUD. 
 
 HAD a dream, a heavenly dream,* 
 I A vision bri";ht and fair ; 
 »s^ I saw a virgin by a stream, 
 With loosely flowing hair; 
 
 And falhng down unto her feet 
 The snow-white robe she wore : 
 
 An image so divinely sweet 
 No eye had seen before. 
 
 She smiled just like the angels do, 
 To draw me to her side ; 
 
 And as I near'd the maiden, lo ! 
 She seem'd beatified. 
 
 * It may seem strange, but I had this dream a few days 
 before my de^r Uttle Milly died.
 
 THE VOICE FROM THE CLOUD. 169 
 
 I ask'd her pleasure, when a book, 
 
 Held in her lily hand. 
 She open'd, rich with many a nook, 
 
 Of some most pleasant land ; 
 
 And as she turn'd its pages o'er 
 
 My soul was glad to see 
 The beauties of so fair a shore, 
 
 With stream and branching tree. 
 
 And there were lakes unswept by storms, 
 
 Which lay bright hills among ; 
 And plains alive with seraph forms. 
 
 Who sang a holy song. 
 
 And in the morning when I woke, 
 
 I marvell'd in my mind, 
 And thus unto my love I spoke, 
 
 As she her ear inclined : 
 
 " O such a vision, dear, of joy 
 
 I've witness'd in my sleep ; 
 I would that naught should it destroy. 
 
 Its glory I would keep."
 
 170 THE VOICE FROM THE CLOUD. 
 
 She, listening, made me no reply, 
 But hid it in her breast : 
 
 " It was a glorious dream," said I, 
 And sank again to rest. 
 
 A week fled, and then came a day 
 Which brought a sadder dream : 
 
 I saw my darling pass away. 
 O'er death's mysterious stream ; 
 
 And peering down into the deep, 
 I sought awhile to learn 
 
 If my beloved, now asleep, 
 Would unto me return. 
 
 I question'd Heaven, to know if she 
 Might answer to her name : 
 
 But silence was the stern decree, 
 And not an echo came. 
 
 Then in my agony I cried, 
 In language loud and wild, 
 
 " O God, forgive me if I chide ! 
 Where is my precious child ?
 
 THE VOICE FROM THE CLOUD. 171 
 
 " She whom I treasured as my soul, 
 
 My joy, my life, my light ! 
 Must she, down with the grovelling mole. 
 
 Know one perpetual night ? 
 
 " Or is she wandei'ing, lorn and bare. 
 
 In some mysterious shade, 
 She whom I shelter'd from the air 
 
 Which made the floweret fade ?" 
 
 I paused, but answer there was none, 
 
 Then wept and cried aloud, 
 When, " Hear him, my beloved Son !" 
 
 Came sweetly from the cloud. 
 
 " I am the Resurrection," said 
 
 A Voice in gentle tone ; 
 " And she, thy little darling maid, 
 
 Is neither lost nor lone : 
 
 " Beside Life's everlasting stream, 
 
 With angels hand in hand, 
 Watch'd by the maiden of thy dream, 
 
 She walks the heavenly land.
 
 172 THE VOICE FROM THE CLOUD. 
 
 " She joy'd all lovely things to see, 
 When in that world of thine ; 
 
 Then suffer her to dwell with Me, 
 Where all things are divine !" 
 
 " Enough," I answer'd, " Blessed Lord, 
 Faith sees her with thy Son, 
 
 My soul reposes on thy word — 
 Thy will, O God, be done !"
 
 173 
 
 ELLIE DALE. 
 
 EIL thy bright face, O golden sun ! 
 Put on thy gloom, O smiling sky ! 
 Lament, ye streamlets, as ye run ! 
 And wail, ye winds that whistle by ! 
 
 Be silent, O ye merry birds ! 
 Weep heavy tears, ye pleasant trees ! 
 Turn, milk of joy, to bitter curds ! 
 And murmur death, ye happy bees ! 
 
 My hope is broken from its stem, 
 My sweetest rose has lost its red ; 
 My crown has miss'd its richest gem, 
 The glory of my life is fled.
 
 174 
 
 ELLIE DALE. 
 
 Alack ! Alas ! what doth avail 
 This dark and lonely life to me ? 
 I'll die and sleep with Ellie Dale, 
 'Tis thus, O Death, I conquer thee !
 
 SONNETS.
 
 " for me, 
 
 In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 
 Witbin tbe Sonnet's scanty plot of ground, 
 Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be), 
 Who have felt the weight of too much liberty. 
 Should find brief solace there as I have found." 
 
 WORDSWOKTH.
 
 TO W. C. BENNETT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF BABY MAY, ETC. 
 
 DID not like the sonnet, for to me. 
 Who love the wildness of our Devon 
 lanes — 
 
 Fantastic as the flowers on frosted panes — 
 Through which I roam the freest of the free, 
 It seem'd the very prison-house of thought; 
 A cage in which no mounting lark should sing, 
 Lest he should mar the plumage of his wing, 
 And pipe a tamer note by being caught : 
 Yet I must own poor Hartley Coleridge wrote 
 Choice music in its little sunny cell, 
 And that on Wordsworth's melody I dote 
 Who made his bee hum in its foxg-love bell : 
 And now to pay it homage I am prone. 
 Such is thy classic and convincing tone.
 
 178 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 ,PON a rock, engirdled by the sea, 
 With brow uplifted, heedless of the storm, 
 I saw a noble and majestic form. 
 Standing as if in silent reverie ; 
 Her right hand closed, as if her grasp held what 
 Was solid substance and not empty wind. 
 And yet I nothing could perceive, save that 
 She seem'd to clutch at something with her mind : 
 Beyond the boundary of all things known, 
 With penetrating eye and soul intent. 
 She saw a realm with starry glories sown. 
 Which to her vision a rich splendour lent ; 
 Often I mark her with a look serene 
 Gazing with rapture on the Great Unseen.
 
 179 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 ;ITH buoyant spirit and an eye of fire, 
 She tript along the margin of a stream, 
 Where Expectation, following Desire, 
 Flew on before her with a golden dream. 
 Fair was the vision as a sunny gleam 
 Which plays at summertide about the noon. 
 And chaste as is the pale ethereal beam 
 Which steals at midnight from the silver moon. 
 It was a picture full of pleasant things ; 
 Sweet Joy was painted like a ruddy youth, 
 And in the foreground Love with shining wings 
 Was toying with the radiant locks of Truth ; 
 While, in the distance, Pleasure was at play 
 Where roses blossom'd on an endless way.
 
 180 
 
 MEEKNESS. 
 
 GENTLE, modest, and retiring dame, 
 With white hands folded on her tender 
 breast. 
 
 And mild brown eyes which know no fiercer flame 
 Than those of dovelings in their mother's nest, 
 No angry passion does her soul molest ; 
 For in some hidden unfrequented way, 
 With fair Humility her constant guest, 
 And a tame lamb, the maiden loves to stray : 
 A soften'd glow of glory bathes her brow, 
 The sweetest smile plays round her lovely mouth. 
 Her voice is like the music of the bough 
 Which vernal winds make in the sunny south, 
 Low as a ripple o'er a polish'd stone, 
 And soft as is the turtle's fondest tone.
 
 181 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 TALL and comely virgin, with an air 
 Of freedom in her every step and mien, 
 With open eye, and like the white-rose 
 fair, 
 She walk'd majestic o'er the springy green ; 
 Of all the Virtues she did look the queen, 
 As by the hand she led a little boy, 
 So generous and trusty, that, I ween, 
 His name was Candour and in her employ : 
 A plummet and a triangle she bore. 
 With which she tried the principles of things. 
 And though she was a favourite with the poor, 
 She had but little fellowship with kings. 
 A cloudless sun appear'd her radiant face. 
 Which shed a glory over all her race.
 
 182 
 
 INNOCENCE. 
 
 MET with her one day among the flowers, 
 In company with Peace and Purity, 
 With eyes, like violets in April showers, 
 Which told a tale of sweet security ; 
 'Twas in the month that brings the red-rose-bud 
 I found her, with her breath as sweet as May, 
 When clouds like shallops through the welkin scud, 
 And earth was keeping high and holy-day ; 
 O ! how her laughter made the valleys ring 
 As bounding o'er the hillocks on she sped. 
 More happy than a lark when on the wing 
 His stream of song he pours down on our head ! 
 Her soul was stainless as the snowdrop fair, 
 And for her cheek no blush e'er crimson'd there.
 
 183 
 
 GRIEF. 
 
 SOLITAIRE, she loves to live alone,— 
 For little company the mourner needs ; 
 Her chief delight is in a graveyard stone 
 Half buried with the charnel's rankest weeds. 
 A smiling babe is pictured in her mind — 
 And faithful love will keep the vision there — 
 While her sweet comfort lies in beino; kind 
 To woe-worn souls who kindred trials share ; 
 Her treasures are a flaxen ringlet bound 
 With crimson silk, and two wee socks of white, 
 A sash which once a tiny waist enwound, 
 And, as if made from summer rays of light, 
 One very small but richly 'broider'd frock : 
 Few things in number, yet a precious stock.
 
 184 
 
 PATIENCE. 
 
 ^PON the sea-shore sits the gentle maid, 
 Her steadfast gaze upon the distant Hne, 
 Eyeing the white dots skimming o'er 
 the brine, ' 
 
 Watchful, unwearied, calm, and undismay'd; 
 The wanton winds are playing with her hair, 
 And softly glows her forehead and her cheek, 
 Red are her lips and like ripe cherries sleek, 
 And white as marble is her bosom fair : 
 ' Welcome, sweet breeze, health-giving, fresh, and 
 
 pure. 
 Forerunner true of my long absent love ! " 
 The maiden sings, then sighs, " What I endure ! 
 But all is known to Him who rules above ; 
 Forbear, my soul, his providence to blame. 
 He gives and takes, and blessed be his Name I "
 
 ]85 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 T eventide witliin a grot she sate 
 — A prayer of Christ* close lying by 
 her feet — 
 
 Not hers to question the decrees of fate, 
 Or sigh for aught beyond her cool retreat; 
 A brook ran rippling by her mossy seat, 
 And with its water she her thirst did slake, 
 In coarsest fare she found a dainty sweet, 
 And ate the berry growing on the brake ; 
 The ivy trailing down her rocky wall 
 Shone with the lustre of the setting sun, 
 And one sweet lily, like a saintly nun, 
 Gleam'd where the evening ray was wont to fall, 
 While light — which sought a silent place to die — 
 Linger'd like moonbeams in her soft blue eye. 
 
 ♦ " Thy will be done."
 
 186 
 
 WRITTEN IN LONDON. 
 
 IE simple beauties of my native fields ! 
 O ye are doubly precious to me now, 
 The pleasure which your homely beauty 
 yields 
 With happiness my spirit doth endow ! 
 This busy bustle of the city street, 
 The fever for excitement seen in all, 
 The hurried tramp of Mammon's restless feet. 
 The tinsell'd great, and the poor ragged small. 
 All make me long for that sweet home where I 
 Shall change this Babel's murmur for the trees'. 
 When London's gloom before the sun shall fly, 
 And I shall roam the meadows with the bees ; 
 No round of false enjoyments I desire, 
 While Nature warms my bosom with her fire. 
 
 ^
 
 187 
 
 NON-RECOGNITION. 
 
 ^^HE soul is the divinity of man, 
 
 A. thing too subtile for our mortal sight ; 
 
 fe Q^^y Siu The grosser part of us our fellows scan, 
 
 Pleased with the lamp and careless of the light. 
 The Summer, with her countenance so bright, 
 Shines oft in vain and vainly shows her flowers, 
 Till winter comes with his tempestuous showers, 
 And trailing garments darkling as the night ; 
 So is it with the sun when in his might 
 He proudly marches through the noontide sky. 
 Few pause to view him in his raiment white, 
 More haste to see him, steep'd in crimson, die ; — 
 The mint smells sweetest 'neath the crusher's tread, 
 And grass gives little scent till it is dead.
 
 188 
 
 EPHEMERA. 
 
 ^S transient as a ship-track on the sea, 
 The impress of a billow on the sand, 
 The cloud's fleet shadow o'er a grassy 
 lea, 
 Or footprint on a dry and dusty land, 
 Js the renown of half the minstrel band ; 
 They write their names in snow, the sun outshines, 
 And every vestige of their frigid lines 
 Rude Time rubs out with his relentless hand ; 
 It is not so with a true poet's thought. 
 That lights our mental zenith like a sun ; 
 And when the bard's Titanic work is wrought, 
 And down the drowsy west his course has run. 
 Whilst dark, and darker, grows the gloom of night. 
 Star after star is lit up by his light.
 
 189 
 
 TO THE TORRIDGE. 
 
 ] OFT sleeping in the mellow'd light of eve, 
 I watch thy waters stain'd with upland- 
 green, 
 
 And mark the sun, all glorious, take his leave 
 Of golden cornfields and the heavens serene. 
 The deep repose that slumbers on thy wave, 
 The lake-like beauty of each wood-fringed bay, 
 The murmuring music of each mimic cave, 
 And banks that wind along the river way : 
 O how I love them with my soul's best love ! 
 To me thy charms, like youth's, are ever new. 
 The mirror'd image of the cloud above, 
 Or young moon floating in the welkin-blue. 
 Or when the Night, ere she to robe begins, 
 Sprinks thy fair breast with heads of silver pins.
 
 190 
 
 EARTH. 
 
 ^^^f HIS is tlie spot where my soul's life doth 
 
 lie; 
 Year after year have made their annual 
 
 round 
 Since he was laid beneath this tiny mound. 
 And yet the tear you see is in ray eye •, 
 I never shall forget his agony : 
 I left him for a moment ere he died, 
 And when he found I was not by his side 
 — They said — my babe without me could not die ; 
 So then I stretch'd myself upon his bed, 
 And told him I would go to heaven with him, 
 His pretty face soon lost its fever-red, 
 And in a moment his bright eyes grew dim ; 
 Then like a lamb he slept — my darling child, 
 I fear, without me is not reconciled !
 
 ]91 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 OOK up, poor weeper, dost thou see that 
 light. 
 That lovely star that glitters in the west? 
 It may be there thy missing one doth rest, 
 And adds a brighter glory to the night ; 
 Or that small speck now mirror'd on thy sight. 
 And sparkling like a gem upon thy tear, 
 May be the eye of thy lamented dear, 
 And looking; down to fill thee with delight: 
 I will not say, fair mourner — cease to grieve, 
 It is love's chiefest pleasure thus to weep ; 
 Light wedded to a shadow doth receive 
 A richer splendour — Death's dark shade is deep. 
 Yet know, but for the darkness of Death's night. 
 Our home in Heaven would never shine so bright.
 
 LEGENDS.
 
 " A deeper import 
 Lurks in the legend told my infant years, 
 Than lies upon that truth we live to learn.'' 
 
 Coleridge.
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE LOGAN. 
 
 HE legend of the rocking-stone 
 The bardic muse would sino-. 
 The brave renown which doth enshrine 
 That wonder-working thing. 
 
 Amid a lusty warrior-band, 
 Barbaric, fierce, and rude, 
 
 Charged with betrayal of his tribe, 
 A stalwart Briton stood. 
 
 His eyes were black as pitchy night 
 And burn'd with savage ire ; 
 
 His hair shone like a raven's wins: 
 Beneath the solar fire.
 
 196 THE LEGEND OF THE LOGAN. 
 
 Within their granite council ring 
 Cornwallia's chiefs appear'd, 
 
 And in their midst Penhaligon 
 With long and silvery beard. 
 
 Spake the great Druid, " Say, Treglown, 
 What answer canst thou give ? 
 
 Poldregan and Tregarthen taught 
 No traitorous wretch should live. 
 
 " Thy God, thy country, and thy chief, 
 Treglown, thou hast betray'd ; 
 
 And to the stranger thou hast sold 
 Thy mother and thy maid." 
 
 When thus the grave Damnonii spoke : 
 
 " Unto the Logan hie. 
 And let him try the stone of doom, 
 
 If that move we will die." 
 
 Away unto a hoary crag 
 
 Beside the angry sea, 
 Treglown the haughty culprit sped, 
 
 To prove his destiny.
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE LOGAN. 197 
 
 " Stretch out thy hand!" the elder cried : 
 
 " A righteous power lies there ; 
 That rock which shields the innocent, 
 
 The guilty will declare." 
 
 " The test ! " spake great Penhaligon : 
 
 The people held their breath — 
 He touch'd it, but behold it stood 
 
 As motionless as death. 
 
 Then rang; along the rifted cliffs 
 
 Of rugged Castle Treyn 
 The wildest shout of savage joy 
 
 AVas ever heard, I ween. 
 
 " Ascend that peak, thou perjured wretch, 
 
 Base caitiff, traitor, slave ! 
 And take thy hate of freedom down 
 
 Into thy ocean grave ! " 
 
 A silence solemn as the tomb 
 
 Hung heavy on the air : 
 " Leap !" shouted the old white-hair'd chief ; 
 
 *' Leap !" echoed everywhere.
 
 198 ELENA. 
 
 When, like a sea-bird from a rock, 
 He shot down suddenly, 
 
 And all that follow'd was the moan 
 Of the mysterious sea. 
 
 I 
 
 ELENA. 
 
 T is a lav of the West Countree,- 
 A ditty with a tear, — 
 As tender a tale of faithful love 
 As ever smote the ear. 
 
 O bonny was the merry May 
 As ever a May had been ; 
 
 And merry was the bonny bird 
 That warbled in its sheen.
 
 ELENA. 199 
 
 And bonny too the greenwood shade, 
 
 Where her true love would rest ; 
 And when the Summer warm'd the glade 
 
 A very cuckoo's nest ? 
 
 But where doth fair Elena stray, 
 
 All woe-begone and lone, 
 With hair dishevell'd, visage pale, 
 
 And speechless as a stone ? 
 
 Why wanders she in pathless ways 
 
 With her lack-lustre eye. 
 And vacant stare, and folded hands? 
 
 O tell the minstrel why. 
 
 She met her maiden at the door 
 
 Where her true love had lain, 
 For three long weary, weary weeks, 
 
 In agonizing pain. 
 
 " O tell me all the truth," she cried, 
 
 " Ere you from me depart ; 
 Is my love dead?"— "Yes," sobb'd the maid;- 
 
 That one word broke her heart.
 
 200 
 
 ELENA. 
 
 His life was hers, she lived in him, 
 Without him she was dead ; 
 
 Thus hap 'd it in the early morn, 
 She left her widow'd bed : — 
 
 I 
 
 The earth was very dark below, 
 The heavens were bright above, 
 
 So she wrapt herself in her winding-sheet, 
 And lay down with her love.
 
 201 
 
 JEMMO'S CURSE. 
 
 T was the golden harvest time, 
 
 And life went merry in the fields, 
 Until St. Mary's even-chime, 
 When labour unto pleasure yields. 
 
 In mazy dance, and pleasant song, 
 
 Young maidens mingled with the men. 
 
 And cheer'ly sped old Time along, 
 
 As " necks" were cried from hill to plain. 
 
 When hard by where the Torridge flows, 
 Upon the hillside in the east, 
 
 Some sheaves are seen in shiny rows. 
 The promise of a future feast.
 
 202 JEMMO'S CURSE. 
 
 " To-morrow, if the day is fine, 
 
 We'll stack this corn," old Jemmo cried; 
 " To-morrow, boys, be here at nine, 
 To-morrow's noon shall see it ride !" 
 
 But He whose thoughts are not as ours 
 Oped wide the windows of the sky, 
 
 And pour'd his sweet refreshing; showers 
 Upon the meadows hot and dry. 
 
 The cattle leap'd for very joy, 
 
 The thirsty landscape wore a smile, 
 
 " Butter and barley now, my boy !" 
 The milkmaid chuckled by the stile. 
 
 But Jemmo's eye is dark with rage. 
 
 And passion boils in Jemmo's blood. 
 With Heaven he will the contest wage. 
 And dares to curse the corn and God. 
 
 That night, while stretch 'd upon his bed, 
 Awoke by thunder, wind, and rain, 
 
 He lifted his ungrateful head 
 
 And cursed the corn and God again.
 
 JEMMO'S CURSE. 203 
 
 The morning breaks, away he hies 
 To seek the cornfield on the hill, 
 
 When, lo ! a scene confronts his eyes, — 
 And now his cursing tongue is still. 
 
 A whirlwind from the mighty Hand 
 
 That holds the desolating wind 
 Had swept the vile blasphemer's land, 
 
 And scarcely left an ear behind. 
 
 That very morn the ebbing tide 
 
 Bore Jemrao's golden sheaves away, 
 
 And soon his crop was floating wide 
 Among the billows of the bay. 
 
 And now unto this hour they tell, 
 
 That, when the sickle wounds the grain. 
 
 The storm that on old Jemmo fell 
 Returns to curse the spot again.* 
 
 * This is a very old tradition, which is as fully believed in 
 at the present time as that the sun will rise at his appointed 
 hour; I have often heard the inhabitants of Bideford say, 
 when they see the field under the sickle, " We are certain 
 to have rain soon, for they are cutting Jemmo's field." The 
 field is situated near the Barnstaple road turnpike gate.
 
 204 
 
 THE "YETH" HOUNDS. 
 
 ^'^^HE reds are in the eastern sky, 
 
 I wot they are for wind or rain : 
 For the sun has got a coppery eye ; 
 And list the thunder of the main ! 
 
 *' How loud the tumbling billows roar ! 
 
 God save the wight upon the sea — 
 For that ground swell is evermore 
 
 A merry signal unto me. 
 
 " I hear the storm shriek o'er the land, 
 And see the furies ride the clouds 
 
 Above the wreck upon the strand. 
 
 With drown'd men dripping in the shrouds.
 
 THE " YETH" HOUNDS. 205 
 
 " O for a wild and starless night, 
 
 And a curtain o'er the white moon's face, 
 
 For the moor-fiend hunts an infant sprite, 
 At cock-crow, over Parkham chase ! 
 
 " Hark to the cracking of the whip ! 
 
 A merry band are we, I ween ; 
 List to the * Yeth' hounds' yip ! yip ! yip ! 
 
 Ha, ha ! 'tis thus we ride unseen." 
 
 A lady weeps within her hall. 
 And fairer than the snow is she ; 
 
 Alas ! alas I so black a pall 
 
 Should shroud her little dead babye. 
 
 A lady weeps within her hall, 
 " My little lost one," crieth she, 
 
 " No holy priest eame at the call 
 To shrive my soul and christen thee ! 
 
 ** O, I had roses on my cheek. 
 And I had summer in mine eyes, 
 
 But roses fade when winds are bleak. 
 And joy is never fed on sighs.
 
 206 THE " YETh" HOUNDS. 
 
 " I was a moon with one bright star, 
 A dove with one wee doveling dear, 
 
 Away the light has wander'd far, 
 I mourn my doveling with a tear." 
 
 The mother's hair is trailing down, 
 And hides the coffin like a pall, 
 
 " My lovely babe can wear no crown," 
 She wails within the silent hall. 
 
 She wails within her silent hall, 
 And fairer than the snow is she, 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! so black a pall 
 
 Should shroud thee, little dead babye ! 
 
 " Thou mad'st thy heaven of my breast, 
 And I found mine within thine eyes. 
 
 Woe ! woe for thee, thou canst not rest, 
 Bereft of me and Paradise ! 
 
 " And ever, when the nights are dark, 
 A phantom-hunter on his steed. 
 
 They say, will chase thy spirit — hark ! — 
 O whither do those horsemen speed ?"
 
 THE "\eth" hounds. 207 
 
 " Good lady, prithee do not fear, 
 Thy Lord is waiting at the door ;" 
 
 Poor heart, she open'd it to hear 
 
 The " yeth"-hounds yipping on the moor."* 
 
 * The above ballad illustrates a superstition still lingering in 
 the rural districts of North Devon. I knew an old matron 
 who was a firm believer in the existence of the moor-fiend and 
 his hounds, and that every unbaptized infant that died became 
 the prey of the " Yeth'' hunter. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 CHISWICK PRESS :— WHITTINGHAM AND WILKINS, 
 TOOKS COnRT, CHAKCERY LANE.
 
 By the same AutJior. 
 POEMS. 
 
 Kent and Co. 
 
 Opinions of the Press. 
 
 Mr. Capern is a real Poet, a man whose writings will be like a tjleam of 
 summer sunshine in every Household which they enter. — I'raser's Miigazine. 
 
 We heartily wish an extensive sale for this second edition of Mr. Capern's 
 honest and hearty verses, — melodious and fresh as the skylark notes, under 
 which many of the Poems were nrentally composed. — Critic. 
 
 Pieces ot fresh rural Beauty coming to us like Flowering Boughs out of 
 a Hedge in Spring-time. — Leader. 
 
 Contains many exquisitely beautiful Compositions, and evinces a tone of 
 mind whose equanimity may be envied. — II eekly Dispatch. 
 
 There runs throughout these Poems that refined tone of thought, to the 
 expression of which a metrical form is a necessary condition — we find rich 
 tissues of imagery, playful fancy, plentiful invention, and above all that 
 translation of thought into representative circumstances that ever characterizes 
 the true Poet — such is the distinguished excellence of Keats, Shelley, Tenny- 
 son, and Alexander Smith, in all of whom the true poetical constitution has 
 been pre-eminently visible. — Inquirer. 
 
 Many of the pieces have the soul of genuine Poetry in them. The " Rural 
 Postman" is a Poem which Isaac Walton would have been delighted with, 
 for its love of nature and genial spirit. — Literary Gazette. 
 
 It is what Poetry was in the sweet days of Burns and Goldsmith. — Morning 
 Post. 
 
 Honest, fresh, lusty verses by the Postman of Bideford. He is the clover 
 lark, and must not pine for the golden cage. — Athenaeum. 
 
 A nohle Poet — I have been reading Capern's Poems with equal attention 
 and delight. — IT. S. Landor. 
 
 A man of genius of a very high order if not the higliest, a Poet immeasur- 
 ably superior to the Bloomfields and the other self-educated versifiers pre- 
 sented to the reading public during the last half century. The volume must 
 soon be in every hand. — Standard. 
 
 Very genuine and ver}^ touching — a noble store of those warm thoughts 
 and strains of homely patriotism in which lie the power of the English 
 people. — Examiner. 
 
 He produces rhymes equal in harmony to Metastasio — who wrote in the 
 most musical language upon earth. — North Devon Journal. 
 
 Fresh from the fountain wells of nature and feeling. — Wootmer'sGazette. 
 
 The liquid air seems filled with the melodies of the olden time as we read 
 ' May' and ' June.' Tlie Lion Flag is an Ode of great merit — nothing 
 more spirit stirring has been written on the war. — Civil Service Gazette. 
 
 Mr. Capern is one of those few men whom God has endowed with that 
 rare gift genius. — Birmingham Daily Press. 
 
 The ' Reverie ' seems to us one of the most beautiful Poems that our day 
 has produced.— Somerset County Gazette. 
 
 England will confirm the verdict of Devonshire, and hail in Edward 
 Capern no unworthy addition to the long and glorious list of her sweet 
 singers. — Ladies' Companion. 
 
 A striking example of the pursuit of Poetry under difficulties. — Spectator. 
 
 I'
 
 By the same Author. 
 
 He may justly be comforted with Burns in the thought that it is more 
 worthy to reflect honour on his profession, than for his profession to reflect 
 honour on him. — Western Times. 
 
 Looking at the circnmstances under which these Poems were written, 
 we must regard the volume as one of the wonders of the age. — Weekly 
 Times, 
 
 BALLADS AND SONGS. 
 
 Kent and Co. 
 
 Opinions oj the Press. 
 
 The Rural Postman has listened to good advice. He is still, though 
 known and favoured, a minstrel of the lanesand villages, writing songs and 
 
 ballads, generally, to melodies of his own The veises are of tlie same 
 
 hearty, fresh, and healthy class ; the rhymes chime together lightly and 
 musically, the sentiment is warm, the expression rich and truthful. We 
 mark, indeed, an advance in Mr. Capern's compositions. Without being 
 more elaborate, which would imply degeneracy, considering the HUthor's 
 peculiar purity, — they exhibit a finer polish, and an imagination more 
 creative, than his former writings. Nevertheless, the merit of Mr. Capern 
 as a poet lies, a"nd always will lie, in his genuine outbursts of feeling, affec- 
 tion, patriotism, and especially love of nature, for the " love of love" is 
 strong within Inm. Entering into an unbidden partnership (so to speak) 
 with the thrusb, the linnet, and the finch, he pipes on his oaten reed, and 
 adds something to the meadow or woodland chorus. It is easy to show, 
 however, tliat liis strain is not one of monotony. There is something of 
 Tom Hood's quality in an apostrophe commencing, — 
 
 " Christ befriend thee, poor old man." 
 
 " The Bereaved One," " The Little Scarecrow," " Polly Lee," are examples 
 which illustrate the versatility. " The Song of the Little Hop-Pickers," is 
 one we can imagine the villagers singing after reading it once. But that the 
 Rural Postman is the Rural Postman still, is told by the pretty simjilicity of a 
 fond but foolish lyric, " Sammy went a wooing." It is such a rhjTiie as this, 
 we fancy, that sets the girls and boys singing in Devonshire. — Athenceirm. 
 
 Every bird which sings amid his breezy hills, evei-y flower which blooms 
 within iiis verdant valleys he has glorified in his songs. One feels that it is 
 such men as tliis heartv and healthy rural postman who help to preserve tlie 
 muscle of Englishmen, and the nerve of English thouglit .... Mr. Capern 
 lias chosen the right path, let him follow it to its end; and as he moves 
 along we are but too happy to receive his gifts of wayside flowers. The 
 lyric, for the reason we have already given, and which places the Scotch 
 so much above us, demands here a gifted exponent, and that exponent 
 Edward Capern may yet become. All we need do now is to cull a few 
 charming lyrics from the volume before us, and if our readers are disposed 
 to forego those, and such as those, for the bare chance of droning didactics, 
 or any other description of poetry whatever, all tliat we can say is, that 
 we are contented with what is already pulsing with life, and joy, and 
 beauty. — Critic. 
 
 Mr. Capern's songs are distinguished for their sweetness and cheerful- 
 ness. ... He sympathises thoroughly with country-folk, and enters into 
 their sports, their loves, their humble hopes and fears, their difficulties and 
 dano'ers. — Leader.
 
 By the same Author. 
 
 Contains many pleasant rustic soncjs and Devonshire ballads, rhymed 
 siniply and often tenderly. Mr. Capern Iiears the linnet, and the robin, 
 and the finch warbling through the dale, whde 
 
 ind he reasons, 
 
 " Pipes the thrush in merry mood ; 
 Poet-laureate of the wood :" 
 
 Do not minor minstrels sing 
 
 Sweetly with the forest king ! 
 So may my untutor'd lay 
 Swell the music of the day ;" 
 
 and it is really to the music of the day that his verses make addition. 
 
 Examiner. 
 
 The cottager's children, the wild flowers, the little maiden scaring the 
 rooks from the corn, the shy lass waiting at the stile for her sweetheart, — 
 these are the themes he loves. His songs are sung in the sultry hay-field, 
 and around the cosy ingle in winter. There is room in the woVld of song 
 for Capern as well as Tennyson. — Dublin University Magazine. 
 
 How he burst upon the world with his casket of poetical jewels is 
 assuredly known to all lovers of true poetry. — The Paet's Magazine. 
 
 Air. Caj^ern is one of tliose fortunate writers who gain not merely 
 admirers but friends. His whole creed, his whole teaching, his wliole life 
 may be summed up in one word — love. Edward Capern's songs had all 
 the freshness of true poetic talent. One could see that he did not write 
 ot birds and flowers because it was fashionable to do so, but because in his 
 very heart of hearts he lored them. The voice of a real joy rang through 
 all his pleasant pages. Here was no rhymer writing for effect; here was a 
 man who rambled every day through the green lanes of Devon, stopping 
 every now and then to listen to the cheery carol of the thrush, or bending 
 down to pluck the earliest primrose, and so of birds and primroses he sang. 
 .... V^illage scenes and village loves, flowers and birds, these were the 
 subjects of Mr. Capern's first volume. In his second he has not much 
 widened his range; as why should he? Will not a man write best about 
 that which he knows best and loves best? Nor can such subjects be very 
 readily exhausted. V^arying as nature they are as everlasting. — Sharpe's 
 London Magazine. 
 
 His ballads and songs are charming. We can well believe that his songs 
 are sung by many a cosy ingle in beautiful North Devon. He is a poet of 
 the people. The robin, 
 
 " Which ever in the haunch of winter sings," 
 
 is no dearer to the dwellers in quiet hamlets and lonely cottages than such 
 a poet as Mr Capern. — The Piymorith Mail. 
 
 The true spirit of poetry pervades every line. — The BideJ'ord Gazette. 
 
 There is a breezy suushiuy freshness about the spirit and language of 
 these [Ballads and Songs] that proclaims the ])oet's love of nature and his 
 admiration of his native county. In addition to the truthfulness of the 
 portraiture the volume abounds with imagery of great poetic sweetness and 
 natural tenderness. — The Western Times. 
 
 These songs are, as were his former ones, the natural outflowings of a true 
 
 and noble heart, inspired with a love of all things beautiful Such a poet 
 
 is a benefactor to his race, and the love with wliich the children of Devon 
 receive the words of their native poet, show how fully they appreciate, and 
 how dear to them is the son with whicli Cod has blessed them. — The Bir- 
 mingham Journal.
 
 By the same Author. 
 THE DEVONSHIRE MELODIST. 
 
 BoosEv AND Sons. 
 
 Opwions of the Press. 
 
 Not only betokens the true poetical instinct, but exhibits a metrical know- 
 ledge to be derived from experience alone. If Edward Capern be in reality 
 a postman, his friends may greatly improve his position by sending liim to 
 London and making him take some of the work out of the ballad-writers' 
 hands now prosecuting their career in the metropolis . . . Altogether there is 
 much attraction in these little pieces, and we should select from the twelve 
 " My Bonny Bell," " Come list, my love," and " Dorky May," as being 
 especially fresh and charming. — Standard. 
 
 Deserving of extensive popularity. — Neivsofthe World. 
 
 The name of P^dward Capern, the poet-postman of Bideford, is familiar 
 to many of our readers through the medium of the numerous songs and lyrics 
 which he has given to the public during the last few years. We have more 
 than once favourably noticed his volumes as they respectively appeared, and 
 now we have before us one of a fresh character, inasmuch as it gives music 
 with the words, and music of an attractive kind. A series of songs intro- 
 duce us to " My Honny Bell," " When the Cuckoo comes," and other pro- 
 ductions affording pleasant company , . . The accompaniments and 
 general arrangements of the whole by Mr. Murby evince a musician like 
 and masterly power which is highly creditable to that gentleman's taste and 
 talent. He has evidently bestowed great care on his work and deserves 
 warm eulogy for his part of the volume, " Robin is weeping," is particularly 
 tender and delicate in its style of accompaniment, and the " Christmas 
 Bells " is about as " telling " a bit of mirth and melody as we have listened 
 to for some time. The words of the latter are among Mr. Capern's happiest 
 effusions, proving that he has the right spirit within him — sweet as the May- 
 dew on his native thornbloom, fresh as the night-wind in his native valleys. 
 — Sun. 
 
 Tliere is a good deal of real poetry in the rural postman's verses. His 
 thoughts are natural, touching, and expressed with simplicity and consider- 
 able elegance. — London lUitstrated Ketvs. 
 
 This is a collection of melodies from the portfolio of that seraph of song who 
 has wooed the muse among the hills and vales of merry Devon. Already 
 it has had a large sale even in comparison with tlie books of the season. 
 But it would be a poor compliment to the genius of the postman-poet of 
 Bideford to say that these songs will greatly increase the rejiutation of 
 Edward Capern. 'Ihere are few song writers at present who for vigour 
 and simplicity can stand up against Edward Capern, and ill this collection 
 there are several pieces which will rank among tlie best specimens of this 
 species of comjiosition. " Christmas Bells" is one of the happiest . . . 
 It is one of those pieces which contains, as it were, the condensed essence of 
 every one's thoughts expressed with the rhythm, the simplicity and the live- 
 liness which are tlie heart and soul of a song. — Treuunan's Eieter Flying Post. 
 The fame of our poet is too widely spread over the nation to need any of 
 the common ways of puffing to make him known. What reader that loves 
 poetry simple as nature, beautiful as the flowers of the field, warm as sun- 
 shine; has not Capern's poems among his choice treasures of the muses 
 ... It would be strange if a poet should not have in the common accepta- 
 tion of the phrase " music in his soul," who has a soul of music : it would 
 not therefore be surprising to find that some of these airs to these airy songs 
 are of the poet's own composing. — Western Times.
 
 'S
 
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