Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 https://archive.org/details/metricaltalesothOOIove METRICAL TALES AND OTHER POEMS 13 Y SAMUEL LOVER \/v/ ILLUSTRATED BY W. HARVEY, HABLOT K. BROWNE, KENNY MEADOWS, F. SKILL, AND P. SKELTON. LONDON IIOULSTON AND WRIGHT, 65 PATERNOSTER ROW. MDCCCLX . ip • BOSTON college library CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. LONDON : HENRY VTZETF.LLY, PRINTER AND ENGRAVER, GOVGH SQUARE, FLEET STREET. 35495 CON TEN TS. PACK THE FISHERMAN ........ 9 FATHER ROACH ....... 29 THE BLACKSMITH ........ 4 0 THE DEW-DROP, A METRICAL FANTASY . 67 THE CROOKED STICK ....... 93 TO MARY ......... 98 THE FLOODED HUT OF THE MISSISSIPPI ..... 101 N YMPH OF NIAGARA ....... 104 THE FLOWER OF NIGHT. ....... 106 THE FORSAKEN ........ 108 YEARNING ......... 109 LOVE AND DEATH . . . . . . Ill NOTES ......... 117 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. DESIGNED BY PAGE “ He cut the strong lashings that held his rich prize, He was deaf to the calls of his own heart’s wild cries.” . P. Skelton. . 11 “ She would gather the flowers from the dark cliff, and pass Round some pebble a primitive tie of wild grass, And, attaching her nosegay, would fling it from high, And the flow’rs fell on Dermot, as though from the sky.” . P. Skill. . 16 “ And now, under Heaven, my arm shall bring Thy felon neck to the hempen string 1 ” P. Skelton. . 31 “ A search For the fire-arms conceal’d, tore up many a perch Of the poor Blacksmith’s garden.” If. K. Browne. . 47 “ For the barrel grows red — the charge ignites — Explodes ! — and the guilty Squireen bites The dust where he falls.” H. K. Browne. . 64 Tailpiece 66 ‘‘A dew-drop, once, Was touched by the wand In a summer’s night, Of a faithless sprite.” . W. Harvey. . 68 Tailpiece 75 “ To the desolate earth, But grasses so humble, Where no lovers remain And brambles so plain.” . W. Harvey. . 76 “ When Winter his silvery And the fern in the wood, Banner unfurled, And the rush by the stream, Were sparkling with gems In the morning beam.” . W. Harvey. . 82 “ To Mary ’’—Tailpiece 100 “ ‘ My child,’ said the father, ‘ that dovecot of thine Should enliven our faith in the Mercy Divine.’ ” . . . P. Skelton. . 1C1 Tailpiece 103 “ Oh Cupid !— how sadly grotesque is the view Of white gloves and favours To Death, for his labours, And hat-bands to you I ” K. Meadows. . Ill PREFACE. We are told of two ladies wlio sought to outshine each other at every point of rivalry, even to that of dress, and one of them, believing that the gorgeous and the extravagant had been tried a Voutrance , determined, on a certain occasion, to try the effect of contrast, and dressed herself accordingly in all the simplicity of white muslin, and by that very simplicity achieved a conquest. Even so these metrical tales are introduced to society ; they affect not the majestic ; they do not “ In scepter’ d pall come sweeping by they do not march in stately Iambic measure, but are content with the easy gait of the Anapestic ; they are not gorgeously PREFACE. arrayed, neither weft nor woof of their clothing; being; of c p o golden thread or Tyrian dye ; in short, like the lady in muslin, it is on their simplicity alone they must depend for any favour they may win. It has been said that of late poetry has gone out of fashion ; that this is essentially an age of utility ; that amid rapidly-increasing and wonderful realities, the spirit of romance has departed, and fiction has been superseded by the greater won- ders of fact. — Poets, however, are a wilful race, and, notwith- standing all the evil forebodings of prosers, would not he gain- said ; they would break a lance in the lists of fame. We have had, accordingly, knights of many new orders : “ Satanic ” — “ Spasmodic ” — “ Metaphysical ” — and so forth ; and now, Xobles and heralds, by your leave,” an old knight of an older order asks permission to run a course for the honour of the lady in white muslin. But, allegory apart, and to say a few plain words to this so-called prosaic age, the matter of fact is this : — I have great faith in the universal love of rhyme. I think it is inherent in our nature to he pleased with measured sound, and if with PREFACE. measure there is also syllabic echo (I mean rhyme) I think the pleasure is increased ; and it is this belief that has tempted me to try the experiment of telling a few simple stories in simple rhyme, and testing if the nineteenth century he not as open as the earlier ones to he pleased until composition something after the fashion of the ancient ballads ; and though not adopting their structure as to stanza, and though incapable of equalling the exquisite tenderness in which many of them abound, I have endeavoured to adhere to their unaffected simplicity. SAMUEL LOVER. Barnf.s, London*, November 1 . 1859 . THE FISHERMAN. The Fisherman who is the hero of the following tale is not merely a creature of imagination, for the self-denying spirit which forms the staple of the story, is, I am happy to say, in accordance with fact ; and the last magnanimous achievement of the poor Fisherman is literally true. Magnanimous may seem an inflated word to employ in connection with so liumhle a subject, hut it is believed that the reader, on arriving at the end of the story, will not think the epithet unwarrantable. THE FISHERMAN. ’T was down by the shore of the steep coast of Kerry Dwelt a young Irish Fisherman — mournful, or merry, As the fast-changing flow of his feelings might he ; Just as tempests of winter will darken the sea, Or the breeze and the sunshine of summer will chase In ripples and brightness along its fair face. 12 THE FISHERMAN. And what made the darkness of young Donoghue ? ’T was the sense of a sorrow-steeped poverty grew, Like the dripping sea- weed by the storm-beaten shore, And clung fast to the heart sorrow’s tide had run o’er. And what made his brightness ? A lovely young girl — The prize of his fancy — more precious than pearl — And if diving the sea could have made the hoy win it, Were it fifty miles deep, he ’d have surely been in it. But parents are thoughtful, as lovers are blind ; And tho’ Dermot and Peggy were both of a mind, The father and mother, on either side, thought That over-young weddings with sorrow were fraught To those who were fast hound in poverty’s fetter ; So the mother would only consent he should get her When “ times were more promising.” 0 ! where ’s the lover Broke promise so often as Time hath done, ever ? . THE FISHERMAN. And poor Dermot, as promising periods drew nigher, Found “ Owld Father Time” was a “ mighty big liar.” Young Donoghue's friends used to rally him often, Why to marriage he could not his sweet Peggy soften ; They said, “ Marry at once, and take chance, like the rest.” 1 But young Donoghue, while a sigh swelled his breast, Would laugh off their taunts, and say, “ Better to wait Than * marry in haste, and repent * when too late.” ’T was thus that he spoke, but the thoughts were more deep That kept him awake when the world was asleep ; Tie thought of the joys that would bless him, if she Were the wife of his bosom — his cushla ma chree ; 2 But, suddenly, conscience would sternly reprove, And balance the scale between passion and love, 1 See Xotes at the end of the Volume. 14 THE FISHERMAN. “ By wedding his darlin’ what would he he doin’ But playing the guide where the road led to ruin P ” And then by his manly resolve he would profit, And, closing his eyes, say — “ I must not think of it.” But fancy would trouble his feverish rest, For in dreams the sweet vision still haunted his breast ; lie saw his beloved one, bewitching, as when, Fresh, fair, round, and lovely, she tripped down the glen, Her blush like the morn, and her hair dark as night, Her brow’s playful shadow o’er eyes gleaming bright, Her lip like the rose, and her neck like the lily, Her tongue’s ready taunt making suitors look silly — All suitors but one — and to him the sweet tongue With accents of tenderness ever was strung, And the eye and the brow forgot coquetry’s art, And were open’d — to let him look into her heart. THE FISHERMAN. 0, dream too delicious ! — he ’d start and awake, And again summon courage the dream to forsake — First, his arms open’d wide to clasp beauties of air, And then chasten’d thought clasp’d his hands in deep pray’r, And he vow’d that he never would darken the brow That glow’d with the light of mirth’s witchery now. And Peggy knew this — and she lov’d him the more ; And oft, when poor Dermot was stretch’d on the shore And lost in sad thought — pretty Peggy, perchance Half pleased, and half pitying, might furtively glance From the did' overhead — and her sensitive heart Could divine what his felt — and, with delicate art, She would gather the dowers from the dark cliff, and pass Pound some pebble a primitive tie of wild grass, And, attaching her nosegay, would ding it from high, And the dow’rs fell on Dermot, as though from the sky : — THE FISHERMAN. From the sky? — say from Heaven : — for the dew ne’er did drop From the fountain on high on the summer- scorch’d crop, More assuaging its fervour, refreshing its might, Than those flow’rs dropp’d on him from that Ileaven-crown’d height ! THE FISHERMAN. IT Then would Dermot take heart — and he thought some fine day Would reward him, at last, for this cruel delay ; He had heard it remarked, “ It was no use to fret,” And believed there was “ great luck in store for him yet ; ” 3 And, seeing that nothing is e’er got by wishing, lie thought he ’d “ get up out o ! that,” and go fishing ; But even then, Fancy still played her sly part : The net seemed a woman — each herring a heart. And thus it. went on — weeks and months passed away, And Peggy, the pride of the glen, Grew fairer and fairer with every day, And was courted by all sorts of men ; The long, and the short, and the fat, and the lean, In Peggy’s long list of admirers were seen, But Dermot, in all these great hosts round her thronging, If he was not the longest, at least was most longing, i THE FISHERMAN. Longing — though, vista of hope seem’d no clearer, Longing for time that came never the nearer. 0, longing ! — thou love-lure ! — with magical art Engend’ring the sultry mirage of the heart That flatters while flying, allures to betray, Exciting the thirst which it cannot allay ! Poor Dermot ! — What projects prodigious would start From the fanciful fumes of that furnace, his heart, To haunt his poor brain ! — Could he seize on some chance That might better his lot ? — Or his fortune advance By some feat of great prowess P — Some high-daring deed ? And what danger could daunt him — with Peggy the meed Some think we’re surrounded by mystical pow’rs, Who work into shape the wild dreams of lone hours, And ’t would seem that such spirits were willing to test THE FISHERMAN. 19 Of the deep-loving dreamer — soon doom’d to a trial For mortals the hardest of all — self-denial : — But if spirits of darkness do wait, as ’tis said, To pilot our way, if towards wrong we would tread, 0 ! watching us, also, are spirits of light To shed a bright ray on our pathway when right ! 4 Now Dermot, as old village chroniclers tell, Between the two legions was tried pretty well ; — They both had a pull at him. — Which did prevail You shall see very soon. — So, to finish my tale : — One winter’s day, when the sea rolled black, With a fringe of white on its foamy track, A storm- tost ship by the Skelligs past, 5 With shattered sail and shiver'd mast ; Vainly she strives to weather the shore — 20 THE FISHERMAN. Brave ship, thy course on the ocean ’s o’er ; Nor sail, nor helm, nor mariner’s might, Can save thee from being a wreck this night. The fishermen crowd with coil and rope, To the cliff where the doom’d ones drive ; For a while on the earth and the sea was hope, But nought with the might of the storm could cope — ’T was a scene that the heart might rive ; The faces of hardy fishermen paled, And women shrieked, and children wail’d, While the old village priest lent his hand to the toil, Heaving the cable and casting the coil, Cheering his flock with his voice and his blessing, While deep invocations to Heaven addressing, And when mortal might could no more essay, He exhorted his children to kneel and pray . 6 THE FISHERMAN. 21 A sight more solemn was seldom seen, Than that on the stormy cliff, I ween : They might not cast down to the sea a rope — But to Heaven they could raise the holy hope ! And down they knelt in that stormy night ; The lightning’s flash was the altar’s light, And they felt as they knelt on the drenched sod, The thunder, as ’twere the voice of God, With awful burst and solemn roll Calling away the sinful soul ; And trembling they pray For the castaway, And many a bead they tell, As over the billows madly-rolling The screaming sea-mew circling went, While the wailing wind was strangely blent With the clang of the chapel hell — 22 THE FISHERMAN. Tolling, tolling, solemnly tolling The manners’ funeral knell. When morning dawn’d, the storm was gone, But the thundering waves kept rolling on ; And the eyes of the village were set on the sea, To mark how much of the wreck might be. Her naked ribs stand gaunt and grim, While planks and spars in riot swim, And, among them floating, can Dermot scan A part of the wreck of the merchantman ; ’T was a laden cask. — The father and son By a glance implied what might yet he done ! ’T was wine — the rich wine of sunny Spain , 7 If Dermot a cask of that wine could gain, With the gold he should get for his stormy prize The dream of his heart he might realise ; TIIE FfSHERMAX. He then might wed Peggy.! — The thought and the act Of the father and son were as one ; they track’d Down the cliff their swift way, and as swiftly their boat They launch through the foam, on the waves they’re afloat — Have a care how you pull ! not a stroke must you miss ! The brave buoyant boat down the wat’ry abyss Sweeps deeply and swiftly, then up the white crest Of the wave over-hanging, she lifts her broad breast, And casts off the foam — like a sea-bird, whose feather Is made for the storming of hurricane weather. High heaves the huge wine-cask ! they pull might and main, As near and more near on the waif they gain, And a coil and a grapple unerringly threw The hand of the lover — well done, Donoghue ! The cask is secured ! — How his heart hounded then ! He’d have not changed his lot with the proudest of men, 24 THE FISHERMAN. As, lashing liis prize to the stern of the boat, With a heart-wild hurrah Dermot opened his throat, And then bent his sinewy arm to the oar, To pull his rich prize where the tide swept on shore ; But while with fond triumph his bosom heat high, While hope swell’ d his heart and joy flashed in his eye, He heard o’er the waters a wild wailing cry, And he hung on the oar with a paralys’d dread : — For the cry was a cry might have waken’d the dead, As up rose a fragment of wreck o’er the wave, Where a man clung for life — o’er a watery grave, Unless Dermot row hack that wild shrieker to save. With his prize at the stern, he can’t row ’gainst the storm, Where the billows surge up round the drowning man’s form. 0 ! what shall he do P — If he cling to his prize, Then surely that poor shipwreck’d mariner dies. THE FISHERMAN. 2a If the prize he give up — then he loses a wife ; lie then must abandon what *s dearer than life, — So he looked to his father, with death on his cheek, He looked — for in vain had he striven to speak ; And his father said, “ Dermot, my hoy, I am old, I can bear for the rest of my life the keen cold Of poverty’s blast — but for you, darling boy, With that rich cask of wine, there are long years of jov ; So do what you like — save the man — or the cask — God forgive me, if answering wrong what you ask.” 0 ! could you have seen the dark look of despair Young Donoghue cast on his prize safely there, While he hears the shrill cry of the fast-sinking sailor, And pale as his cheek was — just then it grew paler. Fierce, fierce was the struggle — the foul fiend had nigh Made Donoghue deaf to the drowning man’s cry, D 26 THE FISHERMAN. But Heaven heard the short prayer the young fisherman made To aid him — and swiftly he drew forth his blade, And the rough-handled knife of a fisherman wrought. A victory more glorious than sword ever fought, A victory o’er self, and a victory o’er love — That passion all passions supremely above — He cut the strong lashings that held his rich prize, He was deaf to the calls of his own heart’s wild cries, While the cry of another that noble heart heeds — 0 ! talk not of laurel-crown’d conquerors’ deeds, Compared with this fisherman’s feat of the ocean, This single-soul’d triumph of Christian devotion ! High Heaven is not slow in rewarding the good ; — When Dermot the drowning man saved from the flood, How his heart in its generous virtue grew brave, When he found ’twas his brother he ’d snatch’d from the wave BOSTON COLLEGE LTBB . ¥ CHESTNUT MASS. THE FISHERMAN. His brother — who long had been absent at sea In a war-ship, and prize-money plenty made he ; The money was safe Math the agent on shore — Let the wine-cask be lost in the breakers’ wild roar, As the prize-money freely was shar’d with poor Dermot, And ILmen gave thirsty young Cupid a permit, For Peggy was married to brave Donoghue, The loving, unselfish, and manly and true ; And, to end, as tales ended in my boyish day, “ If they did n’t live happy, that you and I may ! ” FATHER ROACH. This story, like the foregoing, is founded on fact, and exhibits a trial of patience that one wonders human nature could support. Passive endurance we know is more difficult than active, and that which is recorded in the following tale is strictly true. The main facts were communicated to me many years ago, in the course of one of many pleasant ram- bles through my native land, hy a gentleman of the highest character, whose courtesy and store of anecdote rendered a visit to his house memorable : — I speak of the late Christopher Bellow, Esq., of Mount Bellow, County of Galway. FATHER ROACH. Father Roach was a good Irish priest, Who stood in his stocking-feet, six feet, at least. I don’t mean to say he ’d six feet in his stockings ; He only had two — so leave off with your mockings — I know that yon think I was making a blunder : If Paddy says Hghtning, you think he means thunder : ♦ 32 FATHER ROACH. So I’ll say, in his boots, Father Roach stood to view A line comely man, of six feet two. O, a pattern was he of a true Irish priest. To carve the big goose at the big wedding feast , ;5 To peel the big pratie , and take the big can, (With a very big picture upon it of “ Dan,”) 9 To pour out the punch for the bridegroom and bride, Who sat smiling and blushing on either side, While their health went around — and the innocent glee Rang merrily under the old roof-tree. Father Roach had a very big parish, By the very big name of Knockdundherumdharish, With plenty of bog, and with plenty of mountain : — The miles he ’d to travel would throuhle you countin’. The duties were heavy — to go through them all — Of the wedding and christ ’ning, the mass, and sick-call — 10 Up early, down late, was the good parish pastor : — Few ponies than his were obliged to go faster. ! FATHER ROACH. 33 ' He’d a big pair o’ boots, and a purty big pony, Tbe boots greased with fat — but the baste was but bony ; For the pride of the flesh was so far from the pastor, That tbe baste thought it manners to copy his master ; And, in this imitation, the baste, by degrees, Would sometimes attempt to go down on his knees ; But in this too-great freedom the Father soon stopp’d him, With a dig of the spurs — or — -if need be — he whopp’d him. And Father Boach had a very big stick, Which could make very thin any crowd he found thick ; In a fair he would rush through the heat of the action, And scatter, like chaff to the wind, ev’ry faction. If the leaders escaped from the strong holy man, He made sure to be down on the heads of the clan, And the Blackfoot who courted each foeman’s approach, Faith, ’t is hot-foot he'd fly from the stout Father Itoach . 11 i E 34 FATHER ROACH. Father Roach had a very big mouth, For the brave broad brogue of the beautiful South; In saying the mass, sure his fine voice was famous, It would do your heart good just to hear his “ Oremus,” Which brought down the broad-shoulder’d hoys to their knees, As aisy as winter shakes leaves from the trees : — But the rude blast of winter could never approach, The power of the sweet voice of good Father Roach. I Father Roach had a very big heart, I And “ a way of his own” — far surpassing all art ; His joke sometimes carried reproof to a clown ; 12 He could chide with a smile : — as the thistle sheds down. He was simple, tho’ sage — he was gentle, yet strong ; When he gave good advice, he ne’er made it too long, But just roll’d it up like a snowball, and pelted It into your ear — where, in softness, it melted. FATHER ROACH. The good Father’s heart in its unworldly blindness, Overflowed with the milk of human kindness, And he gave it so freely, the wonder was great That it lasted so long — for, come early or late, The unfortunate had it. Now some people deem This milk is so precious, they keep it for cream ; But that’s a mistake — for it spoils by degrees, And, tho’ exquisite milk — it makes very bad cheese. You will pause to inquire, and with wonder, perchance, How so many perfections are placed, at a glance In your view, of a poor Irish priest, who was fed On potatoes, perhaps, or, at most, griddle bread ; 13 Who ne’er rode in a coach, and whose simple abode W as a homely thatched cot, on a wild mountain road ; To whom dreams of a mitre yet never occurred ; — I will tell you the cause, then, — and just in one word. FATHER ROACH. Father Roach had a Mother, who shed Round the innocent days of his infant bed, The influence holy, which early inclin’d In heavenward direction the hoy’s gentle mind, And stamp’d there the lessons its softness could take, Which, strengthened in manhood, no power could shake : — In vain might the Demon of Darkness approach The mother-made virtue of good Father Roach ! F ather Roach had a brother beside ; His mother’s own darling — his brother’s fond pride ; Great things were expected from Frank, when the world Should see his broad banner of talent unfurl’d. But Fate cut him short — for the murderer’s knife Abridg’d the young days of Frank’s innocent life ; And the mass for his soul, was the only approach To comfort now left for the fond Father Roach. FATHER ROACH. Father Roach had a penitent grim Coming, of late, to confession to him ; He was rank in vice — he was steeped in crime. The reverend Father, in all his time, So dark a confession had never known, As that now made to th’ Eternal Throne ; And when he ask’d was the catalogue o’er, The sinner replied — “ I ’ve a thrifle more.” “ A trifle P — AVhat mean you, dark sinner, say ? A trifle ? — Oh, think of your dying day ! A trifle more ? — What more dare meet The terrible eye of the Judgment- seat Than all I have heard ? — The oath broken, — the theft Of a poor maiden’s honour — ’t was all she had left ! Say what have you done that worse could be ?” He whispered, “ Your brother was murdered by me.” FATHER ROACH. “ 0 God ! ” groan’d the Priest, “ hut the trial is deep, My own brother’s murder a secret to keep, And minister here to the murderer of mine But not my will, oh Father, hut tliine l” Then the penitent said, “You will not hetray ?” “ What I P — thy confessor ? Away, away ! ” “ Of penance, good Father, what cup shall I drink?” — “ Drink the dregs of thy life — live on, and think ! ” The hypocrite penitent cunningly found This means of suppressing suspicion around. Would the murderer of Frank e’er confess to his brother He , surely, was guiltless ; — it must he some other. And years roll’d on, and the only record ’Twixt the murderer’s hand and the eye of The Lord, Was that brother — by rule of his Church decreed To silent knowledge of guilty deed. FATHER ROACH. 39 Twenty or more of years pass’d away, And locks once raven were growing gray, And some, whom the Father once christen’d, now stood, In the ripen’d bloom of womanhood, And held at the font their babies’ brow For the holy sign and the sponsor’s vow ; And grandmothers smil’d by their wedded girls ; But the eyes, once diamond — the teeth, once pearls, The casket of beauty no longer grace ; Mem’ry, fond mem’ry alone, might trace Through the mist of years a dreamy light Gleaming afar from the gems once bright. 0, Time ! how varied is thy sway ’Twixt beauty’s growth and dim decay ! By fine degrees beneath thy hand, Does latent loveliness expand ; 40 FATHER ROACH. The coral casket richer grows With its second pearly dow’r, The brilliant eye still brighter glows With the maiden’s ripening hour : — So gifted are ye of Time, fair girls, But time, while his gifts he deals, From the sunken socket the diamond steals, And takes back to his waves the pearls ! It was just at this time that a man, rather sallow, Whose cold eye burn’d dim in his features of tallow, Was seen, at a cross- way, to mark the approach Of the kind-hearted parish priest, good Father Roach. A deep salutation he render’d the Father, Who return’d it but coldly, and seem’d as he ’d rather Avoid the same track ; — so he struck o’er a hill But the sallow intruder would follow him still. FATHER ROACH. 41 “ Father,” said he, “ as I’m going your way, A word on the road to your Reverence I’d say. Of late so entirely I ’ve altered my plan, Indeed, holy sir, I ’m a different man ; I’m thinking of wedding, and bettering my lot — ” The Father replied, “You had better not.” “ Indeed, reverend sir, my wild oats are all sown.” “ But perhaps,” said the Priest, “ they are not yet grown : — “ At least, they’re not reap'd ” — and his look became keener ; “ And ask not a woman to be your gleaner. You have my advice ! ” The Priest strode on, And silence ensued, as one by one They pass’d through a deep defile, which wound Through the lonely hills — and the solemn profound Of the silence was broken alone by the cranch Of their hurried tread on some wither’d branch. F 42 FATHER ROACH. The sallow man followed the Priest so fast, That the setting sun their one shadow cast. “ Why press,” said the Priest, “ so close to me ?” The follower answer’d convulsively, As, gasping and pale, through the hollow he hurried, “ ’Tis here, close by, poor Frank is buried — ” “ What Frank P” said the Priest — “ What Frank ! ” cried the other ; | . “ Why, he whom I slew — your brother — your brother ! ” “ Great God ! ” cried the Priest — “ in Thine own good time, Thou liftest the veil from the hidden crime. — Within the confessional, dastard — the seal Was set on my bps, which might never reveal What there was spoken — but now the sun, The daylight hears what thine arm hath done, 15 And now, under Heaven, my arm shall bring, Thy felon neck to the hempen string ! ” FATHER ROACH. 4 Pale was the murd’rer, and paler the Priest. Oh, Destiny ! — rich was indeed thy feast, In that awful hour ! — The victim stood His own accuser ; — the Pastor good, Freed from the chain of silence, spoke ; No more the confessional’s terrible yoke Made him run, neck and neck, with a murderer in peace, And the villain’s life had run out its lease. The jail, the trial, conviction came, And honour was given to the poor Priest’s name, Who held, for years, the secret dread, Of a murderer living — a brother dead, And still, by the rule of his church compell’d, The awful mystery in silence held, Till the murderer himself did the secret broach — A triumph to justice and Father Poach. THE BLACKSMITH. If this story he not founded, like the preceding ones, on fact, at least it has claim to verisimilitude. During the period of “ Whitehoy ” disturbances in Ireland, special enactments were passed, by which opportunities were but too temptingly afforded to the vicious to implicate the innocent. — Along with this extra legal severity, the ordinary course of justice was set aside ; the law did not wait for its accustomed assizes, but Special Commissions were held, dispensing judgments so fast that the accused had in many cases no time to collect evidence to rehut a charge, and the rapidity with which execution followed judgment utterly paralysed the wholesome agency of respite of sentence. There can be little doubt that the “ form and pressure of the time ” gave opportunities to scoun- drels to make the oppressive laws of those days subservient to many a base purpose ; and that hundreds of innocent people were transported. THE BLACKSMITH. Faintly glitters the last red ray, Tinting the flickering leaves that play On the swaying houghs of the old gray trees, That groan as they rock in the fitful breeze. Deep in their shadow a watcher lies, The beam of the lynx in his eager eyes ; But twilight darkens — the eye can’t mark — r • 48 THE BLACKSMITH. And the ear grows keen to the mental “ hark,” And the rustling leaf is unwelcome o’crhead, Lest it baffle the sound of the coming tread. There’s a stir in the thicket — a footstep outside, And the coming one stops in his rapid stride, As, rising before him, like spectre from tomb, ’T is a man — not a woman — appears through the gloom, And he holds hard his breath, and he clinches the hand, As he halts to the low -muttered summons of “ Stand ! ” “ Who dares to impede me?” “ Who dares to invade With guilty purpose the quiet glade ? ’T is the brother you meet of the girl you pursue : — Now give over that chase, or the deed you shall rue ! ” “ Back, ruffian ! nor venture on me a command ! ” And a horsewhip was raised — but the vigorous hand TIIE BLACKSMITH. 49 Of young Fhaidrig the blacksmith a blow struck so sure That it fell’d to the earth the Squireen of Ivnocklure. Remember, I pray you, the difference that lies Between Squire and Squirm*. To the former applies High birth and high feeling ; the latter would ape, Like the frog in the fable, a loftier shape, But as little succeeds : — thus are lords aped by flunkies, And Hons by jackals, and mankind by monkies. Our Squireen was that thing as a “ middleman” known, An agent — the tyrant of lands not his own. The unscrupulous servant of all who could serve him, The means of advancement could never unnerve him, To get up in the world, nothing balked his temerity, Ao matter how he might go down to posterity ; High pay and low pleasures he loved — nothing pure But pure whiskey could please the Squireen of Knocklure. THE BLACKSMITH. The Blacksmith’s fan sister had caught his foul eye : The watchful young brother did quickly descry The sly-haited lures that were laid to ensnare Her heart in a hope that might end in despair — Such hope as too often the maiden enthralls, Through a villain’s false vows, till she trusts and she falls — So to save from pollution the simple and pure, Stern warning was giv’n to the knave of Knocklure, Till Phaidrig, at last, in his passion’s fierce glow, The threat of the horsewhip chastised with a blow. A vengeance demoniac the Squireen now planned, In fetters to palsy the brave brother’s hand ; In the dead of the night loaded arms he conceal’d In the ridge of potatoes in Phaidrig’ s own field ; 16 Then the Smith he denounced as a Whiteboy. A search For the fire-arms conceal’d, tore up many a perch THE BLACKSMITH. 51 Of tlie poor Blacksmith’s garden. What he had intended Life’s prop, was not only uprooted, but blended With seed of destruction ! — The proof- seeking spade Found the engines of death with the staff of life laid ! ’T was enough. — Undeniable proof ’t was declared That Phaidrig in Whiteboy conspiracy shared, The Blacksmith was seized, fetter’d, sworn ’gainst, and thrown In a dungeon that echoed his innocent groan. Those were days when the name of a Whiteboy brought fear To the passion or judgment — the heart or the ear Of the bravest and calmest — when Mercy aloof Stood silent, and babbling suspicion seemed proof. Then Justice looked more to her sword than her scale, Then ready unfurled was the transport-ship’s sail To hurry the doom’d beyond respite or hope : — 17 If them destiny’s thread did not end in a rope ! THE BLACKSMITH. Phaidrig soon was on trial. — AVhen called on to plead In defence to this charge of a dark lawless deed, This hiding of arms — he replied, “ The Squireen Showed the place of concealment ; no witness has been To prove he was told of the arms being there ; Now how did he know it P That question is fair — But unanswer’d. The old proverb says — 4 They who hide Can find.’ — ’T was the villain himself, who has lied On the Gospels he kiss’d, that conceal’d the arms there ; My name thro’ the country is blameless and fair; My character ’s spotless ; — Can any one say I was found among Whiteboys by night or by day ? ’T was the Squireen himself who contrived it : my curse Be upon him this day — for I know there is worse In his heart, yet to do. There ’s an innocent girl He ’s hunting to ruin — my heart’s dearest pearl Is that same — and he seeks for my banishment now, THE BLACKSMITH. o To brand with a darker disgrace her young brow ; If I ’m sent o’er the sea, she ’ll be thrown on the world, Lone, helpless, and starving ; — the sail once unfurl’d That bears me from her and from home far away, Will leave that poor girl to the villain a prey ! That ’s the truth, my Lord Judge — before Heaven and men I am innocent ! ” — Lowly the murmurs ran then Round the court ; indignation and pity, perchance, Glowed deep in some bosoms, or gleamed in some glance, But the Arms left the timorous jury no choice ; They found “ Guilty ” — and then rose the Judge’s mild voice “ Transportation” the sentence — but softly ’twas said — (like summer wind waving the grass o’er the dead) 18 And Phaidrig, though stout, felt his heart’s current freeze When he heard himself banished beyond “ the far seas.” “ Oh, hang me at once,” he exclaimed ; “ I don’t care For life, now that life leaves me only despair ; 54 THE BLACKSMITH. In felon chains, far from the land of my birth, I will envy the dead that sleep cold in the earth ! ” He was hurried away, while on many a pale lip Hung prophecies dark of “ that unlucky ship ” That should carry him. “ Didn’t he ask for his death ? And sure Heav’n hears the pray’r of the innocent breath. Since the poor hoy ’s not plazed with the sentence they found, Maybe God will he good to him — and he ’ll be dhrowrtd! ” 19 Now the villain Squireen had it “ all his own way, Like the hull in the china-shop.” Every day Saw him richer and richer, and prouder and prouder ; He began to dress finer, began to talk louder ; Got places of profit and places of trust ; And went it so fast, that the proverb, “ needs must,” Was whisper’d ; hut he, proverbs wise proudly spurning, Thought his was the road that should ne’er have a turning. THE BLACKSMITH. oo But, “ Pride has its fall,” is another old saying ; Retribution will come, though her visit delaying ; Though various the ways of her devious approach, She 7/ come — though her visit be paid in a coach ; And however disguised be the domino rare, The mask falls at last — Retribution is there ! The Squireen lived high, drank champagne ev’ry day, “ Tally ho ! ” in the morning ; at night, “ hip, hurrah ! ” In reckless profusion the low rascal revel! d ; The true “ beggar on horseback ” — you know where he travell’d. But riot is costly — with gold it is fed, And the Squireen’s affairs got involved, it is said ; And time made things worse. Then, in wild speculation He plunged, and got deeper. Next came joec-ulation — There is but one letter in difference — what then ? If one letter ’s no matter, what matter for ten P 56 THE BLACKSMITH. One letter ’s as good as another — one man Can write the same name that another man can ; And the Squireen, forgetting his oivn name , one day Wrote another man’s name, — with a “ promise to pay ; ” — All was up with the Squireen — the “ Hue and Cry ” spread, With “ Five Hundred Reward ” on the miscreant’s head ; His last desp’rate chance was a precipitate flight, In the darkness — his own kindred darkness — of night. But what of the Blacksmith ? — The exil’d one — cast From the peace of his home to the wild ocean blast P W as he drown’d ? — as the pitying prophecy ran ; Bid he die ? — as was wished by the heart-broken man. No ! Heaven hade him live, and to witness a sign Of that warning so terrible — “ Vengeance is mine !” 20 lie return’d to his home — to that well-beloved spot Where first he drew breath — his own wild mountain cot. THE BLACKSMITH. To that spot had his spirit oft flown o’er the deep When the soul of the captive found freedom in sleep ; Oh ! pleasure too bitterly purchased with pain, When from fancy- wrought freedom he woke in his chain To labour in penal restraint all the day, And pine for his sea-girdled home far away ! — But now ’t is no dream — the last hill is o’erpast, lie sees the thatch’d roof of his cottage, at last, | And the smoke from the old wattled chimney declares The hearth is unquenched that had burn’d bright for years. i With varied emotion his bosom is swayed, As his faltering step o’er the threshold ’s delayed : — Shall the face of a stranger now meet him, where once Ilis presence was hail’d with a mother’s fond glance, With the welcoming kiss of a sister ador’d ? — A sister ! — ah ! misery’s linked with that word, For that sister he found — but fast dying. — A bov u 58 THE BLACKSMITH. Was beside her. — A tremulous flicker of joy In tbe deep-sunken eye of the dying one burn’d ; — Recognition it flash’d on tbe exile return d, But with mingled expression was struggling tbe flame — ’T was partly affection, and partly ’t was sbame, As sbe falter’d, “ Thank God, that I see you once more, Though there ’s more than my death you arrive to deplore : Yet kiss me, my brother ! — Oh, kiss and forgive — Then welcome be death ! — I had rather not live Now you have return’d ; — for ’t is better to die Than linger a living reproach in your eye : And you ’ll guard the poor orphan — yes, Phaidrig ma chree , Save from ruin my child, though you could not save me. Do n’t think hard of my mem’ry — forgive me the shame I brought — through a villain’s deceit — on our name : — When the flow’rs o’er my grave the soft summer shall bring, Then in your heart the pale flow’r of pity may spring.” THE BLACKSMITH. 59 No word slie spoke more — and no words utter’d he — They were choked by his grief ; but he sank on his knee, And down his pale face the big silent tears roll — That tribute which misery wrings from the soul, And he press’d her cold hand, and the last look she gave Was the sunset of love o’er the gloom of the grave. The old forge still existed, where, days long ago, The anvil rang loud to the Smith’s lusty blow, But the blows are less rapid, less vigorous now, And a gray-haired man wipes labour’s damp from his brow. But he cares for the boy ; who, with love, gives him aid With his young ’prentice hand in the smithy’s small trade, Whose stock was but scanty ; — and iron, one day, Being lack’d by the Blacksmith — the boy went his way, Saying, “ Wait for a minute, there ’s something I found Th’ other day, that will do for the work, I’ll be bound ; ” 60 THE BLACKSMITH. And he brought hack a gun-barrel. — Dark was the look Of the Blacksmith, as slowly the weapon he took : — “ Where got you this, hoy ?” “ Just behind the house here It must have been buried for many a year, For the stock was all rotten, the barrel was rusty ” “ Say no more,” said the Smith. Bitter Memory, trusty As watch-dog that harks at the sight of a foe, Sprang up at this cursed memento of woe, And the hard-sinewed Smith drew his hand o’er his eyes, And the hoy asks him why — but he never replies. Hark ! hark ! — take heed ! What rapidly rings down the road ? ’T is the clattering hoof of a foaming steed, And the rider pale is sore in need, As he ’lights at the Smith’s abode ; For the horse has cast a shoe, THE BLACKSMITH. 61 And the rider has far to go — From the gallows he flies, If overtaken, he dies, And hard behind is the foe Tracking him fast, and tracking him sure ! ’T is the forger — the scoundrel Squireen of Knocklure ! Flying from justice, he flies to the spot Where, did justice not strike him, then justice were not : — As the straw to the whirlpool — the moth to the flame — F ate beckons her victim to death and to shame ! Wild was the look which the Blacksmith cast, As his deadliest foe o’er his threshold past, And hastily ordered a shoe for his horse ; But Phaidrig stood motionless — pale as a corse, While the boy, unconscious of cause to hate (The chosen minister, called by Fate), 62 THE BLACKSMITH. Placed the gun in the fire, and the flame he blew From the rusty barrel to mould a shoe. Fierce, as the glow of the forge’s fire, Flashed Phaidrig’s glances of speechless ire, As the Squireen, who counted the moments that flew, Cried, “ Quick, fellow, quick, for my horse a shoe ! ” But Phaidrig’s glances the fiercer grew, While the fugitive knew not the wreck of that frame, So handsome once in its youthful fame, That frame lie had crush’d with a convict’s chain, That fame he had tarnish’d with felon stain. “ And so you forget me?” the Blacksmith cried. The voice rolled backward the chilling tide Of the curdling blood on the villain’s heart, And he heard the sound with a fearful start ; But, with the strong nerve of the had and the hold, He rallied — and pull’d out a purse of gold, THE BLACKSMITH. 63 And said, “ Of the past it is vain to tell, Shoe me my horse, and I ’ll pay yon well.” “ Work for you P — no, never ! — unless helike To rivet your fetters this hand might strike, Or to drive a nail in your gallows-tree — That ’s the only work you shall have from me — When you swing, I ’ll be loud in the crowd shall hoot you.” “ Silence, you dog — or, by Heaven, I’ll shoot you ! ” And a pistol he drew — but the startled child Rushed in between, with an outcry wild, “ Do n’t shoot — do n’t shoot ! oh, master sweet ! The iron is now in the fire to heat, % ’Twill soon he ready, the horse shall be shod.” The Squireen returned hut a curse and a nod, Nor knew that the hase-horn child before him W as his own that a ruined woman bore him ; And the gun-barrel, too, in that gloving fire, 64 THE BLACKSHITH. Was his own — one of those ho had hid to conspire ’Gainst the Blacksmith’s life ; but Heaven decreed This own should result from the darksome deed, For the barrel grows red — the charge ignites — Explodes ! — and the guilty Squireen bites THE BLACKSMITH. ( 5.3 The dust where he falls. Oh, judgment dread ! His own traitor weapon the death-shot sped, By his own child it was found, and laid In the wrong’d one’s fire — the gathering shade Of his doom was completed — Fate’s shadows had spread Like a thunder-cloud o’er his guilty head, And the thunder hurst, and the lightning fell, Where his dark deeds were done, in the mountain dell. The pursuit was fast on the hunted Squireen ; The reeking horse at the forge is seen, There’s a shout on the hill, there’s a rush down the glen, And the forge is crowded with armed men ; AVith dying breath, the victim allowed The truth of the startling tale The Blacksmith told to the greedy crowd, Who for gold had track’d the trail. 66 THE BLACKSMITH. Vain golden hope — vain speed was there ; The game lay low in his crimson lair ! — To the vengeance of earth no victim was giv’n, T was claim’d by the higher tribunal of Heaven ! j THE DEW-DROP, A METRICAL FAN T A S Y . t THE DEW-DROP. 69 w as touched by the wand Of a faithless sprite, As the moon, in her change, Shot a trembling ray Down the bosky dell Where the dew-drop lay ; And tainted with change By the wild- wood sprite, Was the dew-drop, till then So pure and so bright. For what might be pure, If ’twere not the dew P -V gift from the skies Earth’s sweets to renew. What may be bright As the dew-drops are ? 70 TIIE DEW-DROP. ! f I Kindred are they To the evening star. Blest is the dew When the day’s begun, It Hies to the kiss Of the godlike sun. Blest is the dew At the evening hour, Taking its rest In some grateful flower, That gives forth its odour, To welcome the fall Of the dew-drop that sinks In the balmy thrall. Enfolded in fragrance, Entranc’d it lies, THE DEW-DROP. 71 Till the morning’s dawn, When it lightly flies From the balmy lips Of the waking flower, Which droops through the day, When the dew-drop’s away, And mourns the delay Of the evening hour. 0, how the sprite -struck Dew-drop stray’d Along the wildest flow’rs Of the wild- wood glade ! Toying with all, She was constant to none ; Though she held her faith To the lordly sun. THE DEW-DROP. She sought a new couch As the eve grew dim, But at morning she ever Returned to him. The fond rose pined In its hidden heart While the dew-drop play’d Her changeful part. And though it was kiss’d By some dew-drop bright, Griev’d that it was not The one of last night. The leaf-shelter ’d lily, Pale “ flow’r of the vale,” The love-plaint felt Of the nightingale ; THE DEW-DROP. Whose song never bore So much meaning as now : — ( ), sympathy ! — subtile In teaching art thou. The violet (heart-like), The sweeter for grief, Sigli’cl forth its balm In its own relief ; While its jealous companions Conceiv'd it blest, And envied the pang Of an aching breast. Thus, eve after eve, Did the dew-drop betray Some leaflet that smiled < >u the pendant spray ; THE DEW-DROP. And blossoms that sprang From a healthful root. Faded in grief. And produced no fruit. But what cared she ? Who was always caress’d, As she sank in delight On some fresh dower’s breast. Though it died the next night. She could pass it, and say, “ Poor thing — ’twas my love Of yesterday.” At last, in her pride, She so faithless got. She even forsook The forgot-me-not. THE DEW-DROT 75 And Nature frown’d On the bright coquette, And sternly said — “ I null teach thee yet, A lesson so hard Thou wilt not forget ! n - Part IT. The roses of summer Are past and gone, And sweet things are dying One by one ; THE DEW-DROP. But autumn is bringing, In richer suits, To match with his sunsets, His glowing fruits ; And the flowers the dew-drop Deserted now, For the richer caress ( )f the clustering bough. So dainty a dew-drop A leaf would not suit, For her nothing less Would suffice, than the fruit. The bloom of the plum And the nect’rine’s perfume Were deserted, in turn, A fresh love to assume ; THE DEW-DROP. And, as each she gave up, If her conscience did preach, Her ready excuse Was the down of the peach. But fruits will he gathered Ere autumn shall close ; Then, where in her pride May the dew-drop repose P Nor a hud, nor a flower, Nor a leaf is there now ; They are gone whom she slighted — There’s nought but the bough. And the dew-drop would now Keep her mansion of air, With her bright lord the sun, Nor, at evening, repair THE DEW-DROP. 19 To the desolate earth ; Where no lovers remain But grasses so humble, And brambles so plain, So crooked, so knotty, So jagged and bare — Indeed would the dew Keep her mansion of air ! But Nature looked dark, And her mandate gave, And the autumn dew Was her winter slave, When the lordly sun Had his journey sped, Far in the south, Towards ocean’s bed ; 80 THE DEW-DROP. And short was the time That he held the sky, His oriflamb waving Xor long nor high ; And the dew-drop lay In the dark cold hours, Embraced by the weeds That survived the flowers. Oh ! chill was her tear, As she thought of the night She had wept in pure joy At her rose’s delight ; While now for the morning She sigh’d ; — that its ray Should bear her from loathsome Embraces awav. THE DEW-DROP. 81 Like a laggard it came ; And so briefly it shone, She scarce reach’d the sky Ere her bright lord was gone ; And downward again Among weeds was she borne, To linger in pain Till her bright lord’s return. And Nature frown’d On the bright coquette, And again she said — “ I will teach thee yet, A lesson so hard Thou wilt never forget ! ” Part III. Through the hare branches Sigh’d the chill breeze, As the sun went down Where the leafless trees THE DEW-DROP. Are darkly standing, Like skeletons grim, Gainst the fading light Of the west, grown dim ; And colder and colder The embers decay That were glowing red With the tire of day, Till darkness wrapp’d In her mantle drear, The withering forms Of the dying year. Thus bleak and black Was the face of the world When Winter his silvery Banner unfurled, 84 THE DEW-DROP. His sprites sending forth In their glittering array, To seize in the night Each fantastical spray ; And the fern in the wood, And the rush by the stream, Were sparkling with gems In the morning beam. So charm’d was the stream With the beauty around, That it stopp’d in its course, And it utter’d no sound ; In the silent entrancement Of Winter’s embrace, It sought not to wander From that charmed place ; THE DEW-DROP. For better it loved With old Winter to be, In the di’mond-hung woods, Than be lost in the sea. But the dew-drop’s home Was in yon bright sky, And when in the sunbeam She sought to fly, Chain’d to a weed W as the bright frail thing, And she might not mount On her morning wing. “ Ha ! ha ! ” laugh’d Nature, “ I’ve caught thee now ; Bride of old Winter, Bright thing, art thou ! THE DEW-DEOP. 86 “ Think of how many A flower for thee, Hath wasted its heart In despondency. “Now where thou ’rt fetter’d Thou must remain ; Let thy pride rejoice In so bright a chain.” “ True,” said the dew-drop, “ Is all thou ’st told, My fetters are bright — But ah, so cold ! “ Bather than sparkle In diamond chain, I’d dwell with the humblest THE DEW-DROP. And never would rove From a constant bliss, If I might ’scape From a fate like this ; In glittering misery Bid me not sleep ! Mother, oh, let me Melt and weep ! Weep in the breast Of my chosen flower, And for ever renounce My changeful hour ; For tho’ to the skies I shall daily spring, At the sunrise bright, On my rainbow wing, 88 THE DEW-DROP. “ To my flower I’ll return At golden even, With a love refresh’d At the fount of heaven The Spirit of Spring Was listening near ; The captive dew-drop She came to cheer ! Her fetter she broke, And the chosen flower Was given to the dew-drop In happy hour. And, true to her faith, Did the dew-drop come, When the honey-bee, With his evening hum, THE DEW-DllOP. Was bidding farewell To the rose, which he taught, By his fondness, to know ’T was with sweetness fraught. And the rose thought the bee Was a silly thing, To fly from the dew With his heavy wing ; For “ Ah,” sighed the rose, As it hung on the bough, “ Bright dew-drop, there’s nothing So sweet as thou ! ” MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE CROOKED STICK. Julia was lovely and vanning — - And Julia had lovers in plenty, They outnumber'd her years More than twice, it appears — She killed fifty before she was twenty. Young Harry Had asked her to marry ; But Juba could never decide, Thus early, on being a bride ; With such ample choice, She would not give her voice, In wedlock so soon to be tied ; 94 THE CROOKED STICK. And though she liked Hal, thought it better to wait, Before she would finally fix on her fate ; For though “ Harry was every way worthy ” to get her, Perhaps she might see someone else she liked better. Hal, discarded by Venus, went over to Mars ; And set off to the war in a troop of hussars ; To sabres and bullets exposing a life # Made wretched to him by the want of a wife ; But Heath would not take what fair Julia refused ; And, in fact, Harry thought himself very ill used By “ Death and the Lady”— till Time’s precious ointment, Cured the wound Julia made, And the soldier’s bold blade Soon won him a colonel’s appointment ; And then he went home, by hard service made sager, And found Julia had married a yellow old major. THE CROOKED STICK. For the sake of old times, Harry called on the lady, Who was now on that side of this life they call “ shady ; ” Which, though pleasant in streets, in the summer’s bright sun, On life’s path is not pleasant — when summer ’s all done. He took her hand kindly — and hoped she was well— And looked with a tender regret on his belle ! “ Ah ! JuHa ! how ’s this ? — I would not give you pain, But I think I may ask, without being thought vain, How the girl who refused to let Harry encage her, Could consent to he trapped by a yellow old major ?” “ Come dine here,” said she — “ and at evening we’ll take, On horseback a ride through the hazlewood brake ; And as I ’ ve lost my whip — you must go to the wood, And cut me a riding switch handsome and good, Something nice — such a one as I ’ll keep for your sake, As a token of friendship ; hut pray do not make 96 THE CROOKED STICK. Your absence too long — for we dine, sharp, at six ; But you’ll see, before then, many beautiful sticks.” Harry went on this mission, to rifle the riches Of tbe hazlewood brake — and saw such lovely switches. But none good enough to present, as a token, To her who, “ lang syne,” had his burning heart broken ; The wood was passed through — and no switch yet selected, When “ six o’clock,” suddenly, Hal recollected, And took out his watch : — but ten minutes to spare — He employed those ten minutes with scrupulous care. But, spite of his pains — the best switch he selected Did not equal, by much, many first he rejected ; He eye’d it askance — and he bent it — and shook it — And owned, with a shrug, ’twas a leetle bit crooked. He returned, and told Julia the state of the case, When she — (a faint smile lighting up a sad face) — THE CROOKED STICK. 9 Said, “ Harry, your walk through the hazlewood brake Is my history — a lesson that many might take ; At first, you saw beautiful sticks by the score, And hoped to get better, with such ‘ plenty more,’ But at the last moment — no time left to pick — You were forced to put up with a crooked stick.” Oh Woman ! — designed for the conquest of hearts, To your own native charms add not too many arts ; If a poet’s quaint rhyme might dare offer advice, You should be nice all over— hut not over-nice. I don’t wish a lady so wondrously quick As to sharpen her knife for the very first stick ; But — for one good enough — it were best not o’erlook it, Lest, in seeking too straight ones — you get hut the crooked. TO MARY. As in the calmest day the pine-tree gives A soft low murmur to the wooing wind, When other trees are silent — so love lives In the close covert of the loftier mind, Responding to the gentlest sigh would wake Love’s answer, and his magic music make. ’Twas thus I woo’d thee — softly and afraid : For no rude breath could win response from thee, Mine own retiring, timid, bashful maid ; And hence I dedicate the slender free TO MARY. 99 To dearest memories of the tenting fine I woo'd thee with — as Zephyr woos the pine. And hence I love with thee through woods to wander, Whose fairy flowers thy slight foot scarcely bends, Growing, as time steals o’er us, only fonder, Following, mayhap, some streamlet as it tends To a lone lake — full as our hearts, and calm, O’er which the op’ning summer sheds its halm. Soft is the breeze ; — so soft — -the very lake Hath not a ripple on its mirror face ; And hence, a double beauty doth it make, Another forest in its depths we trace, The sky *s repeated in reflected kiss : — So loving hearts can double ev’ry bliss. 100 TO MARY. The sun is high — we seek refreshing shade, Beneath the pines we choose a flowery seat ; And, while a whisper in their houghs is made, Couching, with fondness, at thy tiny feet, 77/ whisper thee, while sheltering from “ Sweet Mary, thus I woo’d thee, thus I the sun — won.” THE FLOODED HUT OF THE MISSISSIPPI. On the wide-rolling river, at eve, set the sun, And the long- toiling day of the woodman was done, And he flung down the axe that had felled the huge tree, And his own little daughter he placed on his knee ; 102 THE FLOODED HUT OF THE MISSISSIPPI. She looked up, with smiles, at a dovecot o’er head — Where, circling around, flew the pigeons she fed, And more fondly the sire clasp’d his child to his breast — As he kiss’d her — and called her the bird of his nest. The wide-rolling river rose high in the night, The wide-rolling river, at morn, sliow’d its might, For it leap'd o’er its hounds, and invaded the wood Where the humble abode of the wood-cutter stood. All was danger around, and no aid was in view, And higher and higher the wild waters grew, And the child — looking up at the dovecot in air, Cried, “ Father — oh father, I wish we were there ! ” “ My child,” said the father, “ that dovecot of thine Should enliven our faith in the Mercy Divine ; THE FLOODED HUT OF THE MISSISSIPPI ’T was a dove that brought Noah the sweet branch of peace, To show him the anger of Heaven did cease : Then kneel, my lov’d child, by thy fond father’s side, And pray that our hut may in safety abide, And then, from all fear may our bosoms be proof — While the dove of the deluge is over our roof.” 21 NYMPH OF NIAGARA, WRITTEN ON LAKE ONTARIO, IMMEDIATELY AETER LEAVING THE FALLS. Nymph of Niagara ! Sprite of tlie mist ! With a wild magic my brow thou hast kiss’d ; I am thy slave, and my mistress art thou, For thy wild kiss of magic is yet on my brow. I feel it, as first when I knelt before thee, With thy emerald robe flowing brightly and free, 22 Fringed with the spray-pearls, and floating in mist — Thus ’twas my brow with void magic you kiss’d. Thine am I still ; — and 1 ’ll never forget The moment the spell on my spirit was set ; — NYMPH OF NIAGARA. 105 Thy chain but a foam- wreath — yet stronger hy far Than the manacle, steel- wrought, for captive of war ; For the steel it will rust, and the war will be o’er, And the manacled captive he free as before ; While the foam- wreath will hind me for ever to thee ! — I love the enslavement — and would not he free ! Nymph of Niagara, play with the breeze, Sport with the fawns ’mid the old forest trees ; Blush into rainbows at kiss of the sun, From the gleam of his dawn till his bright course he run ; I’ll not he jealous — for pure is thy sporting, Heaven-horn is all that around thee is courting — Still will I love thee, sweet Sprite of the mist, As first when my brow with wild magic you kiss’d ! o THE FLOWER OF NIGHT . 03 There is an Indian tree, they say, Whose timid flow’r avoids the light, Concealing thus from tell-tale day The beauties it unfolds at night. So many a thought may hidden lie, So sighs unbreath’d by day may he, Which, freely, ’neath the starry sky In secret faith I give to thee : — The love that strays Thro’ pleasure’s ways, Is like the flow’rs that love the light ; But love that’s deep, And faith will keep, Is like the flow’r that blooms at night. THE FLOWER OF NIGHT. 107 Then do not blame my careless mien Amid this world of maskers gay, I would not let my heart he seen — I wear a mask as well as they. Ah, who would wish the gay should smile At passion too refined for them : — And therefore I with blameless guile Conceal within my heart the gem : — The love that strays Thro’ pleasure’s ways, Is like the flow’rs that love the light ; But love that’s deep, And faith will keep, Is like the flow’r that blooms at night. THE FORSAKEN. Let us talk of grief no more Till the bat is flying ; Fitter mem’ry’s sadd’ning lore When the day is dying, When the joyous sun bath fled, And weeping dews around are shed : Sad things are most fitly said, When the night wind’s sighing. Sighing round some lonely tow’r Where, within, is mourning ; And on the hearth, at midnight hour, Low the brands are burning. There the embers, fading fast, (Relics of a glowing past) Tell of fires too fierce to last : — Love knows no returning. YEARNING. Far shore, far shore — how far O’er the tide of Time you seem ; — Where is the mystic star To guide o’er the waters far — To that shore of my fancy’s dream Far shore, far shore, on thee Are the flowers in endless bloom ? Or there may the desert be, With the deadly Upas tree, Where the seeker but finds a tomb Seek not for mystic star — Trust to the means that are — Be thy voyage or short, or long.” LOVE AND DEATH, A FABLE FROM .ESOP. VERSIFIED AVD DI- VERSIFIED. Cupid, one day, was surprised in a shower of rain, (He’s a delicate fellow) ; So, for shelter, he ran to a shadowy grotto hard by, For he had no umbrella. He thought he might rest while the storm was in action, so he Lapp’d one wing o’er his head, The other he folded so nicely beneath him, and slept On his own feather bed. Oh Cupid ! you stupid, what were you about To lie down in that cave ? — ’Twas as good as a grave — As he soon found out. For the arch where the Archer reposed was the cavern of Death, Who had stol’n out, unknown, To unfasten the portals of life with his skeleton keys, In St. Mary-le-&oft