FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON. D. D. 
 
 BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 
 mob 
 
 

 FORTNIGHT RAMBLE, 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY THOMAS M A C K E L L A R, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "DROPF1NG3 FROM THE HHAS:. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY CAREY AND HART 
 
 1847. 
 
Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1847, by 
 
 THOMAS MACKELLAR, 
 
 in the office of the Clerk of the District Court, for the Eastern 
 
 District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 T. K. & P. G. COLLINS, PRINTERS, 
 No. 1 Lodge Alley. 
 
TO 
 
 LAWRENCE JOHNSON, ESQ 
 
 OF PHILADELPHIA, 
 
 AS A. T53rtUONIA.il OF ESTEEM FOR HIS TALENTS AND VIRTUES, 
 
 £l)is ttolume 
 
 K ESPECTFCILY INSCRIBED. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 Princeton Theological Seminary Library 
 
 http://archive.org/details/tamsfortOOmack 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The leading poem in this volume may be 
 thought somewhat desultory. But verse-making 
 is not the chief pursuit of my life. I often fancy 
 that I am like a traveller over a long and sometimes 
 rugged road, who, when the mid-heaven sun beats 
 hotly down, or when the darkness of night ap- 
 proaches, lays his burden aside and rests, and sings 
 a merry or a pensive song, that perchance touches 
 the heart of a fellow-pilgrim, and cheers him on 
 the way. If this prove to be true, I shall feel that 
 I have not vainly sung. 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 From critics I fear no injustice. The deservings 
 of my verses have been scarcely commensurate 
 with the courtesy with which they have been ever 
 greeted. T claim no farther merit than that I have 
 written with all simplicity, and according to ability 
 and opportunity. 
 
 Thus much from 
 
 T. McK. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 
 
 Canto I. 
 Canto II. 
 Canto III. 
 Canto IV. 
 Canto V. 
 Canto VI. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 13 
 31 
 41 
 61 
 83 
 99 
 
 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 A Peep into the Parlour, 
 Our William, 
 The Child is Lost, 
 The Newly Come, 
 Lullaby, 
 
 115 
 
 119 
 122 
 125 
 127 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Sick Babe, .... 
 
 129 
 
 The Thoughts Dwell where the Heart is, 
 
 130 
 
 The Dinner Hour, .... 
 
 131 
 
 Father is Coming, .... 
 
 134 
 
 After Tea, .... 
 
 135 
 
 The Sleeping Wife, .... 
 
 138 
 
 Our Little Garden, .... 
 
 140 
 
 Sister Louise, .... 
 
 143 
 
 Matrimony, -.---. 
 
 145 
 
 Juvenile Reminiscence, - - - - 
 
 148 
 
 A Day with the Influenza, - 
 
 149 
 
 From my Pillow to the Editor of the Saturday 
 
 
 Gazette, - - - - - 
 
 152 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The Reaper's Return, - - - - 157 
 
 A Re very in an Ancient Potter's-Field, - - 1G7 
 
 The Beautiful Land and its Sentry Grim, - 175 
 
 The Howling Storm and the Wondrous Calm, - 177 
 
 " The Good Die Early,"' - - - - ISO 
 
 Another Gone, - - - - - 183 
 
 Early Wed— Early Dead, - - - 184 
 
 "Why are ye Fearful V' - - - - 186 
 
 " To Will and to Do of His Own Good Pleasure," 189 
 
 Widowed and Childless, - - - 191 
 
 Let's Sit Down and Talk Together. - - 194 
 
CONTENTS. IX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To the Rev. R. W. Griswold, ... 196 
 
 Fanny Forester, - - - - 197 
 
 The Coining of Spring, - - - - 198 
 
 '•May I Come up? - ' - - - - 199 
 
 Our Autumn Weather, .... 200 
 
 The Early Ice, - - - - - 202 
 
 Where is the Apple-Man ! 203 
 
 The Children of the City, - - - 205 
 
 The Doom of the Printer, ... 207 
 
 The Printer's Sabbath, - - - - 211 
 
 The Editor Sat in his Sanctum, - - 212 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE 
 
 
TAM INTRODUCED TO THE READER. 
 
 Most gentle Reader ! Tam's a friend of mine — 
 
 A bosom-friend: I long have known him well: — 
 I pray thy grace and courtesy benign 
 
 While he in words of verity shall tell 
 The story of his travels. Sit with him 
 
 An evening hour; and should his strain bedim 
 Thy tender eye, or cause thy heart to swell, 
 
 It may be, Reader ! also thou shalt find 
 
 Refreshment in it for a thirsty mind, 
 And joy with thee a frequent guest shall dwell. 
 
 1 stand aside, like one who bears the bowl 
 Whereof his friends partake; and if the draught 
 Afford delight to those by whom 'tis quafT'd, 
 
 A kindred pleasure shall pervade my soul. 
 
 T. McK. 
 
TAM'S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 At Christmas time, when mostly men are glad, 
 My heart grew heavy as it were of lead, 
 And moody thoughts kept rising in my head, 
 
 Like smoke from smouldering embers. Oh how sad 
 My inner feelings were ! " I'll go," I said, 
 
 " And see again the place where I was born, 
 And where I had my schooling — where 1 shed 
 
 A single bitter tear, like one forlorn, 
 When Death stood up amid our family 
 And smote the roots of our parental tree. 
 
 I'll go and take my brothers by the hand — 
 I'll fold again my sisters to my breast ; 
 
 Our hearts will thrill when we together stand, 
 
 And Heaven will smile, and whisper we are blest.' 
 
14 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 II. 
 
 -How rich the memories of my early days — 
 
 The days of mirth, light-heartedness, and hope, 
 
 When life to come appear'd a sunny slope, 
 Where roses bloom'd and birds sang merry lays. 
 
 The calm experience of my riper years 
 Has proved to me that heaven lies upward : — he 
 
 Who would obtain the bliss that ever cheers 
 Must labour well, and love with constancy. 
 
 Still sweet, oh sweet ! the memories remain 
 Of earlier years, when pleasantly I dream'd 
 
 Of joys in promise (like man's promise, vain) — 
 And paradise in manhood's future seem'd. 
 
 The illusive hours of youth have pass'd away, 
 
 But, bright and beautiful ! ye memories, with me stay. 
 
 III. 
 
 I took the cars, and went to New York city : 
 'Twas Sat'day night, and ere eleven o'clock 
 The ferry-boat had brought us into dock 
 
 Across the Hudson. ('Tis somewhat a pity 
 The cars can't drop us in the town ; 'tis very 
 Uncomfortable thus to cross the ferry 
 
TAM S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 15 
 
 On winter nights. I always shake and shiver 
 Soon as I leave the cars, where I've been keeping 
 Snug as a mouse on downy pillow sleeping. 
 
 Ugh ! how I hate that voyage o'er the river !) 
 I went to bed, and got up rather late 
 Next morn — (for I had lain till nearly eight) — 
 
 I kiss'd my friends ; my lip with love did quiver ; 
 And then I kept the Sabbath with becoming state. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Were I to judge from every towering steeple 
 That rises grandly o'er their city round, 
 
 I'd say the Yorkers are as pious people 
 As anywhere upon the earth are found. 
 
 On Sabbath morn I went to Dr. Potts's, 
 
 (He who had wordy jousts with Dr. Wainwright: 
 Which one of them was in the main right, 
 
 If I should say, I'd get as many shots as 
 My literary vestment could contain — 
 And so 'tis wise my dictum to refrain.) 
 
 The doctor preach'd an apostolic sermon, 
 As orthodox as one would wish to hear — 
 Strong Scripture common sense ; and on mine ear 
 
 It fell refreshingly as dews on Hermon. 
 
16 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 V. 
 
 How soothingly the music o'er me stole ! 
 
 Something of heaven amid a world of sin ; 
 Like healing oil it dropp'd upon my soul, 
 
 And calm'd the tumult of my thoughts within. 
 Nature ne'er meant that man should be a Quaker ; 
 
 And though the Friends are students in her school, 
 
 They follow not each clearly written rule, 
 Nor in her true harmonic teachings take her. 
 
 Life without music is night without a star — 
 Day without sunshine — rose without perfume — 
 Eye without lustre — cheek without a bloom — 
 
 Or clouds without rainbow when the storm is far. 
 Music on earth for me, besides the promise given 
 Of music and of hymns high in the courts of heaven ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Next day I wander'd through the busy streets, 
 And all the folks I met were in a hurry ; 
 It seems the city of perpetual worry, 
 
 And something strange a stranger daily meets. 
 
 The stream of life through thousand channels flow- 
 ing— 
 
 The women, of all ages, features, hue, — 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 17 
 
 Of beauty, sense, and virtue not a few ; 
 The men like hasty locomotives going, — 
 
 Full many wise and noble — some with chins 
 And upper lips enrobed in bristling hair 
 Like that which foxes and opossums wear, 
 
 When in the wilds they frisk their nimble shins ; — 
 Some clad in raiment spun of finest fleece, 
 And some in garments glistening with grease. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I walk'd alone upon the Battery, 
 
 And look'd upon the waters as they roll'd — 
 
 A crystal sheet, with here and there a fold — 
 Up through the Narrows from the distant sea. 
 
 Sea-weeds were clinging to the rocks, and shell 
 Were hiding in the crevices between ; 
 And I remember'd days that once had been, 
 
 And felt — and felt — no, no, I cannot tell. 
 I thought of long-gone time — he who can feel 
 Will know the meaning that I can't reveal. 
 
 Once — once I was a boy, and stood there often, 
 And years of love had link'd my heart to home ; 
 
 Now — dearest-loved ones lie within the coffin, 
 And 'tis my lot in other scenes to roam. 
 <Z* 
 
18 TUl's FORTNIGHT RAMBLE, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Twice I received a wholesome castigation, 
 
 For going on the Battery to play 
 Without parental leave and approbation : 
 
 (I'll not forget it to my latest day.) 
 
 I told a rather hesitating story, 
 Not quite in keeping with my course in youth — 
 
 (It may have been a crooked allegory, 
 And did not run in straight lines with the truth.) 
 
 I bless the rod, and bless the hand that wielded, 
 Although it made my back and shoulders tickle. 
 'Twas thus I learn'd a rod was in the pickle 
 
 For me when I to wilful follies yielded. 
 This was the moral I shall long remember — 
 Prune in the Spring for fruitage in September. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Both long and brief beseem'd the thirty years 
 That had since then departed. Joy and sorrow 
 Had come to-day and vanish'd on the morrow ; 
 
 And, changefully as April, hopes and fears 
 
 Had reign'd within. Unsought-for bliss had stolen 
 
 Into my soul ; nor knew I whence the flow 
 
TAM's fortnight ramble. 19 
 
 Of love had come that oftentimes had swollen 
 The river of my heart, till in a glow 
 
 Of ecstasy I gazed upon a stone 
 
 And loved my Maker more because he made it. 
 There's scarce a brook but has a tree to shade it, 
 
 And dim the glittering glories that have shone 
 Upon its sunlit waters. So, I ween, 
 The experience of the most of men has been. 
 
 X. 
 
 There was a period of my brief existence — 
 (Some twenty years ago, while yet the haven 
 
 Of manhood glimmer'd in the uncertain distance, — 
 My cheek still dimpled, and my chin unshaven) — 
 
 When o'er my mind at intervals came stealing 
 
 A tide of deep and melancholy feeling. 
 
 Up-bubbling thoughts now sparkled, and then broke 
 
 And sank away, and were forever gone. 
 
 Softly I breathed the while the spell was on, 
 Nor moved my lip, nor audibly I spoke. 
 
 I strove to catch each evanescent thought 
 That, like a meteor in the winter sky, 
 With sudden brilliancy oppress'd mine eye ; 
 
 But long — oh ! long — my strivings were for naught. 
 
20 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 XL 
 
 Words tell not in what anguish I have lain 
 Prone on the floor, and sought to give a vent 
 To fancies that, like molten lava pent, 
 
 Were surging in my wild, chaotic brain ; 
 Till passionately I cast my pen from me, 
 
 And, like an infant wearied with long weeping, 
 Resign'd myself to thoughtless apathy, 
 
 And shut mine eyes as if in quiet sleeping. 
 Love enter'd in my bosom. Love was first 
 
 To bid my fancy own a conqueror's sway : 
 
 The barriers of the flood were swept away, 
 
 And wild and rude the hurrying numbers burst. 
 
 O'erwhelming and exuberant was the joy 
 
 The rough-shod rhymes imparted to the boy. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I scarce can paint the years that follow'd after, — 
 The thoughtful hours — the hours of melancholy, 
 
 Alternating with days of joy and laughter, 
 That led me oft to moralize on folly. 
 
 Fame's idle vision pass'd before my view ; — 
 How frequently 'twas follow'd by a pang ! 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 21 
 
 I turn'd aside, and, with earth's simple few, 
 Life's simpler themes in simple words I sang. 
 
 Within my soul religion claim'd dominion, 
 And cast her pure irradiance on the lyre : 
 
 The gales of love swept from her downy pinion, 
 And kindled all my better passions' fire ; 
 
 My haughty temper melted in the flame, 
 
 And o'er my breast a meeker influence came. 
 
 XIII. 
 How poor is it to pile a pyramid, 
 
 Or seek a place among the sons of fame, — 
 
 To grave on rock the letters of a name, 
 And tell the world of what one said or did. 
 
 In poet's lore, and sentimental story, 
 It seems as 'twere this life's supremest aim 
 
 For heroes to achieve what men call glory, 
 And die intoxicate with earth's acclaim. 
 
 Ah me ! how little care the dead for breath 
 
 Of vain applause that saved them not from death ! 
 Could fame immortalize the human frame, 
 
 And fix undying bloom on beauty's cheek, 
 And cancel guilt and memories of shame, 
 
 Then were it well the precious boon to seek. 
 
22 
 
 XIV. 
 
 True fame and dignity are born of toil: 
 'Tis so ordain'd by Him who saw it good 
 That man by thought and toil should earn his food. 
 
 Ev'n the brown'd delver of the yielding soil, 
 Who draws from earth the sustenance of life, 
 
 Has more of nobleness than he who slays 
 His fellow-man on fields of bloody strife, 
 
 And bears a weapon stain'd in mortal frays. 
 
 The world and Christ have different measurements 
 
 While He has said that, Blessed are the meek 
 
 Who in forgiveness their avengement seek, 
 The world applauds the coward who resents 
 
 A scornful word — whose craven spirit fears 
 
 His Maker's anger less than man's disdainful leers. 
 
 XV. 
 
 A wrong avenged is doubly perpetrated ; 
 
 Two sinners stand where lately stood but one. 
 A wrong forgiven is wrong annihilated ; 
 
 The sin is almost as 'twere never done. 
 Oft, love and mercy and their gentle train 
 Appeal to man's hard-heartedness in vain: 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 23 
 
 Mercy and love, in holiest incarnation, 
 Once dwelt upon the earth ; but hate arose 
 And fired the fury of their deadly foes, 
 
 And smote them in the Prince of our salvation. 
 Yet He who felt the fiercest stroke of malice, 
 
 And, 'spite its wrath, for man redemption wrought, 
 Ev'n He takes from our hand revenge's chalice, 
 
 And bids us hold a cup with loving-kindness fraught. 
 
 " Vengeance is mine," 
 Saith God ; 
 4 ' Xot thine, 
 Child of the sod. 
 
 " I will repay 
 
 The wrong, 
 Though long 
 My time delay." 
 
 Ye wronged and crush'd, 
 
 And weak, — 
 
 Ye meek, 
 "Whose plaint is hush'd 
 
24 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 By fraud and power, — 
 
 Hope on ! 
 
 The hour 
 Will come anon, 
 
 When Heaven shall strike 
 
 Your foes, 
 
 And like 
 Untimely snows 
 
 They'll melt away, 
 
 And ye 
 
 Shall be 
 No more their prey. 
 
 Who stings a heart, 
 
 The sting 
 
 Shall bring 
 To him a smart. 
 
 Ye who in heaven 
 Would live, 
 Forgive, 
 
 To be forgiven. 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 25 
 
 Who suffer loss — 
 
 And take, 
 
 For sake 
 Of Christ, His cross, — 
 
 Pray for your foes, 
 
 Do good 
 
 To those 
 Who long have stood 
 
 Across your path, 
 
 And glared 
 
 In wrath 
 To see you snared : 
 
 And when your time 
 
 To die 
 
 Is nigh, 
 In strength sublime 
 
 Your souls with hope 
 
 Shall wait : 
 
 The gate 
 Of heaven shall ope, 
 3 
 
26 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 And voices sweet 
 
 With love 
 
 Shall greet 
 Your flight above. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The test of worth is wealth, it seems to me: 
 Tot) often in this world, a fearful ban 
 Is on the poor. Nay, tell me not " a man, 
 
 If honest, is respected, though he be 
 
 A dweller in the vale of poverty." 
 
 When he would rise, the meaner sort combine 
 
 And lift a heavy heel to push him down ; 
 
 And if the noble struggler do not drown, 
 'Tis not because they show no base design 
 
 Or purposed negligence. At any rate, 
 
 He rises in despite of Mammon's hate, 
 
 And his own hand his hard-earn'd bays entwine. 
 
 Were Heaven to add ability to will, 
 
 Nature's man-children Pharaoh-like they'd kill. 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 27 
 
 XVII. 
 
 When haply some more generous spirit lifts 
 A child of promise from the vale obscure, 
 Who else had died unknown among the poor, 
 
 And cheers him with his sympathy and gifts, 
 " A miracle !" the astonish'd public shout, 
 
 And laud him loud and lavishly because 
 
 The man obeys the Almighty Father's laws, 
 And like a brother throws his arms about 
 
 His lowlier brother's neck. Oh, blessed lot 
 To be possess'd of wealth and of a heart 
 
 So heavenly made that it refuses not 
 Of its abundance freely to impart ! 
 
 Our Saviour says the blessedness of giving 
 
 Is better than the pleasure of receiving. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 To waste away this life in pleasure-taking, 
 To have it on the book of heaven printed — 
 " He feasted and he died, nor ever stinted 
 
 His revel nights or days of merry-making 
 
 To wipe the dews of grief from brows of sorrow, 
 
 Or cheer the soul that sat in gloom of night, 
 
28 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 Nor bade it look with hope for a to-morrow 
 When God should give it a supernal light" — 
 
 How sad — how vain — and how contemptible ! 
 
 For such a lot the vial of scorn is full. 
 Who gives a cup of water in God's name- — 
 
 The water of affection — to the lip 
 
 Of some sad one who scarce has strength to sip, — 
 Shall have a vast reward, and heaven shall know his 
 fame. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 While impudence, like weeds, will thrive apace, 
 
 Genius is child-like, and so sensitive 
 It scarce obtains on earth a dwelling-place ; 
 
 And love must tend it, or it cannot live. 
 Neglect and contumely have destroy'd 
 Full many a man whose spirit long was buoy'd 
 
 By the fond hope that yet would come a day 
 That should repay him for the pain he bore : 
 The world's unkindness, like a canker, wore 
 
 Into his heart, and life escaped away. 
 'Tis sad that earth should lose so suddenly 
 
 Her gentle ones, and few be left behind 
 
 To temper the impetuous selfish mind, 
 And pour affection's oil on passion's furious sea. 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 29 
 
 XX. 
 
 So let it be — it has been ever so ; 
 
 For since the world's foundation-stone was laid, 
 And sin brought "death and all our mortal wo," 
 
 Suffering has been the ransom-money paid 
 For man's redemption. Precious lesson taught 
 
 By suffering Jesus ! — Murmuring heart, be still ! 
 
 Enough for thee that 'tis thy Maker's will. 
 Then let thy work in faithfulness be wrought : 
 
 Thy weary toil shall fit thee for thy rest. 
 Thy grave more welcome — quieter thy sleep — 
 If round thy coffin many sigh and weep, 
 
 Who but for thee had lived and died unblest. 
 God grant to thee, my soul — God grant to all — 
 Ripeness in faith and works before our time to fall. 
 
 END OF CANTO I. 
 
 3* 
 
CANTO II, 
 
 I. 
 
 The Utica was steaming up the Hudson ; 
 
 And we (some friends and I) took passage in her, 
 
 And reach'd Peekskill in ample time for dinner. 
 The mountain trees had neither leaves nor buds on, 
 
 Yet beautiful the haughty Highlands stood. 
 Oh blessed land of rivers, plains, and mountains ! 
 
 Beyond all regions Heaven has made it good ! 
 More precious than the orient golden fountains, 
 
 Or diamond stones of Occident Brazil, 
 My country is my Holy Land. I love her ! 
 The purest, brightest skies are spread above her, 
 
 And heavenliest verdure covers vale and hill. 
 The clearest waters fish did ever swim in 
 Are hers. And oh, what words can praise her virtuous 
 women ? 
 
32 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 II. 
 
 (Reader ! forgive the muse's transient rapture-— 
 
 Thy heart is cold if thou forgivest not.) 
 
 We gazed on Tarrytovvn, the famous spot 
 Where three militia-men made noble capture 
 
 Of Andre, the adventurous English spy. 
 
 The man was hang'd, and bravely did he die. 
 Some years ago the British sought his bones 
 
 And placed them 'mong their famous worthies. We 
 
 Once lost a hero worthier than he ; 
 And still he lies beneath the unnoted stones 
 
 Where he was buried. I have ever kept 
 A corner of my heart for Nathan Hale 
 To live in ; and until my days shall fail, 
 
 I'll honour him whose fate a lonely mother wept. 
 
 III. 
 
 He ask'd them for a Bible e'er he died : 
 He had been taught to love it in his youth, 
 And now he yearn'd to ponder on the truth 
 
 In his last moments, — and he was denied! 
 
 The Britons swung him 'twixt the heavens and earth, 
 
 As if lie were a dog; nor scarcely gave 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 33 
 
 A space of time to fit him for the grave. 
 
 (Howe ! lordly miscreant ! lord by chance of birth — 
 Thine is the sin, and thine the ignoble fame ! 
 I loathe to stain my verses with thy name. 
 
 I hold thee forth as one of vermin-breed, 
 That men may scorn thee, as they scorn a lie !) 
 
 Hale grieved — let freemen ponder as they read — 
 " That for his country he but once could die." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet Britons tell us, " We are base-begotten — 
 
 A mongrel nation, born in Time's declension — 
 Plebeian people — sellers of corn and cotton, 
 
 Unworthy high and honourable mention. " 
 Well, be it so. The lusty strength of youth 
 
 Is better far than proud decrepitude. 
 
 With mind and might and fortitude endued, 
 We stand erect, and fight for present truth. 
 
 We're in the young delight of new existence ; 
 The ardent blood leaps lively in our veins ; 
 
 The dim traditions glimmering in the distance 
 We scorn, for objects worthy manly pains. 
 
 We tread a path our slanderers never trod, 
 
 And as we choose, we serve and worship God. 
 
34 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 V. 
 
 It ill becomes our brethren thus to mock. 
 
 Their homesteads once were also ours ; and we 
 
 Have well upheld the family dignity, 
 Nor proved degenerate scions of the stock. 
 
 Let all the earth produce a parallel 
 
 To this free land wherein our people dwell. 
 'Tis ours to show what man, most free, can be : 
 
 The mission is not given to us to pore 
 
 O'er cobweb'd tomes of well-forgotten lore ; 
 Progression is our law and destiny. 
 
 We lead the van of battle, well begun 
 By Sidney — Hampden, Cromwell, on the field, — 
 And glorious Milton, who a pen did wield 
 
 That glow'd with light from mind's unclouded sun. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh, that great Milton's mental mantle might 
 (Like the rapt prophet's) fall upon this land, 
 "Which owes its freedom partly to his hand, 
 
 That dared betimes the fearless truth to write. 
 The man immortal of our father-isle, 
 
 His fame is also ours. And oh ! that men 
 
TAM S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 35 
 
 Would sit like children at his feet awhile 
 And wisely learn of him. All nations then 
 
 Would show their giants. I wish in vain, I fear. 
 When he was old and blind, they gave him ten 
 
 (They promised twenty) pounds for his great poem, 
 And let him die. And 'twould be so again. 
 
 Thus angels sometimes on the earth appear, 
 But till they've gone to heaven no person seems to 
 know 'em. 
 
 VII. 
 
 If I believed in canonizing men, 
 
 I'd canonize John Bunyan. But, indeed, 
 
 I'm follower of a stern and simple creed, 
 The " excellent way" Paul taught by tongue and pen. 
 
 And so the tinker may content himself 
 
 To take a place upon my mental shelf 
 Beside John Milton. Twelve full years was he 
 
 A guiltless prisoner held in Bedford jail; 
 
 And, companied by his daughter — (blind and pale) — 
 Manlike he bore the wrath of bigotry. 
 
 " 'Twas not to be endured that he should preach ; 
 They had not sent him," thus the prelates reason'd : 
 " In their own tenets he had not been season'd, 
 
 And strange 'twould be to let a tinker preach." 
 
36 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 'Tis hard to hinder bitter thoughts from rising — 
 To keep the word of scorn unspoken — when 
 I read the cruelties of these mitred men 
 
 Who seem t' have thought that man-anath'matizing 
 Was a far holier work than man-redeeming. 
 
 But Bunyan was beyond their power: nor cords 
 
 Nor bars could bind the immortal thoughts and words 
 His genius hid beneath the guise of dreaming. 
 
 He stands alone in his peculiar glory, 
 
 Sole sovereign of the realm of allegory. 
 
 Two hundred years have pass'd ; yet brightly beams 
 
 (Such fascination in his necromancy) 
 
 On us the radiance of his brilliant fancy. 
 
 What pleasant sleep was his that had such glorious 
 dreams ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thou, too, stand up, Noll Cromwell ! Take thy place 
 Among thy country's mightiest ; for thou wert 
 
 The sturdy champion of thy suffering race ; 
 And thou didst battle, ev'n to thine own hurt, 
 
 For man and truth and God. They slander'd thee, 
 The minions of the Second Charles. The dirt 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 37 
 
 Of slander now is dried, and, verily, 
 
 Like good old Bunyan's pilgrim, thou art girt 
 
 With brighter glory. Godless cavaliers 
 
 Made merry of thy manly spirit's heaving ; 
 
 Thy sighs and groans, thy prayers and flowing tears 
 Were mysteries to the graceless, unbelieving, 
 
 And scoffing followers of a bigot-king 
 
 Who oft had proved the freeman's sorest sting. 
 
 X. 
 
 The first and faithless Charles (since falsely named 
 The Martyr) sat on England's throne, and sought 
 
 To set aside the precepts wisely framed 
 
 To guard the freedom of man's word and thought. 
 
 He maim'd the men who spoke the unwelcome truth, 
 Imprison'd some, and some the tyrant fined, — 
 In pillories stood stern martyrs of the mind, 
 
 Yet all the people show'd them kindly ruth. 
 
 A reckoning-day was coming. Cromwell ! thou 
 And thy true cousin Hampden scorn'd to bow 
 
 Before the pride of prelates, king, and lords. 
 Humanity arose in arms ; and dire 
 And awful were the mortal hate and ire 
 
 When tyranny and freedom measured swords. 
 4 
 
38 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 XL 
 
 The Arm divine o'erthrew the foes of men: 
 
 The death of Charles a small atonement made ; 
 And tyranny sneak'd to its murky den, 
 
 And tiger-like lay watching in the shade. 
 'Neath thy protectorate, old England's fame 
 Grew great and glorious. Thy simple name 
 
 Sufficed to keep a turbulent world in awe ; 
 And people great and small securely dwelt 
 
 Beneath the shelter of the equal law ; 
 And at their wont the high and lowly knelt 
 
 And worshipp'd God. When death to thee came 
 near, 
 Still trustedst thou in Him who died to save. 
 
 Thou hadst thy faults ; but who, alas ! is clear ? 
 Immortal memories sanctify thy grave. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Short time it was that thou hadst been entomb'd 
 When tyranny came howling for its prey ; 
 
 Thy worn-out frame was savagely exhumed, 
 And on a gibbet swung in open day. 
 
 They cast thee in a pit : thy mother dear 
 
 And thy sweet daughter too : and many more 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 39 
 
 Of pure and holy ones. The atmosphere 
 Shook nightly with the bacchanalian roar 
 
 And horrid riot of the royal court ; 
 
 And freemen's wails afforded royal sport. 
 I can no more. Let future writers tell 
 
 The faithful story of those murderous times, 
 
 The " merry monarch's" shamelessness and crimes, 
 Whose merriment provoked the laugh of hell. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 All Europe groans with dark and ancient crime ! 
 
 Her catalogue of guilt is written down, 
 
 And Justice waits, with ever-deepening frown, 
 To smite for sins of past and present time. 
 
 The cry of man uprises to the Lord — 
 Of man oppress'd, and moaning helplessly ; 
 
 And shall not He fit recompense award 
 To those who spurn Almighty God's decree 
 
 That man in very deed a man should be ? 
 The lordly few eat up the land ; the poor, 
 Vilely earth-trodden, silently endure 
 
 The hunger-pang ; and hapless infancy 
 Is doom'd to labour, ignorance, and tears, 
 And scarce an opening ray of better days appears. 
 
 END OF CANTO II. 
 
CANTO III. 
 
 I. 
 
 Winter reclines his head upon the lap 
 
 Of Autumn ; and his snowy locks he flings 
 Upon her bosom. Closely doth he wrap 
 
 His arms around her, till her quiverings 
 Subside in death. His voice breaks forth in wild 
 
 And piteous howls, as if he mourn'd the death 
 
 Of the meek one who perish'd at his breath. 
 Stern on his brow the angry clouds are piled, 
 
 And bitter are his rage and vengeful spite ; 
 
 And seamen on the rocky coast at night 
 Fall victims to his ire. At times he seems 
 
 To put away his wrath, and melting tears 
 Run down his icy cheeks in copious streams ; 
 
 But soon anew they freeze, and all his rage appears, 
 4* 
 
42 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet even now the country has its charms ; 
 
 And he who has a cheerful heart may see 
 
 Some beauty in a brown and leafless tree, 
 While silently it stands, with barren arms 
 
 Outspread, as 'twere, in meekness tow'rd the skies. 
 
 The man has dim and uninstructed eyes 
 Who never finds the hidden gems that lie 
 
 Beneath his feet wherever he may tread ; 
 
 And he who bears a high and haughty head 
 Will pass unseen some work of wonder by. 
 
 The flowers may all have gone — the birds departed— 
 And babbling brooks be changed to speechless ice, — 
 Still nature's winter aspect may suffice 
 
 To fill with tender thought the pure and earnest- 
 hearted. 
 
 III. 
 
 The man who looks around him as he walks 
 Sees objects often wonderful and new ; 
 
 And he who thinks while his companion talks 
 In time may grow the wiser of the two. 
 
 An open eye — a quick, attentive ear 
 
 Will lead the mind into the ways of knowledge ; 
 
TAI8 FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 43 
 
 For all the world's a universal college, 
 And every one may be a learner here. 
 
 Experience is the teacher : dear, indeed, 
 Her charges are to thoughtless folks and fools ; 
 But those who follow carefully her rules 
 
 The various tongues of nature learn to read. 
 Thought adds to thought ; and soon the mental pile 
 Uprises heavenward, like a coral isle. 
 
 IV. 
 
 AY ho seldom ploughs his mind shall reap but little ; 
 
 Weeds quickly overspread the fallow soil ; 
 
 The toiler may be wearied by his toil, 
 But it shall yield sufficiency of victual, 
 
 Enough for his own use, and much to spare. 
 To him who hath, abundance shall be given ; 
 
 From him who squanders wastefully his share, 
 All that he has shall righteously be riven : 
 
 The world shall make a proverb of his name, 
 
 And he shall fill a sepulchre of shame. 
 There's work enough for all ; and he who fills 
 
 The measure of a useful Christian here, 
 Shall little heed life's ordinary ills, 
 
 And calm content his life and death shall cheer. 
 
44 tam's fortnight ramblf. 
 
 V. 
 
 In our humanity the Lord has hidden 
 
 Things brighter and more beautiful than lie 
 In mines of Mexico ; and we are bidden 
 
 To seek and find. We live below the sky, 
 Yet we may lay up treasure even there ; 
 
 Yea, life immortal — purity of heart — 
 Similitude to God, in that we bear 
 
 Our Saviour's image in our inward part — 
 The taste and thirst for knowledge failing never, 
 But strengthening in us ever and for ever — 
 
 The depths of love and mercy to explore, 
 And wondrous mysteries of His works to know — 
 To course through worlds that in the distance glow, 
 
 And learn, and love and serve our Maker evermore. 
 
 VI. 
 
 This present life seems full of mysteries ; 
 
 The vulgar mind, to superstition prone, 
 In nature's workings fearful omens sees, 
 
 And shrinks aghast from terrors of its own 
 Absurd imagining. Despotic is the power 
 
 Of ignorance ; and thousands live in fear 
 
T AM S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 45 
 
 And die unnumbered times before the hour 
 That Heaven has set to end their being here. 
 
 The trustful, quiet, mighty thinker seeks 
 The beautiful and simple orderings 
 Of the Great Former of created things, 
 
 And God to him in guiding accents speaks. 
 Still, in the dealings of the Lord with men, 
 Some things there are beyond our human ken. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Some dwell in palaces, and some abide 
 
 In huts ; some languish from the lack of toil, 
 
 And others would give thanks if they might hide 
 Their weary frames beneath the senseless soil. 
 
 Some men go hungry all the day; and some 
 Do turn away with loathing from their food, 
 For Heaven has given them multifarious good 
 
 Until satiety has overcome 
 
 The natural craving. Some have friends to spare ; 
 
 And some, in times of des'lateness and grief, 
 
 Have none to bring them comfort and relief. 
 
 Some die in trouble ; some have naught to bear. 
 
 Some ride on high, and some are trod in dust ; — 
 
 Can lots so various 'mong equal men be just? 
 
46 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Were death annihilation — were this life 
 
 A lamp extinguish'd, never to be relit, — 
 Then words of deep despondency were fit ; 
 Then man perchance might lift his arm in strife 
 
 Against his Lord. Were blessedness of mind 
 Dependent on the vastness of the heap 
 
 Of gold and gems the schemers 'mong mankind 
 Could gather — then 'twere virtuous to weep. 
 
 But 'tis not so. Infinity of time 
 Is yet to be. Beyond our vision lie 
 
 Eternal realms ineffably sublime 
 And beautiful. Nor heart, nor ear, nor eye 
 
 Of man has known what things are there prepared 
 
 For all who have His love and mercy shared. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The mourners of the earth there mourn no more ; 
 
 The sigh — the tear in heaven is unknown : 
 
 They walk in white and glory round the throne, 
 Who in their mortal life were spurn'd the door 
 
 Where Sin and Mammon reign'd within the dwelling. 
 
 Unmeasured bliss their raptured breasts is swelling, 
 
TAM S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 47 
 
 And all are brothers there. None rolls himself 
 
 In dust of gold, and lifts his head above 
 His fellow worms because the glittering pelf 
 
 Sticks to his slimier coat. The law of love 
 Is perfectly obey'd. The innumerable throng 
 
 Have each a separate theme of joy ; yet all 
 Unite in hallelujah and in song, 
 
 And God's benignant smiles on all the brethren fall. 
 
 X. 
 
 And there is rest, — the full and perfect rest 
 
 Of unfatigued activity : not such 
 As lulls awhile the languid mortal's breast 
 
 When he has thought or labour'd over-much : 
 Not such : but more — immeasurably more, 
 That needs eternity to tell it o'er : 
 
 A ceasing from infirmity and sin ; 
 Release from envy, hate, and jealousy, 
 
 And wrath, that, like wide open doors, let in 
 i"pon the soul a cursed company 
 
 Of evil spirits : — rest in the arms of God, 
 The garment of His love His people covering, 
 
 Their feet with soft and silken sandals shod, 
 And His rich mercies ever o'er them hovering. 
 
48 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And has this various life a change so fair 
 
 And glorious ? Does man — his death-sleep o'er — 
 Awake angelic ? Then who would not bear 
 
 And suffer long, and wait in patience for 
 Deliverance ? — O weeper on the way ! 
 Do many sorrows on thy bosom prey ? 
 
 Dost feel thy burden heavy ? Lift thine eye 
 To Christ thy strengthener. If from thee He take 
 
 No burden, still He listens to thy cry, 
 And He will save thee for His mercy's sake. 
 
 And oh, ye poor ! contemn not God's decree, — 
 If poverty — a bitter medicine — cure 
 The soul's distempers, blessed are the poor; 
 
 Yea, if ye are Christ's poor, thrice blessed men 
 are ye. 
 
 XII. 
 
 If plenty palls the palate of the rich, — 
 
 If appetite be lacking at the feast, — 
 If honours lose their magic power to 'witch, 
 
 And when obtain'd, are loved and worshipp'd least, — 
 It is that man should heavenward aspire, 
 
 And seize the substance, while the shadows pass 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 49 
 
 Like forms unreal pictured in the glass, — 
 Should warm his spirit with the sacred fire 
 
 Of love to God and man, and willingly 
 
 Go forth on earth a labourer to be — 
 A follower in the path of Providence, 
 
 A missioner along this life's highway, 
 
 The orphan's helper and the widow's stay, 
 Till God shall call his ransom'd spirit hence. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Uprightly stand, then, brothers of my race ! 
 
 And manly meet the troubles of the way : 
 A trustful hope in our Redeemer place, 
 
 And lovingly and kindly as ye may 
 Assist some weaker ones who have to bear 
 A weight of which your arm should take a share. 
 
 Whate'er your station, ye are sent of Heaven 
 To do a generous work among your kind : 
 
 Into your trust a talent has been given ; 
 It may be wealth of gold or wealth of mind, — 
 
 It may be large, it may be very small ; 
 But use it well, and ye shall one day hear 
 
 A welcome voice in winning accents call 
 Your souls to dwell in an immortal sphere. 
 5 
 
50 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 There are some bosoms, all the wide world over, 
 That flow with what is call'd the milk of kindness ; 
 
 And though I've not been an extensive rover, 
 Yet I were chargeable with moral blindness 
 
 Did I not see and feel the winning grace 
 
 That Heaven has given to many of our race. 
 The image of the Highest may be seen 
 
 In many of His children on the earth. 
 
 No claim they make to a patrician birth, 
 
 Yet in their kindly tone, their peaceful mien, 
 
 Their love, and faith, and self-denying spirit, 
 
 They give us strong assurance they inherit 
 
 The temper of their Lord, who, on the Mount, 
 In matchless words man's duty did recount. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The heart of kindness seldom sours or curdles ; 
 
 The cream of love is in it pure and sweet : 
 With every charm that human nature girdles, 
 
 And every grace of gentleness replete, 
 The man who has a kindly heart is most 
 
 In pattern like his Lord ; for where the law 
 
TAM S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 51 
 
 Of kindness rules the heart, the virtues draw 
 Together in companionship, and post 
 
 Themselves around that citadel of love. 
 
 The kindly man doth always kindly prove : 
 He has a word of sweetness for the child — 
 
 Of pity for the poor — of sympathy 
 For all who mourn ; and truly glad is he 
 
 When through his generous care some sorrowing face 
 has smiled. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 There's music ever in the kindly soul, 
 For every deed of goodness done is like 
 A chord set in the heart, and joy doth strike 
 
 Upon it oft as memory doth unroll 
 
 The immortal page whereon good deeds are writ; 
 
 And Heaven gives nothing sweeter to the mind 
 
 Than memories of the acts that bless our kind. 
 How foolish they who seek in biting wit 
 
 Amusement, at a weaker brother's cost ! 
 The wanton anguish man inflicts on man 
 
 Is written down — it never shall be lost ; 
 
 Some coming day 'twill meet God's righteous ban. 
 
 Be ours the grace to breathe our daily breath 
 
 In kindliness, and die the £ood man's death. 
 
52 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The village of Peekskill has goodly share 
 
 Of kindly men and women. (" Women ! I pray ! 
 
 Use softer term, Sir Poet ! Ladies, say." 
 
 The proudest name the gentler sex can bear 
 Is woman, simply woman — bosom-mate 
 Of hardier man, and sharer of his state. 
 
 And 'tis, besides, the name bestow'd by Heaven, — 
 
 I'll use it till a better word be given.) . 
 
 How big the human heart is ! How much 'twill hold 
 
 Of love ! In it the blissful stream may pour 
 
 Continually, and yet there's room for more ! 
 Should I be spared till I am gray and old, 
 
 I'll not forget the freshet of affection 
 
 That met me there and drown'd my mind's dejection. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Brother and I together took a ride 
 
 To Shrub Oak Plains. There cousin John alone 
 Is lying — friend nor kinsman by his side. 
 
 His resting-place is noted by a stone 
 Of whitest marble : truthful words are those 
 Inscribed thereon. The scene of his repose 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 53 
 
 Befits his life : 'twas beautiful and calm. 
 In meekness and in love he went his way, 
 Uprightly walking — filling up the day 
 
 With useful deeds. He often pour'd the balm 
 Of healing into wounded breasts ; nor sought 
 
 The praise of men in doing good, — for he 
 
 Had been a learner at Gethsemane, 
 And he remember d well what his loved Master taught. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Dear John ! 'Twas but a little while ago 
 "When he beside me, pensively and still, 
 Wander'd among the mounds at Laurel Hill, 
 
 And sought the grave of one he loved. The snow 
 Had melted from the fields, and Spring was coming ; 
 And southern winds blew with a gentle humming. 
 
 He left me for his northern home. The flowers 
 Of Summer bloom'd and faded ; Autumn came, 
 Whose setting sun gleam'd like a golden flame. 
 
 Then Winter brought long nights and stormy hours. 
 But John the Autumn nor the "Winter days 
 
 Saw not: Heaven call'd him in the Summer time; 
 
 He pass'd away in his and nature's prime. 
 
 A nobler pen than mine might worthily write his 
 praise. 
 
 5* 
 
54 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 XX. 
 
 In Peekskill dwelt another godly man ;* 
 
 But there he dwells no more ; he too has cast 
 
 Aside mortality, and lately past 
 Into the heavens. His life was but a span 
 
 On earth ; and yet 'twas long enough to win 
 
 The crown that waits the victor over sin. 
 " I have one hope — one only hope," he said ; 
 
 " My precious Saviour !" And as thus he spoke, 
 Death's darkness gather'd slowly round his head ; 
 
 And from the invisible world a brightness broke 
 On his new-given spiritual sight. 
 
 The morning of the Sabbath had arisen, 
 And earth was resting when his soul took flight, 
 
 And heavenward sped, like bird escaped from prison. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Of one who bore to Christ so sweet resemblance, 
 I fain would leave this token of remembrance : — 
 
 * Died, at Peekskill, on Sabbath morning, November 8, 
 1846, Rev. Daxiel Bnowx, pastor of the Payson Presbyterian 
 Church of that village. 
 
TAM S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 55 
 
 A righteous man has pass'd away — 
 
 A holy man from earth : 
 There seldom dwells in tent of clay 
 
 A soul of higher worth. 
 
 In gentleness and love he went 
 
 A peaceful path along ; 
 Yet in each wise and high intent 
 
 His heart was true and strong. 
 
 Few months agone, while yet the year 
 
 Was scarce a full day old ; 
 He hade me welcome to his cheer, 
 
 Nor aught did he withhold. 
 
 I parted from him in his door : 
 
 He said, " Good-by ; if we 
 Here see each other's face no more, 
 
 In heaven our meeting be." 
 
 I bore his image in my mind, 
 
 And ever with delight 
 Within my bosom I enshrined 
 
 The memories of that night. 
 
56 TAM S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 
 
 And oftentimes I hoped again 
 
 To hear his pleasant voice 
 Discourse on things of Heaven and men 
 
 In language rare and choice. 
 
 'Twas when the year was growing gray- 
 The time of fading leaves — 
 
 That God convey'd his soul away 
 Among His ripen'd sheaves. 
 
 Our land has storied men whose fame 
 
 Is written on the rock ; 
 But dearly will his honour'd name 
 
 Be cherish'd by his flock. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Babes also die. I've look'd into the grave 
 Wherein was laid a little child I love, — 
 My nephew George. Affection vainly strove 
 
 Most earnestly the stricken boy to save. 
 'Twas otherwise decreed. Were I to say 
 How pearly pale and beautiful he lay 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 57 
 
 Within his coffin, one might think it were 
 A sin to hide him in the sepulchre. 
 
 I touch'd his forehead and his tiny hand ; 
 How cold they were ! — the chill went to my heart, 
 And wellnigh caused the pent-up tears to start ; 
 
 But stern composure came at my command, 
 And silently I stood, and loved the more 
 The child who — dead — look'd lovelier than before. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 We bore him to the grave while yet 'twas morn, 
 
 The winter sunlight shining on his coffin : 
 The weight of grief was heavy to be borne, 
 
 And the salt tears rose in our eyelids often. 
 We slowly walked in mutely sad procession ; 
 
 The pitying people freely made us way ; 
 And the blest child, yet guiltless of transgression, 
 
 We softly placed between the walls of clay. 
 
 We sang a hymn — we bow'd our heads to pray ; 
 And God, who had our bitter grief appointed, 
 Sent also strengthening grace by lips anointed. 
 
 We look'd again on George as low he lay 
 Deep in the earth ; and when we homeward went, 
 We felt his home was better 'yond the firmament. 
 
58 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The clock upon the mantel-piece was ticking; 
 
 Thus hour by hour it tolls a funeral chime : 
 By day and night its calm and constant clicking 
 
 Denotes the speed of the old traveller Time. 
 It is a solemn voice. Who hath an ear 
 To hear its warning accents, let him hear, 
 
 And preparation make to meet the day 
 When he, alone, shall lie upon the brink 
 Of human life, and death shall bid him drink 
 
 The hemlock cup that none can put away. 
 What though man turn from the unwelcome theme, 
 
 Will Time sit still for man's forgetfulness ? — 
 To watch and wake were wiser than to dream 
 
 And wake at last to wo remediless. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " 'Tis time we should be going," Socrates 
 Said to his judges ; " me to die, and you 
 To live : the better which, is known unto 
 
 The gods alone." Happy for him who sees 
 'Tis time for him to go about his work 
 
 And finish well the allotted part before 
 
TAM 8 FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 59 
 
 The set of sun, when labour-hours are o'er, 
 And night descends in mantle damp and murk. 
 
 In reckless mood, some waste their morning-time, 
 And like an idiot gathering straws they clasp 
 The gewgaws of this world with earnest grasp, 
 
 While life slips on — till, past its glorious prime, 
 With trembling steps they carry down the road, 
 Hugg'd to their breast, a perishable load. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Spring for the youth, and summer for the man, 
 And autumn-time for him whose head is sere ; 
 But when one meets the winter of his year, 
 
 Then should he rest, and well and wisely scan 
 The tenor of his life, and lessons give 
 How younger men may well and wisely live. 
 
 I loathe to see the old man dabbling in 
 
 The turmoils of the world. Like one apart, 
 
 Turning aside from Mammon's work and sin, 
 Be his the holy task to teach the heart. 
 
 In the midway between two worlds he stands : 
 His foot is lifted ; when he steps again, 
 He passes from the dwelling-place of men, 
 
 And a new stage of life begins in other lands. 
 
60 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Thus earth goes forth in constant emigration 
 To the good land of Heaven. And evermore 
 The angel who stands sentinel on the shore 
 
 Proclaims, " Another from the lost creation !" 
 The sea of death continually is dotted 
 
 With barks of spirits voyaging across ; 
 
 And all whose guilt the grace of Christ has blotted, 
 
 Sail swiftly on, nor meet with harm or loss. 
 True, darkness to the natural eye may cover 
 
 The still and dismal waters, and alone 
 
 Each vessel ploughs a sea before unknown, 
 Yet o'er the track invisible angels hover ; 
 
 And the death-hidden, from the darkness waking, 
 
 Beholds the morn of day-eternal breaking. 
 
 END OF CANTO III. 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 I. 
 
 The Singsing stage up to the door was driven ; 
 
 I was the only passenger that day, 
 
 And sadly, gladly I pass'd on ray way, — 
 My wavering heart by varying feelings riven, 
 
 And, like a pendulum, swinging to and fro. 
 
 From dear and loving friends I grieved to go, 
 Still I was glad to turn my wandering face 
 And hasten toward my peaceful dwelling-place. 
 
 A gale blew briskly round St. Anthony's Nose, 
 And pierced my bosom with its sudden cold ; 
 I drew my cloak with somewhat tighter hold, 
 
 And in a buffalo skin I hid my toes ; 
 And thus I travell'd a romantic road 
 That scenes of beauty and of grandeur shovv'd. 
 6 
 
62 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Dunderberg sat silently beneath 
 
 The snowy clouds, that form'd a vapory wreath 
 
 Above its peak. The Hudson swept along 
 Its mighty waters — oh ! had I a pen 
 Endued with master gifts and genius, then 
 
 Might I aspire to tell its praise in song. 
 But I'm an humble bard, without a name, 
 
 Who tunes his straw in praise of homely things 
 
 If gentle hearts are touch'd by what he sings, 
 He is content, and thinks it noble fame. 
 
 In learned words let transcendentals talk, 
 And borrow phrases from the Greeks and Latins ; 
 If habited in foreign silks and satins, 
 
 My verse would limp and lose its natural walk. 
 
 III. 
 
 Of human things my muse delights to tell — 
 Of home and hope — of gentleness and love, 
 
 That sink like oil into the deepest cell 
 
 Of selfish hearts, and make the hinges move 
 
 More readily to let the truth come in. 
 There's poetry bound up in every life 
 Whose year^ with love and usefulness are rife, 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 63 
 
 For poetry and love are sister-kin. 
 
 The affectionate glances of a happy wife — 
 A husband's tender tones — an infant's smile — 
 
 The voice of childhood merrier than a fife — 
 With themes like these 'tis sweet an hour to while ; 
 
 And yet when musing on a lonesome way, 
 
 My thoughts on somewhat sadder topics stray. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And thus it was the woof and warp of thought 
 Into this web of ballad-lines were wrought : — 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Near where the sea-green billows kiss 
 
 The Hudson's crystal water, 
 In years agone there lived in love 
 
 A widow and her daughter. 
 
 Dear Ellen was a gentle girl, 
 She loved her God and mother : 
 
 Her father perish'd in the sea, 
 
 And other kindred none had she, 
 Nor sister fond, nor brother. 
 
64 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 I've wander'd in a wood at morn 
 When all around was stilly, 
 
 And in a shady nook I've seen 
 A solitary lily. 
 
 Like such a lily, Ellen bloom'd 
 
 In modesty and sweetness, 
 And, nurtured by a heavenly care, 
 
 She grew in heavenly meetness. 
 
 'Twere well had she thus lived and died, 
 Her heart unscathed by sorrow ; 
 
 Her day of life succeeded by 
 A blest eternal morrow. 
 
 I've wander'd on the mountain side 
 With gladness reigning o'er me, 
 
 And suddenly a wily snake 
 Uncoil'd its form before me. 
 
 So in her peaceful path there came 
 A man with aspect smiling ; 
 
 He came as Satan came to Eve, 
 In look and word beguiling. 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 65 
 
 His tongue was soft as velvet leaf, 
 
 His poison-fangs concealing ; 
 But where he stung, the festering wound 
 
 Was past the art of healing. 
 
 " Beware of him whose speech is smooth," 
 
 The mother spake her daughter ; 
 " The deepest depths are ever found 
 
 Where flows the smoothest water." 
 
 '' His heart is like an angel's heart," 
 
 The daughter spake her mother ; 
 '' He seeks to be to thee and me 
 
 A loving son and brother." 
 
 She listen' d to his guileful tale, 
 
 Nor heeded words of warning ; 
 Ah ! bitterly did future pain 
 
 Repay her present scorning. 
 
 For Robin laid his cunning game 
 
 With art so deep and skilful, 
 That gentle Ellen's mind was turn'd 
 
 To disobedience wilful. 
 6* 
 
66 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 And secretly at eventide 
 
 She left her home and mother: 
 
 The reverence to her parent due 
 She gave unto another. 
 
 They stood before the man of God, 
 Without a mother's blessing : 
 
 Then came again, and knelt to her, 
 The hasty act confessing. 
 
 The mother's brow with utter grief 
 Was for a moment shaded ; 
 
 Yet freely she forgave her sin, 
 Nor angrily upbraided. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 The days of honeymoon were few — 
 
 The days of joy were fewer; 
 For ere had pass'd the pleasant moon 
 That shineth in the month of June, 
 The bride began to rue her. 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 67 
 
 I've seen a morn awake in smiles 
 
 With sweet and balmy wooing; 
 And when the mid of day was come, 
 
 I've mark'd the tempest brewing ; 
 And ere the star of night arose, 
 
 I've seen the storm pursuing 
 The nying feet of man and beast, 
 
 To work their dread undoing. 
 
 Our Ellen's life is thus portray'd : 
 
 Ah me ! how sad the story, 
 That bitter storm should follow morn 
 
 Which woke in peace and glory. 
 
 The evening meal was set : the wife 
 
 Was sitting by her mother: 
 The cloth was spread for three, — but where 
 
 Was lingering now the other ? 
 
 They sat in troubled silence there, 
 
 The mother sadly eyeing 
 The speechless wife, whose eyes betray'd 
 
 Her secret tears and sighing. 
 
68 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 When secret tears are shed, the heart 
 Has cause to be a weeper : 
 
 For hidden grief is mortal grief, 
 And surely slays its keeper. 
 
 The evening time wore slowly on — 
 The clock did chime eleven, 
 
 And Ellen and her mother bow'd 
 And sought the grace of Heaven. 
 
 Another hour has pass'd, and, lo ! 
 
 The mid of night is over ; 
 And where is Robin loitering still ? 
 
 Why cometh not the rover ? 
 
 The dog is barking down the lane, 
 
 A traveller's foot is coming : 
 And Ellen lifts her swollen eyes, 
 And staggering Robin she descries, 
 A drinking-carol humming. 
 
 He falls upon the floor, and sleeps — 
 More brutal he than human ; 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 69 
 
 Oh cruel thought, that wretch so great 
 Should ever be the bosom-mate 
 Of meek and gentle woman ! 
 
 The hours of early day approach ; 
 
 And as the morn is breaking, 
 Sad Ellen at the cooling spring 
 
 Her fever'd heat is slaking, 
 And fearfully she waits the hour 
 
 Of wretched Robin's waking. 
 
 Farewell the fancied days of bliss, 
 
 Thus quickly doom'd to perish ! 
 Farewell the holy things of home 
 
 Her heart was fain to cherish ! 
 
 Farewell the blessed sympathies 
 That wake the tenderest feelings ! 
 
 Farewell to open confidence 
 And mutual heart-revealings ! 
 
 Farewell to hope — the seed she cast 
 
 Had blossom'd to be blighted ! 
 Farewell to love — its purest gifts 
 
 Were ofler'd, and were slighted ! 
 
70 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 A year had pass'd. 'Neath Robin's roof 
 
 Was heard an infant crying ; 
 And Ellen press'd it to her heart, 
 
 With earnest prayer and sighing : 
 
 Would God, the gracious, kindly pour 
 
 The spirit of contrition 
 In Robin's soul, and turn his feet 
 
 From courses of perdition ? 
 
 Oh, must her child — her guileless child 
 
 His father's shame inherit ? 
 And must the world's unpitying scorn 
 By him in coming days be borne, 
 
 Through his own sire's demerit ? 
 
 Ah ! Robin, see our smiling babe, 
 
 Such loveliness possessing ! 
 Oh stay with us, and be to us 
 
 Our sweetest, dearest blessing." 
 
lA.Vs FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 71 
 
 " Begone, I say, nor trouble me 
 
 With hypocritic mewling : 
 Let man abroad in pleasure roam, 
 'Tis woman's place to bide at home, 
 
 And soothe the children's puling." 
 
 Unhappy Ellen ! Weep and pray, 
 
 Nor heed the mocking laughter 
 Of Robin, as he rushes forth — 
 
 There comes a stern hereafter ! 
 
 Weep on and pray, with patient love, 
 
 Thou sufferer pale and lonely ; 
 For blessed are such weepers now — 
 
 On earth they suffer only. 
 
 But Ellen's heart had other grief: 
 
 She saw her mother languish, 
 And bow her head and die, and leave 
 
 The world and all its anguish. 
 
 The wife, so desolate, had now 
 A desolation deeper ; 
 
72 TAM S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 
 
 They laid her mother in the grave, 
 And Ellen's soul was fain to crave 
 A place beside the sleeper. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 A piteous thing it is to see 
 A child who has no mother, 
 
 Her father dead, her sisters dead, 
 And dead her only brother. 
 
 That child is still a happy child, 
 
 If only rest upon her 
 The memory of a father's name 
 
 All crown'd with virtuous honour. 
 
 More touching is the sight to see — 
 
 And to be pitied rather — 
 A hapless child whose portion is 
 
 A drunkard for a father. 
 
 Four summers passed o'er Robin's son ; 
 
 His cheek was bright and glowing ; 
 Behold him to the infant-school 
 
 With eager footsteps going. 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 73 
 
 He walks alone ; and when the school 
 
 Is o'er, behind he lingers : 
 The other children stand aside, 
 
 And point at him their fingers. 
 
 M His father is a drunkard I" cry 
 A dozen infant voices ; 
 And Robin's boy sits down and weeps, 
 While every child rejoices. 
 
 He hasten'd to his home — his cheek 
 Without a smile or dimple : 
 " Father ! am I a drunkard's child !" 
 He said in accents simple. 
 
 Then Robin smote him ; and he fell, 
 
 His forehead sorely bruising, 
 And from his mouth a little stream 
 
 Of blood came slowly oozing. 
 
 The bleeding boy awoke to life, 
 
 And Ellen sought to still him : 
 But he was made an idiot by 
 
 The blow that fail'd to kill him. 
 
 7 
 
74 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 Through many days, unmeaning words 
 The hapless martyr mutter'd ; 
 
 Then holy things of heaven and earth, 
 By angels taught, he utter'd. 
 
 And God had mercy ; and again 
 He gave the child his reason : 
 And strange and wondrous things he said, — 
 Man's thoughts came from an infant's head, 
 Like fruits before their season. 
 
 He never play'd again ; but on 
 
 Sad Ellen's bosom lying, 
 11 Dear mother, sing !" to her he'd say, 
 And he would fold his hands and pray, 
 
 And talk of heaven and dying. 
 
 'Twas.on the holy morn that tells 
 
 The resurrection-story, 
 He kiss'd her lips, and closed his eyes, 
 
 And pass'd to heavenly glory. 
 
 Now, mother ! stay thy soul on God ; 
 When woes like these attend thee, 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 75 
 
 Supporting grace must come from Him 
 Who only can befriend thee. 
 
 PART V. 
 
 'Tis night. The spirit of the frost 
 
 Upon the tempest rideth : 
 And wilder'd travellers o'er the waste 
 
 A doom of death betideth. 
 
 Yet crazy Robin wanders forth, 
 
 Unearthly noises ringing 
 Within his ears, and in his breast 
 
 Remorse, the scorpion, stinging. 
 
 The evil demon of the still 
 A war with him is waging, 
 
 And reason topples from her throne, 
 And Robin's mad and raging. 
 
 He wanders to the mountain's brink, 
 Nor knows his fatal error ; 
 
 He falls upon the jagged rocks, 
 And cries in pain and terror. 
 
76 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 The winds shriek wildly round his head, 
 Like angry tigers growling; 
 
 And through the night the tempest's voice 
 Commingles with his howling. 
 
 No human ear is nigh to hear, 
 
 And in his woe he dieth ; 
 Upon the rocks at morning dawn 
 
 His mangled body lieth. 
 
 Just as the fool dies, so died he, 
 
 The day of mercy ending, 
 A night of darkness and of wrath 
 
 In awfulness descending. 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 'Twas autumn eve. The gentle flowers 
 
 On every side were fading; 
 The setting sun shone on the hills, 
 
 The lowly valleys shading. 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 77 
 
 A breeze as soft as angel's breath 
 
 Around the couch was stealing, 
 "Where, praying fervently in faith, 
 
 A man of God was kneeling. 
 
 And sorrowing friends stood round the bed 
 
 Whereon a form was lying: 
 'Twas Ellen ; — there the suffering saint, 
 Without a murmur or complaint, 
 
 In peace and hope was dying. 
 
 A silence deep as death was there 
 
 When her true soul departed ; 
 And grace and mercy crown'd her end 
 
 Who lived the broken-hearted. 
 
 7* 
 
78 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 V. 
 
 I saw the homestead of a rancorous tory, 
 
 Who fought against his country in the years 
 Of our old revolutionary glory. 
 
 He well deserved a cropping of his ears, 
 But Britain pension'd him. His neighbours round 
 
 Gave him a pension too — of hearty scorn. 
 
 Of freeman's powers he by the law was shorn, 
 Yet he was wont to come upon the ground 
 
 "Where freemen met to vote. His very name 
 
 A jest-word on the tongues of men became. 
 " Ho ! ho ! sir patriot ! will you cast a vote ?" 
 
 They cried with biting tone and lip upcurling. 
 " I'd rather have," he mutter'd in his throat, 
 
 " Two hundred fifty pounds in money sterling!" 
 
 VI. 
 
 This was the sum the British paid him yearly ; 
 And many a debt like this, that people did owe 
 To such as he. They gave it to his widow 
 
 When he was dead. Methinks 'twas earn'd too dearly 
 A vagabond and fugitive like Cain 
 Is he who smites his fatherland for gain. 
 
r AM 8 FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 79 
 
 New York has many counties ; but Westchester 
 Has ripen'd memories clustering on the stem 
 Of old tradition. Who shall gather them 
 
 But one whose line is graced with some ancestor 
 That sow'd the heroic seed ? A stirring tale 
 Might be rehearsed of every hill and vale. 
 
 Had these mute rocks a voice, their tongues could tell 
 
 Of deeds that made our fathers' bosoms swell. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The times of Seventy-six and after-years, 
 
 Till freedom on our hills sat peacefully, 
 
 Were times not often given to earth to see, 
 When men, triumphing over natural fears, 
 
 And for the love they bore to liberty, 
 
 Resisted to the death the tyranny 
 Of foreign sway. It was not meet that they — 
 
 The hardy tamers of a continent — should give 
 Their birthright to their kinsmen far away, 
 
 Who dwelt upon an island in the sea, — 
 A haughty isle, yet so diminutive, 
 
 That, were a giant, in a sportive sally, 
 
 To toss it in our Mississippi Valley, 
 'Twould seem an infant on a mother's knee. 
 
80 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 'Twas kingly tyranny and priestly rule 
 
 That drove our fathers from the homes and graves 
 Of their ancestors. In the Cromwell school 
 
 They learn'd man's dignity ; and crouching slaves 
 In mind or body they could ne'er become. 
 They cast the price, and sternly paid the sum 
 
 That freedom cost. They took their venturous way 
 Over the sea, and set their feet upon 
 A free wild land beneath the western sun. 
 
 The God they served was their unfailing stay ; 
 And busy towns and villages arose, 
 
 And peace and plenty dwelt within the land, 
 
 Till in a fateful hour the Briton's hand 
 Fell heavily on them, and brethren turn'd to foes. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The men of Seventy-six in their good arm 
 
 — -Sustain'd by Heaven — reposed a manly trust ; 
 
 O'er all the land was sounded war's alarm, 
 And victory crown'd the valour of the just. 
 
 The fire of liberty fell down from Heaven 
 
 Till from our shores the enemy was driven ; 
 
TAM's FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 81 
 
 And freedom, with the land's redemption shod, 
 Her benison flung o'er every hill and plain. 
 Few of that band of noble men remain ; 
 Their spirits have obey'd the call of God, 
 And where they rest is deem'd a hallow'd sod. 
 Their perils fearful — measureless their gain ! 
 
 While love of home the freeman's breast shall fill, 
 Their fame shall cause the freeman's breast to thrilL 
 
 X. 
 
 Dear brethren, friends, and country of my love ! 
 
 " The lines are fall'n to us in pleasant places :" 
 
 A newer blessing every moment chases 
 Some previous blessing sent us from above. 
 
 Our cup is full, and rich as Heaven can make it 
 
 For lips of man unworthy. Brethren, take it, 
 And let us quaff it with a glowing spirit. 
 
 Its fulness will remain ; and while we drink 
 
 Of bliss surpassing nectar, let us think 
 How great and pure was our forefathers' merit. 
 
 Let thankful thoughts, like morning's fragrance, rise, 
 Whene'er to us returns our natal day ; 
 
 And He who smiles upon us from the skies 
 Will guide our country in a righteous way. 
 
82 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 XI. 
 
 — Our coach got in too late. The other stage 
 
 Had started on the way to Tarrytown ; 
 
 So at an inn my driver set me down. 
 Folly it were to fall into a rage, 
 
 And so I paid the fare and kept from strife. 
 The sun was to its winter zenith risen, 
 And forth I went to visit Singsing prison, 
 
 Where some have berths for years, and some for life. 
 Eight hundred live in company, yet alone, 
 And spend their time in manufacturing stone. 
 
 The prison stands along the river shore ; 
 It has no outer wall ; but men with guns 
 Keep watch, and shoot the felon if he runs ; 
 
 And rogues, in silence, learn to steal no more. 
 
 END OF CANTO IV. 
 
CANTO V. 
 
 I. 
 
 The years are stealing one by one on me ; 
 
 My face is growing older, and my hair 
 Is not so flaxen as 'twas wont to be, 
 
 And my complexion (ruddy once and fair) 
 
 Begins to show the trace of mental wear : 
 And several children clustering round my chair — 
 
 (One is in A, B, C ; the others read ; 
 
 At learning they are very apt indeed) — 
 Look up to me with fond respectful air : 
 Yet sober truth impels me to declare 
 
 I often feel as young and full of joy 
 
 And sportiveness as when I was a boy ; 
 With mischief and with mirth my bosom teems, 
 And still I love to share in childhood's fun and 
 schemes. 
 
84 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 II. 
 
 I give this merely as a good excuse 
 
 For all the whims and fancies of these papers : 
 
 If graver people, liable to vapours, 
 Object, and say, " The poet is a goose !" 
 
 Why, let them say it. Well enough I know 
 
 That living springs at times must overflow ; 
 But who'd refuse the limpid stream to quaff 
 
 Because the waters, as they run along, 
 
 Dance over stones and sing a cheerful song, 
 And whirl and purl as if they fain would laugh ? 
 
 Methinks my verses human life betoken ; 
 Sadness and mirth mix'd curiously together, 
 Like clouds and sunshine in the spring-time weather : 
 
 What cheerful heart that has not nigh been broken ? 
 
 III. 
 
 We sometimes see a shadow swiftly skim 
 In summer o'er the hills and vales of earth : 
 So transient shades steal o'er the face of mirth, 
 
 And frequent tears the brightest eyes bedim. 
 For instability and change are written 
 
 On us and all our works. The loveliest things, 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 85 
 
 When full of promise, oftentimes are smitten ; 
 And sweetest roses foster hidden stings. 
 
 The world, if loved too well, doth ever pall, 
 And the poor fool who set his heart thereon 
 
 Is doom'd to see his hope in ruins fall, 
 Its frail foundation undermined tnd none. — 
 
 May thus a mortal utter his complaint, 
 
 When faith is weak, and he is worn and faint ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 " I weary of this wosome world, O God ! 
 
 My languid spirit sinks — my nerveless hands 
 Have lost their wonted skill — my feet are shod 
 
 No more with diligence. Like one who stands 
 Supine and listless at his journey's end, 
 Or like a beggar who has naught to spend, 
 
 There is no relish in this life for me. 
 
 For I have sought for kindliness and truth, 
 And brotherhood, among my human kind : 
 
 But I have found the visions of my youth 
 Unreal creatures of a dreaming mind ; 
 
 And fame and riches false and fleeting be. 
 The twig may thrive when sever'd from the tree, 
 But all my comforts die when I am far from Thee." 
 8 
 
86 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 V. 
 
 Yet good's in every tiling except in sin ; 
 
 And even sin itself makes virtue seem 
 More beautiful. Pain is of brother kin 
 
 To pleasure. Night adds brightness to the beam 
 Of day. The Spring is balmier for the cold 
 
 And bitterness of Winter. Budding trees, 
 That long seem'd dead, are pleasant to behold. 
 
 In sultry hours, more grateful is the breeze. 
 Thirst makes mere water sweet: to hunger, bread 
 Is heavenly manna ; and the weary head 
 
 Contented rests upon a bed of straw. 
 The goodness of our Maker may be found 
 In every place the wide creation round : 
 
 His daily Providence proclaims this blessed law. 
 
 VI. 
 
 How warmly we are loved, we seldom learn 
 Till pain and sorrow take our strength away ; 
 
 Then, hearts too long estranged, to us will turn, 
 And be at peace, as in a former day. 
 
 Our true and loving wife more loving grows ; 
 Our little ones in pitying wonder stand 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 87 
 
 Beside the bed and clasp our fever'd hand ; 
 Their glistening eye the tear of feeling shows ; 
 
 And it may be, when evening calls to rest, 
 They sadly kneel beside their mother's chair, 
 Their silvery voices blend in simple prayer, 
 
 And for their sire they make a child's request. 
 The times of anguish vainly are not given 
 That lead a family to unity and heaven, 
 
 VII. 
 
 An urchin said, " If he were rich, he'd swing 
 
 All day upon the gate." And many people 
 Are fully of opinion it would bring 
 
 All Heaven to them, if they could climb the steeple 
 Of their desires. They clamber high and higher, 
 But never to the object get the nigher. 
 
 For as they rise, ambition grows the stronger ; 
 Insatiate longings prey upon their mind ; 
 And while they seek what thus they ne'er can find, 
 
 Death intervenes, and lets them seek no longer. 
 Their day and dream of life together past, 
 
 Aside their kinsmen lay them in the tomb ; 
 A passing thought upon their fate is cast, 
 
 And myriads still rush on to meet a similar doom. 
 
88 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And is this " all of life ?" Is bursting bubble 
 Or Sodom apple all that man ma}' gain ? 
 
 Like a lone partridge wandering mid the stubble, 
 Must he so wander o'er life's barren plain ? — 
 
 Planting for happiness, and garnering pain, 
 Is this his portion '? Selfishly alone, 
 Shall he supremely ever seek his own, 
 
 And bid the suffering one to weep in vain ? 
 Is all that heart requires, accomplished when 
 
 A heap of wealth is gather'd at our door ? 
 
 How thirsts the yearning soul for something more, 
 Some good that lies beyond its keenest ken ! 
 
 And must that thirst forever be unslaked ? 
 
 Shall suicidal dreamers never be awaked ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 For man immortal, it is wisdom's way 
 
 To make this life the pathway to a better ; 
 
 To do to all as kindly as he may, 
 
 And love as well in spirit as in letter. 
 
 Let man achieve a victory o'er himself; 
 
 Let him observe the blessed Preacher's teaching, 
 
89 
 
 And turn aside from trickery and o'erreaching, 
 Nor grind his fellows for the sake of pelf. 
 
 Oh let us take each other by the hand, 
 And help the weaker o'er the rougher places ; 
 
 Sure, God will bless so brotherly a band, 
 And gift our souls with high and holy graces. 
 
 What is there here worth living for, if it 
 
 Be not to love and do, and grow for heaven fit? 
 
 X. 
 
 The book of human nature is a tome 
 
 Most strange and curious. He reads it ill 
 
 Who sees not man's perversity of will 
 Written on every page. Eschewing home 
 
 And all its quiet joys — forgetting all 
 The little tender acts that fill love's measure, 
 
 And, like the dews that on the prairies fall, 
 O'erspread the heart with fragrant flowers of pleasure — 
 
 And seeking good wherein no good abides, — 
 
 Is't strange that disappointment man betides ? 
 The earth has many thorns, but roses grow 
 
 Among them. Hapless is the lot of one* 
 Who goes through life and never finds it so. 
 
 For him the pitying muse bids these quaint numbers 
 run : 
 
90 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 The happy man is he, 
 In city or countrie, 
 Whate'er his lineage be, 
 Who liveth lovingly 
 Amid his family ; 
 Whose heart is like a tree 
 That flowereth beauteously, 
 And beareth seas'nably, 
 And yieldeth fruitfully ; 
 Whose mind from guile is free ; 
 Who folio weth equity ; 
 Who scorneth flattery ; 
 Who showeth charity ; 
 Who toils with industry ; 
 Who walks in constancy 
 And true humility ; 
 Who loveth minstrelsie 
 And natural poesy, 
 And trees' and shrubbery, 
 
 And book, and bird, and bee ; 
 
 • 
 
 Who serveth reverently 
 The Lord of land and sea ; 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 91 
 
 Who honoureth the decree 
 Of the heavenly chancery, 
 And uncomplainingly 
 Resigns mortality ; 
 Whose faith in Christ's a key 
 To ope eternity, 
 Where, while the ages flee, 
 He'll dwell immortally, 
 And wondrous glories see 
 Unveiled by Deity. 
 Be this the destiny, 
 Reader! of thee and me. — 
 
 XI. 
 
 I went from Singsing in the afternoon 
 
 And rode to Tarrytown, and willing pains 
 The driver took to get in to White Plains 
 
 To reach the New York cars ; and fully soon 
 The mettled horses did their share of duty. 
 The mountain views to me were rich in beauty, 
 
 And like a child, to whom the world is new, 
 On every spot T cast inquiring glances : 
 
92 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 And this was natural in the circumstances ; 
 And, reader ! 'twould have been just so with you. 
 
 For I was passing over hallow'd ground 
 Where Washington had trod, and where he learn'd 
 
 (As Britain's boasters to their sorrow found) 
 The Fabian policy whereon the victory turn'd. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I felt some curiosity to learn 
 
 Why those broad plains had been ycleped White 
 The simplest reason I could there discern 
 
 Was this — the pebbles in the fields were light 
 Or milky-hued. — The alarm-bell shrilly rang ; 
 
 The steam-horse look'd impatient to be gone : 
 The passengers with expedition sprang 
 
 And took their seats : and we went dashing on. 
 All nature seem'd with legs to be endow'd : 
 
 A circling race the trees began to run ; 
 
 The hills, the rocks, the fences joined the fun, 
 Creation hasten'd past us in a crowd. 
 
 In plainer phrase, along the rail we flew 
 
 Till Manahatta's city open'd on the view. 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 93 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I met a man — I may not tell his name — 
 
 His face was frank and fair : but one who gazed 
 Into his eye might see that he was crazed ; 
 
 His wife had crazed him by a deed of shame. 
 He sat beside me in the travelling car ; 
 
 I know not why he told the tale to me, — 
 
 Perchance he saw and felt the sympathy 
 I had for him whose soul had such a scar. 
 He dwelt in peace in his own home afar, 
 
 And love and quietness abode with him ; 
 And in that heaven his wife was as a star, 
 
 Until a cloud arose and made it dim. 
 
 A villain stole her heart ; and what was left 
 To comfort him when of her love bereft ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 She left his dwelling, and she bore away 
 
 Their only child — a blooming boy, but blind: 
 The blow was fatal ; and his anguish'd mind 
 
 Totter'd like some half-rooted tree, whose stay 
 The hurricane has rent. He sallied forth, 
 
 And on the wretch he plied the stinging stroke 
 
94 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 Until the rod in useless fragments broke ; 
 
 And then he took his journey to the north 
 To seek the child. " I would not take his life," 
 He calmly said, " though he beguiled my wife : 
 
 Who sits upon the cloud beheld the wrong 
 I suffer'd — He will make it right." We parted 
 
 And met no more ; but in my memory long 
 Shall bide the look of one so wan and broken-hearted. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Within the cars were various sorts of people : 
 
 Some sat in couples — others sat alone ; 
 
 Some softly spoke, and some in boisterous tone. 
 A churchman told of his new church and steeple, 
 
 And rightly show'd a warm regard for both ; 
 A fellow near, who God nor man regarded, 
 His low and vulgar language interlarded 
 
 At intervals with an emphatic oath. 
 He claim'd to be a gentleman, no doubt ; 
 
 Methinks he was alone in that opinion ; 
 
 A common swearer's Satan's meanest minion. — 
 'Twas dark when we got in ; and I got out : 
 
 To brother's dwelling I went hastily, 
 And quietly with friends sat down to talk and tea. 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 95 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Delightful is an evening's cheerful chat 
 With pleasant friends, especially to one 
 Who has been long away. The minutes run 
 
 With speed that all the talkers marvel at. 
 So much to talk about — so much to tell — 
 
 So many sleeping memories to awaken — 
 The various fates that absent friends befell — 
 
 Whom time has spared, and whom the grave has taken ; 
 The tear to shed for those who've pass'd away — 
 The sigh to breathe for those who've gone astray — 
 
 Our times of darkness, and our days of light — 
 Our purposes and plans for coming years — 
 Our heavenly hopes, our earthly human fears — 
 
 And lo ! 'tis time to say, " Good-night, dear friends, 
 good-night !" 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Now seek we balmy sleep. How happy he 
 Who folds his arms upon his peaceful breast, 
 And calmly takes his 'customed nightly rest ! 
 
 But some sad souls are sighing wearily : 
 The eye is dull, yet sleep the lid forsakes ; 
 
 The ear is quick to catch the faintest noise ; 
 
96 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 The clock's dull tick the drowsy spell destroys, 
 
 And on the downiest bed the sufferer wakes. 
 All sleep but him. The house has silent grown, 
 
 And lonelier grows the still and lonely night. 
 
 The stealthy cat, with footfall fleet and light, 
 Along the stairway patting up and down, — 
 
 The cricket in the hearth, — the creaking door,- 
 But serve to make the silence deeper than before. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 While thus the hours in solemn stillness roll. 
 Some thoughts like these may occupy his soul :— 
 
 I lay me down, but cannot sleep ; 
 My thoughts unwilling vigil keep ; 
 I turn in weariness and pain, 
 And, lo ! I hear the sentry's strain— 
 " Twelve, and all is well J 11 
 
 The air with noise no longer stirs ; 
 Still as the place of sepulchres 
 The sleeping city is — save when 
 The sentry's voice is heard again— 
 " One, and all is well I" 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 97 
 
 How solemn is the night ! — the eyes 
 Of heavenly creatures light the skies : 
 They glimmer o'er the ancient tower 
 Wherein the sentry marks the hour — 
 " Two, and all is well T 
 
 How many others wake with me, 
 Dear hrothers in infirmity : 
 How many homeless wanderers hear 
 The tones that fall upon mine ear, — 
 " Three, and all is well!" 
 
 Sad hearts ! how wearily and slow 
 The long and lengthening moments go ! 
 When will the darkness pass away 1 
 Why tarries so the coming day ? — 
 " Four, and all is ivelll" 
 
 Yes ! all is well ! Though now I weep, 
 I know my God will give me sleep ; 
 The morning light is in the skies, 
 And slumber softly shuts mine eyes — 
 " Five, and all is well /" 
 
 END OF CANTO V. 
 
CANTO VI. 
 
 I. 
 
 'Tis Sabbath in New York. The calm of rest 
 Is in the souls of men. The sound of bells 
 The hour for holy convocation tells ; 
 
 And sacred courts by worshippers are press'd. 
 Mean Mammon hides within the deepest cells 
 Of the mean hearts wherein he wonted dwells. 
 
 The rich man's day — he feels his poverty, 
 
 His need of grace bestow'd without a price : — 
 
 The poor man's day — he learns his high degree — 
 That he is noblest who has least of vice : — 
 
 The gathering-day around a Father's table, 
 
 When brethren from their wandering-places come 
 And sit in peace like children at their home, — 
 
 An Eden of the soul, outspringing from a Babel. 
 
100 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 II. 
 
 The day is past. Another morning breaks, 
 And man again to busy labour wakes : 
 
 Labour, the source of rest, — the discipline 
 Of love, — the doom most merciful and just, 
 That keeps the soul uncanker'd from the rust 
 
 That else would eat it with the tooth of sin, 
 
 And let innumerable sorrows in. 
 The stillness of the Sabbath — passing sweet 
 
 It was — has given place to various din : 
 The hammer's clang — the rumbling in the street, — 
 The sound of many voices, — hurrying feet, — 
 
 The uneasy groans of ponderous machines, — 
 All these — and countless more — the listener greet, 
 
 And magical appear the city's wondrous scenes. 
 
 III. 
 
 The blind man groping cautiously his way 
 Along the crowded pavement of a city, 
 Has natural claims upon our tender pity. 
 
 Whether 'twere night, or whether it were day, 
 Would seem to make small difference to him 
 Whose days and nights alike are ever dim ; 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 101 
 
 Yet still the tramp of human feet, and hum 
 
 Of human voices, sweetly fill his ear ; 
 
 The surgings of the tides of life appear 
 Like the deep sounds that from the ocean come 
 
 At midnight to the list'ner. Pity's glance 
 Upon his form instinctively I throw; 
 
 And while some sadness clouds my countenance, 
 To God 1 pray to save me from such wo : — 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Thine earth, Lord ! is beautiful. Mine eyes 
 Have seen — my heart has felt it so. Thy hand 
 Has set its seal of glory on the land, 
 
 The sea, and every thing beneath the skies : 
 The earth was bright to me in early days, 
 
 Ere dimness fell on me ; — Oh ! Father, God ! 
 
 Thou know'st that I its hills and vales have trod, 
 My bosom full of love to Thee, and praise. 
 
 I loved the earth because 'twas made by Thee, 
 And made so fair. I still would look upon 
 Its face when lit with radiance by the sun, 
 
 Or by the moon or paler stars. To me 
 
 'Tis beauteous still, the earth and all its kind — 
 
 Then spare me, gracious Lord ! and let me not go 
 
 blind ! 
 
 9* 
 
102 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 V. 
 
 " About my hearth, five little ones are playing ; 
 
 Their mother sitteth with our last-born near : 
 
 What hand shall feed them, and what voice shall 
 cheer, 
 If I am smitten blind ? Lord, I am praying 
 
 For these my children whom Thou gavest me, 
 
 And her, more loved in my extremity. 
 I kiss the rod that smiteth me. Thy will — 
 
 Thy sovereign will — be done ! But yet I pray, 
 
 Oh ! spare to me the pleasant light of day, 
 And let me look upon my brethren still. 
 The face of man to me is very dear ; 
 
 Then set me not alone, where I shall see 
 
 My human kind no more, and ever be 
 A dweller in a land all lonely, dark, and drear." 
 
 VI. 
 
 — How pitiable is the man whose mind 
 Is darker than the ancient night that fell 
 On Egypt, (as our holy Scriptures tell,) 
 
 And who has never learn'd that he is blind. 
 In rank and saucy speech he calls to task 
 
 The Great, the Wise, the Holy All in All ! 
 
TAM I FORTNIGHT RAMDLF.. 193 
 
 With questions such as he alone dare ask, 
 He mocks Infinity ! The lightnings fall, 
 
 And scath him not — he scorns the Thunderer ! 
 He swells in pride, a little deity, 
 
 Nor heaven nor earth shall make his spirit stir ! 
 Fool were a word as weak as word can be 
 
 To tell his name : — Ah no ! the man is blind : 
 
 The God of mercy make him sounder in his mind. — 
 
 VII. 
 
 From Manahatta may be seen Long Island ; 
 
 It lies between the river and the ocean, 
 And interposes many a verdant highland 
 
 Between the city and the sea's commotion. 
 There, near the beautiful Gowanus bay, 
 
 Is Greenwood Cemet'ry, the place of rest 
 
 Of mouldering men whose souls are with the blest. 
 With loving friends I wander'd there one day, 
 
 A winter day, such as we sometimes see 
 When old December, hoar with age and rime, 
 Relents its rigour in its dying-time. 
 
 The snow lay here and there ; and spots of green, 
 
 Amid the snow, diversified the scene — 
 The emblems of a life beyond mortality. 
 
104 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 In after-time, when musing on that hour, 
 My thoughts fell captive to the poet's power : 
 
 Were I to choose where I would rest 
 
 When all my care is o'er, 
 I'd bid them lay my silent breast 
 
 Beside Gowanus' shore. 
 
 In Greenwood's vale should be my grave, 
 
 Or in its shady steep ; 
 The ceaseless singing of the wave 
 
 Should charm my peaceful sleep. 
 
 I'd rest on nature's dreamless bed, 
 Beneath the smile of God, — 
 
 His hand of love beneath my head, 
 And cover'd with her sod. 
 
 I'm weary, weary now, and long 
 
 Have weary, weary been ; 
 And melancholy tunes my song 
 
 When sadness reigns within. 
 
tam's fortnight ramble. 105 
 
 Yet so I work His gracious will, 
 
 And so my Lord approves, 
 I'll bear my daily burden still, 
 
 Till He its weight removes. 
 
 When God shall bid me enter on 
 
 The Sabbath of the dead, 
 He will not leave me all alone 
 
 The lonesome path to tread. 
 
 Confiding as a child I'd lie, 
 
 And slumber on his breast ; 
 Who sleep in Jesus never die — 
 
 They close their eyes and rest. 
 
 IX. 
 
 On Monday afternoon — it lack'd a quarter 
 Of five o'clock — I like to be exact 
 In days and dates, and other things of fact — 
 
 I bade my friends good-by, and cross'd the water 
 To Jersey City, and took again the cars. 
 
 The evening shades set in, and soon the Night 
 
106 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 In silentness put on his crown of stars. 
 The moon came up, and wander'd with her light 
 Among the clouds. Of all the stars, mine eye 
 Selected one, the glory of the sky : 
 It made me think of home ; and then a rime 
 Rose in my mind, and cheer'd the lagging time. 
 Thus lovingly I rhymed, while tasting only 
 The luxury of lounging languidly and lonely : 
 
 RIME IN A RAILROAD CAR. 
 
 Afar from home for many days, 
 I cried, " More swiftly move, 
 
 Ye cars, upon your iron ways, 
 And bear me to my love." 
 
 The wintry day had pass'd, and night 
 Put on his jewell'd crown, 
 
 And from the moon the beams of light 
 Came soft and gently down. 
 
 A single star appear'd at first, 
 And twinkled near the moon, 
 
TAM's FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 107 
 
 Undimm'd by all the host that burst 
 Around its pathway soon. 
 
 The steamy engine, like a bird, 
 
 Skiram'd o'er the level rail ; 
 'Twixt mountain-heights it wildly whirr'd, 
 
 And leap'd along the vale. 
 
 But still the star sped on before, 
 
 As if to lead the way ; 
 Perchance my love within our door 
 
 Beholds its silvery ray ; 
 
 And peace comes softly in her heart, 
 
 And dark and troublous fears 
 Beneath its cheering light depart, 
 
 And faith dries all her tears." 
 
 And then methought the eye of God 
 
 Doth ever shine upon 
 The darksome way in patience trod 
 
 By every suffering son. 
 
 And comfort, like a sinless bird 
 Abiding in its nest, 
 
108 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 Nestled within my heart, and stirr'd 
 Anew my loving breast. 
 
 Night's silentness was all around, 
 My journeyings now were o'er ; 
 
 And mine own faithful love I found 
 At watch within our door. 
 
 X. 
 
 Anon I thought, at home 'twould not be ill 
 
 To set up for a poet — get a sign, 
 
 " Tarn, poet — and commissioner for the Nine," 
 And tack it to an office window-sill, — 
 
 Procure a desk, a library-case, and chair, 
 
 And then put on a literary air, 
 And cross my legs and wait for customers, 
 
 As legal men and medical doctors do. 
 I'd send my card to liberal publishers, 
 
 Thus, " Office hours from 10 o'clock to 2." 
 A quid pro quo I'd always render ; that is, 
 
 The merit of the poetry should be 
 
 Proportionate to the bigness of the fee : 
 The editors and album-ladies gratis. 
 
TAM S FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. 109 
 
 XI. 
 
 Ah ! what a revolution would be brought 
 About in things poetic ! Then no more 
 "Would poets hover near starvation's door. 
 
 Supping on words and breakfasting on thought, 
 Until, heart-frosted, they do wilt and die. 
 
 No more would poets be associated 
 
 With lean and hungry want : no more be fated 
 To live midway betwixt the earth and sky 
 
 In attic rooms. Professional glory — 
 
 O'erflowing coffers — pomp — the world's esteem — 
 
 And all that goes to make a name in story — 
 And turn this life into a splendid dream — 
 
 Were theirs, if they would take their pay in kind, 
 
 And give for them the birthright of their mind. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Pah ! pah ! I'll none of it ! I'd rather stand 
 Nobly among the poor, than soil my soul 
 
 And stain the palm of my unsullied hand 
 
 With Mammon's glittering and dear-bought dole. 
 
 If I possess a fairly-founded claim 
 
 To add the poet's title to my name, 
 10 
 
110 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 Let me sing on as nature teaches me : 
 Let purity and virtue mark my words; 
 Oh let me touch in human hearts the chords 
 
 That vibrate in completest harmony, 
 And waken music in the souls that sit 
 
 Afflicted and disconsolate in their door, — 
 Till far from them the evil spirits flit, 
 
 And in their desolate dwellings joy bides evermore. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But oft I have no heart to make a rhyme ; 
 
 'Tis scarce worth while to tell the reason why. 
 
 I cast my verses negligently by, 
 And lay them over for another time. 
 
 " Why should I give my thought and care to buy 
 A jewel, worthless in the eyes of many, 
 Who set a higher value on a penny 
 
 Than on the purest gem of poesy ?■" 
 When thus I ask, awhile my spirits fail ; 
 But better thoughts and purposes prevail : — 
 
 I'm but a man amid a world of men ; 
 Among them all, a few may love to listen, 
 Until their hearts grow soft, and eyeballs glisten 
 
 With tender tears awaken'd by my pen. 
 
TAMS FORTNIGHT RAMBLE. Ill 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then my own heart grows stronger, and I feel 
 
 That God has given us naught that is in vain ; 
 
 That simple herbs may cure acutest pain, 
 And gentle words a bosom-sore may heal. 
 
 Then sing I on in hopefulness and faith, 
 
 And close mine ear to what the scoffer saith — 
 Nor heed the cold, unsympathizing stare — 
 
 The haughty look — the dull, ungainly grin 
 That marks some faces, as 'twere printed there 
 
 In living type, " There is no man within !" 
 Oh, that my rhymings, like a living rill, 
 
 That slakes the thirst of mortals worn and weary, 
 May flow in a continuous current still, 
 
 And make the heavy-hearted light and cheery. — 
 
 XV. 
 
 Somehow the other train ran off the rail, 
 
 And thus were we consid'rably belated, 
 
 And longer kept than we anticipated 
 Upon the road. At midnight we made sail 
 
 Across the Delaware. Few minutes more, 
 
 And I was standing safely in my door. 
 
112 tam's fortnight ramble. 
 
 A sweet embrace soon told me all was right ; 
 
 In arms of Love their lives had all been hid. 
 
 I kiss'd the children : — 'neath the coverlid 
 Their bright blue eyes twinkled like stars at night. 
 
 If breasts e'er gladly throbb'd, our bosoms did ! 
 Our thankful vows to Heaven we kneel'd to plight 
 
 In fearless trust our weary eyelids closed, 
 
 And softly, sweetly, soundly we reposed. 
 
 END OF CANTO VI. AND LAST. 
 
DOMESTIC POEMS 
 
 10* 
 
DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 A PEEP INTO THE PARLOUR. 
 
 Love, where's the poker ? I would stir the fire ; 
 'Tis getting low — the wind is ''getting high;" 
 Come, draw the chairs and little table nigh; 
 
 The glowing coals will cheerfulness inspire, 
 And while you ply the needle, I will write 
 The gentle words the muse may speak to-night. 
 
 Ah ! what is that I " You wish I'd talk," you say. 
 Just as you like ; but let me end my strain, 
 Or I shall tangle all my fancy's skein, 
 
 And lose the thread-end of my homely lay. 
 
 " You wish I'd crack some nuts and eat a pippin V 
 
 You know my hobby, dear ! You bring me low, 
 
 And conquer with a single loving blow ; 
 The nuts and apples cheerfully I'll dip in. 
 
116 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 You want to know " What nonsense I am writing !" 
 Ah, now, methinks you're somewhat too severe : 
 The Muse, you know, is but my second dear, 
 
 And she, like you, impels me to inditing 
 
 The rhymes you say are sometimes so inviting. 
 But we'll not quarrel for such little things ; 
 Peace in our dwelling folds her downy wings, 
 
 And presidents and lords may do the fighting. — 
 Hist ! how the wind is howling round the attic ! 
 
 The tempest-king is sitting on the air, 
 
 And we've a turkey on a nail up there. 
 
 Of Christmas nigh at hand 'tis symptomatic. 
 
 Then listen, love ! — (be off, mischievous kitten, 
 
 And let my foot alone !) — I'll read you what I've writ- 
 ten : — 
 
 The Wind is out in his strength to-night, 
 And the Frost is under his wings ; 
 
 Downward to earth he bendeth his flight, 
 And wild is the song he sings ; 
 
 Wo, wo to the wretch whose hapless head 
 
 Hath shelter none, nor fire, nor bed ! 
 
A PEEP INTO THE PARLOUR. 117 
 
 The wind is putting the trees to rout — 
 
 He rends them in his wrath ; 
 At his will he scatters the leaves about, 
 
 And drives them from his path ; 
 He splinters the den of the sleeping bear, 
 And the torpid brute is cast from his lair. 
 
 The wolves are howling the forest through, 
 
 And the savage panthers growl ; 
 The echoing woods the noises renew, 
 
 With the screeching of the owl. 
 The men are in peril, who, far from home, 
 On such a night, in the wild woods roam. 
 
 The wind on the sea is blowing a gale ; 
 
 He rolls the waves on high ; 
 And the quivering ships, without a sail, 
 
 O'er the face of the ocean fly. 
 A tear and a prayer for the sailor be given 
 Whose vessel is on a lee-shore driven ! 
 
 He pierces the hut of the shivering poor — 
 No sigh of pity has he ! 
 
118 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 What mortal can tell the pangs they endure 
 
 Whose portion is poverty ? 
 Rich stewards of Heaven, to want unknown — 
 God's creatures starve for lack of a bone ! 
 
 " Enough," you say ; and so say I. It pains 
 My inmost soul when I depict the woes 
 
 That many a poor, unmurmuring man sustains 
 As mournfully along life's way he goes. 
 
 The poor are with us alway. Let us give 
 To them a share of what to us good Heaven 
 In flowing cups of happiness has given ; 
 
 And they may learn to feel 'tis good to live. 
 
 Good-night ! The Sabbath hour is drawing nigh ; 
 
 We'll lay aside our labours, love ! and rest : 
 
 Our Father sends His blessing to our breast 
 While humbly we for His sweet favour cry. 
 
 We fear no evil when we sink to sleep ; 
 
 By night and day alike, His children He will keep. 
 
OUR WILLIAM, 11 'J 
 
 OUR WILLIAM. 
 
 A little son — an only son — have we ; 
 
 (God bless the lad, and keep him night and day, 
 And lead him softly o'er this stony way !) 
 
 He is blue-eyed, and flaxen hair has he, 
 
 (Such, long ago, mine own was wont to be — 
 And people say he much resembles me.) 
 
 I've never heard a bird or runlet sing 
 
 So sweetly as he talks. His words are small 
 Sweet words — oh ! how deliciously they fall ! — 
 
 Much like the sound of silver bells they ring, 
 And fill the house with music. Beauty lies 
 
 As naturally upon his cheek as bloom 
 
 Upon a peach. Like morning vapour, flies 
 
 Before his smile my mind's infrequent gloom. 
 
120 OUR WILLIAM. 
 
 A jocund child is lie, and full of fun : 
 
 He laughs with happy heartiness ; and he 
 His half-closed eyelids twinkles roguishly, 
 
 Till from their lashes tears start up and run. 
 
 The drops are bright as diamonds. When they roll 
 
 Adown his cheek, they seem to be the o'erflowing 
 Of the deep well of love within his soul — 
 
 The human tendernesses of his nature showing. 
 'Tis pleasant to look on him while he sleeps : 
 
 His plump and chubby arms, and delicate fingers, — 
 The half-form'd smile that round his red lips creeps ; 
 
 The intellectual glow that faintly lingers 
 
 Upon his countenance, as if he talks ■« 
 
 With some bright angel on his nightly walks. 
 
 We tremble when we think that many a storm 
 May beat upon him in the time to come, — 
 
 That his now beautiful and fragile form 
 May bear a burden sore and wearisome. 
 
 Yet, so the stain of guiltiness and shame 
 
 Be never placed upon his soul and name, — 
 So he preserve his virtue though he die, — * 
 
 And to his God, his race, his country prove 
 
OUR WILLIAM. 121 
 
 A faithful man, whom praise nor gold can buy, 
 Nor threats of vile, designing men can move, — 
 
 We ask no more. We trust that He who leads 
 The footsteps of the feeble lamb, will hold 
 This lamb of ours in mercy's pasture-fold, 
 
 Where every inmate near the loving Shepherd feeds. 
 
 I 1 
 
122 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 THE CHILD IS LOST! 
 
 " kinsmen, neighbours, friends ! our child is lost : 
 
 The night is falling — help, for love of God ! 
 
 In fruitless search the city streets we've trod, 
 And vainly every lane and alley cross'd. 
 
 The mother's heart is breaking — friends, take pity- 
 Forth, quickly forth, and scour the darkening city. 
 Ring, bellman ! ring ! Proclaim to kindly ears, 
 
 ' A child is lost P — a tiny, tottering one, 
 Whose age is scarcely reckon'd yet by years — 
 
 Whose feet but little time have learn'd to run — 
 Whose words are simple words, in accent broken ; 
 
 He scarce can tell his name, nor where he dwells, 
 Or else his words so modestly are spoken 
 
 That strangers cannot understand the tale he tells.' 
 
THE CHILD IS LOST. 123 
 
 The slow and solemn clock tolls forth eleven, 
 And many a wearied seeker homeward speeds. 
 
 They bid the mourning mother trust in Heaven, 
 And on her couch to seek the rest she needs. 
 
 " Oh, can I sleep when he is still unfound — 
 
 A helpless lamb that's wander' d from the fold ! — 
 And he perhaps is hungry, tired, and cold, 
 
 Or sleeps to die upon the frozen ground ? 
 How can I rest, when I perchance shall see 
 No more the child whom God once gave to me ? 
 
 Comfort, kind neighbours — leave me not forlorn: 
 Is there no hope ? Is life henceforth to be 
 
 Of joy and peace and pleasant memories shorn ? 
 Pray with me, friends, in mine extremity." 
 
 'Tis midnight now. How fearfully the hour 
 
 Trembles upon the calm quiescent air ! 
 
 The robber leaves his dark and hidden lair, 
 To snare by cunning, or prevail by power. 
 
 The world has closed its eyes and fallen asleep; 
 And God looks down from His eternal throne 
 
 And shuts the eye that long was wont to weep, 
 And makes the wretched feel they're not alone. 
 
124 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 The watchful mother hears the hurrying tread 
 Of nimble feet. The father comes ! He bears 
 
 The little wanderer in his arms, — his head 
 Reclining on his shoulder, free from cares 
 
 And fast asleep ! — Ah, in that home the voice 
 
 Of joy was heard, for God bade them rejoice. 
 
THE NEWLY-COME. 125 
 
 THE NEWLY-COME. 
 
 The morning of the day that bears the name 
 
 Of Erin's famous spiritual daddy, 
 
 (Call'd variously St. Patrick, Pat, or Paddy,) 
 A tiny stranger to our dwelling came. 
 
 Unknown, unnamed, without a mark or label, 
 Save those which Adam's offspring ever wore, 
 She came to us as five had come before, 
 
 To make another sitter at our table. 
 She waited not the word of invitation, 
 
 But crept into our hearts at once, and took 
 
 A life-possession of a little nook 
 Erst fitted up for her inhabitation ; 
 And there will she forevermore abide, 
 
 Let joy or sorrow, life or death betide. 
 IP 
 
126 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 'Twas on this wise. From certain premonitions, 
 
 There seem'd to me hid in the viewless air 
 
 A mortal cherub, tangible and fair : 
 And every day gave strength to my suspicions. 
 
 And therefore kept I watch till past night's mid, 
 When suddenly I fell into a doze. 
 My heavy eyelids scarce had time to close, 
 
 Before I heard a voice — I surely did ! 
 And lo ! behold, in the adjoining room — 
 In life and tears — a bud just come in bloom! 
 
 Love's gentle dews long, long on her descend — 
 The youngest, tenderest prattler of our hearth ; 
 
 In every hour, the Highest be her friend, 
 And life immortal spring from mortal birth. 
 
LULLABY. 127 
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 Baby ! close thy sparkling eyes, 
 
 Softly on my bosom rest ; 
 Sorrow ne'er shall thee surprise 
 Sleeping on thy mother's breast — 
 Thy mother's love keeps watch o'er thee— 
 My own sweet baby, lullaby ! 
 
 Thy unheeding mind can know 
 
 Naught of the delight I feel 
 When thy cheeks with pleasure glow 
 Or thy lips a smile reveal : 
 But blissful is thy smile to me — 
 My own sweet baby, lullaby ! 
 
128 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 Heavenly blessings fall on thee, 
 
 Baby, in thy quiet sleep ! 
 Rest from pain and sorrow free — 
 Mother still her watch will keep ! 
 Unbroken thy soft slumbers be — 
 My own sweet baby, lullaby. 
 
THE SICK BARE. 129 
 
 THE SICK BABE. 
 
 Our child is very ill. She sigh'd and moan'd 
 
 Through all the night. I press'd her to my hreast 
 And sang a hymn ; but still she found no rest ; 
 
 And while she wept my spirit also groan'd. 
 The house was still as when one lieth dead. 
 
 All faint and sorrowful, the mother slept, 
 
 Exhausted by the vigil she had kept. 
 
 I held the babe, and paced the floor — my tread 
 
 Re-echoing through the silent house. She threw 
 Her trembling arms around my neck, and laid 
 Her burning cheek on mine, and sweetly said, 
 
 In broken speech, " Dear father, I love you." 
 
 In agony I pray'd ; and when the morning broke, 
 
 She sank away in sleep. 'Twas long ere she awoke. 
 
130 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 THE THOUGHTS DWELL WHERE 
 THE HEART IS. 
 
 My mind to-day is ever homeward turning ; 
 
 Amid the cares of business, every thought 
 
 With an intense anxiety is fraught, 
 And homeward, homeward still, my heart is yearning. 
 
 There, wearily a loving daughter lies : 
 By day the fever-heat prevents her rest ; 
 By night the cough doth rend her quivering breast ; 
 
 And meekly doth she bear it all. The sighs 
 Of our sick hearts we hide from her ; for she 
 Appears endued with quiet constancy. 
 
 I would not speed Time's swiftly-moving wings, 
 Yet how impatiently the day's decline 
 My soul doth long for, when I may entwine 
 
 My arms around my child, and soothe her sufferings. 
 
THR DINNER HOUR. 131 
 
 THE DINNER HOUR. 
 
 At one o'clock I set aside my work, 
 
 And go to dinner. One whole hour is mine 
 To frolic with the children and to dine. 
 
 I walk the pave as gravely as a Turk, 
 And muse in quietness along the way. 
 
 My dwelling is, perhaps, about a mile, 
 
 And yet, so busy is my mind the while, 
 
 The road seems short, e'en on a summer-day. 
 
 My children oft are peeping out the door 
 To see me turn the corner of the street, 
 
 And their bright eyes with joy are brimming o'er. — 
 As my good father did, before we eat 
 
 We seek the grace of Heaven, and then partake 
 
 The food that God provides for our Redeemer's sake. 
 
132 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 " Did" is a word of past signification, 
 
 A sad and touching word when used to tell 
 Of those who've pass'd through toil and tribulation 
 
 To reach the land where saints and angels dwell. 
 A score of years have nearly pass'd away 
 
 Since I was seated at my father's table, — 
 Since, pallid, cold, and still, that father lay, 
 
 And our sad hearts were robed in funeral sable. 
 The shaft of sorrow pierced our mother's bosom. 
 She pined and sigh'd. The summer's fragrant blossom 
 
 Soon also bloom'd upon the mother's grave ; 
 And forth into the world the children went, 
 And God watch'd o'er those little ones, and sent 
 
 An angel with them charged to guide and save. 
 
 (How strangely memory leads me from my theme ! 
 Thus frequently my retrospective mind 
 Doth cast a fond and "lingering look behind," 
 
 Till rude reality disturbs the dream. 
 
 But life is strange, and often wide extremes 
 Are nearer kin than many a person deems.) 
 
 The school-bell rings. The children rise to go; 
 They say "Good-by !" and gayly trip along. 
 
THE DINNER HOUR. 133 
 
 My hour is past; (oh, Time ! why not more slow?) 
 The risen tide of sonnet and of song 
 
 Begins to ebb, and all is calm again. 
 
 I haste once more to business and to care, 
 And my accustom'd countenance I wear, 
 
 And I become a man like most of other men. 
 
 12 
 
134 
 
 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 FATHER IS COMING. 
 
 " Hurrah ! here father comes !" the children shout, 
 While standing at the door at set of sun 
 They see him in the distance. Down they run 
 
 To meet him coming. Gathering round about 
 His weary feet, they wildly romp and race ; 
 
 One hugs his knees — the others clasp his hands, 
 While tottering Will, for want of better place, 
 
 With glad and laughing look behind him stands 
 And grasps his outer garment's pendent tail ; 
 And thus their weary parent they assail : 
 
 He kneels, and Will ascends his back, and throws 
 His arms around his neck. With Ella, sweet, 
 And Agnes, in his arms — the others round his feet — 
 
 Beneath his lovely load, the father homeward goes. 
 
AFTER TEA. 135 
 
 AFTER TEA. 
 
 The tastes of men are various as their faces ; 
 
 Some toast their friends, and some their bread and 
 cheese ; 
 
 I like to toast my toes, and sit at ease 
 Beside my wife, in our accustom'd places. 
 
 Day and its busier duties ended, we 
 Pursue the promptings of our inclination, — 
 
 I with a pen or book in hand, and she 
 Intent on some maternal avocation. 
 
 Our little ones, entranced in dreams or slumber, 
 Lie snugly nestling in their downy beds, 
 
 With not a care their simple hearts to cumber, 
 With not a grief to bow their gentle heads, — 
 
 (Save when in waking hour, some disappointment 
 
 Afflicts them so, they seek affection's ointment.) 
 
13G DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 Our puss at times sits cosily a purring, 
 
 As if to imitate her musing master; 
 At other times she's all alive and stirring, 
 
 And runs and springs, and springs and runs the faster. 
 No common cat is she ; nor will she stand 
 
 An idle jest or trick, but shows her claws, 
 And leaves her mark upon the hardy hand 
 
 That dares infringe her feline rights or laws. 
 She's usually quite neat in her apparel, 
 Save when she falls into the charcoal barrel: 
 
 And then, poor tabby ! mousingly she goes 
 For many days, from kitchen to the attic, 
 
 Robed in a dress of pepper-colour'd clothes, 
 And mews in tones pathetic and emphatic. 
 
 The north wind howls ; but, shelter'd, safe, and warm, 
 
 Howl as it may, we feel secure from danger : 
 The fire burns blue, " betokening a storm" — 
 
 A brand falls down, " precursor of a stranger." 
 My thoughtful mind runs o'er the track of years, 
 
 When, tongs in hand, at our old hearth I sat, 
 And poked the embers, till my mother's fears 
 
 Broke in upon the usual social chat, 
 
AFTER TEA. 137 
 
 • 
 
 " You'll fire the chimney, son !" The sparks would fly 
 Like little lumps of lightning up the flue, 
 
 And snap and crackle as they soar'd on high, 
 As if they felt some pleasure in it too ! 
 
 That fire is out — that hearth is cold — and they 
 
 Who felt its pleasant warmth have mostly pass'd away. 
 
 12' 
 
138 
 
 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 THE SLEEPING WIFE. 
 
 [re-avritten.] 
 
 My wife ! how calmly sleepest thou ! 
 A perfect peace is on thy brow : 
 Thine eyes beneath their fringed lid, 
 Like stars behind a cloud, are hid ; 
 Thy voice is mute, and not a sound 
 Disturbs the tranquil air around ; 
 I'll watch, and mark each line of grace 
 That God has drawn upon thy face. 
 
 My wife ! thy breath is low and soft; 
 To catch its sound I listen oft ; 
 The lightest leaf of Persian rose 
 Upon thy lips might find repose; — 
 
THE SLEEPING WIFE. 139 
 
 So deep thy slumber, that I press'd 
 My trembling hand upon thy breast, 
 In sudden fear that envious deatli 
 Had robb'd thee, sleeping, of thy breath. 
 
 My wife ! my wife ! thy face now seems 
 To show the tenor of thy dreams : — 
 Methinks thy gentle spirit plays 
 Amid the scenes of earlier days ; 
 Thy thoughts, perchance, now dwell on him 
 Whom most thou lov'st; or in the dim 
 And shadowy future strive to pry, 
 With woman's curious, earnest eye. 
 
 Sleep on ! sleep on ! my dreaming wife ! 
 Thou livest now another life, 
 With beings fill'd, of fancy's birth ; — 
 I will not call thee back to earth : 
 Sleep on, until the car of morn 
 Above the eastern hills is borne ; 
 Then thou wilt wake again, and bless 
 My sight with living loveliness. 
 
140 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 OUR LITTLE GARDEN. 
 
 Within the crowded city, 
 
 Where life has scarcely room, 
 
 I have a little garden 
 
 Where simple flowers bloom. 
 
 There grows the morning-glory, 
 With many a varied hue ; 
 
 Its flowers are pink and purple 
 And virgin-white and blue. 
 
 The four-o'clock each evening 
 
 Unfolds its scented cup ; 
 And from a nook the violets 
 
 With diffidence peep up. 
 
OUR LITTLE GARDEN. 141 
 
 The marigold and rose-bush 
 
 Have each a fitting place ; 
 And there the yellow jasmine 
 
 Expands with modest grace. 
 
 The blue-bell and geranium, 
 
 The beauteous balsamine, 
 The pink, the lady's-slipper, 
 
 The tender cypress vine. 
 
 The brilliant-hued nasturtion 
 
 Is climbing up the wall ; 
 And there the tall sunflower 
 
 Looks proudly on them all. 
 
 I have some rarer flowers ; 
 
 Of those I will not tell, 
 Though I find many reasons 
 
 To love them all full well. 
 
 The humbler plants are dearer, 
 
 And give me deeper joy; 
 They tell me of my mother, — 
 
 And when I was a boy. 
 
142 DOMESTIC POEM?. 
 
 She loved such simple flowers, 
 And tended them with care ; 
 
 These many years in Heaven, 
 She tends the flowers there. 
 
 And we now teach our children 
 To love such flowers too, — 
 
 To pattern by her virtues, — 
 As she once did, to do. 
 
 So, when they have no mother, 
 And when their father's fled, 
 
 They'll have some sure memorials 
 To tell them of the dead ; 
 
 Some humble, blooming flower 
 (Which God renews each year) 
 
 To bid them in their duty 
 With faith to persevere. 
 
 When they to cares of manhood 
 And womanhood attain, 
 
 The lessons flowers teach them 
 They'll find are not in vain. 
 
 
SISTER LOUISE. 143 
 
 SISTER LOUISE. 
 
 Louise ! my heart is very sore for thee ! 
 
 My sister — oh, my lovely sister dead ! 
 Thy voice no more shall sweetly sound to me, 
 Mine eyes thy pleasant face no more shall see, 
 
 Until to Heaven my soul hath also fled. 
 
 Louise ! thy husband to a southern clime 
 
 With happy heart his precious burden bare ; 
 There, wife and mother, thou didst bide thy time, 
 Till o'er thine early bier the funeral chime 
 
 Proclaim'd the northern flower had wilted there. 
 
 Louise ! they say thy death from pain was free, 
 And still and gentle as the setting day : 
 
144 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 The grace of Heaven caused every fear to flee,- 
 To weeping friends thou spokest pleasantly, 
 " I shall be better soon !" and pass'd away. 
 
 Louise ! I thought not, when I press'd to thine 
 
 My lips, that single kiss the last should be : 
 Had I so dreamt, what anguish had been mine !- 
 Thy parting looks I've set in memory's shrine, 
 And oh ! my heart is very sore for thee I 
 
MATRIMONY. 145 
 
 MATRIMONY. 
 
 I hold that every one is bound to carry 
 In full effect the duties of this life ; 
 
 That is, that man in proper time should marry 
 And live in love and harmony with a wife. 
 
 If now and then a woman prove a shrew, 
 'Tis an exception to the general rule : 
 And I would deem him either knave or fool 
 
 Who says that woman is not kind and true. 
 
 There may be men who ne'er should marry, — such 
 As have a heart affection cannot touch ; 
 
 But he who bears the impress of a man, 
 
 And has a bosom fill'd with yearnings human, 
 Should win the love of some pure-hearted woman, 
 
 And pop the question to her bravely as he can. 
 13 
 
146 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 An angel always dwells beneath the roof 
 Where, in her virtue, a sweet wife fulfils 
 Her gentle duties ; and unnumber'd ills 
 
 From that love-guarded precinct keep aloof. 
 
 And "he who finds a wife," 'twas said of old, 
 
 " Finds something good," and so I always hold. 
 The bachelor is a nondescript — (I beg 
 
 His pardon, but it's true ;) — quite out of place, 
 
 He seems to me, among our loving race ; 
 Unfinish'd, like a chair that lacks a leg, — 
 
 A knife without a fork — a book unbound, — 
 A lonely traveller on a lonesome way, 
 
 Who, faint and sad, looks wistfully around, 
 
 But from the sun of love receives no cheering ray. 
 
 If this be so, why don't he go and marry ? 
 
 'Tis autumn now ; the birds long since have pair'd ; 
 
 And e'en the flowers their nuptial time have shared ; 
 Then why should he still solitary tarry ? 
 
 Were I a bachelor, I'm sure I'd fall 
 A captive to some maiden of our land ; 
 
 I'd scarce know how to choose among them all ; 
 Yet in our day a single heart and hand 
 
MATRIMONY. 147 
 
 Are all the law allows ; and this is well. 
 The love of one sweet heart on one bestow'd 
 
 Is full enough to make his bosom swell, 
 And teach his feet to leap along life's road. — 
 
 Ye bachelors, go — a loving helpmeet take, 
 
 And send around your compliments and cake. 
 
148 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 JUVENILE REMINISCENCE. 
 
 When we were boys, my brother Will and I, 
 The night before, were wont to tie together 
 Our largest toe at two ends of a tether, 
 
 To wake us early on the Fourth o' July. 
 
 We loved the dawning light of Freedom's time ; 
 We loved to hear the bells at daybreak chime, — 
 
 Those hundred bells, that o'er Manhattan sent 
 Their wild and mingling clangour, till the air 
 Seem'd charged with music full as it could bear, 
 
 And joy's vibrations shook the firmament. 
 
 Through the warm night I guess we suffer'd some ; 
 
 If either moved, he pull'd the tether'd toe, 
 
 And many a sleepy, simultaneous " Oh !" 
 
 From our unquiet lTps all night was heard to come. 
 
A DAY WITH THE INFLUENZA. 149 
 
 A DAY WITH THE INFLUENZA 
 
 If one should ask, M What have you done to-day ?" 
 As brief as Caesar, I'd reply, " I've sneezed." 
 Ne'er loving swain his damsel's fingers squeezed 
 
 (To tell the tale his lips refused to say) 
 More tenderly than I my stricken nose. 
 
 'Twere vain to attempt to stand upon decorum, 
 
 I had to sneeze behind folks and before 'em. 
 At every sneeze, it seem'd that ringing blows 
 
 Fell on my head, that ached wellnigh to frenzy ; 
 From weeping eyes my strength appear'd to ooze, 
 And all my body was a general bruise : 
 
 I yielded captive to the influenza, 
 
 And I went home at dinner-time, and there 
 Sought help in medicine and my rocking-chair. 
 13* 
 
150 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 Much like the custom of the ancient cities, 
 
 My nasal gateways closed at dusk of day, 
 And scarce a breath, for love's sake or for pity's, 
 
 Got in or out by the accustomed way ; 
 So on my couch I lay with open lips, 
 
 To let the air into the cells of life. 
 Instead of sleep, a dreamy-like eclipse 
 
 Came over me ; and vagaries were rife 
 Within my mind. The thread of dreaming broke 
 At intervals, and startled I awoke ; 
 
 I turn'd the pillow 'neath my fever'd head, 
 And gazed awhile upon the taper's smoke ; 
 
 And when a sigh of suffering softly sped, 
 A tender voice to me in tones of pity spoke. 
 
 A day thus pass'd is not a day misspent, 
 If it but teach a lesson — as it may — 
 That man is tenant of a house of clay, 
 
 Which he must leave whenever word is sent. 
 There's nothing here to grumble at, if we 
 The why and wherefore of our pains could see. 
 
 As our good pastor said, in all the year 
 
 There are more days of sunshine than of gloom. 
 
A DAY WITH THE INFLUENZA. 151 
 
 More joys than griefs to virtuous men appear ; 
 
 And round the path of every mortal bloom 
 Sweet flowers of love, and he may multiply 
 
 The generous plant by gracious words and deeds. 
 
 He reads amiss who never wisely reads 
 What heavenly mercies in our sorrows lie. 
 
152 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 FROM MY PILLOW TO THE EDITOR OF 
 THE SATURDAY GAZETTE. 
 
 Dear Mr. Neal : — Say, did you ever rise 
 
 When morning came, and feel as if you'd slept 
 
 Scarce half enough — but still your habit kept 
 Of early rising ? Sunken were your eyes ? 
 
 Your head as light as though the brains were gone ? 
 
 Your trembling legs too weak to rest upon ? 
 With fever'd skin, and tongue encrusted white ? 
 
 Your neck and face besieged by tender lumps ? 
 If so, you can appreciate the plight 
 
 Of your afflicted friend — he's got the mumps ! 
 The doctor tells him they are much about, 
 
 And gives him medicine and the grease of goose 
 
 To make the malady its grip unloose ; 
 And soon he hopes to turn the enemy out. 
 
FROM MY PILLOW TO THE EDITOR. 153 
 
 Hear with him, then, if in his hour of pain 
 He drops his lighter rhyme, and in his breast 
 He makes a deeper, purer, holier quest, 
 
 And brings therefrom a tenderer, gentler strain. 
 He is, in truth, a sober-thoughted one, 
 
 And pensive in his ways, as other folks, 
 Although at times he loves a little fun, 
 
 When pure and harmless wit the jest provokes. 
 (Awhile in tears we see an April day, 
 The laughing sunshine dries its tears away ; 
 
 When clouds of sorrow overspread our sky 
 We may be sure there still is light behind ; 
 
 The heavenly gales shall sweep the vapours by, 
 And purer bliss descend upon the mind.) 
 
 List, gentle sir ! and let my pillow rhymes 
 Fall on the ear like Sabbath morning chimes : 
 
 " Ah, aching head ! — ah, feeble, fever'd frame ! — 
 Come, downy pillow, yield me kind relief! — 
 
 Sweet wife ! — thy love's more dear to me than fame — 
 Come, sing a hymn to soothe my heavy grief. 
 
 Oh, fan my brow — and lay thy cooling hand 
 
154 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 Upon my forehead : — how it throbs with pain ! — 
 
 Ah, love ! how kind and gentle ! — press that vein 
 With thy soft finger: — there ! — now wipe the sweat 
 
 That gathers on my face. Water, sweet wife ! 
 Another cup of cooling water yet ! 
 
 Then softly place my head again. Now kneel, 
 And let us pray — for in His hand is life — 
 
 And in our time of wo, His grace will He reveal." 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 THE REAPER'S RETURN 
 
 Along the meadows, 
 
 After the day 
 
 Has pass'd away, 
 The twilight shadows 
 
 Of trees and posts, 
 
 Like silent ghosts, 
 Are falling faintly : 
 
 The early moon, 
 
 Uprising soon, 
 With aspect saintly, 
 
 Shines on the edge 
 
 Of the rocky ledge, 
 14 
 
158 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And glances and dallies 
 With snowy beam 
 Upon the stream ; 
 
 While down to the valleys 
 The darkness flies, 
 And clouds the eyes 
 
 Of the sickly sleeper. 
 His labour done 
 At set of sun, 
 
 The wearied reaper, 
 
 Stalwart and strong, 
 Hastens along 
 
 To his peaceful dwelling, 
 
 While thoughts of home 
 In his bosom come, 
 
 Like a fountain welling. 
 He treads the ground 
 Where once, to the sound 
 
 Of the trumpet's braying, 
 Armies of men 
 On hill and glen 
 
 Were wounding and slaying ; 
 Where the brave and good 
 Unflinching stood 
 
the reaper's return. 159 
 
 Iii the hour of danger, 
 
 When 'gainst the cause 
 
 Of their land and laws 
 Came Hessian and stranger. 
 
 Now peacefully sleeping 
 
 The sod below, 
 
 Their mortal wo 
 And time of weeping 
 
 Have pass'd away 
 
 This many a day. 
 The life-blood creeping 
 
 Through gaping wound 
 
 Over the ground — 
 The verdure steeping 
 
 In lakes of gore — 
 
 Is seen no more. 
 There winds are sweeping 
 
 As sweet and low- 
 As when the}- blow 
 Where flowers are peeping 
 
 On meadow-side 
 
 At evening-tide, 
 When June is keeping 
 
160 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A festival 
 That blesses all, 
 
 And men are reaping 
 A harvest-yield 
 From nature's field, 
 
 And hearts are leaping 
 
 With present pleasure 
 Surpassing measure. 
 
 The field of battle, 
 
 Where men have died 
 On freedom's side 
 
 Amid the rattle 
 
 And roar of shot, 
 Is sure the spot 
 
 W T here love will linger: 
 
 There maids will stand 
 With lifted hand, 
 
 And point the finger 
 In heartiest mood 
 Of gratitude 
 
 To the place where brother 
 And father fell ; 
 And they will tell 
 
 To one another 
 
THE REAPER'S RETURN. 161 
 
 The bitter wrong 
 
 That, suffer'd long, 
 Led wife and mother 
 
 To buckle on 
 
 The sire and son 
 The sword long rusted, 
 
 And bid them go 
 
 And meet the foe, 
 That proudly trusted 
 
 To smite the land 
 
 With blade and brand. 
 
 To God be glory ! 
 
 They hush'd the boast 
 
 Of Britain's host : 
 And song and story 
 
 In future age 
 
 Shall fill the page 
 Till earth is hoary ; 
 
 And in the breast 
 
 Of men oppress'd — 
 For freedom yearning — 
 
 Our num.? and tame 
 14- 
 
162 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Shall light a flame 
 
 That, fierce and burning, 
 Shall snap the cords 
 Of priests and lords : 
 
 Then, meekly learning 
 In Beth'lem's school 
 The golden rule, 
 
 And wisely spurning 
 The bigot's control 
 Over the soul, 
 
 Men, heavenward turning, 
 Shall seek and find 
 Their Maker's mind ; 
 
 Then scenes of gladness, 
 And love, and mirth, 
 From heart and hearth 
 
 Shall banish sadness, 
 And earth shall see 
 A jubilee. 
 
 The ravage and riot 
 And wrath of war 
 Were seen no more ; 
 
 And comfort and quiet 
 
the reaper's return. 163 
 
 In heart and home 
 
 Of man had come : — 
 The elders older 
 
 And feebler grew, 
 
 Till 'neath the yew 
 They lay to moulder : — 
 
 The children then, 
 
 Were grown to men, 
 And on their shoulder 
 
 The locks of white 
 
 Fell thin and light : — 
 The share of the plower 
 
 Upturn'd the stones 
 
 Mingled with bones ; 
 And fruit and flower 
 
 Fertilely rose 
 
 Where mortal foes 
 Together were buried : — 
 
 The sun at morn 
 
 Shone on the corn 
 All tassel'd and serried : — 
 
 The tops of the trees 
 
 In the evening 1 breeze 
 
164 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Were waving lightly : — 
 The mocking-bird 
 The silence stirr'd 
 
 Sportively, sprightly : — 
 When, after threescore 
 Of years, or more, 
 
 Light-hearted and cheery, 
 The reaper trod 
 Over the sod 
 
 Where groanings dreary 
 And cries of fear 
 Once met the ear 
 
 From the wounded and weary. 
 He lifts his eyes 
 To the moonlit skies, 
 
 And thoughtfully ponders 
 On sacred things 
 The stillness brings 
 
 To him as he wanders. 
 To the land above 
 Friends of his love 
 
 Long have departed, 
 
 But faithful he bears 
 
the reaper's return. 165 
 
 His daily cares, 
 Strong and stout-hearted. 
 
 A man is he, 
 
 Though lowly be 
 His human condition : 
 
 Nor will he bow 
 
 With servile brow 
 In humble petition 
 
 To scornful pride 
 
 That turns aside 
 From those who are lowly ; 
 
 Yet meekly he 
 
 Doth bend the knee 
 To his Maker holy. 
 
 His children wait 
 
 At the garden-gate, 
 Till the skies darken ; 
 
 And far in the dim, 
 
 They look for him, 
 And earnestly hearken. 
 
 In a glad shout 
 
 Their lips break out ; 
 
160 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 They cry to their mother, 
 " See ! father's here !" 
 And run like deer 
 
 One after the other : 
 
 They round him stand, 
 And grasp his hand, 
 
 And sister and brother 
 Mid general din 
 Usher him in. 
 
A RE VERY. 167 
 
 A RE VERY IN AN ANCIENT 
 POTTE R'S-FIELD. 
 
 The beautiful park in Philadelphia known as the Washington 
 Square was in former times the public burial-place, or potter's- 
 field. I have been told, that after a heavy storm of rain, bones 
 were sometimes seen protruding from the ground. 
 
 The sultry summer-day was past, 
 
 I sat me down beneath 
 A sycamore, the cooling winds 
 
 Of eventide to breathe. 
 
 I sat me down in silentness, 
 
 Half-hidden in the shade : 
 My thoughts on wondrous mysteries ran, 
 The birth, and life, and death of man, 
 
 And fancy freely plav'd. 
 
168 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The lovely and the young were there, 
 
 And voices sweet and clear 
 As sound of bells o'er waters heard, 
 The air of early evening stirr'd, 
 And pleased the listening ear. 
 
 I heeded not the pleasant tones, 
 
 My spirit turn'd away 
 From present scenes to scenes of old, 
 
 When, 'neath this very clay, 
 The poor and friendless sons of men 
 
 In strange confusion lay. 
 
 Methought the graves again appear'd, 
 
 Neglected, as of old ; 
 The bones protruding here and there, 
 A broken tooth, a lock of hair, 
 
 The pauper's portion told. 
 
 " This dust shall live again," I said, 
 " Though 'tis but pauper flesh ; 
 These bleaching bones the Word of God 
 Shall clothe with life afresh." 
 
A RKVERY. 161) 
 
 Methought, ere to this gospel truth 
 My lips bare utterance gave, 
 
 Lo ! slowly every corpse arose 
 And sat upon its grave. 
 
 My hair stood up in utter dread. 
 And horror fill'd my breast; 
 
 I closed mine eyes, but still the sight 
 
 Was clear to me as noonday light, 
 And to my side there press'd 
 
 A meek-eyed being, pure and bright, 
 Who thus mine ear address'd : — 
 
 " Fear not, O lover of the poor ; 
 Mine errand is to thee : 
 Arise and walk, and wisely mark 
 This wondrous mystery." 
 
 I gazed within his eye of peace : 
 
 I loved him, and my fears 
 Departed like the morning mist 
 When, by the morning sunbeam kiss'd 
 
 Unseen it disappears. 
 
 15 
 
170 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 We walk'd together solemnly 
 
 Among that silent throng : 
 The corpses lifted up their eyes, 
 And gazed on us without surprise, 
 
 While slow we paced along. 
 
 Each corpse upon its forehead bore 
 
 The method of its death ; 
 A few had died in peaceful hour, 
 When nature, failing in her power, 
 
 Gave mildly up her breath. 
 
 The pestilence had garner'd here 
 
 A multitude of slain, 
 When winds of doom pass'd o'er the land, 
 
 And men, like drops of rain, 
 Fell in the swollen stream of death 
 
 That swept the human plain. 
 
 The hand of hate had hurried some 
 
 To judgment and the dust; 
 And some had perish'd 'neath the smart 
 Of cruel words, that eat the heart 
 
 Like canker and the rust. 
 
A RE VERY. 171 
 
 The meek-eyed angel was my guide ; 
 
 We wander'd round and round, 
 And ever and anon we stood 
 
 Before a broken mound 
 Whereon a corpse was sitting, who 
 
 Had risen through the ground. 
 
 Among the congregated throng 
 Nor voice nor sound was heard ; 
 
 What things the angel said to me 
 
 I understood, yet audibly 
 He never spake a word. 
 
 We halted at an humble spot 
 Where sat a wasted form ; 
 
 Her eyes were like the evening light 
 Of Venus after storm. 
 
 " A daughter of the King is she ; 
 Unknown she lived on earth : 
 Of lowly name and low degree, 
 She had a royal birth. 
 
 " They laid her in the potter's-field : 
 But little boots it where 
 
172 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The loving and the loved of Christ 
 Their dying portion share ; 
 
 They safely rest in earth or sea, 
 If He be with them there." 
 
 Three children sported on a grave, 
 Two sisters and a brother ; 
 
 An old man and his daughter sat 
 Together on another ; 
 
 A little child lay also on 
 The bosom of its mother. 
 
 The suicide was there : he bore 
 
 Upon his forehead plain 
 A deeper furrow, dug by guilt, 
 
 Than mark'd the brow of Cain ; 
 The harden'd gore was still unwash'd 
 
 That issued from the vein 
 His hand had sever'd ; and his breast 
 
 Was crimson with the stain. 
 
 The drunkard trembled on his grave, 
 
 The travesty of man : 
 Two of his sons had drunkards died ; 
 
A REVERY. 173 
 
 Another for his life was tried — 
 A halter was its span. 
 
 I saw the wife and mother there ; 
 
 Her eye shed not a tear : 
 Her heart in life by them was rent, 
 
 But now she rested here, 
 Asleeping till the final day 
 
 To all men shall appear, 
 When angels shall convey her up 
 
 To their unweeping sphere. 
 
 A rover of the deep was there, 
 
 His comrades by his side : 
 They'd sped their way to India's shore, 
 
 And gladly homeward hied : 
 They saw again their native land 
 
 With arms outstretching wide, 
 When fiercely tempest-winds did sweep 
 Across their path, and in the deep 
 
 A score of sailors died ; 
 And in this field were laid the few 
 
 Relinquish'd by the tide. 
 15* 
 
174 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The living dead ! — the living dead ! — 
 
 I shut my tearful eyes, 
 And prayerfully I turn'd my face 
 
 Unto the placid skies. 
 
 The midnight hour toll'd solemnly, 
 
 And lo ! I wept alone ; 
 The moon shone faintly on the ground, 
 And katydids were chirping round 
 
 With shrill and lively tone ; 
 And o'er my head the gentle breeze 
 Was whispering softly mid the trees, 
 
 As if some sprites had come 
 Upon the boughs, and lightly swung, 
 And holy hymns together sung 
 
 Of their immortal home. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LAND. 175 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL LAND AND ITS 
 SENTRY GRIM. 
 
 There is a land immortal — 
 
 The beautiful of lands ; 
 Beside its ancient portal 
 
 A sentry grimly stands. 
 He only can undo it, 
 
 And open wide the door ; 
 And mortals who pass through it 
 
 Are mortal never more. 
 
 That glorious land is Heaven, 
 
 And Death the sentry grim : 
 The Lord thereof has given 
 
 The opening keys to him ; 
 
176 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And ransom'd spirits, sighing 
 
 And sorrowful for sin, 
 Pass through the gate in dying, 
 
 And freely enter in. 
 
 Though dark and drear the passage 
 
 That leadeth to the gate, 
 Yet grace attends the message 
 
 To souls that watch and wait ; 
 And at the time appointed 
 
 A messenger comes down, 
 And guides the Lord's anointed 
 
 From cross to glory's crown. 
 
 Their sighs are lost in singing ; 
 
 They're blessed in their tears ; 
 Their journey heavenward winging, 
 
 They leave on earth their fears. 
 Death like an angel seeming, 
 
 " We welcome thee !" they cry: 
 Their face with glory gleaming, 
 
 'Tis life for them to die. 
 
THE HOWLING STORM AND WONDROUS CALM. 177 
 
 THE HOWLING STORM AND THE 
 WONDROUS CALM. 
 
 While sailing on the sea of life, 
 
 I saw a storm arise ; 
 The waters foam'd and met in strife, 
 
 And lightnings rent the skies. 
 
 My fleet and fragile bark above 
 
 The tossing billows roll'd ; 
 My utmost store of hope and love 
 
 Was garner'd in its hold. 
 
 The winds blew mightily, and swept 
 
 My fearless vessel on, 
 While misty clouds the sky o'ercrept 
 
 Till sun and stars were gone. 
 
178 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 My heart upheld its steadfastness, 
 As if 'twere stone or steel ; 
 
 The deeper horrors of distress 
 'Twas needful I should feel. 
 
 The darkness of the night came down 
 
 And on my soul it lay, 
 As if my righteous Maker's frown 
 
 Were gathering round my way. 
 
 The darkness cover'd all the sky, 
 
 And cover'd all the sea : 
 I madly cast the compass by, 
 
 And steer'd uncertainly. 
 
 My bark was rack'd, its sails were rent- 
 
 I heard the rudder break ; 
 The hungry ocean seem'd intent 
 
 My life itself to take. 
 
 I said, " Why should I longer strive ?" 
 
 I lay me down to sleep, 
 And let my bark at random drive 
 
 Along the fearful deep. 
 
THE HOWLING STORM AND WONDROUS CALM. 179 
 
 High on the utmost billow's top 
 
 'Twas for a moment seen, 
 But more impetuously to drop 
 
 Deep in the gulf between. 
 
 As lonely as if I alone 
 
 In all the earth were left, — 
 As helpless as an infant-one 
 
 Of mother's care bereft, — 
 
 How swift and sure had been my doom 
 
 Had Christ forgotten me ! 
 A voice was heard amid the gloom, 
 
 11 Thy Saviour loveth thee !" 
 
 Immediately there was a calm, 
 
 A calm without, within : 
 For Jesus wrote upon my palm 
 
 Full pardon of my sin. 
 
 The inward tempests rage no more, 
 
 The spirit's sorrows cease, 
 "When Jesus stands upon the shore, 
 
 And gently whispers, " Peace !" 
 
180 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE GOOD DIE EARLY." 
 
 The true-hearted early 
 
 ('Tis said) pass away; 
 While the wicked and surly 
 
 Grow aged and gray. 
 
 Methinks 'tis a story 
 
 Not founded on truth, 
 And the ancient and hoary 
 
 Were wise in their youth. 
 
 When a brother is taken 
 
 Away from our door, 
 Our spirits are shaken — 
 
 Our bosoms are sore. 
 
THE GOOD DIE EARLY. 181 
 
 His errors are hidden 
 
 By the veil of our grief; 
 Old doubtings are chidden 
 
 To a loving belief. 
 
 His virtues shine brightly 
 
 From the sepulchre's gloom, 
 And we tread soft and lightly 
 
 By the sod of his tomb. 
 
 True, angels may often 
 
 Steal dear hearts away, 
 And leavers their coffin 
 
 And spiritless clay; 
 
 Yet all are not 'reft us, 
 
 And still we may find 
 In those who are left us 
 
 A sweet, holy mind. 
 
 Thus mem'ries of blossoms 
 
 That wither' d in spring, 
 Wake grief in our bosoms, 
 
 And causelessly sting ; 
 
 16 
 
182 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 While we prize not our treasure 
 In buds that remain, 
 
 Nor the harvest of pleasure 
 In ripeness we gain. 
 
 Then let us be loving 
 To those who are here ; 
 
 With heartiness proving 
 Affection sincere. 
 
ANOTHER GONE. 183 
 
 ANOTHER GONE.* 
 
 The hasty mail hath brought me heavy news ! 
 
 A friend is dead. Of distant kin, yet very near 
 
 To me in love was John. The tribute-tear 
 Mine eye, that seldom weeps, may not refuse ; 
 
 For I shall see him here no more, and we 
 Perchance shall long be parted from each other. 
 The love between us was the love of brother. 
 
 He was alone ; nor wife nor child had he, 
 
 Yet all the world composed his family, 
 For he had love for all, and love supreme 
 
 To God his Maker, Saviour, Comforter. 
 My brother-friend ! his death oft seems to me 
 The strong delusion of a morning dream, 
 
 And makes the tenderest strings in my sad bosom stir. 
 
 * " Died, on the 22d of July, while on a visit to Shrub Oaks, (West- 
 chester County, N. Y.,) Mr. John Mackellar, Printer, of New York, in 
 the 36th year of his age. His life was beautiful, benevolent and holy ; and 
 his death was peaceful and blessed." 
 
184 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 EARLY WED — EARLY DEAD. 
 
 [Suggested by the fate of a sweet girl who died five months after 
 her marriage-day.] 
 
 A voice of laughter — a voice of glee ! 
 Among the maidens, who happy as she ? 
 By love's enchantment her thrilling breast 
 Is wildly, witchingly, over-blest : 
 And gushing joys, like the sun in May, 
 Enliven the noon of her bridal-day. 
 
 A voice of weeping — a voice of wo ! 
 In shroud and coffin they lay her low : 
 The true and loving and youthful wife 
 Hath pass'd away to another life ; 
 And sorrow falleth, like Winter's gloom, 
 On him who weepeth beside her tomb. 
 
EARLY WED EARLY DEAD. 185 
 
 What Heaven hath taken is lost on earth : 
 A new-made angel, of mortal birth, 
 Is led with hymns to that world of bliss, 
 Yet sounds of mourning are heard in this. 
 Fond hearts ! like her be fitted to die, 
 And ye shall meet her again on high. 
 
 16* 
 
186 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 WHY ARE YE FEARFUL?" 
 
 The immortal to Heaven, 
 
 The mortal to earth ! 
 Let each be re-given 
 
 To the home of its birth. 
 
 The infidel lieth 
 
 Who rashly avers, 
 That when the soul flieth, 
 
 Extinction is hers. 
 
 The mind we inherit 
 
 Hath God for its sire ; 
 The breath of His Spirit 
 
 Can never expire. 
 
WHY ARE YE FEARFEE. 187 
 
 And he that believeth 
 
 Is heir to a throne 
 The Comforter giveth 
 
 To children alone. 
 
 My sorrowful brother, 
 
 I lath Heaven from thee 
 Taken one and another, 
 
 Till lonely thou be ? 
 
 Look upward and onward 
 
 Afar in the skies ; 
 See, bent on thee downward, 
 
 Angelical eyes. 
 
 They bid thee, " Come hither ! 
 
 Our sweet brother, come !" 
 In thy journey ings thither, 
 
 Thou nearest thy home. 
 
 Fond spirit ! thy pinions 
 
 Prepare for thy flight 
 To thy Father's dominions 
 
 Of love and delight. 
 
188 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Art thou become tearful 
 Because of the gloom 
 
 Beheld by the fearful 
 Who look in the tomb ? 
 
 What though the dark valley- 
 Be darker than night ? 
 
 Thy faith in Him rally, 
 And thou shalt have light. 
 
 A day-spring of glory 
 Shall break on thy ken, 
 
 Unfabled in story, 
 Unfancied by men. 
 
TO WILL AND TO DO. 189 
 
 TO WILL AND TO DO OF HIS 
 OWN GOOD PLEASURE." 
 
 'Tis well for me that God should be 
 The chooser of my destiny ; 
 For were my lot placed in my hand, 
 Where should my sure salvation stand ? 
 
 Beset around with wily snares, 
 And cumber'd with uncounted cares, 
 What arm but thine alone can hold 
 My soul within thy saving fold ? 
 
 The things of sense allure mine eyes, 
 And sudden sins my soul surprise ; 
 Were I no more thy grace to share, 
 I'd sink and die in lost despair. 
 
190 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 I know that I am safe with thee ; 
 Then in thy hands my portion be ; 
 I cannot fear what may betide 
 When on thy power my hopes abide. 
 
 Let sinless ones on merit stand, 
 
 I seek for mercy at thy hand ; 
 
 No other way of help I see, 
 
 Thy grace in Christ must work for me. 
 
 A wretch were I to lean upon 
 The works my erring hands have done ; 
 I stand a suppliant, with the plea, 
 Atoning blood was shed for me. 
 
 O let thy mercy day by day 
 Uphold my spirit in the way ; 
 Enough for me that thou wilt keep 
 The feeblest of thy chosen sheep. 
 
WIDOWED AND CHILDLESS. 191 
 
 WIDOWED AND CHILDLESS.* 
 
 When Death our hearth invaded, 
 
 And Mary in the bloom 
 Of woman's beauty faded, 
 
 My heart lay in her tomb. 
 
 She left a little daughter, 
 
 To cheer my sorrowing heart ; 
 
 I loved her well, and taught her 
 What love could e'er impart. 
 
 Most desolate ana 1 lonely 
 
 I had been but for her ; 
 For she and memory only 
 
 Had power my soul to stir. 
 
 Love's solitary blossom, 
 How tenderly I kept ! 
 
 * Suggested by the bereavements of a dear friend. 
 
192 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 She lay upon my bosom, 
 And on my bosom slept. 
 
 Light as a flower-bird humming, 
 She sprang with step of grace, 
 
 When at eve she saw me coming, 
 And flew to my embrace. 
 
 In pleasant summer weather, 
 When genial rays did shine, 
 
 We walk'd abroad together, 
 Her fingers clasp'd in mine. 
 
 She never had a brother, 
 To set her love upon ; 
 
 Too young to know her mother, 
 Her heart was mine alone. 
 
 How dearly — oh, how dearly 
 I held that gentle heart ! 
 
 For her sweet sake, I'd cheerly 
 With gold and honours part. 
 
 Perchance, before my Maker 
 Mv love became a sin ; 
 
WIDOWED AND CHILDLESS. 193 
 
 It seem'd Him good to take her, 
 And heaven received her in. 
 
 Like morning starlight failing 
 
 When dawns the early day, 
 Slow paling — paling — paling, 
 
 She pass'd from earth away. 
 
 'Twas whisper d she was dying; 
 
 I said it could not be — 
 In doubt and fear denying 
 
 The truth they told to me. 
 
 Mine arms did close enfold her : 
 
 " Father, good-by !" she said ; 
 Her hands grew cold, and colder — 
 
 My child was surely dead. 
 
 My loved ones both are sleeping 
 
 In yonder verdant sod ; 
 My soul, the while, is weeping 
 
 Beneath the smarting rod ; 
 Yet, trustful, I am keeping 
 
 My way to them and God. 
 17 
 
194 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 LET'S SIT DOWN AND TALK 
 TOGETHER. 
 
 Let's sit down and talk together 
 
 Of the things of olden day, 
 AVhen we, like lambkins loosed from tether, 
 
 Gayly tripp'd along the way. 
 Time has touch'd us both with lightness, 
 
 Leaving furrows here and there, 
 And tinging with peculiar brightness 
 
 Silvery threads among our hair. 
 
 Let's sit down and talk together ; 
 
 Many years away have past, 
 And fair and foul has been the weather 
 
 Since we saw each other last. 
 
let's sit down and talk together. 195 
 
 Many whom we loved are living 
 
 In a better world than this ; 
 And some among- ns still are giving 
 
 Toil and thought for present bliss. 
 
 Let's sit down and talk together; 
 
 Though the flowers of youth are dead, 
 The ferns still grow among the heather, 
 
 And for us their fragrance shed. 
 Life has thousand blessings in it 
 
 Even for the aged man ; 
 And God has hid in every minute 
 
 Something we may wisely scan. 
 
 Let's sit down and talk together ; 
 
 Boys we were, — we now are men ; 
 We meet awhile, but know not whether 
 
 We shall meet to talk again. 
 Parting time has come: how fleetly 
 
 Speed the moments when their wings 
 Are fann'd by breathings issuing sweetly 
 
 From a toninie that never stinsrs ! 
 
190 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 TO THE REV. R. W. GRISWOLD. 
 
 Unwearied delver in the mine of thought, 
 Thou siftest golden grains from native ore : — 
 Explorer of a scarcely-trodden shore, 
 
 With priceless gems thy mental bark is fraught: — 
 Thou antiquary of the world of lore, 
 
 Thy prying hand from hidden depths has brought 
 
 The rarest works thy countrymen have wrought, 
 And bade them shine in hues unknown before. 
 
 Thy patient toil shall wide applause command, 
 
 And men to thee shall lift the approving hand. 
 
 Yet thou, forgetting not the vows that press 
 On thine own soul, with faithful zeal proclaim 
 The bliss of him who trusts in Jesus' name ; 
 
 And thus shalt thou at once man's double nature bless. 
 
FANNY FORESTER. 197 
 
 FANNY FORESTER. 
 
 O fair and fanciful Fan Forester ! 
 
 I wish I knew her — honestly I do ! 
 A brotherly regard have I for her, 
 
 She is so natural, sisterly, and true. 
 There is no cant in her — her feelings rise 
 
 From Nature's fountain, like a crystal stream 
 
 Upspringing from the depths, — love's sunny beam 
 Reflected there, — and glistening in our eyes, 
 
 As if pure diamonds over beds of gold 
 
 In liquid torrents beautifully roll'd. 
 "Would it were mine to leave the world's confusion, 
 
 And live in love in some hill-hidden nook, 
 
 Like Fanny's green, romantic Alderbrook, 
 And sing, like her, life-long in my seclusion. 
 17* 
 
198 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE COMING OF SPRING. 
 
 The gentle Spring comes knocking at the door ; 
 
 And surly Winter gruffly bids her wait ; 
 Her timorous foot she places on the floor, 
 
 But Winter growls and shows his wrinkled pate, 
 And she, affrighted, swiftly flees away. 
 The southern winds invite her steps to stay, 
 
 And she returns and softly knocks again, 
 And nature smiles and beckons her to enter. 
 Around her pathway flowering beauties centre, 
 
 And pleasure overfills the hearts of men. 
 The Spring arrives at Summerhood in June, 
 
 When flowers are young and beautiful and bright, 
 And brooks and birds emit their sweetest tune, 
 
 And longest is the day, and balmiest is the night. 
 
MAY 1 COME UP.' 199 
 
 "MAY I COME UP?" 
 
 11 May I come up ?" the waking germ inquires ; 
 
 " All winter long, the fearful frost has bound 
 
 Above my head a mass of icy ground. 
 I've slept in silence, till the solar fires 
 
 Have driven away the frost ; the soften'd earth 
 
 Invites me now to claim the right of birth. 
 Oh may I come, and see day's sunny smile ?" 
 
 " Not yet, not yet. 'Tis past the time of snow, 
 
 But frosts may come, and nipping winds may blow. 
 'Tis safe for thee to bide a little while 
 
 Within thy cell : ere long shalt thou arise 
 And God thy life wilt keep." The April hours 
 
 Soon weeping come, with warm and genial skies ; 
 The germ springs up, and bears a crown of buds and 
 flowers. 
 
200 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 OUR AUTUMN WEATHER. 
 
 The peerless bird is yet unfledged whose quill 
 
 Has form'd a pen to write in numbers fit 
 Of our sweet Indian summer. He is still 
 
 Unborn who has been gifted with the wit 
 To sing its glory, loveliness, and worth. 
 Our land becomes the paradise of earth, 
 
 And angels cannot then be far away. 
 The wind, like love's low breathing, moves along, 
 And sighs in tones surpassing mortal song. 
 
 Such spiritualness gets in our heavy clay, 
 Our earth-born souls uplift themselves : we see, 
 
 We hear, we feel, we breathe the beauty in ; 
 
 A holier sense comes o'er the breast of sin, 
 And man in humbleness adores the Deitv. 
 
OUR AUTUMN WEATHER. 201 
 
 Autumn is life in sober quietness ; 
 
 'Tis manhood full of strength slow growing old ; 
 
 'Tis womanhood mature, within whose fold 
 Are gather' d stores that man and nature bless. 
 
 The autumn 'minds me of a sire whose hair 
 Is beautifully silvering o'er — whose eye 
 
 Is mild with love : There stand around his chair 
 Right noble sons and daughters fair ; and by 
 
 His side the wife — the mother — sits, beloved 
 
 And loving all. By lapse of time well proved, 
 Their virtues bide rock-founded. Holy sight ! 
 
 The Indian summer-time of human life, — 
 
 The resting-hour from turmoil and from strife — 
 Before the spirit takes its heaven-directed flight. 
 
202 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE EARLY ICE. 
 
 The ice has come ! The cold-lipp'd Frost has kiss'd 
 The waters while they slept at night ; his breath 
 Has fix'd them in a torpor, as of death. 
 
 Nor shrub nor flower the midnight ranger miss'd, 
 But on them all he laid his fatal fingers. 
 
 He touch'd the trees ; and when the sun comes forth 
 And warms the leaves, they fall in sudden showers ; 
 The change from frost to sunny heat o'erpowers 
 The feeble health that in them faintly lingers. 
 
 The blast is keen this morning from the north ; 
 
 All tender things are dying day by day ; 
 
 Soon, soon will they be gone, and seen no more, 
 And we shall stand on nature's wintry shore, 
 
 The gentle dreams of summer having pass'd away. 
 
WHERE IS THE APPLE-MAN ? 203 
 
 WHERE IS THE APPLE-MAN? 
 
 The whereabouts — the present whereabouts — 
 
 Of that old man, can any person tell ? 
 
 The tall, spare, gray old man, who used to sell 
 Nuts, cakes, and apples near the park ? — Some doubts 
 
 Have I if he be still alive ; but if he be, 
 
 His kindly face I'm fain again to see. 
 A pleasant thing to- me it was to meet, 
 
 As day by day I pass'd, his smiling look : — 
 
 (The human face is my delightful book, 
 Wherein I read while walking in the street.) 
 
 Some kindliness, methougbt, was garner'd up 
 AVithin his heart : though he was poor and old, 
 
 Yet sure am I his hand would ne'er withhold 
 From misery's lip, love's rich, refreshing cup. 
 
204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 There patiently he stood, from early morn 
 
 Till watchman's call at night, beside the corner 
 Of Sixth and Walnut — (keep your little scorn 
 
 And pitying laugh within your bosom, scorner — 
 I write of things beyond your heart and head) — 
 
 There, doling out for pence his sugar'd ware, 
 
 His little gains from children in the square 
 Sufficed to find him in his daily bread. 
 
 I never learn'd the old man's history, 
 Nor whence he came, nor whither he has gone : 
 
 'Tis my belief no living kin had he, 
 But lonely in this world he plodded on. 
 
 Well ! if from earth he has pass'd silently, 
 
 I give this tribute to his memory. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE CITY. 205 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE CITY. 
 
 Written after a New- Year's visit to the Farm School of New York. 
 
 Ye children of the city — 
 
 Ye poor and hapless born — 
 Ye pensioners of pity, 
 
 Once destitute and lorn; — 
 
 Ye babes, whose natural keepers 
 
 Forgot your heavenly claim, 
 And left ye little weepers 
 
 And heritors of shame ; — 
 
 Why kindle now your faces — 
 
 Why glisten in your eyes 
 The glad and sparkling graces 
 Wherein true beauty lies ? 
 18 
 
206 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A blooming youthful army, 
 Nine hundred strong ye stand, 
 
 With not a foe to harm ye 
 In all this blessed land ! 
 
 Your voices join in singing — 
 Sweet childhood's fit employ ; 
 
 Ye welcome Leonard bringing 
 Your annual gift of joy. 
 
 Glad voices on him calling, 
 He stands a father there ; 
 
 And tear-drops freely falling 
 Evince his love and care. 
 
 Though glorious is the city 
 In works of nobleness, 
 
 More glorious is her pity 
 To babes in sore distress. 
 
 It crowns New York with honour, 
 And down through coming years 
 
 Shall richly fall upon her 
 Renown educed from tears. 
 
THE DOOM OF THE PRINTER. 207 
 
 THE DOOM OF THE PRINTER 
 
 A printer weary and wan, 
 
 His face all mortally pale, 
 As he slowly plodded his homeward way 
 Before the dawning of early day, 
 
 Broke out in a bitter wail. 
 
 His voice was husky and low, 
 As though his lungs were gone ; 
 And he cough'd and gasp'd, and cough'd again, 
 And he press'd his hand to his breast in pain, 
 While thus his plaint ran on : 
 
 " A world of toil is this ! 
 
 It hath no joy for me : 
 'Tis labour by day, and labour by night, 
 By the light of the sun, and by candle-light — 
 
 Labour continually. 
 
208 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 " Some men have a day of rest, 
 
 But Sabbath for me is not: 
 It is toil all the week, and toil on the day 
 That God has given to rest and to pray — 
 
 Lo ! this is the printer's lot ! 
 
 " When I was a boy," he said, 
 " I play'd on the hills of green ; 
 I swam in the stream — I fish'd in the brook — 
 And blessed was I to sit and to look 
 Unfetter'd on nature's scene. 
 
 " For twenty sad years and more, 
 
 My life has worn away 
 In murky rooms of poisonous air, 
 When I've yearn'd for a sight of the valleys fair 
 
 And the light of open day. 
 
 " An innocent prisoner doom'd, 
 
 My heart is heavy within ; 
 Oh why should a man untainted by guilt, 
 Who the blood of a creature never hath spilt, 
 
 Be pent, like a felon, for sin ?" 
 
THE DOOM OF THE PRINTER. 209 
 
 The printer then cough'd and sigh'd — 
 
 The stars were growing dim, 
 And he upward glanced at the morning sky. 
 And he inly thought it were good to die, 
 
 And death would be rest to him. 
 
 His heart was tired of beating ; 
 He pray'd to the Lord above 
 To pity a man whose heart had been riven 
 By toil, for other men's interest given, — 
 
 And he sought His mercy and love. 
 
 He hied to his humble home : 
 His infant awoke to cry, 
 " Oh, father ! oh, mother ! I'm hungry for bread !" 
 And the printer bow'd, with an aching head, 
 On his Mary's bosom to die. 
 
 Oh ye who have never known 
 The richness found in a crust 
 When nothing is seen on the desolate shelf, 
 And the poor man's pocket is empty of pelf, — 
 Receive my story on trust. 
 18* 
 
210 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Say not in your careless scorn, 
 
 What boots the tale to you ? 
 The rhymer who traces these rough-written rhymes, 
 Has known of such sufferers in. other-day times, 
 
 And much of his rhyme is true. 
 
 Remember this holy truth, — 
 
 The man who aloof hath stood 
 When a heart-broken brother for succour did crave, 
 And he stretch'd not a finger to bless and to save, 
 
 Is verily guilty of blood ! 
 
THE PRINTERS SABBATH. 211 
 
 THE PRINTER'S SABBATH. 
 
 " I'm going home to rest," the printer said, 
 
 " For I am faint and weary." Forth he went 
 
 Into the open air. The firmament 
 Was full of stars ; and down upon his head 
 
 The moonbeams faintly fell. 'Twas Sabbath night, 
 Just verging into morn. The day had been 
 His day of toil. Was his alone the sin ? 
 
 The merchant, on the Monday morning bright, 
 Before he pray'd took up the new gazette, 
 (Which as it were with human tears was wet,) 
 
 And conn'd its columns o'er with eager scan ; 
 But naught reck'd he the price that sheet had cost, — 
 That life, and hope, and soul perchance were lost, 
 
 The Sabbath scorn'd, and wo entail'd on man ! 
 
212 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE EDITOR SAT IN HIS 
 SANCTUM. 
 
 The editor sat in his sanctum, 
 
 In a hapless plight was he ; 
 Fain would he fall in a thinking fit, 
 For he was at the end of his wit 
 
 As to what his leader should be. 
 
 He had reap'd his brain so often, 
 
 The soil seem'd barren grown ; 
 The forest of wit was fell'd to the stump, 
 The flowers of fancy were gone, save a clump 
 
 Where the seed had lately been sown. 
 
THE EDITOR SAT IN HIS SANCTUM. 213 
 
 He fish'd in the river of knowledge, 
 
 But his angling-line was short: 
 " Surely there's plenty of fish in the sea, 
 But 'tis as plain as a herring," quoth he, 
 
 " In deeper waters they're caught." 
 
 He dived to the bed of his ocean, 
 
 Where the pearls did erst abound ; 
 He raked and sifted the briny mud 
 That lies below the emerald flood, 
 
 But not an oyster he found. 
 
 " Ah, what shall I do ?" he murmur'd : 
 
 " The fellow will here be soon : 
 Methinks his tones on my ear-drum stir, 
 1 The men are all waiting for copy, sir, 
 
 And now it is after noon.' 
 
 " It hath been quoted often, 
 
 With a full meed of credit, 
 The maxim Witherspoon spake in his day, 
 1 Never to speak till you've something to say, 
 
 And stop when you have said it.' 
 
214 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 " Ah, good advice to a parson," 
 
 He sadly went on to say ; 
 " But I would ask, who ever said it, or 
 Hinted such thing to a brain-tired editor, 
 
 From his birth to his dying-day ?" 
 
 He rose in his mental anguish, 
 
 And turn'd the key in his door ; 
 The messenger came, and loudly did knock, 
 But the editor sat as still as a stock, 
 And the imp then knocked the more. 
 
 The editor leaned on his patience 
 
 As on a cushion'd chair ; 
 And he sat him down, and he rock'd away, 
 While fancies began in his mind to play, 
 
 And thoughts to nestle there. 
 
 He neither swore nor cursed, 
 
 He hated a word profane ; 
 (Ah, verily, he who curses and swears 
 But adds to his sins and adds to his cares — 
 
 And the vice is mean and vain.) 
 
THE EDITOR SAT IN HIS SANCTUM. 215 
 
 The editor and the devil 
 
 Maintain'd the battle and strife ; 
 For the inky imp kept sturdily knocking, 
 And the editor kept incessantly rocking 
 
 And thinking as for his life. 
 
 His fancies came like a morning 
 
 In the beautiful time of May; 
 And thoughts, like the rays of light, shot out, 
 And tremblingly glimmer' d and twinkled about. 
 
 Till his mind was as clear as day. 
 
 The imp was drumming and drumming 
 
 A rat-a-tat on the door ; 
 The editor cared not a whit for his thumps, 
 But quietly finger'd his ideal bumps, 
 
 Till the flood began to pour 
 
 Down to the tip of his fingers, 
 
 When he caught the paper and pen, 
 And beautiful things from the bodiless air 
 Were call'd into being, and written down there, 
 
 A blessing to true-hearted men. 
 
216 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Truth shone on the face of the paper, 
 
 And the editor's heart was light: 
 For noble the man among noble men, 
 Who fears not to ply a truth-telling pen 
 
 For God and for human right. 
 
 He sprang to the door of his sanctum, 
 
 As swift as a Grecian winner 
 When reaching the goal in Olympian race, 
 And the copy he push'd in the messenger's face, 
 
 And thankfully went to his dinner. 
 
 THE END.