776 Lyte (Rev. Henry Francis) Remains, with a 
 
 prefatory memoir, 12mo, cloth, scarce, 7s 6d m0 T m 
 
 1850 * 
 It was in this rolume, among the poetical remains, that 
 the well known hymn "Abide with me" first came 
 before pnblic notice. 
 
 FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. 
 
 BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 
 ***** ScB 
 
u 
 
i 
 
REMAINS 
 
 OF THE LITE 
 
 REV. HENRY FRANCIS LYTE, M.A. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 gilbert & rtvington, printers, 
 st. John's square. 
 
RtiMAINS 
 
 OF Till. LATE 
 
 REV. HENRY FRANCIS LYTE, M.A. 
 
 INCUMBENT 01 LOWER BRIXHAM, DEVON; 
 
 PKEEATORY MEMOIK 
 
 BY THK EDITOR. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 FRANCIS & JOHN RIVINGTON, 
 st. Paul's church yard, and Waterloo place. 
 
 1850. 
 
itnbnig jHrmory 
 
 DEVOTKD FATHER AND DEAR COMPANION, 
 
 THESE BRIEF RECORDS 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Prefatory Memoir v 
 
 Appendix to ditto lvii 
 
 Part I lxi 
 
 Part II lxxv 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 4- Friends lost in 1833 1 
 
 Stanzas to J. K 5 
 
 Sea Changes 9 
 
 David's Three Mighty Ones 12 
 
 A Recall to my Child, A. M 18 
 
 Declining Days 23 
 
 The Dying Christian to his Soul 2\) 
 
 Napoleon's Grave 32 
 
 Grace Darling's Death-bed 37 
 
 Longings for Home 44 
 
 Thoughts in Weakness — 
 
 Part i. Encouragement 51 
 
 Part ii. Submission 5f> 
 
 Part iii. Action 61 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Czar in Rome 63 
 
 Fragments of a Fairy Tale 71 
 
 The Complaint of Mary Magdalene 82 
 
 January 1st, 1847 93 
 
 The Poet's Plea 100 
 
 Abide with Me 119 
 
 Early Poems. 
 
 Prize Poem — The Battle of Salamanca 1 23 
 
 To a Field-Flower 197 
 
 Song 201 
 
 May Flowers 203 
 
 A. M. M. L 205 
 
 Sermons. 
 
 I. Without God in the World— Eph. ii. 12 . . . 209 
 II. Sermon to Fishermen — John xxi. 6 . . . . 235 
 
 III. 2 Cor. xiii. 11 269 
 
 IV. 1 Cor. xi. 26 281 
 
PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 To usher into the world a quiet volume of Poetry, 
 composed in the hours of relaxation from paro- 
 chial labour, or under the chastening influence of 
 lengthened illness, seems scarcely to harmonize 
 with the stirring anxieties and excitement of the 
 present time. Yet to those friends who will re- 
 ceive these "Bemains" as a tribute of affection 
 to the memory of one whom they dearly and 
 deservedly loved, it is hoped their publication will 
 not be unwelcome. It is felt, however, that much 
 apology is due for the delay in their appearance, 
 which, from sad and unavoidable circumstances, 
 has occurred, as well as for the actual contents of 
 the volume itself. It had been contemplated by 
 the Author to present another volume of Poetry 
 to the public, and with this view he had partially 
 corrected and prepared for the press most of the 
 
VI PREFATORY MEMOIE. 
 
 succeeding Poems. Death, however, cut short the 
 work, and the unfinished MS. passed into the 
 hands of his second son, who inherited much of 
 his father's taste for literature, and would have 
 ably carried out the design, had he not been very 
 shortly summoned to follow his father into the 
 world unseen. Other causes of delay, which need 
 not be particularized, have arisen, and the work 
 itself is now published in a somewhat different 
 form from that which had been originally intended. 
 Indeed the title of "Remains" may seem scarcely 
 suitable to a volume, which consists merely of 
 poems and sermons, without any other selection 
 from the large mass of MSS. found among the 
 author's papers. On examining these papers, how- 
 over, it was found that so wide and varied was the 
 range of notes and observations comprised in them, 
 and so imperfect, in many instances, the form in 
 which they had been left on record, that to have 
 given sufficient to do justice to the writer, would 
 have increased too greatly the bulk of the present 
 volume, and to have selected a few desultory re- 
 marks would have failed to satisfy the reader, or 
 faithfully to pourtray the distinctive characteristics 
 of their writer. It would seem indeed that the 
 peculiar features which rendered him so welcome 
 a friend, and so prized a companion, though such 
 
PREFATORY MEMOIR. Wi 
 
 as will dwell long and fondly in the memories of 
 those who knew him, were not best fitted to furnish 
 materials for publication. In his sermons too 
 he rarely, if ever, preached precisely as he wrote, 
 and almost all his MS. discourses consist simply of 
 heads, notes, illustrations, and Scripture proofs, 
 leaving the connecting and filling up of the whole 
 to be done at the time of delivery. This made it 
 almost impossible to select from his parochial 
 sermons ; and those who best remember his own 
 peculiar flow of eloquence, and charm of voice and 
 manner, will not fail, in glancing over the few 
 sermons given in this volume, to feel how far short 
 they fall of his own impressive and impassioned 
 style, when wanting his voice to utter, and his mind 
 to add its own grace and finish to the w T hole. 
 
 A few unpublished earlier poems are added to 
 those before mentioned; and it is thought that 
 some notices of the dates and circumstances under 
 which many of the pieces were written, together 
 with extracts from some of his private letters, 
 may enable the editor to give such a brief sketch 
 of his life and character, as will add interest to the 
 volume. 
 
 Henry Francis Lyte was born at Kelso on 
 the 1st of June, a.d. 1793, and spent his childhood 
 under the gentle influence and teaching of a mother 
 a 2 
 
Vlll PEEFATOEY MEMOIE. 
 
 whose memory through life he cherished with fond 
 affection. From thence, at nine years of age, he 
 was sent to school at Protoro, in Ireland, but 
 though descended from an old and highly respect- 
 able family, (that of Lyte of Lyte's Carey, in the 
 county of Somerset), and himself the son of an 
 officer in the army, he was left at an early age 
 with scarcely any other resources for education and 
 advancement in life than such as the kindness of 
 friends, or his own abilities procured for him. 
 Nor were these found wanting. The high order 
 and versatility of his talents, shown even in 
 boyhood, firm integrity, and winning disposition 
 gained for him many a friend, and enabled him to 
 surmount the difficulties which beset his path; and 
 after passing honourably through his course at school, 
 under the tuition, and by the aid, of the late Dean 
 Burrows, he entered Trinity College, Dublin, in 1812, 
 where he obtained a scholarship in the following 
 year. During his academical career he cultivated his 
 natural talent for poetry, and was the successful 
 competitor for three English prize poems, in three 
 successive years : one of these, " The Battle of 
 Salamanca," is inserted in the present volume; 
 together with two or three minor pieces, to which 
 dates are attached, as fair specimens of his poetical 
 attainments at this period. By carrying off, in 
 
l'HEFATOItr MEMOITC. IX 
 
 these and other instances, the rewards which were 
 liberally offered by the seniors of the university to 
 her junior members, and by taking private pupils, 
 he was enabled to add very agreeably to his limited 
 income; and, at the same time, his talents and 
 personal attractions gained for him a high position 
 among his contemporaries. He thus formed many 
 valuable friendships, which were of rare warmth, 
 and long duration, begun in all the fervency of 
 youth, and continued, in many instances, with 
 scarcely less ardour, through succeeding years. 
 altered fortunes, and broken intercourse. The 
 meetings of a little band of kindred souls in 
 these college days is thus described by him in a 
 stanza of a poetical letter, dated 1812, " addressed 
 to my friend J. K." 
 
 " And then those nights, those Attic nights we've pass'd 
 With the fond few who felt and thought as we, 
 Chiding the hours that stole away so fast, 
 On wings of reason, wit, and minstrelsy : 
 When my young muse would list and learn from thee 
 Strains she had envied any tongue but thine, 
 Or from discussions fanciful and free, 
 On books, men, things gay, moral, and divine, 
 Glean'd much to please and mend, enlighten and refine.' ' 
 
 * The second poem given in this volume, headed 
 
 * The Editor cannot resist here giving, though somewhat out 
 of place, the following lines, addressed by this friend to H. F. L.. 
 
X PEEFATOEY MEMOIE. 
 
 " Stanzas to J. K." was the last of a series of 
 poetical letters which pleasantly diversified a life- 
 long correspondence, from the first of which the 
 above extract is taken. And to the same source 
 
 in 1838, to which those in the volume are a reply, feeling 
 confident, that by their own grace and sweetness, they will 
 commend themselves to every poetic reader : — 
 
 To H. F. L. 
 
 " Eheu! fugaces, Postume, Postume, 
 Labuntur anni!" — Hor. 
 
 y 
 
 " The blithe age of childhood 
 'Tis gladsome to me, 
 To watch its wild gambols 
 And list to its glee. 
 Sport on, merry elves ! 
 Your brief respite enjoy, 
 Ere the cares of the man 
 Quench the smiles of the boy ! 
 Like brilliants of dew, 
 In the new-risen day, 
 Your joys, while they sparkle, 
 Are passing away ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 11 Alas for the changes 
 That time bringeth on ! 
 Life's morn, how soon over, 
 Its manna soon gone ! 
 
PREFATORY MEMOITJ. \i 
 
 we are indebted for many notices contained in 
 his earlier letters, of his history at the periods <>f 
 their composition. The eifects, however, of his 
 
 The heart's first affections, — 
 The purest and best ! 
 The mind's glowing fancies, 
 The laugh and the jest, 
 Night's calm, downy slumbers, 
 Wild rambles by day, 
 Are sweets only tasted 
 While passing away ! 
 
 in. 
 " The labours of manhood, 
 It grieves me to view, 
 So artful, so slavish, 
 So profitless too ! 
 The lovers of mammon 
 Still toiling for gain ; 
 The seekers of pleasure, 
 But finders of pain ! 
 True flowers that fail not, 
 True riches that stay, 
 They forfeit — for false ones 
 Still passing away ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 u Friend truest and dearest ! 
 My partner so long 
 In joy and in sorrow, 
 In study and song ! 
 
Xll PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 struggle at the outset of life, and the fact of being 
 thrown entirely on his own resources left an 
 abiding impress on his character. There was then 
 formed, and afterwards more fully developed, an 
 energy of purpose, and a vigorous determina- 
 tion to overcome all difficulties, which contrasted 
 strangely with his natural gentleness of disposition, 
 and calm enjoyment of intellectual pursuits — 
 
 In the vain strife to mingle 
 Like me ever loth, 
 Of a world that's too selfish, 
 Too subtle for both ! 
 Our griefs will soon end, 
 For our locks are now grey ; 
 And how swift is life's autumn 
 In passing away ! 
 
 v. 
 
 " But, praise to Thy bounty, 
 Redeemer of men ! 
 A world yet awaits us, 
 Where friends meet again ! 
 A world all so holy, 
 So happy and fair, 
 That nought which offendeth 
 Or paineth is there ! 
 No cloud to its summer, 
 No night to its day ; 
 No sinning, no sighing, 
 No passing away !" 
 
PREFATORY MEMOIR. Xlll 
 
 while his high classical attainments, which he 
 pursued the more ardently from a keen perception 
 of, and love for, their own beauty, imparted an 
 almost Attic elegance of thought and diction, 
 and gave a poetic colouring to his view of die 
 most ordinary things of lite. This he never lost, 
 and this threw a peculiar charm over his mind, 
 which had foiled in this, onr bustling age, to acquire 
 and adopt the utilitarian tone too common around 
 us. But, above all, his grateful sense of early 
 benefits never passed away ; and in after years he 
 paid a happy tribute to this memory of the past 
 by the graceful extension of a like benevolence to 
 others whenever opportunity offered. He was also 
 naturally gifted with that open-handed liberality 
 and largeness of soul, which is the usual accompani- 
 ment of an impetuous and ardent spirit. He had 
 nothing for himself, and never appeared happier 
 than in the exercise of the most universal hospi- 
 tality and unwearying generosity. 
 
 To retiuTL, however, to our narrative. On leaving 
 college, the medical profession was that which he 
 at first proposed to enter ; and from his extensive 
 use in after life of the knowledge which he then 
 acquired, it would appear that he had made con- 
 siderable progress in his preparation for it. Sub- 
 sequently, however, he was led, under the influence 
 
XIV PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 of religious conviction, to devote himself to the 
 more sacred calling of the Christian ministry. An 
 extract from a letter to the valued friend before 
 mentioned, will give, in his own words, a sketch of 
 his history at this period. 
 
 " March, 1815. 
 
 " Since I last wrote to you I have been ordained, 
 and have obtained a curacy within seven miles of 
 the town of AVexford. Here I had at first settled, 
 1 remote from towns,' in almost perfect seclusion, 
 giving myself up to the duties of my situation, 
 writing my sermons, visiting my sick, catechizing 
 my children, without other companions than my 
 flute, my pen, and my books. This answered very 
 well for a little time, while I had plenty of occupa- 
 tion on my hands. 
 
 " However, it was too great a change from the 
 comfort, the society, and the carelessness which I 
 had before enjoyed, to be long capable of satisfying 
 my wishes. I found myself obliged to submit to 
 constant intrusions, to attend long, formal dinner- 
 parties, to take long rides at night, or give up the 
 best part of my time to my neighbours, and other 
 miseries which I had not taken into account, when 
 I had resolved upon living ' passing rich/ &c., in 
 seclusion. All this, with some other causes also, 
 determined me to attend to the solicitations of my 
 
PREFATORY MEMOIR. XV 
 
 old friend B. to continue in my care of his boys, 
 and in my partaking his home and society. 1 am 
 
 now settled again with him I believe 
 
 that I mentioned to you a composition, entitled 
 ' Eichard Cceur do Lion,' which I had sent in for 
 a Chancellor's premium in college, and which was 
 successful. On looking over this, the Provost ima- 
 gined, with his telescopic eyes, that he had dis- 
 covered some merit sufficient to entitle it to 
 recitation at the last visitation. I was therefore 
 commanded to attend with my poem, and gave 
 them a dose of about 200 lines from the beginning 
 of the composition, which the Chancellor liked so 
 well, that he wished for the rest of the work for 
 perusal. This I, with my usual dilatoriness, have 
 not yet sent him. However, the Provost has 
 expressed a wish that I should publish the poem, 
 6 dedicated to the Vice-Chancellor,' and ' at the desire 
 of the Board and Fellows of the University '. . . 
 I have, since my first success, obtained another 
 first prize, for a production in blank comperian 
 verse, upon ' The Peace,' which some of the fellows 
 have wished me to subjoin to the former ; a request 
 which I positively will not now comply with." . . 
 An extract from another letter to the same 
 friend, after a pause in their correspondence, will 
 be read with much interest, as detailing the cir- 
 
XVI PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 cumstances which first led him to embrace far 
 deeper and more solemn views of his new position; 
 and from this point we may date the growth, under 
 God's blessing, of that religious character which 
 was to be hereafter developed in so much zeal, 
 energy, and devotion to his Master's service. 
 
 " Marazion, March 30, 1818. 
 
 " I must now tell you by what circumstances I 
 have been brought to this place, and into this new 
 connexion. When I last corresponded with you, 
 I was, I think, returned to my friend I. B. from 
 my dreary curacy of Taghinon in Ireland. Here 
 I lived for some time, comfortably enough, assist- 
 ing him in tailing care of his two sons, riding 
 about, shooting, dancing, and attending my curacy 
 every Sunday. From this motley round of occupa- 
 tions, I was, however, withdrawn, by a circum- 
 stance which led the way to all my future wander- 
 ings. A neighbouring clergyman, with whom I 
 was intimate, and who bore the highest character 
 for benevolence, piety, and good sense, was taken 
 ill, and sent for me. I went to attend him, and 
 witnessed all the workings of his mind and body 
 for some weeks till he expired. I shall never forget 
 some of the circumstances that took place : his 
 serious and anxious inquiries into the evidence on 
 
PREFATORY MKMOIK. Wll 
 
 which a future state existed, his examination into 
 the grounds on which the Scripture stood as an 
 authentic revelation, and his convictions that it 
 was a just statement of that which is, and is to be, 
 all seemed to pass before him, as he stood just on 
 the confines of eternity, as strong and distinct 
 realities, as the parts of a picture, rather than of 
 an abstract speculation. These preliminaries settled, 
 his inquiry next was, the means by which a happj 
 eternity was to be attained — and here indeed my 
 blood almost curdled, to hear the dying man declare 
 and prove, with irrefutable clearness, that both he 
 and I had been utterly mistaken in the means we 
 had adopted for ourselves, and recommended to 
 others, if the explanatory Epistles of St. Paul were 
 to be taken in their plain and literal sense. You 
 can hardly perhaps conceive the effect of all this, 
 proceeding from such a man, in such a situation. 
 He died, I rejoice to say, happy under the belief, 
 that though he had deeply erred, there was one 
 whose death and sufferings would atone for his 
 delinquencies, and be accepted for all that he had 
 incurred. I was greatly affected by the whole 
 matter, and brought to look at life and its issue 
 with a different eye than before ; and I began to 
 study my Bible, and preach in another manner than 
 I had previously done. 
 
XV111 PEEFATOEY MEMOIE. 
 
 " I had also the care of all the con- 
 cerns of my friend's widow and young family, 
 which I arranged for them by incessant exertion 
 for four months. The excessive labour of mind 
 and body which these concomitant circumstances 
 brought upon me, soon proved too much for my 
 constitution, already enfeebled by my attendance 
 on my dying friend. I fell into a rapid decline, 
 and was ordered immediately to leave the country 
 for the Continent, if I wished to live. While I 
 was on the Continent, I continued, with the excep- 
 tion of a two months' residence in Paris, in con- 
 stant motion, according to the direction of my 
 Physician ; and the exercise, air, and agreeable and 
 diversified scenes I passed through, soon restored 
 me to my accustomed state of health 
 
 " On my return to England, after a short visit to 
 Bristol, I came down to this part of the kingdom, 
 as the most likely to agree with my constitution, 
 and after being jostled about from one curacy to 
 another, I at last settled as lecturer to this little 
 town." 
 
 Before proceeding with our biographical sketch, 
 we venture to make one more extract from his early 
 letters to the same friend, exemplifying the literary 
 tone which their correspondence often assumed. 
 "In the rich, the imaginative, the playful, the 
 
PBXFAT0B1 KEM0IB \i\ 
 
 tender, you are quite at home, and 1 trusl that 
 your subject is cue replete with topics which wil] 
 
 call your talents in these respects peculiarly into 
 play. Moore is, I think, the author of the present 
 day whose style mosl resembles yours. I have 
 read his Lalla Bookh with much delight, and 
 thought the strictures of the Edinburgh Eeviewers 
 on it very just. It is perhaps too full of beauties ; 
 it is a picture all lights, and no shades ; the mind 
 looks in vain for a resting-place in reading it. The 
 ornaments are so numerous in every part, that 
 they distract the eye from the simple beauty of the 
 whole. Perhaps the conceits too with which it 
 abounds, beautiful as they are, tire from their 
 frequency at last. Such I know were my feelings 
 on reading this exquisite production. In another 
 respect, too, I think Moore generally fails ; and this 
 is, in his attempt at the sublime. He very fre- 
 quently here mistakes words for ideas, and imagines 
 that when he has collected a certain number of 
 swelling epithets together, they must necessarily 
 suggest a sublime image to the reader ; but if 
 they do, it is a sublime image of froth. True 
 sublimity is ever simple in conception and expres- 
 sion. The ideas must not be complex, but unique, 
 and the fewer the words used to convey them, the 
 better. There must be nothing strained, stalking, 
 
XX PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 or grandiloquent in that which aspires to the title 
 of sublime." It was at Marazion, whence the above 
 letter is dated, that our author met with, and 
 subsequently married, Anne, only daughter of Bev. 
 W. Maxwell, D.D., of Bath, and of Falkland in the 
 county of Monaghan ; he did not remain long in 
 Cornwall after his marriage, but removed, on 
 account of ill health, to the neighbourhood of 
 Lymington. To this more congenial atmosphere, 
 and to the fuller leisure which he enjoyed in this 
 quiet country life, we owe a large portion of his 
 poetical writings. 
 
 He here completed a volume entitled " Tales on 
 the Lord's Prayer," which was not however pub- 
 lished till the year 1826, and composed many 
 miscellaneous poems, some of which appeared in 
 another volume entitled. " Poems chiefly religious," 
 which was published in 1833. Of the former work 
 we find the following favourable notice in Black- 
 wood's Magazine, (iNToctes Ambros.) jS t o. 165, 
 p. 686 :— 
 
 " Have you seen a little volume entitled ' Tales 
 in Terse' by the Eev. H. P. Lyte, which seems to 
 have reached a second edition ? Now that is the 
 right kind of religious poetry. Mr. Lyte shows 
 how the sins and sorrows of man flow from irreligion, 
 in simple yet strong domestic narratives, told in a 
 
VKEFATORY MEMOIR. w 
 
 style and spirit reminding one sometimes of Gold- 
 smith, and sometimes of Crabbe. A volume se 
 humble in its appearance and pretensions runs 
 the risk of being jostled off the highway into bye- 
 paths; and indeed no harm if it should ; for in 
 such retired places it will be pleasant reading — 
 pensive in the shade and cheerful in the sunshine. 
 Mr. Lyte has reaped 
 
 1 The harvest of a quiet eye, 
 That broods and sleeps oil its own heart •/ 
 
 and his Christian Tales will be read with interest 
 and instruction by many a fireside. ' The brothers ' 
 is eminently beautiful. — lie ought to give us another 
 volume" 
 
 This composition, however, begun at the sugges- 
 tion of a literary friend, did not satisfy its author, 
 who thus speaks of it in his Preface. " There are 
 indeed many things which the Author could wish to 
 see altered, some which, had time permitted, he 
 would gladly have expunged and rewritten alto- 
 gether;" and this view of its defects was never 
 altered. 
 
 But his muse found a sadder theme, during his 
 residence in Hampshire, in the loss of an infant 
 daughter ; and the little piece in the present 
 volume, entitled " Lines to A. M. M. L.," or, as 
 we Hud them 1 leaded in his own MS., " Inscription 
 
 b 
 
XXU PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 for the grave of my dear little one, Anna Maria, 
 who died at Sway cottage, February, 1821, aged 
 one month," was written on this occasion. 
 
 Restored health, however, brought with it the 
 desire for a settled sphere of active ministerial 
 labour, and he removed to the more genial clime of 
 South Devon, where he held, for a year or two, the 
 curacy of Charlton, near Kingsbridge. Previously 
 to this, he had taken a cottage at Dittisham, on the 
 banks of the river Dart, and thence had more than 
 once officiated at Lower Brixham. His impressions 
 of the parish were not, however, calculated to 
 attract the sympathy of a refined and highly cul- 
 tivated mind ; and it was only when various con- 
 curring circumstances appeared to point it out as 
 his path of duty, that he overcame his reluctance 
 to enter on so uncongenial a sphere, and consented 
 to take charge of the new district church which had 
 been recently erected. From its original state of 
 a fishing village, Brixham had grown up into a 
 district of some thousands of inhabitants, increased 
 chiefly during the war, when Torbay was the ren- 
 dezvous of the Channel fleet, and Berry Head a 
 permanent military station. From these sources, 
 as well as from the occupations of a fishing and 
 seafaring life, money had been made by the shrewd 
 and busy, but uneducated people ; among whom 
 
 . 
 
PREFATORY MEMOIR. will 
 
 many of the vices consequent upon the presence of 
 
 a large body of military and naval forces had taken 
 root, and shed an influence most unfavourable to 
 the growth of morality or religion. It was not 
 surprising that under these circumstances, law- 
 lessness, immorality, and ignorance, prevailed to a 
 fearful extent ; and it required unwonted vigour 
 and devotion of heart successfully to grapple with 
 existing evils. In this hitherto neglected portion 
 of his Lord's Vineyard our Author lived and 
 laboured, for a period extending over more than 
 twenty-five years ; and though human judgment 
 would have assigned to his talents and inclination 
 a very different sphere, few who beheld the mar- 
 vellous change wrought, by the blessing of God, in 
 a few years among the sailors and fishermen of 
 Brixham, but would confess that unerring wisdom 
 was especially shown in placing him as pastor over 
 this rough but warm-hearted people. It would 
 seem, indeed, that some of the characteristics we 
 have before noticed, singularly fitted him for the 
 useful and happy discharge of his duties here : even 
 his own inner life of intellectual and poetic thought, 
 where he breathed another atmosphere from that 
 which hung around his daily path, strengthened 
 and refreshed his spirit amid much toil and wea- 
 riness, and imparted a higher tone, which insensibly 
 b 2 
 
XXIV PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 attracted and influenced persons of every class with 
 whom he came in contact. By the earnest devo- 
 tion of all his powers, and the Christian charity 
 which, in the fullest acceptation of the word, cha- 
 racterized his ministry, he won the affection, and 
 roused the sympathy of his people, and gained from 
 them support and assistance in carrying out his 
 various plans for the spiritual and temporal amelio- 
 ration of his flock. He early set on foot the now 
 usual, but then comparatively uncommon machinery 
 of schools and district visiting among the poor 
 and sick, and soon numbered in the Sunday schools 
 between 700 and 800 children, and a body of 
 between seventy and eighty voluntary teachers, 
 whom he himself trained and organized, frequently 
 meeting them in a body, when, after the routine 
 business of the school was settled, he gave them 
 religious instruction, with especial reference to their 
 own teaching, and took the opportunity of touching 
 on any points in which, individually or collectively, 
 they needed advice or assistance ; thus opening 
 that most valuable channel of ministerial useful- 
 ness, a confidential communication on matters of 
 faith and practice between a pastor and his people. 
 He always spent some time also in the schools 
 during the hours of instruction, closing one or 
 other of them in person, and addressing a few 
 
 
PREFATORY MEMOIR. \\V 
 
 words of encouragement, or pointing out any 
 defects which had come beneath his notice. He 
 was peculiarly happy in availing himself of such 
 occasions either to impart instruction or convey 
 reproof, and by the aptness of his illustrations as 
 well as the gentleness of his manner, he fixed the 
 attention, and won the affection of both teachers 
 and scholars. His facility in composition enabled 
 him to furnish his schools with hymns, and works 
 of elementary instruction, of which there were 
 comparatively few at that time suitable to their 
 wants. He used also, when the Annual School 
 Feast came round, (who that ever shared those 
 festive meetings, but will remember the joyous 
 voices, the bright faces, the happy influence shed 
 over all by the one loving, benevolent spirit at the 
 head of the little band ?) generally to present them 
 with one or more hymns new for the occasion, often 
 supplying music as well as words. Many of these 
 have found their way into various selections of 
 hymns, but we venture to subjoin one of the latest, 
 a great favourite among the children, and in singing 
 which they still delight to cherish the memory of 
 
 its beloved Author. 
 
 i. 
 " Hark ! round the God of Love 
 Angels are singing ! 
 Saints at His feet above 
 Their crowns are flinging. 
 
XXVI PREFATORY MEMOIR- 
 
 And may poor children dare 
 Hope for acceptance there, 
 
 Their simple praise and prayer 
 To His throne bringing ? 
 
 Yes ! through adoring throngs 
 
 His pity sees us, 
 'Midst their seraphic songs 
 
 Our offering pleases. 
 And Thou, who here didst prove 
 
 To babes so full of love, 
 Thou art the same above, 
 
 Merciful Jesus ! 
 
 Not a poor sparrow falls 
 
 But Thou art near it. 
 When the young raven calls, 
 
 Thou, Lord, dost hear it. 
 Flowers, worms, and insects share. 
 
 Hourly Thy guardian care — 
 Wilt Thou bid us despair ? — 
 
 Lord, can we fear it ? 
 
 Lord, then Thy mercy send 
 
 On all before Thee ! 
 Children and children's friend. 
 
 Bless, we implore Thee ! 
 Lead us from grace to grace, 
 
 On through our earthly race, 
 Till all before Thy face 
 
 Meet to adore Thee I" 
 
iMn;r.\Ti>KY MEMOIB. \\\n 
 
 He also ventured to attempt what so many of 
 our Christian poets have, with various success, 
 endeavoured to produce,— a Metrical Version of the 
 Psalms. Not, indeed, (as he tells us in his elegant 
 little preface,) that he flattered himself with the 
 idea of being fully able to supply that which so 
 many have tried in vain to furnish ; but that, by 
 somewhat modifying the object aimed at, and 
 adding to his own compositions the best and most 
 popular passages of the ordinary new version of 
 our Church, he might possibly frame a substitute 
 for what he, in common with most Churchmen, 
 earnestly wished to see : " An appropriate manual 
 of Psalmody, provided by the heads of the Esta- 
 blished Church, and stamped with authority for 
 general use." The difference between his own 
 and previous works of this kind was, that " instead 
 of attempting a new version of the Psalms," he 
 " simply endeavoured to give the spirit of each 
 Psalm in such a compass as the public taste would 
 tolerate, and to furnish, sometimes, when the length 
 of the original would admit of it, an almost literal 
 translation, sometimes, a kind of spiritual para- 
 phrase, and at others even a brief commentary 
 on the whole Psalm." We have some proof that 
 this little work fulfilled its Author's design, in the 
 fact of its adoption as a whole in some congrega- 
 
XXVIII PKEFATOET MEMOIE. 
 
 tions of our own and the sister Church of America, 
 and the frequent use of portions of it in most 
 modern selections of Psalmody. Its title, also, 
 the " Spirit of the Psalms," would seem to have been 
 happily chosen to designate a work coming from a 
 mind so well fitted as his by constant communings 
 with these divine compositions, fully to appreciate, 
 and convey to others the heavenly aspirations of 
 the " Sweet Singer of Israel." We find among 
 his MSS. traces of this love in earliest boyhood, 
 and in one of his prize Poems written in 1815, 
 occurs the following fine paraphrase of the forty- 
 sixth Psalm: — 
 
 " God is our Hope and Strength ! a present help 
 In time of trouble ! therefore though the earth 
 Be moved, and her mountains 'midst the deep 
 Be headlong tumbled, though the waters there 
 Shall rage till every hill shall shake around 
 We will not fear ! The roaring winds and waves 
 Shall only glad the dwelling of the Lord, 
 The seat in which the Mightiest deigns to bide 
 God in the midst forbids her to be moved ! 
 God shall assist her timely as before ! 
 The kingdoms threaten'd, and the proud of heart 
 Combined in arms. But God gave forth His voice, 
 Earth melted at the sound ! The Lord of Hosts 
 Is with us, Israel's Monarch is our shield ! 
 Come hither and behold His glorious works ; 
 What desolation in His wrath He brings 
 
i>i;i:r.\TOKV mi:moib. xxix 
 
 ( )Yr all the earth ; what gladness when appeased ! 
 See how He quells the storm of war, how breaks 
 The sword, and snaps the spear, exalts the weak, 
 And pulls the mighty down. Be still then, Earth, 
 Tremble, ye kings, and know that I am God. 
 I will defend my people, I will bend 
 The stubborn knee of pride ! The Lord of Hosts 
 Is with us, Israel's Monarch is our shield !" 
 
 And even when all was changed, and the heavy 
 shadows of weariness and death hung around him, 
 his spirit still loved to linger amidst the songs of 
 Zion, and find in them expression for the humble 
 faith and quiet confidence, which smoothed his 
 dying pillow. 
 
 But while enumerating some of the features of 
 his parochial work, we must not omit to notice 
 his efforts to meet the peculiar requirements of 
 the fishermen and sailors who formed so large, 
 and, to him, so interesting a section of his 
 people. He visited them on board their vessels, 
 while in harbour as well as at their own homes, 
 and supplied every vessel with a copy of the Holy 
 Scriptures. Tor their use while at sea he composed 
 a brief manual of " Devotions," and, to assist in 
 giving a purer and healthier tone to their hours of 
 recreation, he wrote some naval songs, and adapted 
 them to popular times. Nor did he fail to give 
 
XXX PREFATOEY MEMOIR. 
 
 them more direct religious instruction. He esta- 
 blished a Sunday school on shore, to which he in- 
 vited sailors of all ages ; and here might be seen 
 together the old weather-beaten Man-of-war's man, 
 the hardy seaman in the prime of life, and the 
 reckless, laughing boy, all subduing for a time their 
 wilder natures, while listening to the stirring ex- 
 hortations of their minister, or engaged in learning 
 to read the Holy Scriptures for themselves. But 
 it were scarcely possible, by the notice of a few 
 isolated facts, to give an adequate idea of the 
 happy relations which subsisted between the Pastor 
 and his flock. His frank, cordial tone in coming 
 amongst them ever gained a hearty response, and 
 the entire absence of all harshness, even in his 
 strong censure of sin, did not detract from their 
 affection and respect. The second Sermon in this 
 volume, preached at their own request, after a three 
 days' holiday on shore, by which, without drunk- 
 enness or disorder, they did honour to the accession 
 of our gracious Queen, was a proof at once of their 
 improved social tone, and the value justly set upon 
 their Minister's blessing. JNor was the effect of 
 this happy termination of their holiday merely tem- 
 porary ; it was the beginning of a custom, continued 
 among them through many after years, of coming 
 in a body to Church, when a special sermon was 
 
 
PBEPAT0E3 mkmoii:. \\\i 
 
 preached to them, before leaving for their annual 
 migration to fish off other parts of our coasts. 
 
 We will not, however, enter further into the 
 details of our Author's parochial work, nor follow 
 him through the varied scenes of his ministerial 
 course, but will proceed at once to notice briefly the 
 circumstances connected with the other three Ser- 
 mons giveu in this volume, and the grounds for their 
 selection. The first Sermon, headed " Without God 
 in the world," was preached before Mr. Canning; 
 and that great statesman was so much struck by its 
 truth and force, as to request a private interview 
 with the preacher, which was followed up by a 
 brief but most interesting intercourse, from the 
 tone of which, and the remembrance shown in 
 later years, it were scarcely too much to hope that 
 the good seed once sown was never afterwards 
 wholly choked or trodden down. This sermon was 
 selected, partly from the interest attaching to the 
 great name with which it is coupled, and partly as 
 having been written at an early date, and bearing 
 internal evidence of a different tendency in the 
 Author's mind from that which pervades the two 
 last discourses — for, while the Editor would dis- 
 tinctly disclaim even the semblance of an attempt 
 at controversy on a subject which has of late so 
 agitated the public mind, it is not felt right to pass 
 
XXX11 PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 over in silence that gradual change, or rather 
 development of religious views, which was clearly 
 discernible in the latter years of our Author's life. 
 We have previously noticed that at an early stage of 
 his clerical life he embraced very deep and solemn 
 views of religious truth, and the responsibilities of 
 his sacred office. Earnestness and spiritual life 
 did not then assume the form or take the line 
 which they have since done, and these impressions 
 were formed according to the received views of the 
 so-called Evangelical clergy of the day. In their 
 system the personal influence of the minister, 
 rather than the legitimate authority of the Church, 
 was the mainspring of action, and the various 
 portions of the parochial system were carried out 
 as the individual judgment of each Clergyman 
 might deem best. The harmony of the Gospel, 
 as set forth in the course of the Christian year 
 by the Prayer Book, was not exhibited by the 
 marked observance of the various sacred seasons as 
 they came round, and but little was thought of 
 those points in which our Church, as to position, 
 privileges, authority, and definite system, stands on 
 an entirely different footing from all sectarian 
 bodies of Christians, and claims at once the affec- 
 tion and obedience of her children. This absence 
 of definitive training, this want of a due recognition 
 
PIM.VATOKY MKMOIR. WXlll 
 
 of the duty of allegiance and affection to their 
 Church as to their spiritual mother in Christ, was 
 but lit t U* felt at a period when the great object oi' 
 religious teaching would Beem io have consisted in 
 
 arousing the then dormant energies to any show of 
 vitality — but as the curse of a fallen nature is ever 
 shown in the corresponding abuse which mingles 
 with the use of all our best and brightest blessings, 
 so with the diffusion of spiritual life came also the 
 specious temptations of spiritual pride and error, 
 and thus arose a fresh need for some weapons and 
 safeguards against the threefold peril of " false 
 doctrine, heresy, and schism." This danger had 
 arisen, and this need was keenly felt by our Author, 
 while carrying on the work which we have already 
 briefly described ; for though solid proofs were not 
 wanting that the blessing of God had rested on his 
 labours, yet when these temptations assailed his 
 people, they were, too often, found but ill prepared 
 to combat the plausible arguments, or resist the 
 flattering seductions with which they came in eon- 
 tact. They readily learned to turn aside from the 
 guidance of one whom they loved and honoured as 
 a man, but in whom they failed to recognize the 
 higher authority of a duly commissioned Ambassador 
 o( Christ. They had not acquired such a spirit of 
 obedience as would induce them to submit their 
 
XXXIV PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 own notions, and regulate their practices, by the 
 decisions of primitive and apostolic rule. They 
 had not been trained to love and confide in their 
 Spiritual Mother — the Eride of Christ — and there- 
 fore, when other claimants to their regard arose, 
 they were easily led captive, and not only forsook 
 the home of their spiritual childhood, but as the 
 false spirit of Antinomianism spread and strength- 
 ened, the faithful Minister saw many whom he had 
 himself trained as lambs of Christ's flock, range 
 themselves foremost in the ranks of schism, hostility, 
 and even wild fanaticism*. And it was the gra- 
 dual, though certain development of these painful 
 results in the chief sphere of his labour, which led 
 our Author eventually to modify his own views on 
 the subject of religion: not that he ever really 
 changed his opinions on the Articles of our Faith, 
 or that he held less cordially the main truths of the 
 Gospel, but he saw great reason to look differently 
 on the mode of teaching them, and the general 
 training of the members of Christ's flock, from 
 
 * This term was applied by our Author to the sect called 
 " The Plymouth Brethren," — who found especial favour among 
 his people — in a letter, which we are unfortunately unable to 
 give in full, but in which he gave to a pious friend who differed 
 from him, a full statement of his later views, and the causes 
 which had brought them forward. 
 
PBEFATOBT MEMO IE. \\\\ 
 
 what he had done in past years. Those who knew 
 him best, will say that his love tor Evangelical 
 truth waa as warm, as pure, as practical as ever; 
 but he saw very clearly the need of combining with 
 
 it that apostolieal order which had been omitted in 
 his earlier teaching. And it was not only the 
 painful results which he witnessed in his own, and 
 other parishes, that thus tended to modify his views 
 of the truth, but other causes had prepared his 
 mind for the gradual adoption of so-called Church 
 principles, which having long been silently at work 
 in his own mind, needed only some combination of 
 circumstances to wake them into a living and active 
 prominence amidst the elements of his teaching. 
 During the hours spent in his extensive library, 
 the formation of which had been for years his 
 favourite recreation, he had made large acquaint* 
 ance with the writings of the Fathers, and the 
 earlier divines of the Anglican Church ; having, by 
 his wide Bibliographical research, enriched his 
 stores with most of the best editions of the Fathers, 
 and also accumulated a rare and valuable collection 
 of the works of the Nonjurors, for whose quaint, 
 severe, yet simple style, he possessed a peculiar 
 relish, and had, at one time, partially prepared for 
 publication, a new edition of their writings, witli a 
 history of their chief men and their times. In the 
 
XXXVI PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 tone which much of the religious literature of the 
 day began at this period to assume, he recognized 
 many points already familiar to him ; and from 
 personal acquaintance with some of the leading 
 modern writers on theological subjects, he was led 
 to turn his attention to the various publications of 
 the Oxford school, in whose writings he seems to 
 have found some of the defects pointed out in the 
 popular system of religious teaching, which had 
 forced themselves on his notice from the experience 
 of his own ministry. He found, too, drawn out 
 with distinctness, many of the leading truths and 
 features of the Church system, which had been 
 hitherto but slightly recognized by many of the 
 more earnest among the clergy, but which have, 
 within the last few years, exercised such wide and 
 deep influence throughout the whole body of the 
 Church. These principles — so far as they set forth 
 the fulness of Gospel truth, while the system of the 
 Church as the pillar and ground of the truth, was 
 exhibited in all the beauty of holiness and the sim- 
 plicity of primitive faith — he made his own, believ- 
 ing, to use his own words, " That there was a 
 simple remedy provided, ready furnished to our 
 hands, in carrying out, fully and fairly, the prin- 
 ciples and practices of our own Scriptural Church, 
 against either the fallacious refuge of Rome's 
 
PREFATORY IfEMOnt. XXXV11 
 
 stagnant infallibility, or the irregularities and lati- 
 
 tudinarianism of those who would abrogate, as heart- 
 less formality, all attention whatsoever to Church 
 order and discipline;" and hoping also, that the dis- 
 semination of these principles might ultimately tend 
 to restore among his people those happy relations 
 between the various members of the body and their 
 Divine Head, which prevailed in apostolic times. 
 But it was not in the providence of God that His 
 servant should be spared to see the realization of 
 these hopes ; for error had taken too deep root in 
 the rank soil to be easily or soon removed, and the 
 seeds of division and distraction, which had been 
 unconsciously sown in former days, grew up, and 
 brought forth their natural fruit. In the first 
 bright days of promise and sanguine hope he had 
 looked for far other results at the close of his 
 ministerial labour ; and though even in the calmer 
 hours of retrospect and thoughtful review he was 
 permitted, with the Apostle, to hope that he 
 had not "run in vain, neither laboured in vain," 
 the choice of his text, when bidding his people 
 farewell before quitting England, and his mode 
 of dwelling upon it, speaks plainly of anxiety and 
 distress in the Pastor's heart, and of opposition, 
 division, and inconsistency, even then rife among 
 his people. And these two discourses, the last he 
 
 c 
 
XXXV111 PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 ever composed, though they do not include a very 
 extended range of doctrine, may yet serve to point 
 out, in some measure, the growth and development 
 of our Author's views, and the change, if change it 
 can be called, in his system of religious teaching. 
 That it was not a change from practical to theo- 
 retical — from spirituality to formality — from libe- 
 rality to uncharitableness — but, with an entire 
 simple dependance on the atoning sacrifice of our 
 Blessed Lord, earnest exhortations to growth in 
 grace, faith in God's promises, and practical prayer- 
 ful piety, through the help of the Holy Spirit, 
 there is coupled — a developed view of the responsi- 
 bilities and privileges of those who have once been 
 admitted into the kingdom of Christ, a distinct and 
 definite recognition of the Sacraments as the ap- 
 pointed means of grace, and a strong plea for the 
 cultivation of such a spirit of union and concord 
 among themselves, as would prove them true 
 disciples of the Prince of Peace, having " one Lord, 
 one Paith, one Baptism, one God and Father of all." 
 We have already spoken of our Author's removal 
 from the scene of his labours ere he could watch 
 the progress of, or perfect, the efforts he made to 
 meet the difficulties which had arisen among his 
 people, and we may not speculate upon probabilities 
 which the good Providence of God has seen fit 
 
 
PREFATORY MEMOIE. 
 
 to hide from our earthly vision; yet it were surely 
 not well to turn aside from lessons, which the per- 
 sonal experience of this servant of God would teach 
 us, or fail to treasure up such expressions of his 
 ripened judgment as we gather from all later allu- 
 sions to sacred subjects, and more especially from 
 the tone of his last Hymn and Sermon, both written 
 within very few weeks of his final release. During 
 those trying months and years, when placed outside 
 the circle of which he had ever been the life and 
 centre, he bore no meaner witness to the reality 
 and blessedness of his belief, by his cheerful resigna- 
 tion to (rod's will in suffering and weary sickness, 
 than by the earnest consecration of his powers in 
 past years to the more active duties of his sacred 
 calling — and further, perhaps, another lesson may 
 be gleaned from the records of his latter days, — when 
 surrounded by the fascinations and allurements with 
 which Borne so well knows how to attract an ardent 
 and enthusiastic mind — and keenly alive to the many 
 causes of perplexity and disquiet becoming daily 
 more manifest in his own Communion, he yet never 
 swerved from true allegiance to the Church of his 
 Baptism, nor suffered his sympathy with some por- 
 tions of the Romish system to mislead his judgment 
 in its conscientious rejection of her vital errors — 
 but found the faith which he professed and realized, 
 sufficient, alike in life and death, to " lead him in 
 c 2 
 
xl PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 the paths of righteousness," and enable him to 
 enter fearlessly even the deep darkness of the 
 " valley of the shadow of death." 
 
 But we must turn from these suggestions, which 
 have led us too far in the course of our narrative, 
 and revert some years to the time when his strength, 
 overtasked, seemed gradually to be giving way. In 
 addition to the zealous discharge of his arduous 
 ministerial duties, the education of his children 
 engrossed much of his time, and for several years 
 he found it requisite to increase his income, and 
 avoid some of the evils of a strictly domestic edu- 
 cation, by taking private pupils. He could not even 
 then relinquish the happiness he found in intellec- 
 tual pursuits ; he had ever, to use a phrase of his 
 own, " loved to hover about the confines of Par- 
 nassus," and it was only by straining his strength, 
 bodily and mental, to the utmost limit, by curtailed 
 rest, and incessant exercise of the mind, that he 
 was able to accomplish his numerous and varied 
 labours, and snatch a brief interval for such relaxa- 
 tion as would, of itself, have proved sufficient 
 employment for a less vigorous mind. Natural 
 science, in its various branches, possessed great 
 attractions for him, and in the peculiar features of 
 his loved and chosen home he had many facilities, 
 of which he gladly availed himself, for the in- 
 dulgence of these tastes. His mind was one which 
 
PREFVTOKY MEMOIR. xli 
 
 could well dispense with those extraneous sources 
 of enjoyment which some find so needful to preserve 
 a healthy or cheerful tone — yet few more keenly 
 entered into the delights of cultivated society, or 
 were better qualified to take a prominent position 
 in the intellectual circle. He possessed a remark- 
 able power of extracting something from every 
 mind, adapting himself without effort to those with 
 whom he came in contact, and infusing life and 
 animation where, without his help, they were least 
 discernible. His freshness and originality of thought, 
 his large amount of information, and his facility of 
 expression could not but attract attention, and 
 receive a welcome wherever they appeared ;— yet he 
 was never led to overlook, or lightly value even 
 the smallest point of excellence in others by any 
 consciousness of his own superiority — rather, this 
 was most truly manifested in his own lowly esti- 
 mate of powers, which all but he so highly prized. 
 He had small leisure, or opportunity however, for 
 the development of these qualities, or the culti- 
 vation of these tastes, whilst engaged in the all- 
 engrossing duties of his more active life. But his 
 day of labour was fast drawing to its close ; even- 
 tide was coming on ; and year by year, his bodily 
 frame seemed less equal to a pressure of occupations, 
 which no constitution, save one of extraordinary 
 physical and mental power, could have attempted. 
 
xlti PREEATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 In the spring of 1839, after some weeks of varied, 
 yet almost nameless, suffering, lie was induced to 
 consult the celebrated Dr. Chambers, who at once 
 told him that " unless he slackened his sails and 
 cast anchor for a while, his voyage of life would 
 soon be over." Yet there was no apparent disease, 
 and even this warning awoke no serious alarm, and 
 he shortly returned with renewed vigour, and un- 
 abated zeal, to his varied avocations. 
 
 Thus he continued to exhaust the remainder of 
 his health and strength, with but brief intervals of 
 relaxation \ in the constant drudgery of teaching, 
 and in parochial ministrations, or in satisfying the 
 claims which were largely made upon his time and 
 benevolence by the attention of friends and ac- 
 quaintances, or the importunities of all who sought 
 and found in him a ready friend and helper in 
 their time of need. In the autumn and winter 
 of 1843, being left for some months without assist- 
 ance in his parochial labour, an attack of bronchitis 
 followed his exposure to night air, and constant 
 exertion of his lungs ; and as his symptoms during 
 the following spring daily assumed a more for- 
 
 1 Some notes and letters, written during a brief summer tour 
 in 1842, are given in the form of an Appendix ; and such frag- 
 ments are added of his correspondence from other parts of the 
 continent, during the last three years of his life, as it is hoped 
 will have interest for the reader. 
 
 
imm:f\toky m i:\ioii;. xliii 
 
 midable character, lie was at length compelled to 
 follow the advice of his medical attendants, and to 
 seek in a warmer climate, and at a distance from 
 home, that bodily health and mental relaxation 
 which ho was unable to secure in England. Fur 
 several months he had not attempted to undertake 
 clerical duty, but before leaving home, late in the 
 autumn of 1844, he preached the third sermon in 
 tins volume, and shortly after, amidst the mingled 
 pain and comfort afforded him by the heartfelt 
 expressions of regret from hundreds of his people, 
 who watched his departure, he bade farewell to 
 the happy home of many years. It was proposed 
 that he should hasten to Naples, and there spend 
 the winter months with his daughter — but the 
 agitation of leave-taking, and the early bleak 
 weather which set in while passing through France, 
 were too much for his shattered constitution, and 
 he was more than once compelled by illness to 
 pause in his onward course. The lines headed 
 " Longings for home," written after his arrival at 
 Naples, touchingly tell us how fondly his thoughts 
 still turned to England, and yet his natural buoyancy 
 and elasticity of spirit would not allow either such 
 regrets, or the unintermitted bodily suffering and 
 confinement attendant on his illness, to destroy 
 liis flow of cheerfulness. During this winter he 
 struggled with difficulty through more than one 
 
xliv PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 severe attack, and his life was at one time in immi- 
 nent danger ; bnt by the blessing of God on the 
 means used, and through the kindness and atten- 
 tion of those who ministered to his every want, he 
 was restored to some measure of strength, and was 
 enabled to leave the climate of Naples, which ap- 
 peared unsuited to his health, and remove to Rome, 
 where he spent three months in comparative comfort, 
 though still in a very precarious state ; no sooner, 
 however, did he recover, in any degree, from an attack, 
 than all his wonted energy returned, and he eagerly 
 sought to avail himself of the many sources of in- 
 tellectual enjoyment opened in such rich profusion 
 in both ancient and modern Italy, until a violent 
 fever with which he was seized, after a week of un- 
 usual convalescence, and some consequent undue 
 exertion proved to him the danger which he in- 
 curred by any unwonted excitement. For a while 
 his life trembled in the balance, — and it may well be 
 conceived how grateful to his spirit, in this solemn 
 crisis, were the offices of his own Church, when 
 rendered to him with ready kindness, by a valued 
 clerical friend of former years. Some of his first 
 convalescent hours, were spent in composing the 
 poem, " Thoughts in Weakness," which sufficiently 
 expresses his then calm and peaceful frame of 
 mind. But his span of life was yet lengthened, 
 medical kindness and skill were permitted to 
 
PREFATORY MI.MOIR. \lv 
 
 triumph over the fierceness of disease, and once 
 more to build up the frail earthly tabernacle ; and 
 
 in the hope that lengthened rest and entire change 
 might repair the inroads, which had been made on 
 his constitution, the following summer was spent 
 in wandering through the Tyrol and parts of 
 Switzerland, where he was joined by his sons and 
 other English friends ; and when autumn came on 
 he returned to Home as his winter-quarters. The 
 fluctuations of his health, his constant weakness 
 and liability to sudden and sharp illnesses, rendered 
 these journeys, but too often, very irksome and 
 fatiguing. Yet his enthusiastic enjoyment of nature 
 in all her aspects, his wonderful fortitude in suffer- 
 ing, and entire forgetfulness of self, and his natural 
 playful exercise of wit and fancy, happily beguiled 
 these hours of travel, and enabled him to reap fuller 
 benefit than could have been anticipated from the 
 change of air and scene. The trying season of 
 winter passed over without any apparent progress 
 of disease— on the contrary, his greater measure of 
 health gave him a wider range of enjoyment, both 
 in social and intellectual intercourse, and in ex- 
 ploring for himself some of the many objects of 
 interest so thickly strewn around him. 
 
 Early in the spring of 1846, he left Borne for 
 England, and spent a few months among his friends 
 and family at Brixham. During his absence from 
 
xlvi PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 them, he had cherished the hope that he might 
 eventually be enabled to reside once more at his 
 own home, and though not to take any active part 
 in, yet, perhaps, to superintend, his former work in 
 the parish. He found, however, that these hopes 
 rested on but a slight foundation ; and he was 
 obliged to confine his exertions to a little private 
 intercourse with his parishioners, and to look for- 
 ward to a further exile from the colder shores of 
 England. His love of literature was as strong as 
 ever ; and though subordinate to higher and holier 
 subjects of thought, occupied many of his leisure 
 hours. He prepared, during the summer, an edi- 
 tion of the poems of Henry Yaughan, visiting the 
 beautiful vale of the Usk for the purpose of glean- 
 ing any local information of the Poet. The fruits 
 of this summer tour are given in the biographical 
 sketch prefixed to his edition of Yaughan. Had he 
 been spared, he hoped to have made this but the 
 commencement of a series of our early English 
 poets, with whose writings he was very familiar, 
 and whose beauties, he thought, would, even in this 
 unpoetical age, have attracted some attention. 
 
 The departure of summer, and the return of 
 symptoms which the least exposure to cold produced, 
 warned him to hasten southwards ; and Italy was 
 again chosen, as being the country which at once 
 gave him the best hope of resisting his complaint, 
 
PBEFATOBT MEMOIR. \l\ii 
 
 and opened up to him the most numerous sources 
 of interest, as an occupation for the mind. He 
 somewhat varied this journey by a detour through 
 some of the old towns of Lombardy, which he 
 was anxious to visit, and arrived in Eome just 
 as the cold weather commenced. 
 
 During a part of this, and most of the preceding 
 winter, the investigation of such libraries as were 
 accessible to him, was one of his greatest enjoy- 
 ments; and the long evenings, necessarily spent in his 
 own apartments, were also happily enlivened by the 
 kindly visits of friends, and the study of those rare 
 old folios, which he could not have seen elsewhere. 
 
 His muse, too, was not altogether idle ; the 
 events passing in Eome, in the winter of 1845, 
 called forth the poem entitled, " The Czar in 
 Eome," and the fragments of a fairy tale which 
 follow this piece were written when his mind, sym- 
 pathizing with the body then reduced to almost child- 
 like weakness by severe illness, found a soothing 
 relief in this simple, unstudied flow of rhyme. 
 
 It would be impossible to exaggerate the kind- 
 ness which he met with at the hands of friends 
 when alone in a foreign land ; and surely even in im- 
 partial minds an interest must have been aroused for 
 one whose protracted sufferings gave not to his 
 character the faintest tinge of gloom or egotism, 
 but were borne throughout with unvarying cheer- 
 
xlviii PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 fulness, patience, and resignation. It was said of 
 him, by one whose daily and intimate intercourse 
 cheered the last two winters of his life, " I have 
 often been struck by the exceeding resignation and 
 cheerfulness with which he bore all his sickness, 
 and the remarkable manner in which he was always 
 enabled to steer clear of every thing like egotism — 
 sickness has an almost inevitable tendency to make 
 persons egotistical and full of morbid self-con- 
 sciousness : this, however, was never his case. He 
 never volunteered to speak of himself as invalids 
 generally do ; and when the subject was introduced 
 by others, and he was obliged to speak of self, he 
 did so with that graceful playfulness which evi- 
 denced in him a decided superiority of mind over 
 matter, and which caused every one who heard him 
 to feel tenfold that interest in the state of his 
 health which he did not seem to feel. I do not 
 know that I ever saw an invalid who had so suc- 
 cessfully resisted, if indeed he was ever attacked 
 by, the peculiar temptations of delicate health. 
 Nothing but the power of the Holy Spirit, acting 
 on a peculiarly fine character by nature, could 
 have produced such a result ; and this cheerfulness 
 and indifference about self did not result from in- 
 sensibility to, or ignorance of, his own state. He 
 was both fully alive to the hopeless character of 
 his illness and to the pain which every one must 
 
PBEIATOBT IfEMOIB. xli.x 
 
 feel who, after a useful and active life, (not merely 
 many yean of usefulness and activity,) is forced by 
 Providence outside the social circle within which 
 he had once been so energetic an actor. The 
 change from being an actor to be a spectator is. to 
 some minds, a greater trial than the change from 
 health to sickness, of which it is a consequence." 
 
 Cut off from the active employments of former 
 days, yet w r ith all his powers of mind in full vigour, 
 he much enjoyed such intellectual and social in- 
 tercourse as his health permitted, with several of 
 the clergy and laity of both the Anglican and 
 Romish communions then resident at Eome, enter- 
 ing with almost painful anxiety into the occurrences 
 of the times, and seeking, in his limited sphere, to 
 temper, as far as might be, the rashness of some, 
 and the controversial eagerness of others, by his own 
 sobriety of judgment and forbearance of differences. 
 And the source whence flowed these Christian graces 
 was made plainly apparent in the utterance given in 
 his later poems to the deeper musings of his quiet 
 hours ; indeed the tone of the pieces composed 
 during the last few months of his life, and more 
 especially of that on the New Tear, and the hymn 
 " Abide with me," give a blessed transcript of his 
 inner mind, and would almost seem to breathe a 
 prophetic prayer, which, ere a few short months or 
 weeks had fled, was abundantly heard and answered. 
 
1 PEEFATOEY MEMOIB. 
 
 In the spring of 1847 he was attacked with 
 very severe illness, bnt he was unwilling to 
 forego his return to England, and commenced 
 his journey in so enfeebled a state, that it was 
 thought necessary for his second son to meet him 
 in the south of France, and accompany him home. 
 He reached England much reduced in strength, 
 and still more shaken in his whole system. Yet 
 the wonderful elasticity of his spirits buoyed him 
 up, and he was able each day, more or less, to 
 enjoy the familiar, but beautiful, scenery around 
 his chosen haunts, and once again, with affectionate 
 delight, to take his place in the social circle, and 
 by his cheerful tone and Christian spirit to diffuse 
 the happiest influence over this brief period. On Mid- 
 summer-Day he officiated, in London, at the mar- 
 riage of his second son, and gave the young couple 
 his paternal, as well as ministerial, blessing with 
 deep emotion ; and after giving a short time to 
 other friends at a distance, he returned to spend 
 his last few weeks in England at Berry-Head, the 
 spot of all others most dear to him from long and 
 affectionate association. Here he lingered over 
 the varied sources of heart felt interest which 
 the home of many years supplied — his parish, 
 his library, his garden — the very stones in and 
 around the place where he had spent so many 
 useful, happy days. Late in this summer he had 
 
]'Ri:i ATORY KEMOIB. ll 
 
 a very serious attack of inflammation, which in- 
 creased with Buch dangerous rapidity, that his life 
 was despaired of: yet, even here, the merciful pro- 
 vidence of Grod could be traced, in the unmistakeable 
 evidence which this critical hour afforded to those 
 who were not permitted to watch beside his dying 
 couch, that God's Presence was indeed abiding with 
 him — that He would "be his guide even unto death." 
 The summer was passing away, and the month 
 of September (that month in which he was once 
 more to quit his native land) arrived, and each day 
 seemed to have especial value, as being one day 
 nearer his departure, his family were surprised, and 
 almost alarmed, at his announcing his intention of 
 preaching once more to his people. His weakness, 
 and the possible danger attending the effort, were 
 urged to prevent it ; but in vain. " It was better," 
 as he used often playfully to say, when in com- 
 parative health, "to wear out than to rust out." 
 He felt sure he should be enabled to fulfil his wish, 
 and feared not for the result. His expectation was 
 well founded. He did preach, and, amid the breath- 
 less attention of his hearers, gave them the Sermon 
 on the Holy Communion, which is inserted last in 
 this volume. — He afterwards assisted at the ad- 
 ministration of the Holy Eucharist, and though 
 necessarily much exhausted, by the exertion and 
 •weitement of this effort, yet his friends had no 
 
Ill PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 reason to believe it had been hurtful to him. In 
 the evening of the same day he placed in the hands 
 of a near and dear relative the little hymn, " Abide 
 with me," with an air of his own composing adapted 
 to the words. 
 
 Within a few hours after this, the little party, 
 consisting of his second son, his wife, and a valued 
 attendant, set out on their journey towards the 
 genial south ; a journey which he never completed, 
 but which was ended by his peaceful entrance into 
 that " rest which remaineth for the people of God." 
 
 Notwithstanding the illness we have already 
 mentioned, he left England in some degree of health, 
 and was able keenly to enjoy the society of his 
 companions, and to point out each object of beauty 
 or interest on their route. But within a few hours' 
 journey of Nice, he was seized with influenza, which, 
 soon after his arrival there, changed to dysentery, 
 accompanied with very alarming symptoms. 
 
 He had so often, during the last few years, stood, 
 as it were, on the very confines of eternity, that 
 those around him hoped, even now, it might please 
 G-od that this sickness should not be unto death ; 
 but in this hope he never participated, his ready 
 perception foretelling but too truly the inevitably 
 fatal result of such a disease upon a weakened 
 frame, and putting aside from the first all expecta- 
 tion of recovery, he only earnestly entreated that 
 
PREFATORY MEMOIR. I ill 
 
 no medicine might be given which would dim his 
 faculties, nor any earthly concerns brought before 
 him which could distract or debar him from holding 
 constant communion with things unseen. For a 
 few days bodily agony and mental depression sorely 
 tried him, but the tempest and whirlwind ceased ; 
 the " still small voice " spoke peace, and as death 
 came on at last slowly, but surely, it came visibly 
 robbed of all its terrors. A peculiar blessing, and 
 one which he prized full well, was vouchsafed to 
 him in the counsels and ministrations of a brother 
 clergyman of the Church of England, whose gentle, 
 yet searching tone, peculiarly fitted him to be a 
 chosen comforter in the hours of trial and pain. 
 From his hands he received, for the last time, the 
 Sacrament of the Lord's Supper, and it seemed as 
 though, in the reception of that most precious Sa- 
 crament, all doubt, all disquiet, passed away, — he 
 tasted of " that peace which passeth all understand- 
 ing," — his soul was stayed upon God, and neither the 
 weakness of the flesh, nor the wiles of the evil one, 
 had any power to rob him of that strong confidence. 
 Tet there was nothing vain-glorious, nothing scenic 
 in his death-bed. " From pride, vain-glory, and hy- 
 pocrisy" he fervently prayed to be delivered; and 
 while his few words all breathed of peace and hope, 
 they were mingled with the deepest humility. " He 
 had nothing, — was nothing, in himself." " He gloried 
 
 d 
 
liv PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 not save in the cross of onr Lord Jesus Christ," — 
 " a sinner saved by grace," — " a brand plucked from 
 the burning," yet clothed in spotless raiment, washed 
 in a Saviour's blood, and owning an unfading in- 
 heritance, " eternal in the heavens." The character 
 of his complaint rendered it necessary often to ad- 
 minister powerful opiates during the first few days of 
 his illness, and their lowering and stupefying in- 
 fluence often distressed him ; being jealous of every 
 moment not given to the God he was so soon to meet, 
 and fearful lest his mind might not remain unclouded 
 to the last ; but in this, as in other instances, his 
 prayers were heard, and his desires fulfilled ; his 
 mind never wandered, and long after no sound 
 passed his lips, he gave clear signs that none of his 
 faculties were dulled or dead. Through life he had 
 always shrunk with nervous apprehension from the 
 act of dying, but now this terror did not harass 
 him, though he used frequently to beseech his God, 
 if it might be his will, to grant him a quiet release 
 from the fetters of clay which detained him here. 
 His whole soul seemed so imbued with peace and 
 hope, that the last agony and the darkness of the 
 grave dwelt not in his thoughts. One day, on 
 waking from sleep, he said to his faithful attendant, 
 " Oh ! there is nothing terrible in death; Jesus Christ 
 steps down into the grave before me." And in his 
 case there was nothing terrible ; no agony at the 
 
PREFATORY MEMOIR. Iv 
 
 last. His prayer was beard, and when his summons 
 came, without a Bigh ov a struggle, he literally fell 
 asleep in Jesus. 
 
 Within three days of his first seizure his medical 
 attendants had given up all hopes of his recovery, 
 and announced that death was wrv near; yet for 
 days he lingered, and his hour of release came not ; 
 but, through the long days and weary nights of an 
 almost living death, his patience, fortitude, and 
 cheerfulness, never forsook him ; no word of com- 
 plaint or impatience ever passed his lips, but as he 
 lay there, dying in a distant land, life slowly ebbing 
 away, the pallor of wasting sickness east over all 
 things, he would tenderly and gratefully mark each 
 comfort which affection and solicitude provided ; 
 and, still noting, as had ever been his wont, the 
 varied beauties of morn and even, spread over a 
 southern sea and sky, he would thankfully record 
 the mercies which his God had showered round his 
 path in each stage of life, and now no less in death ; 
 and as " earth's vain shadows " fled, and the light 
 of "heaven's morning" broke upon his soul, even 
 these faint traces of earth, so bearing the hue of 
 heaven, passed away, and his spirit mounted as on 
 eagle wings upwards to those mansions prepared 
 for such as have "fought a good fight," who " have 
 finished their course, who have kept the faith," "and 
 d2 
 
hi PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 for whom henceforth there is laid up a crown of 
 glory which fadeth not away." His soul seemed 
 filled with a sense of the nearness of his God, too 
 high and blessed for mortal participation. His lips 
 constantly moved as if in joyful converse, while no 
 sound was heard ; and as those near him would strive 
 to discern his import, he would motion them away, 
 murmuring, " peace, joy," and pointing upwards 
 with his own bright, beaming smile, to where he 
 held communion with things unseen. Oh ! blessed 
 converse ! begun on earth, to be perfected so soon 
 in Paradise ! Blessed faith ! to-day piercing through 
 the mists of earth! to-morrow changed to sight! 
 "abiding ever with the Lord." On Saturday, 
 the 20th of November, he "entered into rest." 
 " Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord ; yea, 
 saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours." 
 
 A simple marble cross in the English cemetery 
 at Nice fitly marks the last earthly resting-place of 
 one whose highest honour and desire in active life 
 had been to exalt the Cross ; who meekly bore the 
 Cross through years of suffering, and who, trust- 
 ing in the merits of his Blessed Saviour's Cross and 
 Passion alone, calmly resigned his mortal life, in the 
 sure and certain hope of a glorious immortality. 
 
 A. M. M. H. 
 
 Berry-Heady 1850. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 It may appear strange that in the preceding Pre- 
 fatory Memoir no quotations have been made from 
 any journals or private memoranda. A very simple 
 circumstance will however explain this omission. 
 Among our author's MSS. was found a note strongly 
 expressive of his desire that no journals which he 
 had left undestroyed should ever be made public ; 
 regarding any idea of possible publicity attached to 
 such records as depriving them of their strictly 
 private and sacred character. This prohibition does 
 not, we conceive, extend to his letters ; and though 
 from his usually stationary life whilst in health, and 
 the effort which correspondence became to him in 
 illness, we have but few of these to offer, it has 
 been thought that such extracts as can be given 
 would be of interest to his friends. It need scarcely 
 be premised that neither these extracts, nor any 
 others contained in the Memoir, were written with 
 any idea of being published, and are only given as 
 
lx PREEATOEY MEMOIR. 
 
 more faithfully representing the man himself in the 
 familiar undress of affectionate family intercourse, 
 than many words from any other pen than his own 
 could do. Yet it is obvious that the very small 
 portion necessarily given of the whole unreserved 
 correspondence can but faintly pourtray his true 
 relish for beauty, in all its forms — whether exhi- 
 bited in art or nature ; his romantic love of ad- 
 venture, his lively sallies of playful wit, or (far 
 beyond these) the deep tide of home affections, 
 which alike characterized his conversation and cor- 
 respondence. 
 
 The first part of the Appendix consists of letters 
 and notes written in and from Norway, when in the 
 enjoyment of health and strength, and, though 
 incomplete in themselves, are given as happily 
 illustrative of his usual graphic and lively style of 
 descriptive writing. 
 
 The second part is composed rather of fragments 
 than of letters, written from Italy, and turning 
 chiefly on topics of the day, but also exhibiting the 
 cheerful patience with which he bore his sufferings, 
 and giving us at times glimpses of his inner life, 
 though this he ever shrank from laying open even 
 to the eyes of friends. 
 
APPENDIX. Ill 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Letters and Notes descriptive of a Tour in Norway 
 during the Summer o/* 18-12. 
 
 "Norway, off Christiansand, Aug. 15, 1842. 
 
 " Knowing how manifold are the engagements 
 that usually await one at the close of one's journey, 
 I begin to pen a line to you, while yet on board of 
 the steamer that is bearing us fast to ' Norway's 
 foamy strand.' The whole line of that stupendous 
 coast, 900 miles of bleak and stormy cliffs, is frown- 
 ing at this moment on us, after one of the most 
 delightful of voyages to reach it. We left Hull at 
 twelve on Saturday morning, firing off our two signal 
 guns amid hundreds of gazers on the pier, and since 
 then, we have had little more wand than would 
 raise a ripple on the surface of the deep. On 
 Sunday I gave the whole ship's company Divine 
 service on the deck, and even the uneasiest sailor 
 on the ship acknowledges, from the experience of 
 this voyage, that it is possible to prosper, even with 
 a parson on board — the general impression, you 
 know, among them is, that ever since Jonah Bailed 
 from Tarshish, the presence of a man of God is 
 unpropitious on board of ship : but now, strange 
 
kii PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 to say, they have never had so speedy and prosper- 
 ous a voyage as the present." 
 
 u Monday Evening, Aug. 15. 
 " To-day at four p. m., when I began this letter, 
 we reached Christiansand, in Norway, and landed to 
 deliver the mail and a few bales of goods there, and 
 are now breasting the blue waters again on our 
 way to Gottenburg, where we hope to arrive in 
 about nine hours. Christiansand is a beautiful little 
 clean town, situated at the bottom of one of the 
 noble fiords of this country, backed on every side 
 by fine rocky hills, sprinkled over with firs. The 
 whole region around is c glorious in desolation.' 
 Mountains of granite 9000 feet high rushing up 
 into the clouds, and extensive island masses of rock 
 lining the whole coast. The people appear a fine 
 vigorous race, that inhale a freeborn air, and feel 
 the sea to be their native element. I could easily, 
 as I saw their little boats dashing across the Bay 
 we entered, imagine how their forefathers pushed 
 their pinnaces through the foam to invade and sub- 
 due the shores of England and other parts of Europe. 
 When on shore at Christiansand we went to the 
 house of the principal merchant of the place, who 
 has a garden in which are grown many of the 
 flowers of England, as well as some of our fruits. 
 
APPENDIX. Kill 
 
 They have currants, gooseberries, strawberries, and 
 
 apples, and among the flowers I recognized the 
 Chiysocoma of Berry-Head, We then rambled to 
 
 the Cathedral, for the place is a Bishopric, ami 
 entered a remarkable old building, with very little 
 of Gothic about it, but a kind of Tartar style reign- 
 ing within. There was an altar curiously orna- 
 mented with marble figures in alto relievo, and 
 candles on the table. The minister also wears a 
 stole of rich crimson velvet and a large cross on the 
 back of his surplice. What will K. say to this in 
 Protestant Sweden ? We are just arrived at Got- 
 ten!) urg, and are working into the picturesque 
 harbour." 
 
 " Kongsberg, Norway, 
 
 Finished Aug. 29, 1842. 
 
 * " I begin another letter to you, though as yet I 
 have received none from you, or any one else in 
 
 England I have persuaded H. to set 
 
 out with me, on a little tour through Sweden and 
 Norway. We went therefore into Gottenburg, 
 purchased a carriage, or rather dog-cart, and set 
 out the second day after I arrived. Our first stage 
 
 * The Editor does not undertake to answer for the correct 
 orthography of the local names, which it is almost impossible 
 to decipher in the original MS. 
 
lxiv PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 was up the river G-oetha (which is pronounced Euta) 
 by steamboat to the splendid falls of Trolhalten. 
 We passed through beautiful scenery, composed, as 
 the greater part of that in Sweden is, of granite 
 hills of a beautiful purple colour, covered with wood, 
 and between them rich verdant plains, forests, and 
 lakes. The scenery is fine and striking beyond 
 any thing that I know of. Trolhalten, however, 
 itself left all that I ever saw far behind. A greater 
 body of water than the Rhine rushes down over 
 rocks twice as high as Schaffhausen, foaming, dash- 
 ing, roaring all the way, and you can approach the 
 fall so near as almost to ' lay your hand upon his 
 mane.' Erom hence we took carriage to Udevalla, 
 three Swedish miles distant, but a Swedish mile, 
 you must know, is seven English, and a Norwegian 
 nearly eight. As H. speaks Swedish well we had 
 no difficulty in getting on, but he, poor fellow, is 
 not strong and well ; and we could seldom get on 
 our road till eleven or twelve o'clock — and then, 
 what with a blazing sun, and dust, and hill after hill, 
 and roads knee- deep in sand, with an agreeable ad- 
 mixture of rocks, and large stones and roots of trees 
 stretching across the way, we made but little pro- 
 gress. We contrived, however, on the fourth day to 
 reach Norway, and crossed there an arm of the sea to 
 Holmestrand. We were six hours in getting over, 
 
APPENDIX. L\V 
 
 and it blew hard, so that our carriage paa is a little 
 jeopardy once or twice. We reached Holmestrand 
 
 however soon after midnight 
 
 Our intention on Betting out was to go from hence 
 
 straight into the middle o\' a fine mountainous 
 region near, called the Ghusta ; but II., distrusting 
 his powers of speaking Norse, which he can do very 
 tolerably, wished to change our route, and we went 
 to the town of Dram men, a very tine, but dear, 
 place, where we were well fleeced by the smooth- 
 spoken landlord, who talks English, and makes his 
 guests pay for it. We called there on a Mr. H., 
 a Scotchman, settled in the place, and he kindly 
 gave us a route in a new direction, to IlongsunJ, 
 VigersunJ, Beersund, the SperiUan Soe, or lake, 
 and on to JVas, at the head o^ it. This took us 
 into the middle of a fine region, called Binge Riyi ; 
 and the lake, I think, surrounded by magnificent 
 conical hills, exceeds any thing 1 saw in Switzerland, 
 and made me long to penetrate farther into the 
 country ; H., however, was so poorly, that we were 
 here obliged to turn back, and we went on by slow 
 journeys to Honenfoss, where the landlord speaks 
 
 English Here one of H.'s dogs 
 
 strayed away, and we spent a day in looking 
 after her in vain; but as she was a valuable setter, 
 H. determined to stay there for a few days, in 
 
lxyi PEEFATOEY MEMOIE. 
 
 order to find her ; and I thought it better to move 
 about a little, and see the country in the mean- 
 time, appointing a rendezvous with him at Chris- 
 tiansand. H. declares I shall be lost, travelling by 
 myself, without being able to speak a word of 
 the language, and my experience hitherto has not 
 been encouraging. I was out last night on a lake 
 till four in the morning, before I reached a place to 
 sleep ; and to-day I have only got on seven English 
 miles as yet, and it is past four in the afternoon. But 
 I hope to improve as I go on ; and I have a direc- 
 tion in my pocket if any thing should happen, where 
 the people are to send me ; and I find them good- 
 natured, if we could only understand one another. 
 If I come quite to a stand still, I have one resource 
 — to get to the nearest Lutheran priest (all of 
 whom speak Latin), and get his assistance. I shall 
 hope to give you, in my next, a little more of 
 Norway, especially the wilder parts of it, that is, if 
 I get on at all, as I hope to do ; and also some 
 little sketches of the manners and customs of the 
 people." 
 
 " Aug. 28th. 
 " I write from Hongsund, whither I came in a 
 carriole without springs. This was, however, reme- 
 died by my air-cushion, which has been a grea 
 object of curiosity along the road. The landlord 
 
 i 
 
APPENDIX. ]\vii 
 
 here determined to make money of me. He could 
 not get post-horses for me under two hours, but 
 bad one of his own, which I might have imme- 
 diately, at three times the proper charge. Well, 
 J hired it, and thought, now at least I si mil 
 get on. But mine host first went and got his 
 dinner; then took off the wheels of the car- 
 riole and greased them ; then sent for the horse to 
 a field ; then curried him ; then fed him ; and, at 
 the end of two hours, took me for tliree times the 
 proper price. I was indignant, and looked as 
 angry as I could, but I could not speak a word. I 
 then pushed on to Kongsberg, a very nice little 
 place, and came to the best inn I have seen in 
 Norway. The servants are nice quiet girls, and 
 every thing seems to be conducted with propriety 
 and regularity. I got supper, and a good bed; 
 coffee, as usual, at seven in the morning: but 
 Captain G\, my great stay at this place, is not at 
 home, and I cannot get a vocabulary', or make the 
 people understand any thing but ' Let me have 
 breakfast, a bed, and a horse.' Still I mean to 
 press on to the Gousta Mountains, and across the 
 country to Christiansand. The landlord here, 
 Christiansen, is a fine fellow; I wish he could speak 
 a little English, but he cannot, so we are obliged to 
 converse by signs." 
 
Ixviii PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 " Aug, 30. 
 " Monday. — Kbngsberg. Had much difficulty in 
 getting on, but sent to secure one Christian Hintell 
 as a guide. He would not come without being paid 
 for it — or rather, as I found afterwards, he feared 
 that his English would break down. However, I 
 went to him, and contrived to exchange a few 
 words, and arranged to take him to Gousta. I 
 then went to Mrs. Gr., a very sweet woman ; and 
 from her to Dr. B., with Director S., who took me 
 to the Mint, to Mr. L., a most intelligent man, a 
 mineralogist and antiquarian ; his eye all fire, and 
 his countenance all intelligence. They drew up for 
 me a route to Gousta, while I went with Hintell to 
 the silver mines. They are about five miles from 
 Kongsberg, high in the side of a hill. We entered 
 by a long tunnel, about a mile in length, with a 
 strong breeze blowing through it, which made it diffi- 
 cult for the men to carry their torches. The water, 
 in many places, roared under us. We descended 
 the ladders to the working place, 800 feet, and saw 
 the silver in situ. The lode runs from east to west, 
 and is about seven or eight feet wide. The men 
 work with hand-borers and hammers, and then 
 blast. Their wages are about a mark a day, and 
 they work twelve hours. The ore appears very 
 rich ; one piece which was shown to me was, as the 
 
aimm:ni)[\. I\i\ 
 
 director informed US, more than 50 |>(-T cent. The 
 toil of ascending was terrific. I drank nearly a 
 gallon of water from the springs by the way, and 
 fell the cold air much in the tunnel. However, I 
 got back to my comfortable inn in good time, and 
 after my quelrtxot and a bottle of ale, went to bed 
 much fatigued. 
 
 " Tuesday. — Off at six, after coffee, to Gousta. 
 
 We plodded slowly to H , where we had lunch 
 
 at a farmer's house ; one of the most curious in 
 antiquities that I have seen. The English royal 
 arms were enamelled in the middle of one of the 
 brazen dishes, and all the furniture was of the 
 most antique description. There was an old Danish 
 Bible of 1532 in folio, with a beautiful title with 
 Frederick II. on the reverse, and in splendid con- 
 dition ; I longed to buy it, but there was no possi- 
 bility of carrying it off. The farmer, with his father's 
 father, had inhabited for generations this singular 
 building, which, with all its out-houses, was carved 
 and painted in the most grotesque manner, without 
 and within. Prom hence, we went on roughing it 
 indeed over the most execrable roads to Bamble. 
 We stopped on the way to visit a most singular 
 old wooden church at Kitterdal ; I never saw so 
 extraordinary a building. The oldest parts have 
 all the appearance of having belonged to an Idol 
 
 e 
 
kx PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 Temple, there being no emblems of Christianity in 
 any part of the carving, the rest however is pro- 
 fusely ornamented with crosses, both without and 
 within. The Clergyman is a fine open counte- 
 nanced affable man, who speaks a little English, and 
 a little more Latin. At JBamhle, having sent 
 Hintell back to look for my fly book, which a boy 
 stole while I was viewing the Church, I was almost 
 starved before I could get the old lady to bring me 
 a little cooked water for tea ; there were eggs, and 
 other eatables I believe in the house, but, alas, I 
 could not order them, so I took my tea, and a piece 
 of bread, and went to bed. 
 
 " Wednesday. — A wet morning. It cleared up, 
 however, at ten o'clock, but it was only a temporary 
 truce. We set out, and there came on a terrific 
 thunder-storm : the roaring of the thunder through 
 the hills — Gousta's last shout; the rain, not in 
 drops, but in bucketfulls ; the rivulets all tor- 
 rents; — verily, a noble scene among the mountains 
 and forests : but wet to the skin ; and the jolting 
 of the cart terrible, with the horses wanting to 
 fight. At length we reached Tindoset — a poor 
 place ; but they lighted a fire, at which we dried 
 our clothes ; and then I wrote a Latin letter to the 
 priest for flies, and received, in addition to a noble 
 supply of my wants, a most courteous reply." 
 
\i>i'i:.M)i\. 
 
 
 "August 35, 1842. 
 
 " I sit down to fulfil the promise I gave you in 
 my last Letter, of letting you have a sketch of the 
 manners and customs of the people among whom 
 I have been living for the last week or two. . . 
 1 am, on the whole, favourably impressed with the 
 people of this country. The peasants appear to be 
 a sturdy, straightforward, vigorous race, most of 
 them nearly six feet high, with good open counte- 
 nances, and very respectful to their superiors. I 
 never pass one that he does not take off his hat, 
 and he universally holds it in his hand, while speak- 
 ing to you. 
 
 " The higher orders also appear to be a polite, yet 
 independent and manly race, and the middle class, 
 tanners, shopkeepers, and innkeepers, are, as in 
 most places, very diversified. One is not likely 
 indeed to meet the best specimens of a nation on 
 their roads, and at their hotels, and the persons 
 who keep the inns here are generally broken-down 
 merchants or other such persons, and do not stand 
 high among their countrymen ; and of those whom 
 I have met with, their mercenary ways beat all J 
 have experienced elsewhere. The women are gene- 
 rally plain — the peasants nearly as black and sun- 
 burnt as Italians, owing, I suppose, to their expo- 
 sure to such a scorching sun in summer, and nine 
 e 2 * 
 
 
lxxil PEEFATOEY MEMOIE. 
 
 months of smoke in winter. They all, however, 
 have beautiful hair, and appear to take great pains 
 with it. It is always light in colour, and that of 
 the children universally white. The girls of every 
 grade wear it, either in long plaits, or flowing about 
 their shoulders, and it becomes them exceedingly. 
 There is no peculiarity in dress, of parts of Sweden 
 which I have visited, save that the women of the 
 lower order universally go about with a handker- 
 chief tied round their heads instead of bonnets, 
 and the men have all a large silver brooch for their 
 shirts, and their frieze coats are curiously bordered 
 with velveteen, and have a kind of epaulette of the 
 same material on the shoulder. All the people of 
 the middle and lower classes go about at this 
 season without shoes or stockings, and the young 
 women have little more on them than a petticoat. 
 The mode of living here is rather curious. Among 
 the bettermost people, the day begins with a cup 
 of coffee, with rusks, which you find every where 
 excellent, as well as the coffee, and a glass of brandy 
 after them. This they bring you before you get 
 out of bed, generally about six or seven in the 
 morning. Then you dress, and about nine comes 
 furcast or breakfast, consisting of meat, eggs, fish, 
 ale, &c, with the eternal accompaniment of brandy. 
 About one or two o'clock you get mittag or dinner, 
 
APPENDIX. Iwiii 
 
 consisting of hoi joints, fowls, &o., and abundance 
 of strong drinkables. And, lastly, you have quehnot 
 
 or supper, about six, another very substantial meal, 
 with tea and brandy again, it' you like, after it. 
 The worst feature of the eatables to me, is thai 
 they all come up raw: you have raw fish, raw 
 bacon, raw sausages, and raw sinokod boot"; and 
 they stare at you, if you ask them to broil any of 
 them. The poor people appear to live very bard, 
 on bread made partly of rye and partly of oats, 
 and sometimes of birch bark. However, they have 
 generally Jlat-brode, cakes o\' oatmeal and rye, thin 
 as a wafer, like Scotch bannocks, and very good 
 milk and potatoes. By the bye they always give 
 you scalded cream with your coffee, or rather they 
 boil up the milk, cream and all, tor the purpose. 
 The inns are generally very bad, and the beds in 
 this hot weather insufferable. They have no bed- 
 clothes, save a sheet and a feather-bed over it, 
 which may be comfortable enough in winter, but 
 it is intolerable in summer ; the beds too are gene- 
 rally populous, and the gnats or mosquitoes trouble- 
 some at night. The Pastoral office appears to be 
 pretty well filled here, and the people on the whole, 
 especially in the country places, duly respectful to 
 their minister. Schools exist every where, and the 
 Pastors once a month have the children all brought 
 
Ixxiv PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 before them, and examine them as to their pro- 
 ficiency. I have been at church twice since I 
 came here ; and once, on a week-day, saw the 
 Sacrament of the Lord's Supper administered. 
 The Clergymen on all these occasions, had splendid 
 voices, and went through the service extempo- 
 raneously, the people reading after them from 
 their prayer books, which appear not unlike our 
 own. The service seemed to be much diversified, 
 no part lasting more than a few minutes with- 
 out a change of posture, and, I suppose, of 
 matter. The sermon, if it might be so called, 
 appeared to be delivered at intervals, between the 
 other parts of the sendee ; and baptisms were per- 
 formed during the same time. However, under- 
 standing little or nothing of what was said, I could 
 only look on and guess." 
 
LPPBNDH. i\\\ 
 
 PART II. 
 
 TPragmenU of Letters from Italy, and oilier parts 
 
 of the Continent, between the years 18 11 and 
 1847. 
 
 " Leghorn, Nov. 12, 1844. 
 
 u Many thanks tor all the aews yon have sen! me 
 — all news from England are acceptable, but mosl 
 
 of all news from home and its neighbourhood. 
 There my thoughts all still harbour, and there still 
 find their pivot ami centre, [ndeed 1 have not 
 hitherto bad very much to draw them elsewhere. 
 I have been too ill to \isit ov take any interesl in 
 the various attractive objects around me. M\ 
 week at Avignon, which was to have been given to 
 Roman remains and papal palaces, was spent in 
 bed. At Lyons the ease was no better. 1 enjoyed 
 the bine mountains, closed by Mont Blanc, that 
 ennobled our voyage down the Bhone, and 1 gasped 
 and tottered through a palace or two at Genoa; 
 but all the rest lias hitherto been Bickness and suf- 
 fering, weakness and exhaustion. This is but a 
 sorry report, and ought not to be sent to you, saw- 
 as an apology tor past silenee. ... I am not 
 worse to-day, though I fear not much better, and 
 
lxxvi PREFATOKY MEMOIK. 
 
 am obliged to look at others moving off by the 
 steamers, without the power of accompanying them. 
 I sometimes think that I am near the end of my 
 journey altogether; but I hang on the goodness 
 and mercy of God, and amid the watches of the 
 night enjoy some comfortable meditations on His 
 pardoning love, His restoring grace, His protecting 
 providence. Yes, blessed be God, I can commit 
 myself, soul and body, to His hands." 
 
 " Naples, Jan. 19, 1845. 
 
 " How it will be with me eventually, 1 scarcely 
 dare to anticipate; but I much fear that I shall 
 not see Berry-Head again. However, lean meekly 
 
 bow, and say, ' The Lord's will be done,' and can 
 trust in a Saviour's merits to give one of His un- 
 worthiest of creature's acceptance with God. This 
 indeed is all my hope, and all my desire ; and well, 
 perhaps, is it for me, that I have no merits of my 
 own to detain me from reposing thus exclusively on 
 the blood of a Eedeemer : I have been kept also, I 
 trust, in a patient spirit tliroughout my illness, and 
 receive it as an earnest of God's love, that lie has 
 withheld me, through all my Bufferings of so many 
 months, from uttering one word of impatience or 
 repining. Perhaps I ought here to close ; but I 
 cannot do so without abundant thanks to you for 
 
A.PPEKDIX. I.wvii 
 
 yOUP last dear, valued little letter. Il was indeed 
 
 bmultum inparvo — every one of its details lull of 
 interest : and it did me more good, I believe, than 
 
 all the medicine I took that day." 
 
 "Naples, Jan. 31, 1845. 
 "In leaving Naples, of which I have seen but 
 little, owing to my tedious illnesses, I cannot help 
 again and again longing that yon could see a little 
 of it as well as myself. In spite of its filth, it 
 would still divert you : every thing seems so full of 
 life. Even the old Romish church must, I should 
 think, be very different from what it is elsewhere. 
 It is certainly any thing but dead here. AVe have 
 nothing but earnest extempore preaching on every 
 side of us. Every Sunday afternoon a priest 
 stations himself in the street under one of our 
 windows, and preaches for a good hour to the 
 assembled multitude. The emotions exhibited bj 
 the bystanders on these occasions are most ex- 
 traordinary ; tears often flowing down every face, 
 and the most intense interest manifested on every 
 side. The whole neighbourhood also appears to 
 swarm with Sunday-schools, and adults as well as 
 children attend them ; and when they are over, the 
 whole march together, singing hymns, through the 
 streets, from the school, I believe, to the church, 
 
lxxviii PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 where, I imagine, they are dismissed to their 
 homes. All this is very unlike any thing I ever 
 expected to meet with in the Church of Rome, and 
 indeed very inconsistent with other things that I 
 could mention. Preaching, however, I find, and 
 always extempore, universal in the churches, espe- 
 cially those of the Jesuits." 
 
 ''Naples, Feb. 5, 1845. 
 "In a few days, however, we shall start for 
 Eome. How the air of the Eternal City will agree 
 with me remains to be proved. They tell me that 
 the sea is injurious to me. I hope not ; for I 
 know of no divorce I should more deprecate than 
 from the lordly Ocean. From childhood it has 
 been my friend and playmate, and never have I 
 been weary of gazing on its glorious face. Besides, 
 if I cannot live by the sea, adieu to poor Berry- 
 Head— adieu to the common, the rocks, and mili- 
 tary ruins — adieu to the wild birds and wild flow- 
 ers, and all the objects that have made my old 
 residence so attractive. However, I must not go 
 on, or I shall fall into my old croaking style again." 
 
 " Rome, Feb. 16, 1845. 
 " In spite of my suffering, I greatly enjoyed the 
 journey hither. Eor the greater part of the way, 
 
APPENDIX. I\\i\ 
 
 fche road wound among the Appenniales : immense 
 blocks of rock filled fche valleys and hill-sides, along 
 which we passed; and these again were clothed 
 
 with olives and vines, and orange and lemon trees, 
 beautifully blending the wild and the cultivated. 
 Sere a noble peak presented Itself covered with 
 snow, and tbere a ruined aqueduct stalked across a 
 a alley. In one place we broke upon tbe glorious 
 sea, dashing againsl the walls of some picturesque 
 old tower, and in another caught sight of one of 
 these fantastic and castellated piles, standing on 
 the spur of one of the surrounding mountains, or 
 commanding some rugged pass between them; and 
 Fondi, Mola di Gaeta, and Terracina, towns on the 
 road, are each worthy of a painter. With regard 
 to Borne, it will, I fear, be some time before I can 
 tell you much of it: great kindness, however, we 
 have already experienced here, as well as every 
 
 where else. is profuse in his offers of 
 
 kindness. Truly, as P. says, if we ever exercised 
 hospitality or showed kindness to any one at Berry- 
 Head, it has been more than repaid to us here, in 
 our day of need, in Italy." 
 
 " Rome, March, 1845. 
 " Tins place is certainly as different from Naples 
 aa one place can be from another. There the chief 
 
1XXX PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 interest is to be found in the beautiful scenery, 
 and the supple and versatile people ; here the 
 people are comparatively grave and dignified, and 
 the great interest of the place arises from its asso- 
 ciations. You spoke of the excitement attending 
 the first view of the Eternal City, and it was very 
 great. I had not expected to see it in all its ruined 
 splendour, seated as it is in a mighty plain. I had 
 imagined it somehow lying in a mountainous district ; 
 but, like London, Paris, and, I believe, all other 
 great cities, it lies in a vast basin, with mountains 
 rising all around ; but generally at the distance of 
 from ten to fifteen miles from the city." 
 
 " Rome, April 16, 1345. 
 
 " Praised be God that the hand which pens this 
 is not cold in the grave ! I have had another de- 
 liverance from death ; a more wonderful one than 
 any that has preceded it. For some time past I 
 have been daily failing ; but on Sunday week one 
 of these terrible Italian fevers, that knock a man 
 down like a bullock, pounced on me, and in a few 
 hours my life was not worth a day's purchase. . . . 
 
 " On Saturday, when I felt dying, it was a great 
 comfort to me to have Mr. B. to read and pray with 
 me, and administer the Lord's Supper — the pledge 
 and earnest of His pardoning love. Oh ! what it 
 
\iTi:\in\. Ixwi 
 
 was to me then to be able to look to Him, and to 
 trust all to His power and goodness 
 
 M All this time, while there was an under-current 
 of the deepest earnestness and seriousness, there 
 was a constant play above it of the most fantastic 
 drollery. Tliis was the turn imagination seemed to 
 take. All kinds of quips, and cranks, and conun- 
 drums wenl dancing through my brain; and many 
 of them found utterance from my tongue. . . 
 I made more verses, I believe, and some of them, I 
 fancy, not bad ones, than would have filled volumes, 
 though now not a wreck, not a scrap, or scarce a 
 scrap, remains." 
 
 "Rome, May 1, 1845. 
 
 " I hope to pen you a few lines, better worth 
 sending, when I am stronger — if indeed that is 
 ever to be ; and if not, thanks be to the Saviour of 
 Sinners, I am, I hope, better prepared to meet His 
 gracious will than I was. My late illness has, I 
 trust, been not without its blessing, and taught me 
 to realize things that we are too much accustomed 
 to hold as theories. However, I would speak 
 tremblingly on these topics. I know my weak- 
 ness, and the strength of besetting sins ; and ought, 
 I feel, to be humble and cautious. Pray for me, 
 my dear friend. Indeed I know you do so, and it 
 is no small comfort to be assured of the fact." 
 
lxxxii PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 " Venice, June 11, 1845. 
 " Nothing can give the slightest idea of this 
 Queen of the Waters ; and on the evening of the 
 regatta, when every house and palace along the 
 grand canal was hung with tapestry, and thousands 
 of beautiful gondolas, many with ten rowers, and 
 all dressed out in the most brilliant and fanciful 
 costumes, were gliding along the waters swift as 
 darts, and yet not one interfering with the other, 
 the scene was one which beggars all description : I 
 never witnessed any thing the least like it — so bril- 
 liant and so novel. Indeed Venice itself is the 
 most lovely spot I was ever in ; and the evening 
 trips that we take in our gondolas out into the 
 offing to catch the evening sea-breeze are more 
 luxurious than you can imagine." 
 
 " Rome, March 7, 1846. 
 " Even a little talking I often find too much for 
 me, and I therefore go about like a monk of La 
 Trappe, dropping into book-shops and libraries, 
 when I find any warm enough for me, and con- 
 versing much, both there and at home, with the 
 mighty dead through their writings. You would 
 be surprised to hear what folios I have perused 
 since I came to Italy ; but I have much time for 
 study, as I have not, since I left England, been 
 
WMTMUV Iwxiii 
 
 once, willingly, oul oi' my house after sun-sot. It 
 is a groat privation to me, that 1 cannot write. 
 The labour oi' composition I find makes me ill, and 
 the art of stooping over paper, for the purpose of 
 writing, likewise pains and injures me. However, 
 1 have abundant reason for thankfulness thai 1 am 
 as 1 am. No pea-son that know me last year could 
 have 4 anticipated my surviving to this spring, and 
 yet here I am with another and other respite 
 granted to me." 
 
 " Basle, Aug. 30, 1846'. 
 " Much of our route through Belgium was dif- 
 ferent, or made in a different way, from that which 
 we took in days of yore. The railroads have anni- 
 hilated the long and dreary drive from Brussels to 
 Cologne. . . . We saw the top of the tower, 
 under which Charlemagne was found sitting in 
 sepulchral state at Aix, but did not intrude on 
 his ghostly solitude. Even old Cologne, with its 
 half-finished, ow rather, half-commenced cathedral, 
 is scarcely what it was, now that its echoes are 
 startled by the railroad whistle. Still, though 
 steam has done much to change the aspect of 
 things in these quarters, enough remained un- 
 changed to bring back very lively reminiscences of 
 days gone by ; and P. was edified, as we passed 
 
 I 
 
lxxxiv PEEFATOEY MEMOIE. 
 
 along, with sundry anecdotes and observations on 
 those our maiden days of travel and foreign adven- 
 ture together. We arrived at Antwerp on Friday, 
 after a still, but roasting, passage, and took up our 
 quarters at our old Hotel de St. Antoine. They 
 are beautifully repairing the cathedral tower, and 
 fitting up the interior of the choir with carved oak, 
 in the best taste. I mean, they are doing it in real 
 Gothic style, and not filling it with huge wooden 
 histories, such as the Creation, Adam, Eve, and all 
 the birds and beasts, nearly as large as life ; or the 
 Conversion of St. Paul, with the heavens opening 
 above, and the rocks rending below, and St. Paul 
 and his horse sprawling between them. Such un- 
 wieldy sculptures, however difficult to execute, 
 have no charms for me, and no suitability, I think, 
 to a fine Gothic edifice, and yet the Belgic churches 
 are full of them, both in wood and stone. They 
 are, however, beginning to go back in their carv- 
 ings to an earlier and better school, and those 
 that are now going on at Antwerp are quaint and 
 minute, and in perfect keeping with the older and 
 better parts of the building." 
 
 "Vicenza, Sept. 16, 1846. 
 " I have been pursuing my intention of zigzagging 
 about among the fine old cities in Lombardy, and 
 
LPPEITDIX. 
 
 they have in no reaped disappointed my expecta- 
 tions. Brescia, and Verona, which 1 left yesterday, 
 and this Vicenza likewise, are most interesting 
 places, full oi' beautiful and curious architecture of 
 
 all Ages, and rich in fine churches and paintings. 
 
 This is in fact quite a eity of palaces, and the 
 wonders of Palladio's hand, and the influence of 
 his style, are to be seen on every side. No one, 
 indeed, knows any thing of Italy till he has rum- 
 maged out these repositories of her past glories." 
 
 •'Milan, Oct. 12, 1846. 
 
 "For the next month we shall. 1 hope, be on the 
 move, exploring the eities on the south of the 
 Po ; Piaeenza, Parma, Beggio, Modena, Bologna, 
 Ravenna, eve. 
 
 kk I have been so highly interested with my 
 Lombardie trip, that I am full of hopes as xo 
 the other. The old towns of Lombards, turned 
 out to be by far the cleanest, brightest, and 
 most interesting places 1 have seen in Italy. We 
 have hardly had a creeping, or buzzing, or 
 skipping thing throughout our journey, save the 
 mosquitoes at Padua and Venice. Brescia is a 
 most charming place, full of its own distinguished 
 painters, built half of its extent on Roman 
 foundations, with a bronze statue of ' Victory; 1 
 
 f 
 
 . 
 
lxxxvi PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 rivalling any at Borne, and a picture by Paolo 
 Veronese, the Death of St. Aphia, alone worth 
 travelling twenty miles to see. Then Verona, rich 
 in Roman and mediaeval remains, with half a dozen 
 noble churches, left just as they came from the 
 hands of their builders in the eleventh century, full 
 of splendid equestrian monuments of the Scaligeri, 
 and surrounded with battlemented walls climbing 
 over the neighbouring heights. The magnificent 
 amphitheatre supplies just what is wanting in the 
 Coliseum at Rome. The interior is almost perfect, and 
 there are three fine Roman gates, pretty much what 
 they were when Ausonius trotted through them. 
 
 "Mantua is a less interesting place, except to 
 those who study fortification. However, one must 
 go thither to learn what Giulio Romano can do, as 
 a painter, and, indeed, as an architect likewise. 
 There is a Morning, Noon, and Night, by him, on 
 the ceiling of the great room in the Corte Impe- 
 riale, that is very noble, especially ' the Night,' with 
 her dusky chariot and steeds. ' The Noon ' consists 
 of a Jupiter amongst the gods on Olympus. Murray 
 does not seem to have understood that this was 
 the classical mode of representing mid-day. The 
 palace of Te, however, a little outside of Mantua, 
 is Griulio's chef d'oeuvre, and certainly never did a 
 rich, exuberant, voluptuous imagination run riot as 
 
AITKNDIX. l\\\\ii 
 
 his (lix^s there. Cremona again overflows with fine 
 pictures, though they are fast modernizing away all 
 the interest of the old churches. Murray, I think. 
 
 never could have visited the place, for he leaves the 
 finest of its churches, full of splendid pictures, St. 
 Pietro, wholly unmentioned. There is a picture 
 there which was carried to Paris, and restored at 
 the peaee ; and a Madonna, with a figure kneeling 
 beside her, by au old master, Bonilacio Bembo, at 
 the church of St. Angelo, is one of the loveliest 
 pictures I ever looked on. Lodi has only one 
 church worth visiting, the Incoronata ; but this is 
 a gem indeed ; full of the loveliest pictures, either 
 by Titian or in Titian's best style. The town is 
 worth a visit from Milan for these alone." 
 
 14 Rome, Nov. 25, 184(i. 
 " At last, I write to you again from Rome. A fter 
 long wanderings, much of toil and sickness, here I 
 am once more, through Divine mercy, in a quiet 
 resting-place, for some months to eome. Before 
 my arrival here, some kind friends had taken for 
 me a comfortable residence on the Pincian Hill, the 
 last house of the Via G-regoriana, only one story 
 high, so that I have no trouble in getting up stairs, 
 and overlooking all the beauties and glories of 
 modern Eome. How I wish that I could place you 
 f 2 
 
 I 
 
lxxxvtii PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 here for a few minutes at my side, and, as your eye 
 wandered over the cupolas, and spires, and pillars, 
 and domes below, give you the history of each, with 
 all the interesting associations, classical, ecclesiasti- 
 cal, and romantic, that are attached to them ! . . . 
 
 " I find Rome much altered, I mean, as to the 
 prevailing tone of feeling. The old ' semper 
 eadem ' system is gone altogether, under the 
 auspices of the new Pontiff, and improvement is 
 the order of the day in all things hut one. They 
 diligently adhere to usage in ecclesiastical matters ; 
 but in all others the question is who can go fastest 
 in the road of amelioration. Railroads are already 
 projected on every side. Thirty public journals 
 (not political ones) are published where one was 
 before thought sufficient. Public meetings, dinners, 
 speeches, are taking place daily. Schools are insti- 
 tuted on every side. A new code of laws is on 
 the eve of being promulged, and the courts of 
 justice are for the first time thrown open. In fact, 
 where stagnation lately reigned, every thing is now 
 animation and activity." 
 
 "Rome, Dec. 17,1846. 
 
 " Our dear friend M. has unexpectedly lost his 
 father, and is in great distress about it, having been 
 so much his companion and friend. I often think 
 that it is a merciful Providence that has been of 
 
\I'n;m>i\. lxxxix 
 
 late teaching ?/.? to live asunder, and has thus been 
 preparing us for a more lasting separation. I have 
 of late been amusing myself with rhyming again ; 
 versifying a little fairy tale, over which I canter 
 along with little or no effort. It is silly work, 
 perhaps, but it suits my present powers, and gives 
 me a little light occupation and amusement. I shall 
 send M. a specimen, she being my great poetical 
 correspondent, and her admiration of all my trash 
 deserves this attention 
 
 " It is curious to see how narrow and personal 
 they all become, who have once conformed to 
 Romanism. Is it a consciousness of the badness 
 of their cause that induces them always to adopt 
 tins line of argument ? Ventura told his audience 
 the other day, that the author of the Anglican 
 schism was Henry VIII. ; and what, he asked, was 
 to be expected from a man that had eighteen wives, 
 and cut the heads off every one of them ? Poor 
 N". has got into sad disgrace here by the personali- 
 ties with which he adorned his first public address. 
 The Pope is much displeased, and says it is not 
 1 Aceto ' but ' Miele ' that is suitable to such dis- 
 courses." 
 
 " Rome, Jan. 8, 1847. 
 
 " I could tell you much about the worthy Pope 
 here, who is vigorously pushing on his reforms. 
 He has displaced the Governor of Rome, and of 
 
XC PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 three of the provinces, for malpractices, and ap- 
 pointed others with clean hands in their stead. I 
 went into the police-office to-day, and missing a 
 very magisterial gentleman, that used to preside 
 there, I was told that he and seven others had re- 
 ceived their mittimus. The whole population of 
 Rome, headed by the nobles, assembled on New 
 Year's Day under the Pope's windows to salute 
 him and ask his blessing, and I have little doubt 
 that he may be called at this moment the most 
 liberal and popular monarch in Europe. His 
 encyclical letter lately published, though rather 
 rabid against Bible societies, tract societies, social- 
 ism, rationalism, <&c. is still full of excellent advice 
 to the bishops and clergy of the Roman Church ; 
 and if his plans for general education, &c. are car- 
 ried out, I cannot but anticipate great and happy 
 changes in the moral aspect of this country. . . . 
 " We have a great deal too much of controversy 
 here, without my courting more from across the 
 water. It is an unhealthy atmosphere for my soul 
 to breathe, and especially unsuitable to one that 
 should be in hourly preparation for eternity. O that 
 He who has all hearts at his disposal may raise mine 
 daily above it, into that calm, clear, elevated region, 
 where He is Himself seen and conversed with by 
 faith, and where the soul may best ripen for his 
 eternal presence and enjoyment." 
 
\)M'i:\i)i\. id 
 
 "Borne, Jan. 26, 1847. 
 
 "Ton know what a round of stimulants is con- 
 stantly kepi up here, in order, as it wore, to Leave 
 people no time for quiet thought. Well, all these 
 I am obliged to forswear ; and it is perhaps jusi as 
 well thai I should: i'ov 1 am sure that the unceasing 
 round of ceremonies, and processions, and masses. 
 and sermons, is very like brandy-drinking, that 
 keeps people in a state of intoxication, and unfits 
 them for digesting wholesome food. A greal deal. 
 however, of quiel enjoyment is still open to me, 
 and i have, at times, for days together, found my- 
 self so very well, so exempt from pain, from lassi- 
 tude, from difficulty of breathing, — eating so 
 heartily, sleeping so soundly, and exhibiting all 
 the marks o\' health and vigour, that I am more 
 than ever convinced that Mr. 8. A\as right, when 
 lie said that my Lungs were on the whole still per- 
 fectly sound, and all my complaints curable 
 
 " Indeed, some of my visitors still continue their 
 calls ; among the rest dear M., who seldom lets a 
 day slip by without our meeting. Indeed, we are 
 almost the only two Anglicans left here, all the 
 others having dropped down some pegs towards 
 Evangelicalism, or having gone on into Romanism ; 
 so that, remaining, like the last roses of summer, we 
 are obliged to strengthen each other's hands a little. 
 He goes about a good deal, as usual, to hear the 
 
XC11 PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 sermons, and witness the ceremonies, and then 
 comes and takes a cup of tea with me in the even- 
 ings, when we talk matters over. I feel his conver- 
 sation, indeed, more congenial than that of any one 
 else, though I fear we are sometimes provoked by 
 the intolerance and presumption of the Church of 
 Rome, to lean more hardly on her than either of us 
 in our hearts are inclined to do. But really these 
 new converts to Romanism are so overbearing, and 
 so indefatigable in their efforts to effect new con- 
 versions, that they are quite intolerable. They 
 never allow one to be five minutes in their company 
 without giving the conversation a controversial 
 turn ; and such an atmosphere is any thing but an 
 agreeable or a wholesome one for the soul to live 
 in. It is not pleasant to be obliged to live con- 
 tinually with one's armour on, and one's spear in 
 its rest ; to be obliged to watch one's words, lest 
 you should make any admission that might be after- 
 wards used against you, or allow your adversary to 
 establish a position from which he may afterwards 
 advantageously assail you. To give you an instance 
 of this : I was introduced yesterday to Mrs. A., 
 who, with her sisters, has conformed to Romanism, 
 and, after a few common places, she began to re- 
 mark on the beauty of seeing the common people 
 here so devout, and the contrast it furnished to 
 England in this respect. I questioned, however, the 
 
APPENDIX. Will 
 
 tact of their being, US a body, more really devout 
 than our English poor. She observed that there 
 might be a few devout people amongst the dis- 
 Bentera, but that I had no right to take them 
 into consideration. This point again I denied, 
 urging that when she spoke of the Italian poor 
 nationally, so she should speak of the English peer 
 likewise as a body. She then asserted that the 
 poor of the Church of England were unable to 
 understand her Liturgy, full as it was of obsolete 
 expressions, and involved sentences, — a point I 
 again questioned, saying, that this diction, which 
 she called obsolete, was the good old Saxon thai 
 still lingered in the phraseology of the peasantry, — 
 but. however, that I thought an objection to the 
 unintelligibility of the English liturgy came with 
 rather a bad grace from those whose sacred services 
 were all carried on in Latin. 0, but, she said, the 
 people understand the Latin of the mass from their 
 infancy ; and, had I ever remarked then devoutmss 
 when attending it ? I answered, that I had ob- 
 served them sometimes apparently very devout; but, 
 when I came to look more closely, I found that, in- 
 stead of giving any attention to the mass that was 
 celebrated in their presence, the}" had each their 
 own little book of private devotions, on which all 
 their thoughts and feelings seemed to be employed, 
 to the neglect and disparagement of the holy rite 
 
XC1V PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 which was then celebrated before them. Here was, 
 I said, according to their views, the Great Sacrifice 
 of Calvary renewed in their presence ; here was 
 the Lord of lords bodily appearing among them ; 
 and they, instead of being awed and absorbed by 
 such a consideration, were occupying themselves 
 with something else, which, however excellent it 
 might be in itself, was a miserable and insulting in- 
 trusion when allowed to come between Him and 
 them, between the Creator and his creatures. And 
 this is the kind of running fight which one is 
 obliged constantly to carry on here, not at all, in 
 my mind, to the advancement of comfort or piety. 
 
 " Sometimes, indeed, we are provoked to carry 
 the war a little into the enemy's camp. I think I 
 said something in my last of a little skirmish we 
 have lately had with some of the champions here, 
 which, indeed, is not yet closed. M. had been to 
 hear one of Ventura's sermons, and as he built a 
 great deal on the text, M. turned to his little Bible 
 to look at it. It was said by Ventura to be from 
 the third of Malachi, ' Ecce advenit Dominator 
 Dominus, &c.' ' Behold He cometh, the Lord, the 
 Ruler ! and in His hand, power, kingdom,and autho- 
 rity.' But, to M.'s surprise, he could find nothing 
 of the kind there. On his return home he came to 
 me, and asked me to show him the Vulgate ; but, 
 lo ! there was no text like it there either. "While 
 
aim'I:nm\. xcv 
 
 we were at tea, as good luck would have it, Dr. Grant 
 came in, so we referred the matter to him; but his 
 endeavours to find the passage were as vain as our 
 own. From him, however, we learned that the 
 sentence occurred in the Introit for the day (the 
 Epiphany) in the missal, and that it was there 
 stated to be from Mai. iii. 
 
 " But now arose a more serious question, not as to 
 the incorrectness of Father Ventura, but of the in- 
 fallible missal itself. Had it quoted the passage 
 incorrectly, and had it so stood for centuries, un- 
 noticed by the missal's commentators or its minis- 
 ters ? Was the Bible so little known, or referred 
 to, in the Church of Rome, that an error of this 
 kind could remain so long undiscovered and uncor- 
 rected in the most distinguished of its formularies ? 
 The little doctor felt the importance of the point, 
 and has been ever since endeavouring to explain 
 the matter. His first solution was a very lame 
 one. The introits, he said, were not all taken from 
 Scripture, but many of them from the Fathers ; and 
 this, perhaps, was one of these. I begged him, 
 however, to inform me which of the eminent fathers 
 there was whose name began with * Mai,' and 
 what Mai. 'iii.' could possibly mean in this point 
 of view. Finding, then, that this would not do, 
 they referred the matter to NT., I suppose as 
 having been more recently conversant with Scrip- 
 
XCV1 PKEFATORT MEMOIR. 
 
 ture than others among them ; and his suggestion 
 was, that the passage was taken, not from the Vul- 
 gate, but the old Italic version. However, this has, I 
 suppose, likewise failed them ; for, yesterday, M. re- 
 ceived a note from Dr. G\, saying that he believed 
 the passage not to be a quotation from Scripture at 
 all, but a ' paraphrase ' of the whole chapter in 
 question ; to which M. has replied that the solution 
 of the difficulty was by no means satisfactory, more 
 especially as a paraphrase was generally understood 
 to be an explanation in a fuller form, and the 
 words in question had any thing but that character 
 about them. I contented myself with merely asking 
 the Dr. this morning, when I met him for a moment, 
 whether this was the way in which his Church 
 usually dealt with Scripture, giving the people her 
 own words, and referring to them as the Word of 
 God ? I dare say we shall hear something more 
 about the matter, as we do not intend to let it drop 
 here. Having put such a hook in Leviathan, it 
 would be a pity not to play him a little." 
 
 " Rome, Feb. 6, 1847. 
 " We have several different classes of visitors, — 
 a very large section are mere pleasure-hunters, 
 whose carriages I hear, night after night, rolling 
 over the pavement to their various balls and parties. 
 Another class are the sight-seers, with their necks 
 
AIM' KM) IX. \c\ll 
 
 and eyes ever on the stretch. These swallow much 
 intellectual food and digest little, so that they arc, 
 many of them, little better than walking hand- 
 books. Another considerable class here are the 
 converts, very few of them persons of much mental 
 power, but possessing all the zeal for which people 
 of this class, to whatever sect they belong, are 
 famous. They wear rose-coloured spectacles, through 
 which they view all the fooleries and enormities of 
 the papal system, and are very anxious to transfer 
 them from their own noses to those of other 
 
 people 
 
 " The Pope, in whom you rightly take such an 
 interest, stole down the other day, at three in the 
 afternoon, to the Church of St. Andrew della 
 Valle, and, taking the pulpit, instead of the ordi- 
 nary preacher, gave the poor people a most earnest 
 extempore sermon. He spoke strongly against 
 habitual blasphemy, against pride of dress, and 
 other vanities of Eome ; and after his sermon, 
 prayed, also extempore, for a considerable time. 
 After this he buried his face in his hands in the 
 deepest emotion, and continued absorbed in private 
 prayer, so much so as to forget to give the cus- 
 tomary benediction, which was given by a cardinal 
 present instead. It is more than a century since 
 any other pontiff has preached. Scarcely a day 
 passes without our hearing of some of his good 
 
 
XCV111 PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 deeds. He has given more than 4007. out of his 
 narrow income (not 25,0007. a year) for the poor 
 Irish. The night before last he went, after night 
 fall, to the house of a poor widow here to examine 
 
 into her circumstances and relieve her 
 
 " The Carnival is just commenced here with very 
 inauspicious weather, — cold, wet, stormy, cloudy ; — 
 every thing but that which suits us poor invalids. 
 But we have what G-od thinks best for us ; and if 
 He comes with it, all must be well." 
 
 " Feb. 16, 1847- 
 " The people round, too, have been most kind in 
 their offers and inquiries, especially dear M., who 
 has seen me once, and often twice a day, throughout 
 my illness. He administered the Holy Communion 
 to P. and me yesterday, and has been of the greatest 
 comfort to me. The Carnival, in the mean time, has 
 been goiug on here, and disturbing us poor invalids 
 by its nocturnal revels, or rather, by the carriages 
 • rolling past us to partake of them. However, to- 
 day will see its termination. Indeed, while I am 
 writing this, ' H Carnivale e morto.' and the maskers 
 are preparing to pass from comedy to tragedy, from 
 the Carnival to Lent, and we shall at least have 
 quiet for a few weeks. Very irreverent talking all 
 this, you will say ; but, really, the more I am ac- 
 quainted with the religion of this land, the more 
 
 ^w 
 
aimm;m)I\. \ci\ 
 
 unreal do I think it, and tlio more do 1 foci it to 
 consist in mere externals. With the exception of 
 the new English converts, who have been brought 
 up in a different school, and a few select others, I 
 cannot help feeling that I am living among actors, 
 and that if old Juvenal got up again from his grave, 
 he would not err much in singing, as he did of old, 
 ' Natio comoeda est.' The most agreeable object to 
 dwell on, in connexion with the Church of Home, 
 is the man that is at the head of it. He is cer- 
 tainly a very fine fellow. I mentioned, in my last 
 letter to M., how he had been preaching and praying 
 here. I have just heard of another of his noble 
 acts that is equally striking. Bouchon, the French 
 preacher, has been narrating it. He sent, yesterday, 
 for all the Lent preachers of Rome, one hundred 
 and forty in number, to the Quirinal palace. They 
 assembled in an antechamber, and the Pope sent 
 them word, before they came into his presence, to 
 go through an act of faith ; on which they all re- 
 peated aloud the Creed (that, I presume, of Pope 
 Pius). They were then ushered into the audience- 
 room, when the Pope addressed them on their 
 duties during the approaching season for an hour 
 and a half, not only, as Eouchon said, most wisely, 
 but in a nobler strain of real eloquence than he had 
 ever heard from any other lips. He (the Pope) 
 shed tears more than once in the delivery of his 
 
C PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 address, and at the close made them all kneel down 
 with him, and offered up a most touching and im- 
 pressive prayer for them and for himself. One 
 really feels that this man must be in earnest, and 
 that God's blessing must descend on such efforts. 
 In what shape, indeed, may be dubious ; whether 
 in the way of advancement to the Church of Rome 
 as she now stands, or in the substitution of some- 
 thing better, may admit of a question.' ' 
 
 " Rome, March 15, 1847- 
 " With regard to this old city, I have not, I fear, 
 much in the way of news to give you. We are all 
 very quiet here at this season ; no balls, no plays, 
 no noisy parties, except among some of our grace- 
 less English. The Eomans are all busy in attend- 
 ing their religious services during Lent. There are 
 sermons in almost all of the churches daily. A 
 large number of persons are likewise, at this time, 
 in what they call * a Eetreat.' One of the great 
 convents here is opened for the reception of persons 
 wishing to engage in these religious exercises. 
 Those who enter are lodged in separate rooms, or 
 cells, and hold no communication with each other. 
 Thrice a day they attend public worship, and hear 
 addresses on religious subjects (generally forming a 
 regular course), and spend the rest of their time in 
 religious reading, meditation, and prayer. This 
 
APPENDIX. O 
 
 lasts generally for ton days or a fortnight (and 
 there ore twenty or thirty going on at the same 
 time), and appears to produce the very best effects 
 OH those that attend, in many instances appearing 
 to work a true and tasting conversion. There is 
 another curious service that now takes place m the 
 churches, the ' Missioni/ It is a kind of improve- 
 ment on catechetical lecturing, and is intended 
 specially for the lower orders, though very popular 
 among all ranks. The last that I witnessed was 
 carried on by two Jesuits, in St. Andrew, an im- 
 mense church, which was crowded on the occasion 
 from end to end. About the middle of the church 
 was a platform erected, and after Divine service the 
 two performers gol up o\\ this stage, and took their 
 seats. One of them personated the ' lgnorante,' or 
 common people, and the other his instructor, and the 
 latter began by asking the former if he remembered 
 any thing of his last lesson : to which the other 
 replied that he did, and recapitulated some part of 
 it. i But,' said he, ' it is really of very little use that 
 we should go on with these lessons, for I have just 
 heard of a very formidable conspiracy, that is now 
 hatching in J\ome, and that will go far to upset the 
 existing order of things. ' "Pooh, pooh, my dear 
 fellow,' replied the "instructor, 'don't talk of con- 
 spiracies in these day:.; th* time for conspiracies 
 
 
Cll PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 is over now ; and besides, under our present good 
 Pope' — ' Ah, my friend,' interrupted the ignorante, 
 here is the worst feature in the business : — I very 
 much fear that the Pope himself is at the bottom 
 of it. Do you know that I heard one of the con- 
 spirators say that the Pope was decidedly encourag- 
 ing their designs.' At last it comes out that this 
 conspiracy is a kind of pledge which certain persons 
 were taking against swearing, in consequence of a 
 sermon preached by the Pope against this vice. 
 And in this strain the conversation between the 
 ignorante and his instructor went on for more than 
 an hour, the most excellent instruction being con- 
 veyed in the most graphic and amusing manner. 
 One cannot help wishing that a Church, which has 
 so many wise and effective modes of teaching, and 
 such admirable institutions, had something better 
 than mere formalities to convey by means of them." 
 
 " Rome, Spring of 1847- 
 " But you are dying, I know, to hear something 
 more about that fine fellow the Pope. "Well, among 
 his reforms, one is, that he has dismissed more than 
 half of the beggars of Kome. They come most of 
 them from Naples, and the Pope sends round every 
 few days, picks them all up, and simply carts them 
 to the frontier, and then drops them within their 
 
LPPEKDIX, CU1 
 
 own territory. One of the blind men accordingly, 
 that clinked the little porringers on the top of the 
 
 Pincian steps in your ears, is vanished. Allot her, who 
 used to thrust a lin, or pinion, in your face, near the 
 French academy, does so no more. The poor Pope, 
 however, has, we hear, a hard task of it. A con- 
 spiracy against him has just been detected at 
 Ancona, in which many of the Frate Dominicane 
 have been engaged. They had collected the sinews 
 of war to the amount of 25,000 scudi ; but the 
 governor pounced on their treasure and corre- 
 spondence, and seven of them have reached the 
 castle of St. Angelo. They say the Pope is intent 
 on reforming the Irish clergy, and means to make 
 the monasteries here rather retreats for the aged, 
 than resting-places for the young and lazy. He is 
 going to make a grand reform in the sacred music 
 of the Church, so as to make it more uniform, and 
 less theatrical. He has accordingly set on foot a 
 commission who are to consult all the old scores of 
 sacred music, and make a grand selection from 
 them, to the discarding of modern flourishes, and 
 with a special eye to the revival of the old Gregorian 
 chant." 
 
 •'Rome, March 16, 1847. 
 
 " I must not touch on religious matters at such a 
 uarl of my letter, though there is much that I could 
 
CIV PREFATORI MEMOIR. 
 
 wish to say. I think most of the Anglicans here 
 have passed through that dangerous period, when, 
 dissatisfied with the state of things at home, they 
 look elsewhere, and find all couleur de rose in the 
 Church of Borne, till a closer inspection does away 
 with the delusion, and makes them feel, with Hamlet, 
 that it is better ' to bear the ills we have, than fly 
 to others that we know not of.' " 
 
 "Rome, March 27, 1847- 
 " And now what shall I tell you of old Eome, its 
 inhabitants, and their doings ? All is very quiet 
 here just now during Lent. Balls and noisy parties 
 are given up by all but a few graceless English. 
 The only thing of the kind that is tolerated is 
 music, and this chiefly at charitable concerts. A 
 grand amateur concert takes place this evening, for 
 the poor Irish, in which Mrs. S. and Mrs. B. sing, 
 and many likewise of the Italian nobility and 
 gentry. The Pope has given 200Z. more out of his 
 small income to the Irish sufferers, and there is 
 talk of his preaching himself in their behalf. A 
 priest here has sold his library, a very fine one, and 
 sent all the produce to the same quarter. Another 
 person has given a picture worth 1000Z. ; so that 
 there is no want of sympathy for the poor sufferers 
 here. I only grieve to think that many of them 
 show themselves so undeserving of Hie generosity 
 that has been exhibited towards them. 
 
MM' KM) I \ v\ 
 
 "To-morrow will commence the ceremonies of 
 the Holv Week here, in which 1 shall have little 
 participation, though I should like, it' possible, to 
 hoar one of the misereres. Certainly, nothing 
 earthly that 1 know oi' comes op to it. Tho last 
 that 1 hoard, though 1 had, 1 thought, mado up niv 
 
 mind to sit through it unmoved, vet the second 
 note overcame me, and 1 fairly wopt through the 
 whole pieee. There is no instrumental music on 
 the occasion, but a single voice begins in a soft under- 
 
 note, when another and another drops harmoniously 
 in, the same note being still held cm, till at length 
 the whole united choir pour out all their strength 
 and sweet ness. the voieos gradually dying away as 
 they began. Such i^ Wxcjirsf note of the miserere. 
 which alone occupies B minute or two. As to many 
 of the other ceremonies id' the Holy AVeek they 
 are, in my estimation, miserably offensive, and 
 many of them absolutely ludierous. 1 date say the 
 present Pontiff will give them as mueh dignity as 
 any one conld ; but it is impossible to make them 
 tolerable to a person o\' any good taste, not to say 
 piety." 
 
 11 Rome, April 7- 1847. 
 "The Pope has been as usual pouring out h ; ^ 
 bounty on the poor here. He has provided every 
 poor family in the city with bread i'ov three days, 
 
 
CV1 PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 and given 3000 scudi amongst them. No wonder 
 that he should be so adored. To-day all the English 
 converts have gone in a body to be presented to 
 him. Their number here is seventy-nine. Ven- 
 tura, however, who counts by wholesale, told the 
 people in a sermon of his yesterday, that in England 
 they only heard of a few of the principal converts, 
 but that really whole districts and counties had be- 
 come Roman Catholic. In one city alone in Eng- 
 land, he said, where a short time since there were 
 only three or four Catholics, there are now 70,000 : 
 and the people here swallow all this exaggerated 
 stuff as G-ospel. 
 
 " There are, however, others as well as he, very 
 ill satisfied with what they find in the Romish 
 Church now that they have joined it. Little Mr. 
 EL, I am told, speaks very freely of the need of 
 reform in her communion ; and even R. is not, I 
 think, quite at ease. Indeed it can hardly be other- 
 wise than that they should meet with many disap- 
 pointments, in the reckless way in which they have 
 been pushing their conversions. They care not 
 whether a man is convinced or not, but press him 
 to join them, with all his objections, and expect 
 them all in due time to vanish. This is very hand- 
 over-head work, and will have it 8 reward by-and- 
 bv.' 
 
APPENDIX. CV11 
 
 " Berry-Head, Aug. 25, 1847. 
 
 " My dear Friend, 
 " You used to be the diligent correspondent, and 
 I the remiss one, — and so ought it to be now, for 
 to you writing is a pleasure, and to me a toil and a 
 distress, — and yet you are two letters in my debt, 
 and I write again to ask you to give me a screed of 
 your heart and mind, before seas again roar between 
 us. I am meditating flight again to the south. 
 The little faithful robin is every morning at my 
 window, sweetly warning me that autumnal hours 
 are at hand. The swallows are preparing for flight, 
 and inviting me to accompany them, and yet, alas ! 
 while I talk of flying, I am just able to crawl, and 
 often ask myself whether I shall be able to leave 
 
 England at all But you know how the 
 
 spring rises with me as soon as the pressure is re- 
 moved. I am, therefore, calculating, with many a 
 Deo Volente, on taking up my staff in rather less 
 than three weeks from the present time. I. and E. 
 will be my compagnons de voyage, together with 
 faithful, indefatigable P., and we shall probably go 
 direct through France to Marseilles, and from 
 thence to Naples. I must of course look for many 
 restings by the way ; but, if we can get to the 
 south of France early in October, I shall hope to 
 do well. The autumns are always severe north of 
 Lyons, and the Alps generally snow-clad early in 
 
CVlll PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 September. At Naples, we should probably pause 
 for a few weeks, and then proceed to Palermo, where 
 the fields generally continue in flower till Christmas. 
 There I should like to remain till February, when 
 we might, if all are spared, return to Italy again, 
 and get up to Rome for the spring season. Such 
 is a sketch of my plans. How small a part of 
 them may we be permitted to carry into exe- 
 cution! and yet it is right to form them, while 
 we leave the rest to Him who does for us better 
 than we could for ourselves. O for more of entire 
 dependence on Him! entire confidence in Him! 
 Not, I hope, that I am quite without these, but I 
 want to feel them more a living principle of action. 
 Conformity to the will and image of the Lord is no 
 easy attainment, and it takes much hammering to 
 bend us to it." 
 
 " Avignon, Oct. 19, 1847- 
 " Again I sit down to pen a few lines to you, and to 
 tell you that we are all pretty well. . . My inten- 
 tion, now that I have at length reached these milder 
 regions, is to loiter here awhile, and after visiting 
 Nismes, Montpellier, Aries, and other objects of 
 interest in the neighbourhood, to move on to Nice, 
 at the Poste Eestaute of which I trust we shall find 
 letters to rejoice our hearts. . . I hear glowing 
 accounts indeed of Nice itself for winter-quarters, 
 especially for persons suffering from bronchial com- 
 
 
1PPENDIX. «!•. 
 
 plaints. However, a few days 1 residence there will 
 tell me Entire Of its suitability to me than any thing 
 I can lean) from the reports of other.-. 
 
 " More, however, of these matters when I write 
 from Nice. In the mean time we shall be longing 
 for news from home; and let your letters be in imi- 
 tation of mine as far as egotism is concerned, for 
 you cannot tell me too much of yourself and all 
 around you." 
 
 " Lh Pallisc, Oct. 10, 1K47- 
 
 " 1 write from a little town scarcely mentioned 
 in maps, where we are spending our Sunday. It 
 lies between Moulin s and lioanne, a quiet place, 
 with a tolerable little inn and civil landlady, with 
 a tidy little daughter, all great attractions to poor, 
 jaded, cheated travellers like ourselves. 
 
 "The autumn is evidently much more advanced 
 here than in England. Many of the trees have lost 
 their leaves altogether; and those that retain them 
 exhibit a variety and brilliancy of autumnal colour- 
 ing— yellow, orange, red, purple, and green, — un- 
 known in England. I never saw any tiling more ex- 
 quisite than the woodland scenery we passed through 
 yesterday. The country was tame and flat enough in 
 itself, but the trees, with their hundred hues, clot hed 
 it in inexpressible beauty. Still I shall not be sorry 
 to take my leave of I hem. Scenery can be ill enjoyed 
 when it is a labour to let ch one breal h after anol 
 
CX PEEFATOKT MEMOIR. 
 
 I am therefore looking on anxiously to the Ehone, 
 which is to hurry us down a hundred miles to the 
 
 south in the course of one forenoon 
 
 " Thence to Avignon is a morning's excursion ; 
 and there we shall probably rest three or four days 
 or more, exploring afterwards Nismes, Aries, and 
 Aix, and so beating our way to Nice, or Nizza, as it 
 is called by the Italians. From Aix thither will be 
 a three days' journey, and Nice is therefore the 
 place at which we can next hope to hear from you, 
 unless indeed your kind sagacity may have ad- 
 dressed a letter for me to Lyons or Avignon." 
 
 " Avignon, Oct. 20, 1847. 
 
 " You have perhaps ere now been expecting a line 
 from me, but I have been unable to write before. I 
 have, ever since I saw you, been either travelling or 
 in bed." .... 
 
 " Ever since we have been creeping forward 
 by slow stages, hitherto, over cold, cheerless, 
 uninteresting, France ; and the day before yes- 
 terday reached the valley of the Ehone, where 
 the climate became entirely changed, and I began 
 to breathe and move again freely in the warm 
 atmosphere of Provence. It is quite surprising 
 how much warmer it is in this favoured region. 
 The thermometer stands at 68° : we have no longer 
 any need of fires. Fresh fruits of all kinds abound, 
 
>i;m>i\. 
 
 and the bunches of grapes rival those of Efthcol. 
 The scenery in this valley also is pre-eminently 
 beautiful. It is the Rhine on a larger scale : the 
 mountains, as you p;iss down the river Rhone, as- 
 sume the most picturesque aspects. Sometimes 
 they close in on the stream, and again recede into 
 the blue distance, out-topped occasionally by the re- 
 moter snowy Alps. The banks of the river itself 
 are clothed all the way down with vineyards, pro- 
 ducing some of the finest wines in France, Hermi- 
 tage, Frontignac, &c. But the most striking ob- 
 jects of all are the woods, which present a variety 
 and richness of hues — yellow, orange, crimson, pur- 
 ple, and green — unknown in the landscapes of our 
 English autumns. The colours are so vivid, that if 
 they were faithfully set down on canvass, an Eng- 
 lish eye must pronounce them unnatural — so true 
 it is that what art dares not attempt, nature does. 
 
 " But to return to personals. I am truly thank- 
 ful for the little interview I had with you, almost 
 beyond expectation, before my departure. Though 
 I said little, I felt much, and carried away impres- 
 sions that will remain with me till we meet again. 
 Where that meeting will be, He that ordereth all 
 things alone knows : yet, after so many meetings 
 and partings as we have experienced on earth, per- 
 haps it may be even in this world What our 
 
 future movements will be, is scarcely vet decided ; 
 
CX11 PREFATORY MEMOIR. 
 
 but we shall, I think, now that we have reached a 
 more genial climate, linger here a little. There is 
 much to interest in the shape of Eoman antiquities 
 at Nismes and Aries ; and after visiting them we 
 shall, I think, move on to Nice and Genoa, and be 
 guided in our further progress by the reports we 
 hear from Italy. I shall, I trust, find a letter from 
 you at Nice." 
 
 11 Commenced at Aries, finished at Aix, 
 Nov. 3, 1847. 
 
 " I hope you have not been very anxious to hear 
 of us or from us, though you will, I dare say, be 
 surprised at hearing from this place. We are, 
 however, pursuant to our plan before leaving Eng- 
 land, continuing to loiter here in the south of 
 France 
 
 li On Thursday we hope to be at Nice, and to re- 
 main there at least a week. I have already sent to 
 bespeak apartments, through a gentleman whose 
 acquaintance I made at Avignon 
 
 " It will be no small treat also to hear at length 
 from home again : we are absolutely thirsting for 
 news of you all ; trusting, indeed, that the same 
 merciful Father is protecting you who is protect- 
 ing us, but longing to know this for certain. I 
 have myself been wonderfully well for the last ten 
 days, though the weather has been by no means 
 
 1 
 
$oem& 
 
P O E M S. 
 
 FRIENDS LOST IN 1S33. 
 
 Gone ? — Have ye all then gone, — 
 The good, the beautiful, the kind, the dear : 
 Passed to your glorious rest so swiftly on, 
 
 And left me weeping here ? 
 
 1 gaze on your bright track ; 
 I hear your lessening voices as ye go. 
 Save ye no sign, no solace, to fling back 
 
 To us who toil below ? 
 
 
2 FRIENDS LOST IN 1833. 
 
 They hear not my faint cry ; 
 Beyond the range of sense for ever flown, 
 I see them melt into eternity, 
 
 And feel I am alone. 
 
 Into the haven pass'd, 
 They anchor far beyond the scathe of ill ; 
 While the stern billow, and the reckless blast 
 
 Are mine to cope with still. 
 
 Oh ! from that land of love, 
 Look ye not sometimes on this world of woe ? 
 Think you not, dear ones, in bright bowers above. 
 
 Of those you've left below ? 
 
 Surely ye note us here, 
 Though not as we appear to mortal view ; 
 And can we still, with all our stains, be dear 
 
 To spirits pure as you ? 
 
 
FRIENDS LOST IN 1833. 
 
 Do ye not loathe, — not spurn, — 
 The worms of clay, the slaves of sense and will r 
 When ye from God and glory earthward turn. 
 
 Oh ! can ye love us still ? 
 
 Or, have ye rather now 
 Drunk of His Spirit whom ye worship there, 
 Who stripp'd the crown of glory from His brow, 
 
 The platted thorns to wear ? 
 
 Is it a fair fond thought, 
 That you may still our friends and guardians be, 
 And Heaven's high ministry by you be wrought 
 
 With abjects low as we ? 
 
 May we not sweetly hope 
 That you around our path and bed may dwell ? 
 And shall not all our blessings brighter drop 
 
 From hands w^e loved so well ? 
 B 2 
 
4 FRIENDS LOST IN 1833. 
 
 Shall we not feel you near 
 In hours of danger, solitude, and pain, 
 Cheering the darkness, drying off the tear, 
 
 And turning loss to gain p 
 
 Shall not your gentle voice 
 Break on temptation's dark and sullen mood, 
 Subdue our erring will, o'errule our choice. 
 
 And win from ill to good ? 
 
 yes ! to us, to us, 
 A portion of your converse still be given : 
 Struggling affection still would hold you thus, 
 
 Nor yield you all to Heaven! 
 
 Lead our faint steps to God ; 
 Be with us while the desert here we roam ; 
 Teach us to tread the path which you have trod, 
 
 To find with vou our home ! 
 
 
STANZAS TO J. K. 
 
 What strains arc these, what sweet familiar num- 
 bers, 
 Prom old Ierne o'er the waters wend ? [ bers, 
 
 How welcome, wakening from its lengthen'd slum- 
 Sounds the heart-music of my earliest Friend ! 
 
 Well might that hand amid the chords have talter'd, 
 That voice have lost the power to melt and move: 
 
 How pleasant, then, to find them still analter'd, 
 That lyre in sweetness, and tliat heart in love ! 
 
 Shall not my tuneful powers, too long neglected, 
 Revive to answer that persuasive call ? — 
 
 Like the old harp that, mould'ring and rejected. 
 Hangs up in silence in some lonely hall, 
 
 When youth and beauty's train there re-assembles, 
 And mirth and song once more begin to flow. 
 
 
6 STANZAS TO J, K, 
 
 Light o'er the chords a mimic music trembles, 
 Responsive to the notes that swell below ! 
 
 All me! — what thoughts those few bold uotes a- 
 waken, — 
 
 Bright recollections of life's morning hours ; 
 Haunts long remembered, and too soon forsaken ; 
 
 Days that fled by in sunshine, song, and flowers : 
 Old Clogher's rocks, our own sequester' d valley ; 
 
 Wild walks by moonlight on the sounding shore. 
 Hearts warm and free, light laugh, and playful 
 sally, 
 
 All that lias been, — and shall return no more — 
 
 No more, — no more, — moods ever new and changing. 
 
 Feelings that forth in song so freely gush'd, 
 Wing'd hopes, high fancies, thoughts unfetter d 
 ranging — 
 Flowers which the world's cold ploughshare 
 since has crush' d. 
 
STANZAS TO J. K. 
 
 Dear early visions of departed gladness, 
 Ye rise, ye live a moment in that strain, 
 
 A gleam of sunshine on life's wintry sadness, 
 Ah ! why so bright, to flit so soon again F 
 
 Friend of my heart! — since those young visions 
 perish' d, 
 
 We've trod a chequer'd path of good and ill ; 
 We've seen the wreck of much that once we cherish'd, 
 
 But not the wreck of love and friendship still. 
 No, hand in hand we've met life's stormy weather, 
 
 Sustain' d the bufferings of foe and friend, 
 And hand in hand and heart in heart together, 
 
 We'll help and cheer each other to the end. 
 
 Strike then the chords ! — alas, too rarely stricken, 
 And I will answer in my humbler style : 
 
 No voice like thine can soothe, can urge, can 
 quicken, — 
 Why has it been so little heard ere while ? 
 
8 STANZAS TO J. K. 
 
 Yes, strike the chords! high thoughts and aims 
 inspiring ; 
 
 And up the narrow way we'll homeward move, 
 Mingling our pilgrim songs, and here acquiring 
 
 New hearts and voices for the songs above. 
 
 Berry head, 1840. 
 
SEA CHANGES. 
 
 From shore to shore the waters sle< p, 
 
 Without a breath to move 4 them ; 
 And mirror many a fathom deep 
 
 Rocks round and skies above them. 
 1 catch the sea-bird's lightest wail 
 
 That dots the distant billow, 
 And hear the flappings of the sail 
 
 That lull the sea-boy's pillow. 
 
 Anon — across the glassy bay 
 The cfttspaw gusts come creeping ; 
 
 A thousand waves are soon at play. 
 In sunny freshness leaping. 
 
10 SEA CHANGES. 
 
 The surge once more talks round the shore, 
 The good ship walks the ocean ; 
 
 Seas, skies, and men all wake again 
 To music, health, and motion. 
 
 But now the clouds, in angry crowds, 
 
 On Heaven's grim forehead muster, 
 And wild and wide sweeps o'er the tide 
 
 The white squall's fitful bluster. 
 The stout ship heels, the brave heart reels 
 
 Before the 'whelming breaker ; 
 And all in nature quakes, and feels 
 
 The presence of its Maker. 
 
 Oh, glorious still in every form, 
 
 Untamed, untrodden ocean ; 
 Beneath the sunshine, or the storm, 
 
 In stillness, or commotion ; 
 
SKA CHANGES. 11 
 
 Be mine to dwell beside the sweil, 
 
 A witness of thy wonders; 
 Peel thy light spray around me play, 
 
 And thrill before thy thunders! 
 
 While yet a boy I felt it joj 
 To gaze upon thy glories ; 
 
 I loved to ride thy stormy tide, 
 And shout in joyous chorus. 
 
 With calmer brow I haunt thee now, 
 
 To nurse sublime emotion ; 
 My soul is awed, and iilVd with God, 
 
 By thee, majestic ocean ! 
 
 1840. 
 
12 
 
 DAVID'S THEEE MIGHTY ONES. 
 
 "And David longed, and said, Oh that one would give 
 me drink of the water of the well of Bethlehem, which is by 
 the gate!" — 2 Sam. xxiii. 15. 
 
 Faixt on Bephaim's sultry side 
 
 Sat Israel's warrior king ; 
 " Oh for one draught," the hero cried, 
 
 : ' Prom Bethlehem's cooling spring ! — 
 From Bethlehem's spring, upon whose brink 
 My youthful knee bent down to drink ! 
 
 iC I know the spot, by yonder gate, 
 
 Beside my father's home, 
 Where pilgrims love at eve to wait, 
 
 And girls for water come. 
 Oh for that healing water now, 
 To quench my lip, to cool my brow ! 
 
DAVIDS THREE MIGHTY ONES. 13 
 
 kk But round that gate, and in that home, 
 
 And by that sacred well, 
 Now hostile feet insulting roam. 
 
 And impious voices swell. 
 The Philistine holds Bethlehem's halls, 
 While we pine here beneath its walls." — 
 
 Three gallant men stood nigh, and heard 
 
 The wish their king expressed ; 
 Exchanged a glance, but not a word. 
 
 And dash'd from 'midst the rest. 
 Ami strong in zeal, with ardour flushed. 
 They up the hill to Bethlehem rushed. 
 
 The foe fast mustering to attack, 
 
 Their iiereeness could not rein ; 
 No friendly voice could call them back. — 
 
 " Shall David long in vain ? 
 •• Long for a cup from Bethlehem's spring, 
 " And none attempt the boon to bring P" 
 
14 DAVID'S THREE MIGHTY ONES. 
 
 And now the city gate they gain. 
 
 And now in conflict close ; 
 Unequal odds ! three dauntless men 
 
 Against mmnmbered foes. 
 Yet through their ranks they plough their way 
 Like galleys through the ocean spray. 
 
 The gate is forced, the crowd is pass'd ; 
 
 They scour the open street ; 
 While hosts are gathering fierce and fast 
 
 To block up their retreat. 
 Haste back ! haste back, ye desperate Three ! 
 Or Bethlehem soon your grave must be ! 
 
 They come again; — and with them brim: — 
 
 Nor gems nor golden prey ; 
 A single cup from Bethlehem's spring 
 
 Is all they bear away ; 
 And through the densest of the train 
 Fight back their glorious way again. 
 
Davids THREE MIGHTY ONES. 15 
 
 O'er broken shields and prostrate foes 
 They urge their conquering course. 
 
 Go, try the tempest to oppose, 
 Arrest the lightning's force; 
 
 Bui hope not. Pagans, to withstand 
 
 The shock of Israel's chosen band ! 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! again they're free ; 
 
 And 'neath the open sky, 
 On the green turf they bend the knee, 
 
 And lift the prize on high ; 
 Then onward through the shouting throng 
 To Dayid bear their spoil along. 
 
 All in their blood and dust they sink 
 
 Full low before their king. 
 " Again," they cry, "let Dayid drink 
 
 Of his own silyer spring ; 
 And if the draught om lord delight, 
 His seryants' toil 'twill well requite." 
 
16 DAVIDS THREE MIGHTY ONES. 
 
 With deep emotion David took 
 From their red hands the cnp ; 
 
 Cast on its stains a shuddering look, 
 And held it heavenward up. 
 
 " I prize your boon," exclaimed the king, 
 
 " But dare not taste the draught you bring. 
 
 " 1 prize the zeal that perilTd life, 
 
 A wish of mine to crown ; 
 1 prize the might that in the strife 
 
 Bore foes by thousands down : — 
 But dare not please myself with aught 
 By Israel's blood and peril bought. 
 
 " To Heaven the glorious spoil is due ; 
 
 And His the offering be, 
 Whose arm has borne you safely through. 
 
 My brave, but reckless, Three !" — 
 Then on the earth the cup he pour'd, 
 A free libation to the Lord. 
 
DAVIDS THREE MIGHTY ONES. \7 
 
 There is a well in Bethlehem still, 
 
 A fountain, at whose brink 
 The weary soul may rest at will. 
 
 The thirsty stoop and drink : 
 And unrepelled by foe or fence 
 Draw living waters freely thence. 
 
 Oh, did we thirst as David then 
 
 For this diviner spring ! 
 Had we the zeal of David's men 
 
 To please a Higher King ! 
 Wliat precious draughts we thence might drain. 
 What holy triumphs daily gain ! 
 
18 
 
 A EECALL TO MY CHILD A. M. 
 June 1, 1839. 
 
 Come back, come back, my blessed child ! 
 
 Come home, my own light hearted ! 
 Papa, they say, has rarely smiled 
 
 Since from his side you parted. — 
 That face which beams like opening day, 
 
 That laugh which never wearies ; 
 Why do they linger still away ? 
 
 Come home, dear girl, and cheer as ! 
 
 I saunter sadly through my hours, — 
 They want one voice to mend them ; 
 
 A spell is o'er my drooping flowers, — 
 They pine for you to tend them. 
 
THE IMC ILL. \<j 
 
 The fairest now look all amU 
 
 Too dingy, or too daunting. — 
 And arc they changed? all, no, 'tis this — 
 
 The sweetest flower is wanting! 
 
 Young spring at last, despite the shocks 
 
 Of winter's lingering bluster, 
 Has flung her mantle o'er our rocks, 
 
 And clothed our hills with lustre. 
 Music, and balm, and beauty play 
 
 In all around and o'er us. 
 " Come, truant, come," all seem to say : 
 
 " Come, join our happy chorus. 1 ' 
 
 " Come," cries the cowslip's lading bell ; 
 
 " Come," cries the ripening cherry ; 
 " Come, ere the bloom in every dell 
 
 Is turn'd to pod and berry ; 
 c2 
 
20 THE RECALL. 
 
 Come, ere the cuckoo change his tone ; 
 
 Ere from her nest the linnet. 
 With all her little ones, is flown, 
 
 And you've ne'er peep'd within it." 
 
 The sun sets not so brightly now. 
 
 Across the golden water, 
 As when it gleam' d upon the brow 
 
 Of my loved absent daughter. 
 Home has no more its cheerful tone, 
 
 Its healthful hue about it : — 
 When from the lyre one chord is gone 
 
 The rest sound ill without it. 
 
 Come back ; the city's flaunting crowd, 
 The concert's formal measures. 
 
 The din of fashion, false and loud. 
 Are not like nature's pleasures. — 
 
THE RECALL. 21 
 
 These, these alone, the heart can touch, 
 
 Are simplest and sincerest. 
 You have an eye, a soul for such : 
 
 Come home, and share them, dearest. 
 
 Come, at my side, again to walk 
 
 Beside the fresh'ning billow. 
 I tome, where the waves all night will tali 
 
 To you upon your pillow. 
 Come, where the skiff on sunny seas 
 
 For you is lightly riding ; 
 Where health and song in ev'ry breeze 
 
 My absent girl come chiding. 
 
 Come back ! we all from your glad eyes 
 
 New light and life will borrow. 
 'Tis not papa alone that sighs, 
 
 " Why leave me to my sorrow ?" 
 
22 THE RECALL. 
 
 Each, all in your loved converse miss 
 Some wonted source of pleasure, 
 
 From look, or tone, or smile, or kiss : 
 Come home, come home, my treasure ! 
 
23 
 
 DECLINING DATS. 
 
 u Quod in vita est optanda sapienti, profecto nullam aliain 
 ob causam vivere optaverim, quam ut aliquid efficiam, quod 
 vita dignum sit ; et quod utilitatem legentibus, etsi non ad elo- 
 quentiam, quia tenuis in nobis eloquentise rivus est, ad vivendum 
 tamen adferat, quod est maxirae necessarium. Quo profecto, 
 satis me vixisse arbitrabor, et officium hominis implesse, si 
 labor meus aliquos homines ab erroribus liberatos, ad iter cce- 
 leste direxerit." — Lactantius, De Opif. Dei, cap. \\. 
 
 Why do I sigh to find 
 Life's evening shadows gathering round my way ? 
 The keen eye dimming, and the buoyant mind 
 
 Unhinging day by day ? 
 
 Is it the natural dread 
 Of that stern lot, which all who live must see ? 
 The worm, the clay, the dark and narrow bed. — 
 
 Have these such awe for me ? 
 
24 DECLINING DAYS. 
 
 Can I not summon pride 
 To fold my decent mantle round my breast ; 
 And lay me down at nature's Eventide, 
 
 Calm to my dreamless rest ? 
 
 As nears my soul the verge 
 Of this dim continent of woe and crime, 
 Shrinks she to hear Eternity's long surge 
 
 Break on the shores of Time ? 
 
 Asks she, how she shall fare 
 When conscience stands before the Judge's throne, 
 And gives her record in, and all shall there 
 
 Know, as they all are known ? 
 
 A solemn scene and time — 
 And well may Nature quail to feel them near — 
 But grace in feeble breasts can work sublime. 
 
 And faith o'ermaster fear ! 
 
DECLINING DAYS. 
 
 Hark ! from that throne comes down 
 A voice which strength to sinking souls can give. 
 That voice all Judgment's thunders cannot drown ; 
 
 " Believe," it cries, "and live." 
 
 Weak — sinful, as I am, 
 That still small voice forbids me to despond ; 
 Faith clings for refuge to the bleeding Lamb, 
 
 Nor dreads the gloom beyond.- — 
 
 'Tis not then earth's delights 
 From which my spirit feels so loath to part ; 
 Not the dim future's solemn sounds or sights 
 
 That press so on my heart. 
 
 No ! 'tis the thought that I — 
 My lamp so low, my sun so nearly set, 
 Have lived so useless, so unmiss'd should die : — 
 
 'Tis this, I now regret. — 
 
 
26 DECLINING DAYS. 
 
 I would not be the wave 
 That swells and ripples up to yonder shore ; 
 That drives impulsive on, the wild wind's slave, 
 
 And breaks, and is no more ! — 
 
 I would not be the breeze, 
 That murmurs by me in its viewless play, 
 Bends the light grass, and nutters in the trees, 
 
 And sighs and flits away ! 
 
 No ! not like wave or wind 
 Be my career across the earthly scene ; 
 To come and go, and leave no trace behind 
 
 To say that I have been. 
 
 I want not vulgar fame — 
 I seek not to survive in brass or stone ; 
 Hearts may not kindle when they hear my name, 
 
 Nor tears my value own. — 
 
DECLINING DAYS. 27 
 
 But might I leave behind 
 Some blessing for my fellows, some fair trust 
 To guide, to cheer, to elevate my kind 
 
 When T was in the dust. 
 
 Within my narrow bed 
 Might I not wholly mute or useless be ; 
 But hope that they, who trampled o'er my head 
 
 Drew still some good from me ! 
 
 Might my poor lyre but gave 
 Some simple strain, some spirit-moving lay ; 
 Some sparklet of the Soul, that still might live 
 
 When I was passed to clay ! 
 
 Might verse of mine inspire 
 One virtuous aim, one high resolve impart ; 
 Light in one drooping soul a hallow' d fire, 
 
 Or bind one broken heart. 
 
28 DECLINING DAYS. 
 
 Death would be sweeter then. 
 More calm my slumber 'neath the silent sod ; 
 Might I thus live to bless my fellow men. 
 
 Or glorify my Grod ! 
 
 Why do we ever lose 
 A.s judgment ripens our diviner powers ? 
 Why do we only learn our gifts to use 
 
 When they no more are ours ? 
 
 Thou ! whose touch can lend 
 Life to the dead, Thy quick'ning grace supply. 
 
 And grant me, swanlike, my last breath to spend 
 In song that may not die ! 
 
 

 THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL 
 
 Bied of my breast, away ! 
 The long-wish' d hour is come ! 
 On to the realms of cloudless day, 
 On to thy glorious home ! 
 
 Long has been thine to mourn 
 In banishment and pain. 
 Return, thou wand'ring dove, return. 
 And find thy ark again ! 
 
 Away, on joyous wing, 
 Immensity to range ; 
 Around the throne to soar and sing, 
 And faith for sight exchange 
 
30 THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 
 
 Lo ! to the golden gate 
 What shining thousands come ! 
 My trembling Soul, for thee they wait, 
 To guard and guide thee home. 
 
 J [ark ! from on high they speak, 
 That bright and blessed train, 
 " Kise, Heaven-born spirit, rise, and seek 
 Thy rest in Heaven gain. 
 
 " Sweet are the songs above, 
 Where hearts are all in tune ; 
 They feed upon unfailing love, 
 And bask in glory's noon. 
 
 " Their struggles all are still, 
 Their days of darkness o'er ; 
 At rapture's fount they drink at will. 
 And drink for evermore. 
 
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 31 
 
 u Ree, then, from sin and woe, 
 
 To joys immortal dee ; 
 Quit thy dark prison-house below. 
 And be for ever free !" 
 
 I come, ye blessed throng, 
 Your tasks and joys to share ; 
 0, till my lips with holy song, 
 My drooping wing upbear. 
 
 Friends of my heart, adieu ! 
 1 cannot weep to-day. 
 The tears that nature prompts for you 
 Are dried in glory's ray. 
 
 I see the King of kings, 
 His glorious voice I hear. 
 O, who can dwell on earthly things 
 With Heaven so bright and near ? 
 
32 
 
 NAPOLEON'S OEAVE. 
 
 Addressed to the French nation on their proposing to remove 
 Napoleon's remains from St. Helena to France. 
 
 Disturb him not ! he slumbers well 
 
 On his rock 'mid the western deep, 
 Where the broad blue waters round him swell, 
 
 And the tempests o'er him sweep. 
 O, leave him where his mountain bed 
 
 Looks o'er the Atlantic wave, 
 And the mariner high in the far grey sky 
 
 Points out Napoleon's grave ! 
 
 There, 'midst three mighty continents 
 
 That trembled at his word, 
 Wrapt in his shroud of airy cloud. 
 
 Sleeps Europe's warrior lord : 
 
NAPOLEON S GRAVE. 
 
 And there, on the heights, still seems to stand. 
 At eve, his Bhadowy form ; 
 
 His grey capote on the mist to float, 
 And his voice in the midnight storm. 
 
 Disturb him not ! though bleak and bare. 
 
 That spot is all his own ; 
 And truer homage was paid him there 
 
 Than on his hard-won throne. 
 Earth's trembling monarchs there at bay 
 
 The caged lion kept ; 
 For they knew with dread that his iron tread 
 
 Woke earthquakes where he stept. 
 
 Disturb him not! vain France, thy clime 
 
 No resting-place supplies, 
 So meet, so glorious, so sublime, 
 
 As that where thy Hero lies. 
 
34 NAPOLEON S GRAVE. 
 
 Mock not that grim and mouldering wreck ! 
 
 Eevere that bleaching brow ! 
 Nor call the dead from his grave to deck 
 
 A puppet pageant now ! 
 
 Born in a time when blood and crime 
 
 Eaged through thy realm at will, 
 He waved his hand o'er the troubled land, 
 
 And the storm at once was still. 
 He reared from the dust thy prostrate state ; 
 
 Thy war-flag wide unfurl' d ; 
 And bade thee thunder at every gate 
 
 Of the capitals of the world. 
 
 And will ye from his rest dare call 
 
 The thunderbolt of war ! 
 To grin and chatter around his pall, 
 
 And scream your " vive la gloire P" 
 
NAPOLEON s GRAVE. 35 
 
 Shall melo-dramic obsequiee 
 
 His honoured dust deride? 
 Forbid it, human sympathies ! 
 
 Forbid it, Gallic pride ! 
 
 What ! will no withering thought occur. 
 
 No thrill of cold mistrust, 
 How empty all this pomp and stir 
 
 Above a little dust ? 
 And will it not your pageant dim, 
 
 Tour arrogance rebuke, 
 To see what now remains of him, 
 
 Who once the empires shook p 
 
 Then let him rest in his stately couch 
 
 Beneath the open sky, 
 Where the wild waves dash, and the light ni 
 flash, 
 And the stonns go wailing by. 
 n 2 
 
36 XAPOLEON S GRAVE. 
 
 5Tes, let him rest ! such men as he 
 Are of no time or place ; 
 
 They live for ages yet to be, 
 They die for all their race. 
 
37 
 
 GRACE DARLING'S DEATH-BED. 
 
 wipe the death-dews from her brow ! — prop up 
 
 her sinking head ! — 
 And let the sea-breeze on her face its welcome 
 
 freshness shed ! 
 She loves to see the western sun pour glory o'er 
 
 the deep ; 
 And the music of the rippling waves may sing her 
 
 into sleep. 
 Her heart has long, 'mid other scenes, for these 
 
 pour'd out the sigh ; 
 And now back to her highland home she comes — 
 
 but comes to die. 
 
38 GRACE DARLINGS DEATH-BED. 
 
 Yes, fearful in its loveliness, that cheek's prophetic 
 
 bloom ; 
 That lustrous eye is lighted from a world beyond 
 
 the tomb ; 
 Those thin transparent fingers, that hold the book 
 
 of prayer, 
 That form, which melts like summer snow, too 
 
 plainly speak despair. 
 And they that tend around her bed, oft turn to 
 
 wipe the tear, 
 That starts forth, as they view her thus, so fleeting, 
 
 and so dear. 
 
 Not such was she that awful night when o'er 
 
 Northumbrian foam 
 The shipwreck' d seaman's cry was heard within 
 
 that rocky home. 
 Amid the pauses of the storm it loud and louder 
 
 came, 
 
GRACE DARLINGS DEATH-BED. 39 
 
 And thrilled into her inmost soul, and nerved her 
 
 fragile frame. 
 " Oh, father, let us launch the boat, and try their 
 
 lives to save." 
 " Be still, my child, we should but go to share their 
 
 watery grave." 
 
 Again they shriek. " O father, come, the Lord our 
 
 guide will be : 
 A word from Him can stay the blast, and tame the 
 
 raging sea." 
 And lo ! at length her plea prevails ; their skilf is 
 
 on the wave. 
 Protect them, gracious Heaven ; protect the gentle, 
 
 kind, and brave. 
 They reach the rock, and, wond'rous sight to those 
 
 they succour there, 
 A feeble girl achieving more than boldest men 
 
 would dare ! 
 
40 GRACE DARLINGS DEATH-BED. 
 
 Again, again her venturous bark bounds o'er the 
 
 foaming tide ; 
 Again in safety goes and comes beneath its Heavenly 
 
 guide. 
 Nor shrinks that maid's heroic heart, nor fails her 
 
 willing hand, 
 'Till all the remnant of the wreck are ferried safe 
 
 to land. 
 The cord o'erstrung relaxes then, and tears begin 
 
 to fall ; — 
 But tears of love and praise to Him, whose mercy 
 
 saved them all. 
 
 A deed like this could not be hid. Upon the wings 
 of fame, 
 
 To ev'ry corner of our isle, flew forth Grace Dar- 
 ling's name ; 
 
 And tongues were loud in just applause, and bo- 
 soms highly beat, 
 
GRACE DARLINGS DEATH-BED. 41 
 
 And tributes from the great and good were lavished 
 
 at her feet ; 
 While she, who braved the midnight blast, and rode 
 
 the stormy swell, 
 Shrank timid, trembling, from the praise that she 
 
 had earned so well. 
 
 Why did they tempt her forth to scenes she ill was 
 
 formed to share ? 
 Why bid her face the curious crowd, the question, 
 
 and the stare ? 
 She did not risk her life that night to earn the 
 
 world's applause : 
 Her own heart's impulse sent her forth in pity's 
 
 holy cause. 
 And richly were her toils repaid, and well her soul 
 
 content 
 With the sweet thought of duty done, of succour 
 
 timely lent. 
 
42 GRACE DARLING S DEATH-BED. 
 
 Her tender spirit sinks apace. 0, bear the droop- 
 ing flower 
 
 Back to its native soil again — its own secluded 
 bower ! 
 
 Amidst admiring multitudes, she sighs for home 
 and rest : 
 
 Let the meek turtle fold her wing within her own 
 wild nest ; 
 
 And drink the sights and sounds she loves, and 
 breathe her wonted air, 
 
 And find with them a quiet hour for thoughtful- 
 ness and prayer ! 
 
 And she has reach' d her sea-girt home — and she can 
 
 smile once more ; 
 But ah, a faint and moonlight smile, without the 
 
 glow of yore ! 
 The breeze breathes not as once it did upon her 
 
 fever' d brow ; 
 
 
r.ItACE DARLINGS DEATH-BED. IS 
 
 The waves talk on, but in her breast awake no 
 
 echoes now : 
 For vague and fliekering are her thoughts, her soul 
 
 is on the wing 
 For Heaven, and has but little heed for earth or 
 
 earthly thing. 
 
 " My Father, dost thou hear their shriek ? dost hear 
 their drowning cry ?" 
 
 " No, dearest, no ; 'twas but the scream of the cur- 
 lew flitting by. 1 ' 
 
 Poor panting, fluttering, hectic thing, thy tossings 
 soon will cease, 
 
 Thou art passing through a troubled sea, but to a 
 land of peace ! 
 
 And He, who to a shipwreck'd world brought rescue, 
 O may He 
 
 Be near thy dying pillow now, sweet Grace, to 
 succour thee ! 
 
 
44 
 
 LONGINGS FOE HOME. 
 
 Stern Britain, why a home deny 
 To one who loves thee well as I ? 
 Who woos thee with as warm a zeal 
 As sons for tenderest mothers feel, 
 Would hold to thee through good and ill, 
 Yet finds thee but a Step-dame still ? 
 Earth has for me no place of rest 
 So dear as thy parental breast, 
 No spot to which so close I cling 
 As to the shelter of thy wing ; 
 And yet thou spurn' st me from thee, yea, 
 Spurn' st like a prodigal away ; 
 
LONGINGS FOR HOME. 45 
 
 Thou fling' st me suppliant from thy side. 
 To float a wreck upon the tide ; 
 A boundless world at will to roam, 
 And sigh and think of thee and home ! 
 
 Here, amidst fabled woods and streams, 
 The classic haunts of youthful dreams, 
 'Mid crumbling fanes and ruins hoary, 
 Rich with the hues of antique glory ; 
 Where every hill and every dell 
 Has its own stirring tale to tell, 
 And thoughtful pilgrims oft compare 
 The tilings that are with things that were. 
 Yes, here, where seems so much combined 
 To soothe the sense and fill the mind, 
 All rich, all bright, around, above, 
 And soft as is the voice of love, — 
 While at my feet in silver flakes 
 The evening billow gently breaks, — 
 
46 LONGINGS FOR HOME. 
 
 I stand and muse, and o'er the sea, 
 My thoughts roam off to home and thee. 
 
 O what is all that earth bestows, 
 All that mere sense enjoys and knows, 
 The fairest fields, the sunniest skies, 
 To life's diviner charities ? 
 Perchance this eve, so lovely here, 
 In my own land is bleak and drear ; 
 And clouded skies and blustry weather, 
 Drive my own dear Ones close together ; 
 And round the hearth their beaming faces 
 Perhaps take now their wonted places, 
 Each with his little social mite 
 To aid the general stock to-night ; — 
 His flowret on Time's path to fling, 
 Or add a feather to his wing. 
 O, loved Ones, at this happy season 
 Of tender thought and social reason, 
 
LONGINGS FOR HOME. \~ 
 
 When hearts are full, and fancy free, 
 do you sometimes think of me ? — 
 Think of your absent wanderer, who 
 So fondly hangs on home and you, 
 And would this moment rather share 
 Your homely fireside converse there, 
 And smile with you 'neath wintry skies, 
 Than reign in this fair paradise ? 
 
 Alas ! 'tis by their loss alone 
 Our truest blessings oft are known. 
 If earth wears here a sunnier hue, 
 Man is the plant that thrives with you ; 
 A plant matured by want and toil, 
 Aud noblest oft on poorest soil. 
 If bleak your hills and rough your clime, 
 They are not rank with weeds of crime ; 
 The social virtues there take root, 
 And freedom bears her richest fruit, 
 
48 LONGINGS FOR HOME. 
 
 While industry and skill supplies 
 "What niggard nature else denies. 
 The poor man's rights have honour due, 
 The wronged and weak redress with you. 
 And boundless as yon subject sea, 
 Large as the world, your charity. 
 Within your happy homes meanwhile 
 Order, and peace, and comfort smile ; 
 And fertile are your rugged lands 
 In manly minds, and hearts, and hands, 
 In generous aims and thoughts elate, 
 And all that makes men good and great. 
 And more than all to you is given 
 High intercourse with God and heaven. 
 Religion walking through your land 
 Showers down her gifts with liberal hand, 
 And bids the desert, as she goes, 
 Rejoice and blossom like the rose. 
 This is thy glory, Britain ; tin's 
 
LONGINGS FOR HOME. 49 
 
 Makes thy fair Island what it is — 
 With all its faults, in moral worth, 
 The Eden of this fallen earth. 
 
 O gifts too lightly valued — how 
 My thirsty soul would prize them now ! 
 Those hallowed Sabbaths, calm and fair, 
 That still well-ordered house of prayer, 
 The call that bids the weary come, 
 The ray that lights the wanderer home ; 
 The Spirits whisper from above 
 The still small voice of truth and love. 
 O when, my own loved lost Ones, when 
 Shall we such blessings share again ? 
 Drink of the sacred springs that flow 
 With balm for every want and woe, 
 Lift up our hearts in prayer and praise 
 Bequeathed from wiser, better days, 
 
 E 
 
50 LONGINGS FOR HOME. 
 
 And round the Holy altar fare 
 
 On food that Angels may not share ? — 
 
 When shall such joys be ours ? From high 
 
 Heard I a solemn voice reply : 
 
 " Live to your Saviour : watch and pray. 
 
 Grow in His image day by day ; 
 
 And know the Souls which thus improve 
 
 In meekness, duty, faith, and love, 
 
 Though severed in this world of pain, 
 
 In earth or Heaven shall meet again !" 
 
 Naples, Christmas, 1844. 
 
51 
 
 THOUGHTS IN WEAKNESS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 ENCOURAGEMENT. 
 
 Three mighty companies compose 
 
 The armies of the Lord ; 
 Upon His love they all repose, 
 
 And wait upon His word. 
 Unlike the offices they fill, 
 
 The homage that they bring, 
 But one their ceaseless object still 
 
 To glorify their King. 
 
 The first in rank and station — they 
 The bright angelic train, 
 e2 
 
52 THOUGHTS IN WEAKNESS. 
 
 Who never bowed 'neath sorrow's sway, 
 
 Nor felt corruption's stain. 
 And yet they feel for man's distress, 
 
 His every trial share, 
 Nor spurn the meanest services 
 
 To help salvation's heir. 
 
 The next — a band of humbler birth, — 
 
 But scarce of humbler place, 
 Who fought and bled for Christ on earth, 
 
 And triumphed through His grace. 
 Their secret wrestlings, hidden life, 
 
 To Him were not unknown : 
 His arm sustained them through the strife, 
 
 And now they share His throne. 
 
 The last are they who still maintain 
 The conflict here below, 
 
ENCOURAGEMENT. 53 
 
 Whose portion still is sin and pain, 
 
 The danger and the foe. 
 They oft are foil'd, they oft despair, 
 
 But help from high is given ; 
 They struggle on through faith and prayer, 
 
 Aud fight their way to heaven. 
 
 And these — though poor and weak they be. 
 
 The Saviour owns them still ; 
 They serve Him, though imperfectly, 
 
 And yearn to work His will. 
 Temptation's tide they strive to stem, 
 
 Though faitli at times burns dim, 
 Nor find the Lord deserting them, 
 
 "While they depend on Him. 
 
 The world, the flesh, the Evil One, 
 
 Assault them hour by hour ; 
 And soon must all their hopes be gone, 
 
 If left to Nature's power. 
 
54 THOUGHTS IN WEAKNESS. 
 
 But arm'd by Christ's own plighted word, 
 
 When fiercest foes assail, 
 They meet them with the Spirit's sword, 
 
 Nor find the weapon fail. 
 
 O mighty is the power of prayer, 
 
 The promise large and true ; 
 The feeblest heart need not despair 
 
 With these to bear it through. 
 Though darkest clouds o'ercast the sky, 
 
 Though wave call out to wave, 
 Enough to know the Saviour nigh, 
 
 To bless, to guide, to save. 
 
 Shall flesh and blood presume to shrink 
 While He vouchsafes to aid ? 
 
 Shall nature hear that voice and sink, — 
 "'Tis I, be not afraid?" 
 
 Behold — 'tis Jesus walks the deck ; 
 What fears our hearts o'erwhelm ? 
 
 i 
 

 ENCOURAGEMENT. 
 
 Can wildest waves the vessel wreck 
 While He is at the helm ? 
 
 O, strange our courage e'er should reel 
 
 With Him so near and kind ; 
 So often rescued, — yet to feel 
 
 So trustless and so blind ! 
 O, strange to know all Heaven to be 
 
 Upon our side arrayed, 
 All cheering, strengthening us, and we 
 
 By every breath dismayed ! 
 
 Go ask those victors now on high 
 
 What help'd them on to Heaven. — 
 The very arms, they all reply, 
 
 To you as freely given. 
 Our hearts, like your's, were faint and frail. 
 
 Our foes as hard to tame ; 
 But grace we found o'er all prevail. 
 
 Oh, try and find the same ! 
 
THOUGHTS IN WEAKNESS. 
 
 PABT II. 
 SUBMISSION. 
 
 Yet think not, 0, my Soul, to keep 
 
 Thy progress on to God, 
 By any road less rough and steep 
 
 Than that thy Fathers trod. 
 In tears and trials thou must sow 
 
 To reap in joy and love. 
 We cannot find our home below, 
 
 And hope for one above. 
 
 No — here we labour, watch, and pray, 
 Our rest and peace are there — 
 
 God will not take the thorn away, 
 But gives us strength to bear. 
 
 The holiest, greatest, best have thus 
 In wisdom learnt to grow : 
 
SUBMISSION. 57 
 
 Tea, He that gave Himself for us 
 
 Was perfected by woe. 
 
 Thou — Man of Sorrows, — Thou didst not 
 
 The bitter cup decline. 
 Why should I claim a better lot, 
 
 A smoother path than Thine ? 
 Thou sought' st no treasure here on earth. 
 
 No glory 'neath the skies ; 
 And what Thou deem'dst so little worth. 
 
 Shall I so highly prize ': 
 
 Did not reproach and wrong rain down 
 
 Upon Thy hallowed head F 
 Didst Thou not strip off glory's crown 
 
 To wear the thorns instead r 
 When foes reviled didst Thou reply. 
 
 Or render ill for ill ? 
 Didst Thou for man bleed, faint, and die ; 
 
 And shall I fetter still ? 
 
 
53 THOUGHTS IN WEAKNESS. 
 
 In early life to Thee I was 
 
 Consigned by solemn vow : 
 Enlisted 'neath Thy Holy Cross, 
 
 Shall I desert it now ? 
 I then, 'gainst ev'ry hostile power, 
 
 Engaged to follow Thee ; 
 And shall I, at the trying hour, 
 
 Be found the first to flee ? 
 
 Thou didst not flee, King of Love, 
 
 When Thou wert sorely tried ; 
 When all men fled, and God above 
 
 Appeared His face to hide. 
 Intent That guiltless Blood to shed 
 
 That should for guilt atone, 
 The mighty wine-press Thou did'st tread, 
 
 Unshrinking, though alone. 
 
 And shall I murmur or repine 
 At aught Thy Hand may send ? 
 
 
SUBMISSION. 59 
 
 To whom should I my cause resign, 
 
 If not to such a Friend ? 
 Where Love and Wisdom deign to choose, 
 
 Shall I the choice condemn ; 
 Or dare the medicine to refuse 
 
 That is prescribed by them ? 
 
 Oh, small the gain when men aspire 
 
 Their Maker to control. 
 He gives, perhaps, their hearts 1 desire, 
 
 And leanness to their soul. 
 Not His to quench the smoking flax, 
 
 Or break the bruised reed ; 
 Or with one pang our patience tax, 
 
 But what He knows we need. 
 
 Yet must our stedfastness be tried, — 
 
 Yet must our graces grow 
 By holy warfare. What beside 
 
 Did we expect below ? 
 
60 THOUGHTS IN WEAKNESS. 
 
 Is not the way to Heavenly gain 
 Through earthly grief and loss ? 
 
 Kest must be won by toil and pain — 
 The Crown repays the Cross. 
 
 As woods, when shaken by the breeze, 
 
 Take deeper, firmer root, 
 As winter's frosts but make the trees 
 
 Abound in summer fruit ; 
 So every Heaven-sent pang and throe 
 
 That Christian firmness tries, 
 But nerves us for our work below, 
 
 And forms us for the skies. 
 
61 
 
 PAET TTT. 
 
 ACTION. 
 
 AlWJlY then causeless doubts and fears 
 
 That weaken and enthral ; 
 Wipe off, my Soul, thy faithless tears, 
 
 And rise to duty's call. 
 How much is there to win and do, 
 
 How much to help and cheer! 
 Tlu k fields are white, the labourers few ; 
 
 Wilt thou sit 'plaining here ? 
 
 Awake, my Soul, to duty wake ; 
 
 Go pay the debt thou ow'st. 
 G-o forward, — and the night shall break 
 
 Around thee as thou go'st. 
 A Eed Sea may before thee flow, 
 
 Egyptian hosts pursue ; 
 
62 
 
 THOUGHTS IN WEAKNESS. 
 
 But He that bids thee onward go 
 Will ope a pathway too. 
 
 Swift fly the hours, and brief the time 
 
 For action or repose ; — 
 Fast flits this scene of woe and crime, 
 
 And soon the whole shall close ; 
 The evening shadows deeper fall, 
 
 The daylight dies away. 
 Wake, slumberer, at the Master's call, 
 
 And work while it is day ! 
 
 Rome, April 17, 1845. 
 
63 
 
 THE CZAE IN EOME. 
 
 The mighty Caesar of the North 
 
 Has entered Borne to-day. 
 Why peal her bells no greetings forth, 
 
 Her crowds no tributes pay ? 
 " Stranger, we love the great and good ; 
 But honour not the Man of blood 1 ! 
 
 " The Man of blood ! Can one so high 
 Upon the lists of fame, 
 
 1 In December, 1845, the Emperor Nicholas of Russia, 
 after being at Palermo and Naples, came to Rome, but met 
 with no welcome or greeting there. His reputation had come 
 before him, and all were indignant at his tyrannical conduct 
 towards his Polish subjects, and his persecution of the unfor- 
 tunate Roman Catholics in his dominions, whom he wished to 
 compel to conform to the Greek Church. 
 
64 THE CZAR IN ROME. 
 
 Who looks and moves thus royally, 
 
 Deserve so dark a name ?" 
 " Yes ! let the pining Exile tell, 
 The bleeding Martyr say, how well ! ' ' 
 
 While through these streets he sweeps to-day, 
 
 The gaze of thousand eyes, 
 A victim of his iron sway 
 
 In yonder convent lies ', 
 And pleads for her oppressor there. — 
 O King of kings, fulfil her prayer ! 
 
 The soul that looks through such an eye, 
 That sits on such a brow ; 
 
 1 One of the unfortunate nuns from the convent of Minsk, 
 of whom more than thirty had perished under the frightful 
 persecutions to which they were subjected, escaped from Russia, 
 and found her way to Rome, and was thus in a great measure 
 the means of informing the world of the cruelties that were 
 going on in Russia. 
 
THE CZAB 1\ ROME. 65 
 
 Must have Its instincts rare and high, 
 
 Though undeveloped now ; 
 And moral music, strong and deep, 
 Among its chords must surely sleep \ 
 
 And who shall say, within that breast 
 What throes e'en now may work ? 
 
 Seems there no sign of strange unrest 
 Beneath that brow to hu k p 
 
 No troubled wave to heave and roll 
 
 O'er the proud stillness of his soul ? 
 
 This morn St. Peter's courts he trod, 
 
 With stately step and stern, 
 Encounter' d there the man of God ;■ — 
 
 And how did he return ? 
 
 1 The Emperor Nicholas is said to be the finest looking man 
 in Europe. 
 
66 THE CZAR IN ROME. 
 
 With faltering foot, and darken' d look, 
 That spoke confusion and rebuke 1 . 
 
 Did some strong truth, all new and strange, 
 
 Blest by the great " I am," 
 Drop from those reverend lips, and change 
 
 The Lion to the Lamb ? 
 Did pride feel there abash' d and awed, 
 xlnd conscience own the voice of God ? 
 
 This morn before St. Peter's shrine 
 
 In lowly guise he knelt. 
 Fell on him there some Grace divine. 
 
 With power to move and melt ? 
 
 1 The Emperor, the morning after his arrival, had an audience 
 with the Pope, who appears to have spoken with great firmness 
 and dignity upon the occasion ; and when the Emperor left his 
 presence his face was flushed, the sweat stood on his brow, and 
 he was evidently ill at ease. 
 
THE CZAR IN ROME, 0*7 
 
 A lid ilrw to him some wing of Love 
 Charged with an unction from above 1 ? 
 
 While prostrate 'neath that ample dome 
 
 Amidst the holy dead, 
 Touch'd with the claims of injured Borne, 
 
 His soul may well have said, 
 " Surely the Lord is in this spot, 
 And I, insensate, knew it not!" 
 
 Might one such feeling reach hie heart. 
 
 One thought like this prevail, 
 " Remember, mortal, what thou art, 
 
 Accountable and frail !" 
 
 1 After leaving the Pope, the Emperor went into St. Peter's, 
 where he seemed awed with the majesty of the place, and fell 
 prostrate before St. Peter's shrine, and kissed the ground. 
 (The Greeks are worshippers of the saints, even more than th< 
 Etonian Catholics.) It is even said, that there he told his at- 
 tendants, that if the Roman Catholics had been persecuted in 
 Russia, they should be so no more. 
 
 r 2 
 
63 THE CZAR IN ROME. 
 
 The crowns and sceptres of this earth, 
 Weigh'd with that thought, had little worth. 
 
 And where so well might moods like these 
 
 Upon the spirit come 
 As here, where sighs the autumn breeze 
 
 O'er desolated Rome ; 
 Where every stone its moral brings ; 
 Where tread we on the dust of kings ? 
 
 Saw ye a shadowy hand sublime 
 
 Write on that ruin'd wall ? 
 Heard ye a voice, the voice of Time, 
 
 Erom yon grey turret call ? 
 " All fleets, all fades beneath the skies ; 
 O man, be humble and be wise !" 
 
 Gro forth then, King of nations : march 
 Along the Sacred way ; 
 
THE CZAR IN ROME. 69 
 
 Stand 'neath the yet unbroken areh 
 
 Of him who lost a day, 
 When he had done no generous deed ; 
 And wilt thou there no lesson read l ? 
 
 Go where the Coliseum rears 
 
 Its sad, majestic pile, — 
 The pride and shame of former years : — 
 
 Go, when the moonbeams smile, 
 And talk with the historic dead, 
 Who there have revell'd, — or have bled ! 
 
 The Tyrant's trophies sink to dust 2 ; 
 The Hero's still arise, 
 
 1 A friend of mine saw the Emperor twice standing in 
 meditative mood under the arch of Titus ; and he paid three 
 visits to the Coliseum. 
 
 2 It is remarked, that the only monumental remains now- 
 standing at Rome are, with one trifling exception, such as were 
 erected to commemorate the lives and actions of the most \ir- 
 
70 THE CZAR IN ROME. 
 
 True to their monumental trust, — 
 
 Lo, in the evening skies, 
 How freshly bright the columns shine 
 Of Trajan and of Antonine ! 
 
 Go, then, to these mute teachers ; go ! 
 
 And if, like genial rain, 
 Their lore upon thy heart shall flow, 
 
 Thou cam'st not here in vain ; 
 Nor shalt thou fail to carry home 
 A blessing from Eternal Eome ! 
 
 tuous of her ancient heroes. The most perfect of these remains 
 are the pillars of Trajan and Antoninus, the most excellent of 
 her rulers. 
 
n 
 
 FBAGMENTS 
 
 OF AN UNFINISHED POEM, ENTITLED LILLA. 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 I # * * # # 
 
 'Tis pleasant to walk the broad sea- shore 
 
 When the soul is dark, or the heart is sore. 
 
 The waves give forth a soothing sound, 
 
 As they boom along the shelving ground ; 
 
 The crispness of the salt-sea air 
 
 Breathes fresh on the fever'd brow of care : 
 
 And the waters, melting into the sky, 
 
 Send the spirit on to Eternity! 
 
 So felt Sir Rupert, as o'er the sands 
 
 That skirted his own brave house ami lands 
 
72 FRAGMENTS 
 
 He paced, but in dark regardless mood 
 Of aught that there his attention woo'd. 
 
 The sky was clear, and the sun was bright, 
 The blue waves danced in the shifting light, 
 And the foam-bells on the sand uproll'd 
 Like silvery fret on a floor of gold. 
 The far white ships sail'd stately by, 
 The seamew flitted and laugh' d on high. 
 But all appear' d in vain to woo 
 Sir Rupert's thoughts to a livelier hue. 
 
 From that mysterious race I'm sprung 
 That lived with man, when the world was young : 
 But ever since envy and lust possess' d, 
 And ruled and sullied his own pure breast, 
 They have fled from earthly folly and art, 
 And dwell in a world of their own apart : 
 Hiding in Nature's secluded bowers, 
 Watching and tending her fruits and flowers, 
 
OF AN UNFINISHED POEM. 73 
 
 Giving the blossom its scent and hue, 
 And the feinting leaf its drink of dew ; 
 Spanning the shower with its bright brief arc!) 
 Leading the seasons their stately march, 
 Staving the storm in his fierce career. — 
 These are the tasks which engage us here. 
 Not that we less count man our friend, 
 Or fail on his homely wants to tend. 
 We note the housewife's honest cares, 
 And speed her labours all unawares. 
 We succour the mower down in the mead, 
 And help the ploughman to sow his seed. 
 We smoothe the pillow where sickness lies, 
 And shake sweet sleep o'er the infant's eyes. 
 But we mingle not in man's vain affairs, 
 Nor darken our path with his fears and cares ; 
 And the Court, the City, the festive hall, 
 We feel as strangers amidst them all. 
 
74 FRAGMENTS 
 
 'Tis merry, 'tis merry in Colmar towers, 
 On Rostan's hills, and in Binda's bowers, 
 In humble cot, and in stately hall ; 
 There are happy looks and hearts in all. 
 The cloud that hung o'er the whole is fled, 
 And the broad clear sun laughs out instead. 
 One influence sweet, one presence bright, 
 Has quicken' d the darkness into light. 
 Woman's soft smile is in Colmar found, 
 And it blesses and gladdens all around. 
 This Rupert felt, as from day to day 
 Lilla spread round her gentle sway ; 
 All, all beneath her influence grew 
 To a better tone, to a brighter hue. 
 Old Colmar' s courts no longer wore 
 Their lorn and desolate air of yore ; 
 A cheerful bustle ran through the place, 
 Content sat beaming on every face ; 
 And active feet and diligent hands, 
 
OF AX UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 Eager to work her light commands; 
 
 And all on their various tasks intent, 
 At their Lady's bidding came and went. 
 
 All into life by her eye seem'd warm'd; 
 All to her own sweet will conform' d ; 
 Till throughout that grim old gothic pile 
 Order and neatness began to smile ; 
 And comfort lighted up there a home 
 That stole from the heart all wish to roam. 
 
 >.'or less did improvement win its way 
 O'er all that around the castle lay. 
 The lawn, of late so rugged and wild, 
 take emerald velvet now glow'd and smiled. 
 The walk with mosses and weeds o'erspread 
 Woo'd the light step o'er its gravelly bed. 
 Trees and shrubs that had wont to swing 
 Their long lank arms on the wild- wind's wing, 
 Were taught to conform their savage will 
 To the eve of taste and the hand of skill. 
 
 
76 FRAGMENTS 
 
 The fount, that long had forgot to play, 
 Sparkled once more in the morning ray. 
 The vine clung again to the elm-tree tall, 
 And the plum hung blue on the garden wall. — 
 And then the flowers, the laughing flowers, 
 The playmates of Lilla's earliest hours, 
 How did she revel among them ! how 
 Watch, and nurse, and enjoy them now ! 
 Whether they grew on the wild bank, known 
 To the wandering bee and the lark alone ; 
 Or bloom' d in the garden's courtly bed, 
 Like orient beauties in harem bred ; 
 Prom the queen-like rose to the harebell small, 
 Gentle and simple she loved them all. 
 
 She loved whatever was lovely here ; 
 And flowers, sweet flowers, to her heart were dear. 
 She knew their ways, and her joy and pride 
 Was to gather them round her from every side, 
 
OF A\ UNFINISHED POFJM. 77 
 
 To give them the site which themselves would choose, 
 To trim their Leaves, and to match their hues ; 
 
 A stall' in the weak one's hand to place, 
 And lift to the sun its small pale face ; 
 To bring the diffident out to view, 
 
 The bold to check, and the proud subdue. 
 Not one of them all but had its share 
 Of her watchful love aud judicious care. 
 She flitted among them as it* on wings, 
 And talk'd to them all as to living things. 
 And they as conscious how greal their bliss. 
 Held up their cheeks for a passing kiss; 
 Flung in her pathway their sweetest scent. 
 And smiled and nodded as on she went. 
 • *###* 
 
 They wander down to the broad sea-shore, 
 But not in his once dark spirit of yore. 
 Now, not a wild wing thai across them flies. 
 Not a light shell in their path that lies, 
 
78 FRAGMENTS 
 
 Nothing in ocean, or earth, or sky, 
 Fails to awaken their sympathy. 
 Or, if the sun with his fiercer rays 
 Drives their steps to the woodland ways, 
 The squirrel is there with his chattering glee, 
 And the jay glad shouting from tree to tree ; 
 And the rabbit stirring the ferns among, 
 And the pheasant sunning her speckled young, 
 O ! nature a golden harvest yields 
 To all who will glean in her varied fields ; 
 But their brightest tints her objects wear 
 When those that we love are nigh to share ! 
 
 ^ $? $fc * ^ -K- 
 
 And ! she was rich in each social wile, 
 The night of its weariness to beguile ! 
 She spoke, and mute attention hung, 
 Persuasion dwelt on her silver tongue ; 
 Sweet fancies, clad in sweetest words, 
 Held the charm' d ear with magic cords. 
 
OF A\ UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 79 
 
 And judgment clear, and taste refined, 
 
 Brought food alike to the heart and mind. 
 
 And when her favourite Bonga she sung, 
 
 The birds stay'd theirs ; — the soft winds hung 
 
 Entranced around her to catch the tone, 
 
 And by her music to mend their own. 
 
 • •«#** 
 
 Each lived for each, one will, one heart ; 
 Without a thought or a wish apart. 
 As streams, from opposite hills that run, 
 But meet in the valley, and blend in one, 
 Their murmurs hush'd, and their wanderings past, 
 
 Glide on together in peace at last ! 
 
 » . * # # * * 
 
 SONG. 
 Weep on ! weep on ! 'tis a world of woe ; 
 "lis vain to expect aught else below. 
 The lite of man has but one true tone, 
 From its infantile cry, to its dying groan. 
 
80 FRAGMENTS 
 
 Each step he takes through a land of gloom, 
 But carries him onward to the tomb ; 
 And all that he meets with as he goes 
 Talks to his heart of the solemn close. 
 
 Weep on ! there are many with man to 
 weep, 
 The murmuring winds, and the moaning deep ; 
 The fading flower, and the falling dews, 
 And the year expiring in dolphin hues. 
 What says the rainbow's beautiful dream ? 
 Or the sunset's brief but gorgeous gleam ? 
 Or the summer lightning, now come, now gone ?— 
 We shine but to fade ! Weep on ! weep on ! 
 
 Weep on ! it is good on this earth to weep : 
 If we sow in tears, we hi joy may reap. 
 While the hopes that we madly cherish there 
 But pave the way to some new despair. 
 
OF AN UNFINISHED POEM. 81 
 
 Pale is the young cheek's richest bloom 
 When it strews the path to an early tomb ; 
 And dim the fire of the brightest eye 
 When a beacon that points to mortality. 
 
 Weep on ! weep on ! # # * 
 
82 
 
 THE 
 
 COMPLAINT OF MART MAGDALENE. 
 
 She sat far off, — she sat and wept, 
 
 Heart-broken Magdalene ! 
 Her dark and silent watch she kept 
 
 Throughout the awful scene. 
 No power had she to soothe or aid, 
 
 No hope to interpose ; 
 Yet love and grief her heart upstaid 
 
 To watch Him to the close. 
 
 'Twas He, 'twas He, who first the way 
 
 Of life to her had shown ; 
 Had freed her soul from Satan's sway, 
 
 And made it all His own. 
 
THK COMPLAINT OF MARY MAGDALENE. 13 
 
 Twas He Bhe soon had hoped to see 
 
 In Kingly glory rise, — 
 And now, upon the fatal Tree, 
 lLo bleeds, He taints, lie dies ! 
 
 And she lias follow' d Him through all 
 
 His wrongs and griefs to-day, 
 Stood with Him in the Judgment Hall, 
 
 Trod o'er the public way. 
 The seourge, the cords, the savage thorns. 
 
 She shared them to the elose ; 
 Scorn' d in her outraged Master's scorns. 
 
 And bleeding in His woes. 
 
 The ponderous Cross she saw Him bear, 
 
 .All fainting up the Hill ; 
 
 She saw them nail Him on it there 
 
 TTith unrelenting skill ; 
 g2 
 
84 THE COMPLAINT 
 
 She heard their wild and withering cry 
 
 As He aloft was swung, 
 Tbe gaze of every flashing eye, 
 
 The scoff of every tongue ! 
 
 No angel comes, on wings of love, 
 
 His sinking soul to cheer ; 
 The very Heavens seem shut above, 
 
 And Mercy fails to hear ; 
 Despised, deserted, crush' d, and awed, 
 
 He hangs upon the tree, 
 And cries in vain, " My God, My GJ-od, 
 
 Hast Thou forsaken me?" 
 
 trying scene for woman's eye ! 
 
 And yet she braved it all ; 
 The struggle and the agony, 
 
 The wormwood and the gall, — 
 
OF MARY MAGDALENE. 85 
 
 Though earth beneath in horror shook, 
 Though Heaven its light withdrew, 
 
 And sterner hearts the awe partook, 
 Yet woman braved it through. 
 
 She sat far off — she sat and wept, 
 
 Heart-broken Magdalene ! 
 Her dark and silent watch she kept 
 
 Throughout the trying scene ! 
 She sank not when His head He bow'd, 
 
 She bore His dying groan — 
 Till pass'd away the sated crowd, 
 
 And left her there alone ! 
 
 The shades of evening round her head 
 
 ]S T ow gather' d thick and fast ; 
 And forth her burthen' d spirit fled 
 
 In louder woe at last. 
 
86 THE COMPLAINT 
 
 Upon the ear of silent night, 
 Her plaintive murmurs broke, 
 
 And sorrow seem'd to grow more light 
 As thus she wept and spoke. — 
 
 " And is all over ? Can it be 
 
 That they have had their will ? 
 Thou hanging, Lord, on yonder tree, 
 
 And we surviving still ? 
 Is this to be the course and close 
 
 Of all Thy conflicts past ? 
 A brief, dark path through wrongs and woes 
 
 To such a death at last ? 
 
 " Yes, past all reach of ill Thou art, — 
 
 I see no living sign ; 
 And, O, that this sad struggling heart 
 
 Were now as still as Thine ! 
 
OF MARY MAGDALENE. 87 
 
 I groan — Thou canst not heed my groan. 
 
 Nor answer when I plain. — 
 All ! I shall never hear the tone 
 
 Of that blest voice again. 
 
 " hallow' d head ! compell'd to bow 
 
 Beneath unnumber'd scorns ; 
 O dear, dishonour' d, glorious brow, 
 
 Now crush' d beneath the thorns ; 
 O eyes, where Heaven seem' d once to reign. 
 
 Can ye grow glazed and dim ? 
 O death, by Him for others slain, 
 
 Canst thou have power o'er Him ? 
 
 " How could' st thou, brutal soldier, dare 
 
 To pierce that breast divine ? — 
 There never dwelt a feeling there 
 
 But love to thee and thine. 
 
88 THE COMPLAINT 
 
 How could ye harm one tender limb 
 
 Of His, ye murderous crew, 
 And know that while ye tortured Him 
 
 He pray'd for you, for you ? 
 
 " It must be right, I feel it must, 
 
 Though all is darkness now ; — 
 Lord, teach my trembling heart to trust, 
 
 And help my will to bow ! 
 'Tis hard upon that Cross to gaze, 
 
 INTor feel the Tempter's power. 
 O Grod ! sustain me through the maze 
 
 Of this mysterious hour ! 
 
 " Yes ! mystery o'er the whole doth hang, 
 
 To be unravelled still. 
 Who could on Him inflict a pang 
 
 Without the Sufferer's will? 
 
OF MARY MAGDALENE. 
 
 lie, whom the slumbering dead have heard, 
 Whose voice the winds could tame, 
 
 Could not He crush them with a wor4 
 If such had been His aim ? 
 
 " But I remember well, when hope 
 
 Seem'd most our hearts to cheer, 
 What hints and warnings He would drop 
 
 Of pain and trial near. 
 He, doubtless, was intent to give 
 
 A lesson here from high ; 
 And as He taught us how to live, 
 
 Would teach us now to die ! 
 
 " Yet surely 'twas a loftier task 
 That drew Him from the skies, 
 
 And ne'er could mere example ask 
 So dire a sacrifice ; — 
 
90 THE COMPLAINT 
 
 And surely these were all to tend 
 
 At last to brighter bliss, 
 Not prematurely here to end 
 
 In double night like this. 
 
 u All prophecy proclaims a time 
 
 When Satan's rule shall cease, 
 When Earth shall pass from woe and crime 
 
 To endless love and peace, — 
 When Death and Hell with all their hosts 
 
 Shall quail before their Lord, 
 And more than was in Adam lost 
 
 Shall be in Christ restored. 
 
 " Tes, Lord of lords, and King of kings, 
 
 For such Thou art to me, 
 My soul through doubt and darkness clings 
 
 With trembling faith to Thee, — 
 
OF MARY MAGDALENE, 91 
 
 I feel some brighter morn will yet, 
 
 Our shatter' d hopes surpri 
 And glory's sun, that now is set, 
 
 Again in glory rise. 
 
 " The great Messiah still Thou art, 
 
 Confirm' d by every sign ; 
 And this may all be but a part 
 
 Of some sublime design. 
 What God ordains must needs be best, — 
 
 What He permits is right ; 
 On Him, on Him my soul I rest, 
 
 And wait for further light. 
 
 " One mournful task is left me too, 
 
 Thy dear remains to tend ; 
 With honours due Thy bier to strew, 
 
 And watch Thee to the end. 
 
92 THE COMPLAINT OF MARY MAGDALENE. 
 
 Then let me to Thy lifeless clay 
 
 Still sadly, fondly cling, 
 And wait, and weep, and hope, and pray 
 
 For what the day may bring." — 
 
 She said, and seem'd to ease her breast 
 
 In these complaints and prayers ; 
 Then rose, and went to seek the rest, 
 
 And mingle tears with theirs. 
 She went the spices to provide, 
 
 His last sad rites to pay, — 
 Then by the tomb sat down and sigh'd, 
 
 "0, when will it be day?" 
 
93 
 
 JANUARY 1st, 1847. 
 
 What solemn footfall smote my startled ear? 
 
 Heard I the step of the departing year ? 
 
 Saw I her shadowy form flit slowly by, 
 
 To join her sisters in eternity ? — 
 
 Sweeping down thither, as the autumn's blast 
 
 Sweeps summer's Leaves, the records of the past, 
 
 The joys and griefs, the bustle and the strife, 
 
 The shadows and realities of life ? 
 
 Hear me, stern daughter of old Time, hear! — 
 
 Is there no plea may stay thy strong career ? 
 
 pause in pity! pause, and to my prayer 
 Grant a brief converse with the things that were- 
 
 1 know the retrospect has much to pain, 
 Much to be mended could all come again ; 
 
 
94 JANUARY 1ST, J 847. 
 
 Still, without one last look we must not sever. 
 Sad is the word that bids to part for ever ! 
 Beam, then, again on me, dear, kindly faces, 
 And smile your best, old times and well-known 
 
 places ; 
 Bright looks, soft tones, high thoughts, and fancies 
 
 fair, 
 Return, return, and be what once you were ! 
 All that was precious in the year that's past, — 
 Too sweet to lose, too beautiful to last — 
 Sunshine, and song, and fragrance, things that 
 
 threw 
 O'er life's dull path a brighter tint and hue ; 
 Hopes realized, desires fulfill' d ; — success 
 Crowning long toils ; the burthens of distress 
 Lighten' d, "Will subjugated, self-denied, 
 Ills overcome by long endurance, Pride 
 Taught to be greatly humble, — all that wakes 
 The approving voice of conscience, all that makes 
 
JANUARY 1ST, 1847. 95 
 
 Heaven's windows open o'er us, converse sweet, — 
 And sweeter meditation ; all, — all fleet 
 Back into being. — Burst oblivion's chain, 
 And be awhile realities again ! — 
 
 Blest be the powers that can the past restore ; — 
 They come, they come, warm breathing as of 
 
 yore! 
 I hear remember' d voices, seem to dwell 
 Once more with forms I've known and loved bo 
 
 well. 
 Distinct, beyond my fondest hopes, they rise, 
 The shadows dimming the realities. 
 Beautiful witcheries ! O would I might 
 Hold them thus ever, durable as bright ! 
 But, like the splendours of a sunset sky, 
 E'en while I gaze their glories wane and die, 
 And, as they fade, uprising in their rear 
 A host of darker verities appear ; 
 
96 JANUARY 1st, 1847. 
 
 Sorrows and sins of various shade and hue, 
 That claim their notice in the year's review. 
 And shall they be rejected ? shall my eyes 
 Be shut to life's too stern realities ? 
 And shall the records of the past be seen, 
 Not as they were, but as they should have been ? 
 No ! small the gain and brief the joy that lives 
 In the poor dreams such self-delusion gives ; 
 And honest conscience scorns to take a tone, 
 Or speak a nattering language not her own ; 
 And wherefore seek to bribe her, wherefore fear 
 Her rough but salutary voice to hear, 
 When every warning, now rejected, grows 
 To overwhelming thunder at the close? 
 
 The close ! the close ! How like a death-knell seems 
 That solemn word to wake me from my dreams ! 
 One little year, yea, less than one like this, 
 May bring me to the close of all that is. 
 
 
JANUARY 1ST, 1847. 97 
 
 Par down Time's chequered stream I've voyaged 
 
 on, 
 And seen my fellows drop off, one by one ; 
 And now the widening waters seem to near 
 Eternity's dark ocean ; on my ear 
 Sound the deep heavings of that shoreless sea, 
 And awe my soul into solemnity ! 
 Darkling I hover round the world to come, 
 And voices thence are heard to call me home ; 
 And stretching on into the dread expanse, 
 I fain would lift the curtain, and advance. 
 One little step, I know, would bear me through, 
 And give the secrets of the dead to view ; 
 But till that step is taken, mortal sense, 
 Ask as it may, gets no response from thence. 
 Thought may at times, when all around me sleep, 
 Launch sounding forth into that silent deep ; 
 But without star to guide or light to cheer, 
 Soon back to land my trembling course I steer. 
 
 H 
 
98 JANUARY 1ST, 1847. 
 
 Even bold Conjecture onward fears to fare, 
 And Reason shrinks to find no footing there ; 
 Till conscious Nature, baffled and o'er-awed, 
 Sinks suppliant on the Mercy of her God, 
 Turns from self-confidence to faith and prayer, 
 Clings to His Word, and finds her refuge there. 
 
 Thrice happy we, not left to grope our way 
 From truth to truth, by Nature's feeble ray, 
 Where one false step were ruin. Happier still 
 Our wills conforming to the Heavenly Will ; 
 Ready, as God may prompt, to think, and feel, 
 And take His impress, as the wax the seal ; 
 At His blest feet content to sit and learn, 
 Or walk by faith, till faith to sight shall turn ; 
 Beneath the Saviour's cross to stand and scan 
 All He has done, and all He claims from man ; 
 Learn from His life, and on His death repose, 
 x\nd grow in love and duty to the close. 
 
 
JANUARY 1ST, J 847. 99 
 
 On the year's threshold, on the narrow strand 
 
 That parts the past and future, here I stand, 
 
 Without control o'er either : one is flown 
 
 Beyond recal ; — a dark and dread unknown, 
 
 The other stretches onward, — what to be, 
 
 Seen but by Him who fills Eternity. 
 
 The present, and scarce that, is still my own ; — 
 
 Oh, be it consecrate to Heaven alone ! 
 
 Be mine, while all things shift and change around, 
 
 To cleave to Him in whom no change is found, 
 
 To rest on the Immutable, to cling 
 
 Closer and closer 'neath the Almighty wing ; 
 
 His voice in all its varied tones to hear, 
 
 And in all aspects feel Him ever near ; 
 
 Be mine with Him to walk, on Him depend, 
 
 Then, come what may, it all to good must tend ! 
 
 Rome. 
 
 H 2 
 
100 
 
 THE POET'S PLEA. 
 
 Deal gently with the poet. Think that he 
 Is made of finer clay than other men. 
 
 And ill can bear rough handling ; and while we, 
 Of sturdier natures, laugh' d at laugh again, 
 
 And self-complacently shake off 
 
 The world's unmerited contempt and scoff — 
 
 As easily as from his scaly side 
 
 Leviathan shakes off the drippings of the tide ; — 
 
 Not so the poet. On his keener sense 
 
 Light harms smite often witli an edge intense. 
 
 A stony look, a lip of scorn, may crush 
 
 His young aspirings ; chill the stir and flush 
 
 Of waking inspiration ; and control 
 
 Down into common-place the darings of his soul. 
 
THE POET S PLEA. 101 
 
 Lightly his spirit touch ! 
 The lyre is delicate ; the chords are fine ; 
 And fine must be the finger, that from such 
 
 Wins melody divine. 
 The strings, that gentler skill to music wakes, 
 
 A clash impetuous breaks. 
 And images, that, in the musing mind, 
 As in a placid lake, lie mirrored and defined, 
 If ruffling winds along the surface stray, 
 Scatter' d and broken, pass like rack away. 
 Stored thoughts and treasured feelings, that in 
 
 turn 
 Were ready to leap forth, and breathe, and burn 
 In verse, as fancy called them, once dispersed, 
 Bide, like the Sibyl's leaves, unscanned and unre- 
 hearsed. 
 
 And, Desolater, who shall say 
 Of what thy rashness may have 'reft mankind ? 
 
102 THE POET S PLEA. 
 
 Take the sweet poetry of life away, 
 
 And what remains behind ? 
 O, who his seventy years would delve and plod, 
 And tug through life's dull tide the weary oar, 
 Were all his heritage what earth's poor clod 
 
 Can yield, and nothing more ? 
 Perhaps the Poet had that moment caught 
 Some hallowed truth, some spirit-stirring thought, 
 That — like the wakening of a trumpet blast, — 
 From age to age might thrillingly have pass'd. 
 Perhaps some happy fancy, some fair dawn 
 Of beauty, on his mind may just have shone ; — 
 Some touch of holy tenderness, whose spell 
 Might melt and mend all hearts whereon it 
 
 fell. 
 He was, perhaps, aloft among the stars, — 
 Perhaps beyond them ; leaning on the bars, 
 
 The golden bars, that Heaven enclose, 
 
 List'ning the music that within — 
 
 
 i 
 
THE POET S PLEA. 103 
 
 A vocal glory, fell and rose 
 
 From lips of chaunting seraphin ; 
 
 Intent to carry down from thence 
 
 All that could enter mortal sense, 
 Dull'd as it is by sin ; — 
 And thou did'st call him down from tasks like these, 
 To mix with common life's poor, tame formalities ! 
 
 Go, Man of earth, and do thy work ! obey 
 Thy five good senses ! Traffic, drudge, design ! 
 To small civilities due homage pay ! — 
 The Poet has his province, and thou thine. 
 He dwells within a sphere thou can'st not enter, 
 Nearer the throne, fast by the mighty centre ; 
 And hears what cannot reach the unchasten'd ear 
 Of those who stand outside, among the million 
 
 here. 
 To thee and thine belong the Gentile courts, 
 To which the uncircumcised crowd resorts. 
 
104 THE POET S PLEA. 
 
 He finds admittance to the inmost shrine, 
 
 Which none can hope to reach till led by hands 
 
 divine. 
 Keep then thy place. Thou hast good work to 
 
 do; 
 JNot they alone the temple service share 
 Who tend the altar. Those are needful too, 
 Who hew the wood and draw the water there. 
 The daily drudgery of life demands 
 A due relay of honest heads and hands ; 
 They have their use ; shall have their pay besides. 
 The world is just, and for her own provides. 
 To thrive in pelf, in pomp and place to shine ; 
 These are her gifts, and these shall, Man of earth, 
 
 be thine. 
 But trench not on the Poet's charter' d rights, 
 He walks his own domain with haughty brow : 
 His heavenly communings, his eagle flights 
 Are not for such as thou. 
 
 
THE POET S PLEA. 105 
 
 1 1 iu*li thoughts, warm feelings, the perennial spring 
 Of inward gladness, rapture's thrill and glow, 
 The heart in flower, the fancy on the wing, — 
 
 Thou must not hope to know. 
 These are the Poet's dower. Of these possest, 
 He smiles, and bids earth's minion take the rest ! 
 
 But spare, ye men of fact, ye sapient band, 
 With critic lore, our desperate ears to stun. 
 Carp not at that you do not understand ; 
 Nor spend your shafts in shooting at the sun. 
 The rich creations, which the Poet flings 
 In rainbow radiance from his passing wings, 
 Tou may not duly relish, rightly scan ; 
 Yet think, wise sirs, there may be those who can ; 
 And kill not Ins fine frenzies with your frown, 
 Nor to your standard seek to dwarf him down. 
 Tou prize the useful. Be it so. Yet tell. 
 In what consists this useful ? The Allwise, 
 
106 THE POET'S PLEA. 
 
 In furnishing the world in which we dwell, 
 
 Stints not His gifts to mere necessities ; 
 
 JN"or deems it waste to tint the bird's bright wing, 
 
 Yea, give him voice to sing ; 
 To beautify the flower, and to its bloom 
 
 To superadd perfume. 
 Things need not be fantastic nor unreal 
 
 Because they are ideal. 
 Nay, every object in this world of dreams 
 
 Is what to each it seems. 
 And that, which quickens into action all 
 Of good in man, that has survived the fall, 
 Refines each baser sense, and helps to call 
 From all that is, the good, the beautiful ; 
 That bids Experience half -her ills withhold, 
 And turns whatever it touches into gold ; — 
 Can that be useless ? that, whose hallowing leaven 
 Imparts to this poor world whate'er it has of 
 Heaven ? 
 
THE POET S PLEA. 107 
 
 O empty Cavillers ! why not assign 
 New laws to Nature, teach the stars to shine r 
 Soar through the clouds, proud gazer at the sun, 
 And leave the owls and bats at noonday to doze on ! 
 
 Yet not the worldly, nor the dull alone 
 Eefuse Heaven's favoured one his homage due : 
 Minds of a larger grasp and loftier tone 
 
 Oft wrong the Poet too. 
 
 O the half-hearted praise, 
 The chilling toleration, men can give 
 To powers, that mortals from the dust can raise 
 
 Among the gods to live ! 
 
 Who shall the boons declare 
 With which the Poet sows our fallen earth ? 
 The holy thoughts, and sweet emotions there, 
 
 That owe to him their birth ? 
 
 High senthnents, now grown 
 Familiar household terms mankind among, 
 
108 THE POET S PLEA. 
 
 Are oft but sparklets of the soul, once thrown 
 
 From some poetic tongue ; 
 Rich emanations of some pregnant mind, 
 Bright gems of thought in happy words enshrined ; 
 That lend to common life a higher tone, 
 And touch within men's hearts, chords to them- 
 selves unknown. 
 And shall the Poet, like a kindled torch, 
 For us and ours in self-devotion burn, 
 And taunts that blister, and rebukes that scorch 
 
 Be dealt him in return ? 
 
 Shall all his thoughtful toil, 
 His midnight watchings, solitude, and pain, 
 Ask the cheap meed of one approving smile, 
 And ask in vain ? 
 
 Shall we prefer to sit 
 In cold, stern dignity, in Censure's chair, 
 When we with him on social wing might flit 
 
 Through ocean, earth, and air ? 
 
THE POET S PLEA. 109 
 
 When we might rise and reign 
 In each high privilege to genius given, 
 Bright, living links of the electric chain 
 
 Connecting earth with Heaven? 
 
 senseless choice ! that frowns and stands apart. 
 When both might sweetly mingle, heart with heart ! 
 poor exchange, the critic's carps and sneers, 
 For poetry's full soul, her raptures, and her tears ! 
 
 Make large allowance, then, for Nature's child ; 
 School him not tamely down to rule and line. 
 Let the line Savage roam his native wild ; 
 Nop fetter Fancy's chartered libertine. 
 The stale observances to dulness dear, — 
 O chide not, if beyond their pale he rove, 
 And rise from Lar and the Penates here, 
 
 To walk the Heavens with Jove. 
 Be his to pierce the wild wood's tangled maze. 
 And find or force new by-paths of his own. 
 
110 THE POETS PLEA. 
 
 The fruits are gathered by the beaten ways ; 
 
 The flowers are trampled down. 
 
 Be his aloft to soar 
 Within the winnow of Archangel's wing, 
 And hear beneath his feet the thunder's roar, 
 
 And the grim whirlwinds sing. 
 
 Within the hearts of men, 
 Be his each secret chamber to unbar, 
 And drag the struggling passions from their den, 
 
 To yoke them to his car. 
 Free, let him range the globe from land to land, 
 And some new lore from every object win : 
 Or by the flood of ages thoughtful stand, 
 And hear earth's Empires one by one drop in. 
 Calm let him sit by nature's mighty wheel, 
 To watch her workings, and her ways reveal, 
 Or launch abroad her silent depths to sound, 
 And bring up wonders for the world around. 
 Grand his ambitions ! Be his scope as grand ! 
 
THE POET S PLEA. Ill 
 
 They only greatly do, who greatly dare ; 
 Why snatch the club from Hercules's hand 
 
 To place the distaff there ? 
 No ! let him dally with the lightnings ; fling 
 Forth, if he will, upon the tempest's wing ; 
 Ride the careering billow without rein, 
 And stroke with playful hand its foamy mane ; 
 And scorning by the servile shore to creep, 
 Forth let him steer to seek new worlds across the 
 deep. 
 
 Yet should the worst befal, should wrongs assail, 
 Should envy harass, or indifference chill, 
 Should evil days and evil tongues prevail, 
 Be strong, genius ! much is left thee still. — 
 The by-path through the meads is warm and sweet ; 
 Soft evening breezes from the orchards play ; 
 Crush' d herbs give out their odours 'neath thy feet. 
 And flashing brooks dance by thee all the way. 
 
112 THE POET S PLEA. 
 
 The small shrill people of the grass 
 Chirp welcomes as they see thee pass ; — 
 The flowers unlock their hearts, and thence 
 
 Breathe odorous secrets forth to thy quick sense. 
 Dryads and fauns in woodland spaces, 
 Push through the leaves their laughing feces ; 
 And bending boughs to thee make suit, 
 
 And to thy hand present their tributary fruit. 
 Thine are the living fountains, 
 
 That down the rocks in liquid silver run ; 
 Thine are the giant mountains, 
 
 That lift their broad green shoulders to the 
 sun. 
 The clouds that sail the summer sky, 
 Or o'er their shadows anchor high ; 
 The stars that round the matron moon 
 
 People with glory the blue vault of June, 
 
 All, all, are thine ! Prom off her ample breast, 
 
 Sweet Nature, flinging wide her folded vest, 
 
THE POET S PLEA. 113 
 
 Gives thee her very self unveil' d to see, 
 
 And freely talks her inmost soul to thee. 
 
 Yea, and should these all fail thee, still thou hast 
 
 Thy solaee ; hast thy white, auspicious days, 
 
 When thoughts — like showering meteors, bright 
 
 and fast, 
 Flash on thy soul, self-clad in aptest phrase. 
 Thou hast thy glorious visions of the night, 
 Mysterious converse with the mighty dead ; — 
 Angelic visitants, from realms of light, 
 Ascending and descending o'er thy head. 
 
 There may be toil. While here, 
 Man in his sweat, his daily bread must eat ; 
 Yet faint not. There is much thy work to cheer, 
 The very pains of poetry are sweet. 
 
 The streams which others' thirst supply 
 
 Shall not be to their owner dry ; 
 And precious draughts from thence shall bless, 
 And stay thy spirit through the wilderness. 
 
114 THE POET S PLEA. 
 
 A light shall guide thee better than the rules 
 The world employs to school her knaves and fools. 
 A happy instinct bears the Poet through ; 
 And while he speaks and writes, he lives the Poet 
 
 too. 
 And as- thou sitt'st and singest all apart, 
 Peeling it recompense enough to vent 
 The throbbing pulses of a pent-up heart, 
 And make the soul's mute yearnings eloquent ; 
 
 Those argosies of thought and rhyme 
 
 Thou launchest on the stream of Time, 
 
 Floating to unborn generations down, 
 Shall blessings bear to them, and to thyself renown. 
 
 That which is truly noble cannot die ! 
 
 Eternal as its hallow' d course on high ! 
 
 Heroes and Conquerors have their day ; 
 
 Kings with their Empires pass away. 
 
 Things, which to marble we entrust, 
 
 Shall with it moulder into dust. 
 
THE POETS PLEA. 115 
 
 But one true flash of living mind, 
 At Heaven's own altar kindled and refined, 
 Shall travel, like a beacon light, 
 From intellectual height to height, 
 Unquenched, unquenchable ! Seas cannot drown, 
 Mountains o'erwhelm it, legions tread it down ; 
 A moment lost, 'tis sure again to rise, 
 And lead, from strength to strength, still onward 
 to the skies. 
 
 Yet think, O mortal, think, while thus endow' d 
 "With more than mortal privilege and power, 
 Think how they lift thee o'er the ignoble 
 
 crowd, 
 Who walk by sense, and live but for the hour. 
 
 Gifts that have had their birth 
 Beyond the everlasting hills on high, 
 Sent down to dwell awhile in hearts on earth, 
 Should still tend upward to their native sky. 
 i 2 
 
116 THE POETS PLEA. 
 
 Husks, that the swine do eat, 
 Earth's bursting bubbles, must not thee delight, 
 With Heaven's own Manna falling at thy feet, 
 And Canaan's promised glories full in sight. 
 
 No ! be it thine to rise 
 In noble scorn of every meaner thing, 
 Self-buoyant, like the bird of paradise 
 That sleeps and wakes for ever on the wing. 
 The vestal fire must not be left to wane, 
 Nor lightly desecrate to use profane. 
 Thou walk'st this earth the delegate of Heaven ; 
 And much shall be required where much is given. 
 Not that the tone need always be sublime ; 
 The light and graceful have their place and time. 
 But for the loose, the impious, or the base, 
 Exists no privilege of time or place. 
 0, scorn them, scorn them ! To thyself be 
 
 true ! 
 Breathe not a thought thou e'er shalt wish unsaid ; 
 
THE TOET S PLEA. 117 
 
 Nought that may liaunt and sadden life's review, 
 Or cast a shadow o'er thy dying bed. 
 Thine is a lofty mission. Nothing less 
 Than God to glorify, and Man to bless ; 
 To raise poor grovelling Nature from the mire, 
 To give her wings, and teach her to aspire ; 
 To nurse heroic moods ; meek worth to cheer : 
 To dry on sorrow's cheek the trembling tear ; 
 And still be ready, let who will deride, 
 To take the lists on injured Virtue's side. 
 This is thy calling. Tasks like these 
 Claim and repay the soul's best energies. 
 Nor need'st thou fear, while thus employed, 
 That life should seem a burthen or a void. 
 Joys shall be thine, Man makes not, nor unmakes ; — 
 Cheer, which the fickle world nor gives nor takes ; — 
 Unhoped for streams that in the desert rise, 
 And sunshine bursting through the cloudiest skies ! 
 
118 THE POET S PLEA. 
 
 From light to light thy steps shall tend, 
 Thy prospects ever brightening to the end ; 
 
 Thy soul acquiring as it goes 
 The tone and feelings that befit the close. 
 Such path, gifted one, be thine to tread ! 
 
 And when the Judge of quick and dead 
 
 To each His sentence shall assign, 
 " Well done, thou faithful servant !" shall be thine ! 
 And thou shalt rise the tasks of Heaven to share, 
 Join the blest choir, and feel no stranger there. 
 And "power and honour to the Lamb" shall seem 
 To thee no new and uncongenial theme. 
 The strains, to which thy earthly powers were given, 
 Shall be renew' d and perfected in Heaven; 
 And more than e'er blest Poet's dream, shall be 
 The Poet's portion there, throughout eternity ! 
 
 Rome, March, 1847. 
 
119 
 
 ABIDE WITH ME. 
 
 " Abide with us : for it is towards evening, and the day l far 
 spent." St. Luke xxiv. 29. 
 
 Abide with me ! Fast falls the eventide ; 
 The darkness deepens : Lord, with me abide ! 
 When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
 Help of the helpless, abide with me ! 
 
 Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day ; 
 Earth's joys grow dim ; its glories pass away : 
 Change and decay in all around I see ; 
 O Thou, who changest not, abide with me ! 
 
 Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word, 
 But as Thou dwell' st with Thy disciples, Lord, 
 
120 ABIDE WITH ME. 
 
 Familiar, condescending, patient, free, 
 Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me ! 
 
 Come not in terrors, as the King of kings ; 
 But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings : 
 Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea. 
 Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with 
 me! 
 
 Thou on my head in early youth didst smile, 
 And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile, 
 Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee. 
 On to the close, Lord, abide with me ! 
 
 I need Thy presence every passing hour. 
 
 What but Thy grace can foil the Tempter's 
 
 power ? 
 Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be ? 
 Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me ! 
 
ABIDE WITH ME. 121 
 
 I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless : 
 Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. 
 Where is death's sting ? where, grave, thy victory ? 
 I triumph still, if Thou abide with me. 
 
 Hold then Thy cross before my closing eyes ; 
 Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies : 
 Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows 
 
 flee. 
 In life and death, Lord, abide with me ! 
 
 Berry heady September, 1847. 
 
<£adg $oemsi. 
 
THE 
 
 BATTLE OF SALAMANCA, 
 
 FOUGHT AGAINST THE FRENCH, 
 
 OK THE 22ND DAY OP JULY, 1812, 
 
 BY THE COMBINED ARMIES OF GREAT BRITAIN, 
 PORTUGAL, AND SPAIN, 
 
 UNDER THE COMMAND OF THE 
 
 MAEQUIS OF WELLINGTON. 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 TO Till MOST NOBL1 
 
 THE MAKQUIS OP WELLESLEY. 
 
 An unfledged bard, who just had broke 
 From birch and grammar's awful yoke, 
 Would spread his glad unfetter' d wing, 
 And boldly try to croak or sing. 
 IIi> bardic rites devoutly paid, 
 His Muses duly sought for aid, 
 When bitten nail and swollen cheek 
 A modern rapture seem'd to wake. 
 With scowling eye and muttering tongue, 
 For Fancy's topmost cloud he sprang, 
 A.8 pride or madness led the way — 
 And here, behold, his first essay. 
 
126 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 For, rushing on with epic aim, 
 He grasp' d Britannia's lists of fame, 
 To seek a Hero for the lays 
 Which, thus enrapt, he meant to raise : 
 A Hero round whose noble head 
 When Fancy's youthful hand had spread 
 A garland of the fairest flowers 
 That ever bloom' d in Tempe's bowers, 
 Or hung their heads in airy pride 
 Around Castalia's mirror tide, 
 The voice of truth might still declare 
 Not half his honours gather' d there — 
 Though wide his search, he found but one, 
 One man like this — 'twas Wellington ! 
 
 For in his warm and generous mind 
 Such various virtues shone combined ; 
 So great, yet simple seem'd he still, 
 So fired by valour, nerved by skill. 
 
DEDICATION. 127 
 
 In others' cause so feeling known, 
 So lavish of himself alone, 
 That mortals seem'd on him to gaze 
 The phoenix of these later days, 
 Eaised up the masterpiece of fate v 
 For them to praise and imitate ! 
 Like the bright arch that glows on high 
 When glooms and clouds invest the sky, 
 Mankind with veneration views 
 The lofty wonder's brightening hues, 
 And sees in his resplendent form 
 The queller of the blackening storm ! 
 
 And could not reason, could not shame 
 Deter thee from that sacred theme ? 
 But thou, poor witling, must profane 
 Such greatness with thy pigmy strain ? 
 Perhaps thou deem'dst his name enough 
 To consecrate thy wretched stuff ? 
 
128 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Or hopedst, at worst, with him to live, 
 Like Maevius pinn'd to Virgil's sleeve ? 
 
 I own my folly, own my crimes ; 
 I own them weak and wicked rhymes : 
 Tet, as the sire with partial care 
 Regards his crippled son and heir, 
 In spite of every shapeless feature, 
 I own, I own, I love the creature. 
 But bold by desperation grown, 
 I spurn at half a fault alone ; 
 And bursting caution's barriers through, 
 For refuge would retreat to you, 
 Would join upon my humble page 
 The brother glories of the age, 
 Conscious that could my hopeless toil 
 From you obtain a favouring smile, 
 That Critic scarce would dare aspire 
 To blame what Wellesley should admire 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 O'er Europe's fields, all ravaged and forlorn, 
 
 While Discord's daemon leads his funeral train, 
 And every neighbouring state is doom'd to 
 mourn, 
 Or dread the horrors of a tyrant's chain ; 
 See the lorn Muse to Britain's sainted plain 
 From scenes of death and uproar gladly flee ! 
 There wake her shatter' d chords to voice 
 again, 
 And paint, in glowing tints of ecstasy, 
 The sweets of ease, the pride of conquering Liberty! 
 
130 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 The wreaths of song, by Fancy's fingers twined, 
 
 From witching harmony's serener bowers, 
 May charm the senses and refine the mind, — 
 But lull and captivate its noblest powers. 
 And, at this time, when ruin round us lowers, 
 What place for syren luxury's control ? 
 Oh, for that strain, whose bursting grandeur 
 showers 
 The fires of ardour on the listening soul, 
 And sweeps the raptured wish to glory's arduous 
 goal! 
 
 Ye scenes of Peace, ye gentler themes, adieu ! 
 The last, the weakest of the minstrel throng 
 Withdraws his fond, regretful thoughts from 
 
 A ud proudly bold would dare a nobler song ; 
 Would suit his numbers to the cadence strong 
 Of sulphurous thunder, and, on feet of flame, 
 
 
INTRODUCTION. 131 
 
 Through groans and slaughter shuddering along, 
 Would leave his nature-pointed path to fame, 
 To earn his dearer wish, to earn a Patriot's name ! 
 
 Thrice happy could his artless descant light 
 
 A ray of spirit through his native land, 
 Eedeem one bosom from despondence' night, 
 
 Or rouse to rivalry one slumb'ring hand ; 
 
 Assist the warrior's laurels to withstand, 
 In song embalm' d, oblivion's dull decay ; 
 
 The praise of generous purpose but command ; 
 Oh ! dare he hope so boldly for Ins lay, 
 His dread of censure's fang such hopes would far 
 outweigh. 
 
 Come then, my wild, enthusiastic shell, 
 
 Pursue thy task, conform thy trembling string, 
 
 For Gratitude claims all thy soul to swell 
 The laud of them who gave thee ease to sing ! 
 k 2 
 
132 THE RATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Who dash'd the Vulture Fury fain to spring 
 
 On Freedom's fair asylum for its prey ! 
 Come then, my shell, and bid their actions ring 
 Their panegyric in descriptive lay — 
 Lo, thy transcendent theme, proud Salamanca's day ! 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 'Twas Summer's dawn, that silent hour 
 When night from lawn and woodland bow'r 
 
 Withdrew her sable shroud ; 
 And morning up the eastern sky 
 Arose, with placid majesty, 
 
 In car of silver cloud. 
 Old Salamanca's few tall spires 
 Flash' d through the mists like living fires, 
 And Tonnes roll'd his fruitful tide, 
 A sheet of wavy gold beside. 
 Thence o'er the landscape scatter'd wild, 
 The citron's silken tresses smiled 
 
134 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 In morning's mellow hue ; 
 And here and there the leaves among 
 The yellow fruitage gaily hung, 
 
 In wreath of diamond dew. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Along that fair and fertile green 
 A brave and hardy host were seen 
 
 To rest the weary head ; 
 Spain, Portugal, in long array, 
 'Mongst Britain's friendly squadrons lay, 
 
 All on their grassy bed. 
 Nor yet the infant beams, that play'd 
 
 O'er cheeks with rosy vigour crown' d, 
 Had melted sleep's refreshing shade, 
 
 Which toil had deepen' d round : 
 But still the dreams of morning stole 
 From camps and cares the warrior's soul, 
 Through milder, sweeter scenes to stray, 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 135 
 
 And taste of pleasures far sway. 
 And now his footsteps lightly roam 
 To his neat farm and cottage home ; 
 A_nd now he meets each well-known face, 
 And, flying to his glad embrace, 
 His weeping wife, his children dear. 
 And all his bosom friends, appear ! — 
 Till, as he counts his labours o'er, 
 And vows to leave them never more ! 
 The shrill reveille, rattling nigh, 
 Scares the sweet vision in a sigh ! 
 
 in. 
 
 The sentinel on foremost ground 
 In silence trod his lonely round, 
 Save when he raised his voice to tell 
 His answering comrade "all was well." 
 The scenery in its golden trim 
 No robe of beauty wore for him ; 
 
136 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 His every thought, his eye, his soul, 
 Were tranced by duty's stern control 
 
 The adverse heights along ; 
 Where Gallia's legions to and fro, 
 That livelong morn were seen to go, 
 
 A strange mysterious throng. 
 Their Chief, to wiles and battles bred, 
 The busy bands in person led, 
 
 Nor skill nor labour spared ; 
 All anxious, from the laurel crown, 
 Which years of hardly-earn'd renown 
 
 Around his brows had reared ; — 
 To-day that wither' d leaf to tear, 
 Which Britain's Chief had blasted there. 
 Exulting Marmont ! could thine eye 
 But see the bolt prepared on high, 
 From that avenging hand to burst 
 Upon thy nation's plans accurst, 
 With every hope to shipwreck driven 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 137 
 
 On dark disaster's wildest wave, 
 Nor to thy lorn entreaty given 
 
 E'en the sad refuge of a grave, 
 Wounded, pursued ! — that heart of pride 
 With other thoughts were now supplied ! 
 
 IT. 
 
 But now the Sun in godlike state 
 Prepares to burst his topaz gate, 
 
 And glad th' expecting skies ; 
 And to their various tasks around, 
 From grassy couch, at trumpet sound, 
 
 The brother armies rise. 
 And now from Britain's mingling bands 
 
 A troop with silent haste advance, 
 To where yon hoary mountain stands 
 Before the Orient's bright expanse: 
 Yon hoary mountain wide around 
 
 Commands the vassal field — 
 
138 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Haste, warriors, haste ! that vantage ground 
 To France must never yield ! 
 
 With heart of pride, and foot of speed, 
 
 They dash the dew-drops o'er the mead ; 
 
 And plant, in thought, their standard now 
 On vast Arapiles's brow. 
 
 v. 
 
 Is it the rising King of day, 
 
 That shoots his beams, in bright array, 
 
 Thro' the blue mists, whose wreaths invest, 
 
 With airy coif, the mountain's crest ? 
 
 But lo ! a standard now is spied, 
 
 And now a burnish' d helm descried — 
 
 Till, from the hoary veil, 
 A phalanx of the flower of France 
 Along the glittering heights advance, 
 With waving banner, sword, and gun, 
 Bright with the newly-risen sun, 
 
THE RATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 139 
 
 Ami titty men for every one 
 
 That marches o'er the dale ! — 
 The Britons gaze, surprised, deprest, 
 
 And slowly file across the plain, 
 Upon the neighbouring mountain's breast 
 
 To rest their weary train : 
 Revolving as they onward move, 
 
 Should battle wake the trump to-day. 
 
 How advantageous through the fray 
 Still to the Gauls that hill must prove, 
 That rear d liis giant brow on high, 
 The arbiter of Victory ! 
 And many a sigh of honest pride 
 
 From manly bosom found its way ; 
 And gloomy thought was dash'd aside 
 
 With scorn to feel dismay : 
 For, though a transitory smile, 
 Now Fortune deigns upon the wile 
 
140 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Of Gaul's exulting bands, 
 Can any bosom own despair 
 When Britain's sons the combat share. 
 
 And Wellington commands ? — 
 
 TI. 
 
 Great Wellington ! thy thought inspires 
 My soul with more than wonted fires, 
 And bids me twine with daring aim 
 A wreath round Conquest's darling name. 
 Oh, that my weak, presumptuous hand 
 
 Could wake the lyre with seraph's art ! 
 Oh, that my wishes could command 
 
 A verse as fervent as my heart ! 
 So might I suit my humble lay 
 To the lrigh hymns that nations pay ; 
 The first to Heaven, the next to Thee, 
 Victorious Priest of Liberty ! 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 141 
 
 From warring India's eastern clime 
 Thy Sun of Glory rose sublime, 
 Sweeping their sable hosts away, 
 Like night before the bursting day : 
 And now its bright, meridian rays 
 
 O'er faint Iberia fall ; 
 Confusion to the eagle gaze 
 
 Of devastating Gaul : 
 On Vimiera's trophied field 
 Europe's proud victors learnt to yield; 
 And Talavera's echoes peal'd 
 
 The knell of France's dying fame ! 
 O'er Torres Vedras' mountain maze, 
 Where Heaven and Britain join'd to raise 
 The ember sparks of Freedom's blaze, 
 
 Thy sword was seen to flame ; 
 Like that celestial scymitar, 
 Wliose fiery terrors flash' d afar, 
 
142 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 From Eden's hallow' d porch to chase 
 The afflicters of the human race ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Oh, mighty Victor, when the Muse 
 
 Would trace thy bounty-beaming flight, 
 Her feeble wings the task refuse, 
 
 Nor dare to soar so proud a height ; 
 But thus, in admiration's fire, 
 She warbles with prophetic tyre ; — 
 While Lusian bosom shall inherit 
 One glimmering of that noble spirit, 
 Which Britain gave from Freedom's shrine, 
 Prompter of deeds and thoughts divine ; 
 While' er in lofty, injured Spain 
 A hate of treachery shall reign, 
 A hate of each disgrace and woe 
 That French Oppression bade her know 5 — 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 143 
 
 The fairest chaplet of applause 
 
 From Gratitude's warm hand shall smile, 
 For him who saved her dying cause, 
 
 The Hero of the Emerald Isle ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yes, injured Spain, a bitter draught 
 Thy wrath-devoted sons have quaff' d ; 
 And dearly paid their fathers' crimes 
 In sad Columbia's ravaged climes. 
 Behold thy plains with slaughter drench'd, 
 
 Thy cities flaming high ; 
 The sceptre from thy Monarch wrench' d, 
 
 And by a sworn Ally ! 
 He comes, his hand upon his breast, 
 
 In token of sincerity — 
 But ah, he clenches 'neath his vest 
 
 The dagger brand of treachery. 
 Yield, Spaniards, yield your ancient throne, 
 
144 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 And bend before an upstart race ; 
 This choice is yours, and this alone, 
 
 Destruction or disgrace. 
 And shall a free-born people brook 
 
 To reverence a minion's nod ; 
 To tremble at a dastard's look, 
 
 And kiss oppression's rod ? 
 Their maids deflower' d, their children slain, 
 Their shrines despoil' d by hands profane, 
 Their homes by brutal lords possest, 
 Afflictions maddening every breast, 
 A frenzied host — they rise, — they rise, 
 The fires of vengeance in their eyes, 
 While Heaven re-echoes to the cry 
 Of " glorious death or Liberty ! " 
 
 IX. 
 
 But down the Pyrenean steeps 
 Lo, a dark host of terror sweeps, 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 145 
 
 With shouts and threat'nings dire ! 
 Like to the desolating tide, 
 That awful bursts from Etna's side, 
 O'er field and city thund'ring wide 
 
 In cataracts of fire. 
 With flame and gun and battle brand 
 They rush upon the fated land ; — 
 Before them happy all and fair, 
 Behind them ruin and despair. 
 The frighted mother clasps her child, 
 
 And seeks the desert screaming wild 
 The swain foresees the storm, and flies, 
 And, as upon the distant rise 
 He turns to take one parting view, 
 And sigh a long and last adieu, — 
 Sees the loved cottage of his sires, 
 His fields, his vineyards wrapt in fires, 
 Grasps his rude arms with angry hand, 
 And joins his country's patriot band. 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 That patriot band, securely strong, 
 With generous boldness, drive along 
 
 To strike one fatal blow ; 
 But headlong rage is ill array' d 
 'Gainst prudence, strength, and ambuscade ; 
 Repulsed, deluded, and betray' d, 
 
 They melt before the foe. 
 
 And now the woes of war assume 
 A wider range, a darker doom, 
 While havoc palls in funeral gloom 
 
 The whole tumultuous scene : 
 From sea to sea the midnight air 
 Wafts the wild burthen of despair, 
 The murderer's threat, the victim's prayer, 
 
 And groan and curse between. 
 'Twould seem as if the infernal band, 
 Rising at wrathful Heaven's command, 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 147 
 
 On this lost realm their fury hurl'd, 
 To raze her image from the world ! 
 And must she sink in all her pride, 
 
 Unpitied, unreprieved ? 
 Will all the world forsake her side r 
 
 Forsake her, thus aggrieved ? 
 No, wretched land, though all should fly, 
 Though all should slight thy suppliant cry. 
 Though all a Tyrant's rage should fear. 
 There is one spot to mercy dear, 
 That never spurn' d the plaint of woe, 
 (No, not from e'en her fiercest foe,) 
 'Tis Britain bids thee yet be free, 
 And opes her generous heart to thee ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 See o'er the deep, in solemn pride, 
 The gallant fleet of England glide 
 Before the whispering wind ! 
 l2 
 
148 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 While Ocean lifts his glassy wave, 
 To catch the image of the brave, 
 As, o'er the prow reclined, 
 "With wistful ken he seeks afar 
 The theatre of future war ; 
 And, fired with dreams of trophies proud, 
 Calls lingering Eurus from his cloud. — 
 Blow, breezes, blow ; a thousand eyes 
 
 O'er the green surge are sent to see 
 The British red cross in the skies, 
 
 And hail the friends of Liberty. 
 Blow, breezes, blow ; in Lusia's ear 
 
 Resounds the trump of Gallic war — 
 And who shall stem the foe's career, 
 
 While Britain rides the wave afar ? 
 The breeze blows strong ; the port they reach ; 
 Glad shouts and clarions to the beach 
 
 Their long- wish' d presence greet ; 
 A thousand banners rise in air, 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 149 
 
 And all with frantic joy prepare 
 
 The toe's approach to meet : 
 Onward, as lions to their prey, 
 They rush, and Wellesley leads the way ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 Now might my glowing numbers tell, 
 How Gaul's red spear submissive fell 
 
 Before Britannia's might ; 
 When proudly on the wings of fame 
 Eose Wellington's victorious name 
 
 From Yimiera's fight ! 
 How on Corunna's hill of death 
 The Victor spent his dying breath 
 
 In Victory's wild huzza ! 
 And downcast warriors, leaning near, 
 Breathed low a shuddering groan to hear. 
 The clod resound upon the bier, 
 
 Where Moore untimely lay ! 
 
150 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 On Talavera's stubborn field 
 
 How Gaul's o'erwhelming armies reel'd, 
 
 While trumpets rang, and cannons peal'd, 
 
 That Wellesley ruled the day ! 
 How Lusitania's drooping sword 
 Was taught by dauntless Beresford 
 To seek the freedom she deplored 
 
 Through Albuera's fray ! 
 Nor, Graeme, shouldst thou unsung remain, 
 Who swept Barossa's trembling plain, 
 And set in Fame's proud galaxy 
 A star whose lustre ne'er shall die ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Then might I praise triumphant Hill, 
 And thousand arms renown' d in fight ; 
 
 Whose very names my page would fill 
 With one long blaze of glorious light. 
 
 And tell how Britain's lions sprung 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 151 
 
 To meet the battle's tempest shock ; 
 And Gallia's frantic fury flung, 
 
 Indignant, from Busaco's rock ! 
 How o'er Kodrigo's midnight lines, 
 Through ambush'd foes, and bursting mines, 
 The fearless soldier flew ! 
 How from Badajoz' haughty tower 
 His hand, in one terrific hour, 
 The Gallic standard threw ! 
 These and a thousand themes, that well 
 Might challenge rapture's noblest shell, 
 
 Await the daring lyre, 
 Whose feeble powers would fain relate, 
 In numbers boldly adequate, 
 
 Britannia's deeds of fire ; 
 Till, 'mid a rescued nation's praise, 
 
 To Salamanca's field she came, 
 To crown with victory's brightest bays 
 A course of mercy and of fame ! 
 
152 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And lo ! in many a rainbow hue, 
 The Sun has tinged the morning dew 
 
 Along that lovely plain ; 
 Where deep in wide and clotted streams 
 Of carnage he shall bathe his beams 
 
 Before he sets again. 
 Where many a wounded Frenchman soon 
 Shall plain his sufferings to the moon 
 
 Throughout the livelong night ; 
 And many a Briton's closing eye, 
 Fix'd in mute anguish on the sky, 
 Shall ask the boon of those who die 
 
 Aiding the wrong' d in fight. 
 Yes, thousands, thousands soon must lie 
 
 Along that fatal plain : 
 Thousands, for whom affection's sigh 
 
 Shall oft be heaved in vain. 
 
THE RATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 153 
 
 Just Heaven ! and must the gloomy grave 
 So many opening blossoms blight ? 
 
 So many parents, widows rave, 
 
 And orphans howl their hungry plight, 
 
 All by the dark, unholy plan 
 Of one ambitious, bloody man ? 
 
 xv. 
 
 And shall he feel no Tyrant's fears ? 
 
 Shall no remorse his bosom chill ? 
 He that has drench' d the world with tears, 
 
 Shall he be tearless still ? 
 Still shall his hand, with slaughter red, 
 
 The fiery sword of havoc wave ? 
 And every region 'neath his tread 
 
 Become its people's grave ? 
 Xo, thunderbolt of angry Heaven, 
 
 Thy mission now has ended late — 
 Thy deathful course is nearly driven 
 Up to its goal of fate. 
 
154 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 E'en now the storm begins to frown, 
 
 Whose gathering terrors soon shall drown, 
 In clouds of ruin dark and wide, 
 
 The Heaven of thy triumphant pride ! 
 The arm, whose temper' d might represt 
 
 Thy proudest champion's wild career ; 
 Tore glory's chaplet from his crest, 
 
 And broke his baffled spear ; 
 That arm of valour soon shall roll 
 
 Thy second minion's vaunts away — 
 And brand on every Gallic soul 
 
 The deeds of Salamanca's day! 
 
 xvi. 
 
 On yonder plain the Hero stands 
 Amid his bright and busy bands, 
 And, fix'd in meditative trance, 
 Watches the battle-cloud of France 
 That on the heights, from post to post, 
 Wavers, a wide, uncertain host — 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 155 
 
 Wavers, as if in doubt, where first 
 The flaming bolt of death shall burst 
 
 In thunders o'er the plain. 
 Now onward press the centre ranks, 
 Sudden they halt — when, lo ! the flanks 
 
 A dvance — then wheel again. 
 As, when the Earthquake's terror-peal 
 
 Through Nature's bosom rolls profound, 
 The plains in billowy tumult reel, 
 
 The mountains bow their heads around. 
 The frighted wretches of the land 
 In silent awe expecting stand, 
 Till the wild region, opening wide, 
 Shall gulph them in its fiery tide ! 
 Thus dark and dreadful moves the foe, 
 While Britain marks him from below — 
 
 But nought her lion-heart appals : 
 Still ready to repel the blow, 
 AVhen or where'er it falls. 
 
156 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 XYII. 
 
 Yet seems not mazed in mystery 
 
 To Wellington their troubled line ; 
 One ray of his sagacious eye 
 
 Illumes their whole design. 
 In vain, with aimless, nickering course, 
 Still ebbs and flows the tide of fight ! 
 He well foresees its headlong force 
 
 Shall pour upon his right. 
 With cautious skill he straight commands 
 His choicest chiefs, his bravest bands, 
 There to condense their barrier line. 
 " Eed arm in battle, valiant Cole, 
 Be thine the torrent to control, 
 
 The post of danger thine. 
 Through Tonnes' waters, Pakenham, speed- 
 Spur, D'Urban, Lusitania's steed, 
 And watch, from yonder flanking post, 
 The movements of their mountain host. 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 157 
 
 Be firm — be cool — remember still, 
 That oft the arm of prudent skill 
 
 lletires to strike a deeper blow. 
 1 know that Nature ne'er represt 
 
 The fires that light a Briton's breast 
 With much of caution's snow — 
 But why offend your conscious pride 
 "With precepts which you all have tried, 
 And lodestars found to fame of yore ? 
 Only be Britons, as before ; 
 And Victory's flag shall never wave 
 But in your hand, or on your grave." 
 
 XYIII. 
 
 The clock, that peals with hourly chime 
 The death-bell of departed Time, 
 Kung out from Salamanca's tower 
 The second from the mid-day hour ; 
 When, on the right, from hostile guns, 
 
158 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Hark ! the loud knell of battle tolls ! 
 From hill to hill the thunder runs, 
 
 And deepens as it rolls. 
 Down o'er the valley floating wide, 
 
 Dark clouds of smoke successive move ; 
 And now they climb the mountain's side, 
 
 Where Albion's red cross waves above. 
 Till, o'er men, arms, and banners bright, 
 And every object on the right, 
 The sulphury wave rolls black and thick ; 
 
 Nought seen within its murky womb, 
 Save where the cannon flashes quick 
 
 Its dark-red light'ning through the gloom. 
 Above, the ministers of fate, 
 
 Amid the vapours winding slow, 
 Mark, as they sail in dusky state, 
 
 Their victims on the plains below. 
 A sudden west- wind sweeps the glen — 
 The volumed clouds are gone — 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 159 
 
 Lo, a long host of Gallic men 
 
 Advancing briskly on ! 
 Whose line within its iron embrace 
 Folds half the adverse mountain's base; 
 
 While Britain on the crown 
 Moves on her ranks to meet the foe, 
 With sword advanced and bayonet low, 
 
 Eager to hurl him down. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Now through the village fast they fling 
 
 That 'neath the British station lies, 
 When, hark ! from front, and rear, and 
 wing 
 The scatter' d death-shower flies. 
 They start — they gaze — no foe appears — 
 Yet still the death-shot frights their ears. 
 And still they fall around — 
 
160 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 As some lone man, who walks in haste 
 At nightfall, through the woodland waste. 
 Hears something rustling in the trees, 
 And, shuddering from the sound, 
 In every shaking bramble sees 
 The prowler of the forest ground. 
 
 So curb'd the Gaul his proud career, 
 And look'd and trod with cautious fear, 
 As if at each advance his feet 
 A bloody grave were sure to meet. — 
 Great Wellington from high survey' d 
 
 This bold, unequal fray ; 
 He joy'd to see his ambuscade 
 Fill their proud squadrons with dismay : 
 Yet, as the tide's repeated shock 
 At length o'erwhelms th' opposing rock. 
 And thousands round his warriors grew. 
 He trembled for his gallant few : 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 161 
 
 XX. 
 
 And " fly where " Pakenham's heroes wait 
 
 " Upon the right,' ' he cried ; 
 " Tell hhn to grasp the sword of fate, 
 
 And crush their rising pride — 
 Oh ! righteous Heaven ! to Thee we trust 
 
 The cause of this eventful day ; 
 'Tis Thine to shield and aid the just, 
 
 And hurl th' oppressor to dismay ! 
 Thine eye hath seen this nation's woes, 
 Hath seen the treachery of our foes — 
 Avert the hastening doom of Spain, 
 And light our arms to joy again ! 
 Leith, Cotton, fly the van to head, 
 Bradford and Cole, away ! away ! 
 At length my anxious prayer is sped, 
 Glory or death is ours to-day." 
 While yet he speaks, upon the right, 
 Ascends the awful storm of fight ; 
 
 M 
 
162 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 The shout, the clash, the trump, the gun, 
 At once their listening senses stun : 
 A hill, whose bulwark rose between, 
 Conceal' d the battle's murderous scene ; 
 
 But each succeeding blast 
 That rose on Britain's anxious ear, 
 Fraught with the sounds of hope and fear. 
 
 Seem'd louder than the last. 
 Heard ye that shout ? 'twas Victory's 
 
 cry ! 
 A gain ? the Gauls or Britons fly ! 
 
 And from behind the height 
 Now the contending hosts appeal'. 
 
 The troops of France dispersed in flight, 
 And Pakenham thund'ring in their rear. 
 Oh ! 'tis a dread and dismal sight ! 
 Leaders and armies wing'd by fright. 
 Weapons with carnage gleaming red, 
 And horsemen charging o'er the dead. 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 163 
 
 And every terror war can bear, 
 To crown the fulness of despair ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Now, all around, the armied plain 
 Moved like a tempest-troubled main ; 
 Where, here and there, a plume express' cl 
 Some angry billow's foaming crest. 
 Eank after rank, along the field 
 The serried bands of Britain peal'd, 
 
 Slow, silent, and serene ; 
 While culverine and mortar flung 
 Their thunder-shower of death among. 
 And clouds of funeral darkness hung 
 
 Their horrors round the scene. 
 High on the cliffs that topp'd the storm, 
 In haste, the foe was seen to form 
 
 His long and dark array : 
 As the wild dogs of Zara ken 
 m2 
 
164 THE BATTLE OF. SALAMANCA. 
 
 A lion rushing through the glen, 
 
 And round their mangled prey 
 G-ather a loud and troubled throng, 
 And with unreal fury long, 
 
 To scare their foe away : 
 Thus, crowding round their vantage post, 
 With shouts and threats the Gallic host 
 
 Assail' d the troops below ; 
 While now up every cloud-wrapt height 
 EolFd the grim tempest of their might, 
 
 Upon the astonish' d foe ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Nearer and nearer still they bear 
 
 Their steely terror through the gloom ; 
 
 While France redoubles her despair, 
 To ward her coming doom. 
 
 Musket and cannon madly sweep 
 From every hill's high crest ; 
 
 But Britain still ascends the steep, 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 1(35 
 
 Unbroken, unrepressM. 
 Each chief before hia rampant band 
 Strides with reverted eye, 
 
 While valour s falchion in his hand, 
 
 Points their stern looks on high, 
 WTiere to the verges of the rock 
 
 The Gauls in hurried wonder speed, 
 There hand to hand to meet the shock. 
 
 And gaze with panic on a deed 
 Which little souls might well believe 
 Too much for mortals to achieve. 
 For o'er each height's redoubted head, 
 Firm as the rock on which they tread, 
 Dark as the vision of the dead, 
 
 The British host is seen to wheel : 
 " Charge! " through the phalanx loudly rings. 
 Onward each foot with lightning springs, 
 Down every hand in thunder flings 
 
 The fateful gleaming of its steel. 
 
166 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 They meet — they struggle — wide around 
 
 Bursts the dread conflict's hideous crash ; 
 Bayonets on bayonets dash'd resound, 
 
 Sabres on sabres clash : 
 A mingled tumult roars on high \ 
 
 The drum, the trumpet's burning breath, 
 The shouting victors' furious joy, 
 
 The wounded' s anguish' d shriek of death. 
 Has any fallen ? in his stead 
 
 Another soon, with wilder rage, 
 Springs o'er the dying and the dead, 
 
 For death or vengeance to engage. 
 Huge is the carnage, wild the strife, 
 And life is bravely paid with life, 
 
 ttoXvq S' dov/jLciydoQ opwpa. 
 
 "Ev9a d' clfx' oifiujyT] ts icai £i»%o>X?7 irkXtv avlpwv 
 'OWvvtiov re Kai oWvfxeviov, 
 
 Homer. 
 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 167 
 
 Fury with fury, shout with shout, 
 The vantage wrestling long in doubt, — 
 At length the British arm prevails! 
 
 Another charge drives on amain — 
 The Gauls behold — their firmness fails — 
 
 They fly confounded o'er the plain. 
 Onward the British battle flows, 
 
 Gloomy and dreadful as before, 
 O'er columns of their slaughter' d foes, 
 
 And arms and ensigns wash'd with 
 gore. 
 Each bloody grasp with bayonet steel' d, 
 
 The fire of death in every eye, 
 They thunder o'er the trembling field, 
 
 The guardian saints of Liberty ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 High on the left a mountain rose 
 In rugged grandeur o'er the fray ; 
 
168 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Which Gallia, from her baffled foes, 
 
 That morn had made her prey : 
 Vast, inaccessible, it frown' d, 
 The sovereign of the plains around — 
 Gaul's shatter' d squadrons welcomed there, 
 Retreat, and respite from despair. 
 But scarce had gasp'd a moment's breath, 
 When up the crags the storm of death 
 
 Behind them madly flung : 
 Gaul mark'd their headlong violence, 
 And from her adamantine fence 
 
 Upon her victims sprung. 
 Oh ! Heaven ! protect our breathless group ! 
 What countless thousands on them troop, 
 
 All hung' ring for their doom ! 
 Fly, Britain, fly the hopeless fight ! 
 While yet remains the choice of flight, 
 
 Fly from thy closing tomb ! 
 lumbers and nature, both thy foes, 
 
THK BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 169 
 
 'Tis weak, 'tis madness to oppose : 
 Thy chief himself the mandate gave, 
 Fly what thou durst not hope to brave ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The British onset thus in vain 
 
 With brightening hopes the Gauls survey, 
 And turn ; and form upon the plain, 
 
 Fierce to retrieve the desperate day. 
 Is it the wild tornado's breath ? 
 Is it the thunder-crash of death ? 
 Or is it Britain's hosting train, 
 Whose rampant chargers shake the plain ? 
 'Tis they — 'tis Cotton's hearts of flame, 
 That rush to tear a wreath of fame 
 
 From hostile brows in fight ! 
 Full on the destined foe they fall — 
 Where now the pride, the hopes of Gaul ? 
 Low on the field, blood trampled all, 
 
170 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Or scatter' d wide in flight ! 
 
 Yet why that shriek of lorn dismay ? 
 
 No Briton ever shriek' d through fear ! 
 Why does that anxious group delay, 
 
 Behind the chase, lamenting here ? 
 Alas ! around a fallen chief, 
 In all the gloom of manly grief, 
 
 They stand, and weep in vain ! 
 Valour's first arm is there controll'd, 
 The warmest heart of honour cold, 
 
 In brave Le Marchant slain ! — 
 Let joyous music fill the air ! 
 
 Let pleasure light the festal dome ! 
 Nine children and a wife prepare 
 
 Their long-lost hero's welcome home ! 
 But ah ! that cry ! and is he fled ? 
 
 Their hope, their prayer, their only stay ? 
 Calm is his rest on glory's bed — 
 
 But what shall comfort their dismay ? 
 

 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 171 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 But hark ! the din of fight 
 Again assails the wearied ear ; 
 
 And 'neath the fatal height, 
 In horrid fray the hosts appear. 
 The foe firm-placed and numerous stand ; 
 
 But place and numbers little daunt, 
 Where gleams the steel in British hand, 
 
 And Cole is in the front. 
 Breathless, impetuous, on they haste, 
 Where 'gainst their rashness France has 
 placed 
 
 Her ordeal ridge of steely fire. 
 But vain their frenzy ! still where'er 
 They charge, a thousand points appear, 
 To hush in death their mad career, 
 
 And dash their baffled ire. 
 And from the hill's impending banks 
 Thunder on thunder thins their ranks : 
 
172 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Dark, unrevenged, the weak, the brave, 
 
 All fill alike a bloody grave. 
 And must they yield ? forbid it, pride ! 
 Another charge shall first be tried. 
 Another charge ! but scarce the sound 
 Woke fire and confidence around 
 
 Through every sinking soul, 
 When from the mountain's crowded head 
 A darker shower of death is sped, 
 And streams of blood are seen to spread 
 
 The breast of gallant Cole ! 
 
 XXYII. 
 
 They see him fall — they check their speed — 
 Nor flight nor onset longer heed ! 
 But, gloomy and condensed, prepare 
 To meet their fate with stern despair. 
 When on the right is heard a shout, 
 " Spry, bring thy squadron's fire about, 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 173 
 
 To sweep the foeman's flank, and save 
 The harass'd remnants of the brave." 
 Bless' d as the rays of dawn appear 
 To some night-founder' d mariner, 
 Eose through the rout on Britain's ear 
 
 Thy voice, oh Beresford ! 
 But joy's pale torch soon pass'd away — 
 Instead of ardour's glad huzza, 
 An answering cry of wild dismay 
 
 From every tongue was heard. 
 They turn'd, and dark before them stood 
 The hero deluged in his blood ! 
 And see that band that o'er the heath 
 
 Bear their sad burthen, mute and slow ! 
 And is it thou, victorious Leith, 
 
 In all thy glory, thus laid low ? 
 Brave patriot ! though thy soul was riven 
 
 By torture's poison fang, 
 Still to thy country's cause was given 
 
174 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Thy warmest wish, thy sharpest pang : 
 For now throughout the British train, 
 Their leader lost, their efforts vain, 
 A dreadful panic seem'd to reign, 
 
 And paralyze their force ; 
 While hope in every Gallic soul, 
 Shook from her faded fires away 
 The gathering ashes of dismay, 
 And on sad Britain bade them roll 
 Their desolating course ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And, doubtless, now the trodden heath 
 Had quaff' d a deeper tide of death, 
 While France on Britain's shrinkless blade 
 The meed of rage in turn had paid : 
 Or, haply, o'er the purple plain, 
 Up the steep hill of Victory, 
 Had paved her way with Britons slain — 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 175 
 
 For how could Briton flee ? 
 But Wellington, who on a hill, 
 Euling the wide and woeful sight, 
 (As one sent down by Heaven's command, 
 With Fate's dark fiat in his hand,) 
 Sublimely stood, and pour'd his will 
 Through the long ridges of the fight, 
 With heart — not flutter' d nor dismay' d, 
 But roused to energy, survey' d 
 
 The storm of battle turn'd ; 
 For as a fire, whose rising light 
 Grows brighter through the gloom of night, 
 
 The Hero's spirit burn'd : 
 And danger's mirror only brought 
 The scatter' d brilliancies of thought 
 In one broad blaze to light his soul 
 The way to Glory's proudest goal ! 
 For scarce along the battling maze 
 He cast one transient eagle gaze, 
 
176 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 When to his bosom sprung 
 The means to succour and repel, 
 And " Clinton, to the rescue l ," fell 
 
 Portentous from his tongue. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 As when a cloud of deathful gloom, 
 The seaman's terror, o'er the steep 
 Pours its fierce whirlwinds on the deep, 
 Some fated vessel to entomb 
 
 Within wild ocean's womb ; 
 So the dread voice of Wellington, 
 
 Borne through the battle's tide, 
 Woke their waned strength, and roll'd them 
 on, 
 To wreck the foeman's pride. 
 Lo ! through the field, a radiant band, 
 
 1 " Marmion, to the rescue." — Scott's Marmion. 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 177 
 
 They come, they come ! in every hand 
 The levell'd steel, in every eye 
 The stern resolve to win or die ! 
 Behind their ranks the sufferers bless 
 A grateful refuge from distress ; 
 The rest with new-born ardour press, 
 
 By brave example, on the foe, — 
 The foe that now with alter' d eye 
 See the grim ruin driving nigh, 
 And from the plain and mountain fly 
 
 In panic from the blow. 
 High on their flight the British train. 
 Shouting and slaughtering, rush amain — 
 While the broad sun, that now has driven 
 His chariot to the verge of Heaven, 
 Shooting his horizontal beams 
 Through smoke, and arms, and ensigns, seems 
 In each reverted eye to flare 
 An angry look of red despair. 
 
 N 
 
178 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Oh ! for that voice, whose dread command 
 Ordain' d the fiery King to stand 
 
 O'er G-ibeon's holy hill ; 
 Till Heaven's bright sword had amply sped 
 Its terrors on the impious head, 
 
 And vengeance had her fill ! 
 For as he wanders to repose 
 
 Behind yon western mountain's head, 
 And even's crimson curtains close 
 
 Around his golden bed ; 
 High on the left, to dare their doom, 
 Like spirits from the nightly tomb, 
 
 The G-auls their lines repair ; 
 And all the scatter' d clouds of fight, 
 That, erst were drifted from the right, 
 
 Collect their terrors there. 
 But soon that cloud again shall reel, 
 Before the storm of Britain's steel — 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 179 
 
 Lo ! from the chase they proudly turn ! 
 And eager to the station peal, 
 
 Where danger and where glory burn. 
 A moment for their flurried breath — 
 
 A moment for their loose array — 
 And all, with Clinton, on the heath, 
 
 Are ready for the fray. 
 They shout — they charge — oh ! who can stand 
 The lightning brunt of Britain's hand ? 
 
 Ere scarce a blade could drink 
 Of Gallic blood, in every part, 
 With hasty foot, and wilder' d heart, 
 Into the night they shrink. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Eest, conquering Britons ! every sword 
 Enough with slaughter has been gored. 
 Rest, warriors, rest ! each weary foot 
 Enough has toil'd in proud pursuit. 
 
 n2 
 
180 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 A lighter band, that through the day, 
 Placed by their Chief apart the fray, 
 
 Have fought in wish alone, 
 Now joyous, eager, fly to wrest 
 One bloody wreath from Gallia's crest, 
 
 Ere yet her steps be flown. 
 And lo ! the mighty at their head ! 
 Great Wellington ! who comes to tread 
 
 Their utmost hopes to ground ; — 
 Like to that pyre of heavenly light, 
 "Which walk'd of old in Israel's sight, 
 To guide her hallow' d steps aright, 
 
 When glooms and foes hung round. 
 And now they reach the flying train — 
 And now the battle roars again, 
 
 In all its former din — 
 While night, around their dizzy heads, 
 Her darkest, dreariest mantle spreads, 
 Heightening the terrors of the scene. 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 1SI 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Distracted Gaul ! how drear to thee 
 Appear* d that night of destiny, 
 When on thy army's broken night 
 Career'd Britannia's whirlwind might ! 
 How oft thy soldier raised in prayer 
 
 His eye, and shivering hand, to Heaven, 
 When fright and taintness fetter' d there 
 
 His feet by danger onward driven ! 
 When 'mid the rout he cannot know 
 If his next man be friend or foe ; 
 Until perchance a sudden spear, 
 
 Deep in his bosom, sternly tells 
 The hand of the invader near ; 
 Or fiery victor in his ear 
 
 His frightful triumph yells ; 
 Or when the steely spark, that flashes 
 From swords whose midway fury clashes, 
 
182 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Or sulphurous flame of musket, shows 
 A grim, blue host of angry foes, 
 Bushing with more than mortal might, 
 His last weak hopes of life to blight ; 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Thus Gallia's routed legions bled ; 
 And scarce one frighted soul had fled 
 
 From that avenging night, 
 But darkness lent her friendly shroud, 
 And screen' d the remnants of the crowd 
 
 Whose limbs had strength for flight. 
 Through tangled forests dark and wide, 
 Through rocks and rushing waves they hied, 
 JNTor ceased till Tormes roll'd his tide 
 
 Between them and their foes ; 
 Who now, along the opposing banks, 
 Collect their slaughter-wearied ranks 
 
 To snatch a short repose, 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 183 
 
 Till morn shall light their swords again 
 To humbled Gallia's trembling train. 
 
 XXXIT. 
 
 And now has beat the last dull drum, 
 
 And the last bugle blown ; 
 The watchful sentry, dark and dumb, 
 
 Parades his round alone : 
 No sounds invade his listening ear, 
 
 But Tonnes' billow murmuring nigh, 
 Or when at times the night-winds bear 
 
 From the far plain a hollow sigh. 
 Along that carnage-cover' d green 
 How sad, how awful is the scene ! 
 How opposite to that which gleam' d 
 On morning's eye, when trumpets scream' d, 
 And ardent warriors, shouting high, 
 Rush'd wildly on for victory ! 
 
184 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 No shouts, no trumpets now resound, 
 No warriors shine in proud array ; 
 But broken arms are scatter' d round, 
 And corses strew the bloody clay : 
 No voice disturbs the ear of night, 
 Save where the wounded groans his plight, 
 
 From 'neath a heap of slain : 
 And here and there a pitying throng, 
 That bears some dying man along, 
 Is all that walks the plain. 
 
 XXXT. 
 
 Thou, hapless Lady, thou wert there, 
 In all thy wildness of despair, 
 
 Who, at the voice of rumour, fled 
 Upon the wings of swift delight, 
 To hail thy victor from the fight — 
 But met his corse instead ! 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. ]85 
 
 Distracted maid ! ! what pitying tongue 
 
 Can speak her exquisite distress, 
 When o'er her slaughter' d Lord she hung, 
 
 And call'd on Death her heart to bless ? 
 And oh ! how many a soul must bleed 
 
 Of lover, parent, child, and wife, 
 In death's dark page, through tears, to read 
 
 The names of those adored in life ; 
 For ever lost ! for ever fled ! 
 
 And none to bear their last request ! 
 Xo hand to smoothe their dying bed ! 
 
 No tear to dew their turf of rest ! 
 Te mournful band ! your wounds are deep, 
 
 And who shall chide your plaintful sigh ? 
 But still remember, while you weep, 
 
 They died, as heroes love to die ! 
 
 1 " Infelix virgo !" — Virgil's Eclogues. 
 
186 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 In Honour's arms they sunk to rest ; 
 
 High ardour chased each pang away : 
 Their deeds shall fire the soldier's breast, 
 
 And nerve his hand in danger's day. 
 Their grateful country shall enrol 
 
 Their names on Glory's lists divine, 
 And G-od Himself shall bless the soul, 
 
 A sacrifice from Freedom's shrine ! 
 No widow, orphan o'er their head, 
 Shall wail their wrongs, or cry for 
 
 bread : 
 Their wives become their country's care, 
 Their children find a father there. 
 Oh ! generous Britain ! round thy brow 
 Thy acts of mercy seem to throw 
 A heavenly crown, of purer flame, 
 Than e'en thy deeds of warlike fame ! 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 1S7 
 
 \ \ \ VI. 
 
 Amid the dew, beneath the sky, 
 
 On either side the stream, 
 The warriors close the bloodshot eye, 
 
 And stretch the wearied limb. 
 But far diverse the thoughts that roll 
 O'er either army's anxious soul ! 
 Far different feelings bid them view 
 The Orient welkin's brightening hue ! 
 The Gaul, by fear forbade to sleep, 
 Condemn' d all night to pray and weep, 
 Watches with trembling eye the light, 
 The harbinger of harass' d flight, 
 Sighs, for his trophies, now no more, 
 And thinks what ills are yet in store, 
 How many perils, and fatigues, 
 And hungry hours, and rugged leagues, 
 Ere his sad heart may hope to find 
 All that is loved and left behind. 
 
138 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 If slumber fled the Briton's eye, 
 'Twas exultation bade him fly ; 
 If that he watch' d the coming day, 
 "Twas but to chide its long delay ; 
 If homeward stray' d his joyous thought, 
 
 It stray' d some evening hour to hail, 
 When, round the faggot, in his cot, 
 
 The swains should wonder at his tale, 
 His tale with vaunts and conquests rife, 
 On march, in quarters, and in strife. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 If such the thoughts that then possest 
 
 Britannia's meanest son, 
 What feelings must have fired thy breast, 
 
 Triumphant Wellington ? 
 While the world's anxious eye was cast, 
 With many a trembling wish on Thee, 
 To see thy proudest hopes surpass' d, 
 
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 189 
 
 By this bright day of Victory ! 
 To see a Chief and veteran band, 
 (Who boasted in their pride 
 From Victory's very side 
 To have received with eager hand 
 Her keenest, strongest brand of doom) 
 
 With all the laurel trophies crown' d 
 Their hands had glean' d from nations round, — 
 
 A mighty sacrifice to come ; 
 And yield reluctant all their bays, 
 To heap the altar of thy praise ! 
 High gifted man ! whoe'er survey 
 The actions of that glorious day, 
 See hosts so oft in danger tried, 
 With place and number on their side, 
 Spite of each vantage, yielding still 
 To Britain's fire and Wellesley's skill, 
 Or friend or foeman must declare, 
 The hand of Fortune sway'd not there ! 
 
190 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 No, mighty Chief, relenting Heaven 
 To thee a glorious task hath given ; 
 Hath steel' d thy arm, illumed thy mind, 
 And bade thee succour lost mankind ; 
 With thee the signal spear hath hurl'd, 
 To crush the Tyrant of the world. 
 Hark ! how the nations round proclaim 
 The praises of thy deathless name, 
 
 And hymn thy battles won ! 
 
 And Britain, bounding 'midst her tide, 
 
 Takes up the strain, and spreads it wide, 
 
 To tell the listening world, with pride, 
 
 The greatness of her "Wellington ! 
 
191 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Til i: song is hush'd — the vision' d pomps of fight 
 
 Sink from my eye, and die upon my ear ! 
 Lost is the shout of wrath, the cry of fright ; 
 
 Arms, flags, and battling hosts no more ap- 
 pear. 
 
 But loud upon the gale I seem to hear 
 The voice of triumph from another shore ! 
 
 On Britain's isle ascends the gladsome cheer. 
 Awake, my shell, thy failing chords once more, 
 Join in the festal hymn, and all thy task is o'er. 
 
 First, unto Thee, benignant Heaven, we pay 
 The sacred anthems of our grateful pride ! 
 
 Whose mighty hand on this auspicious day 
 Hath borne the sword of vengeance on our 
 side : 
 
192 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 How shall our words express the votive tide 
 Read in our swelling breasts our thoughts of 
 
 flame ! 
 Oh be thy dread assistance still supplied 
 To Britain's arm, to Britain's generous aim, 
 And whet her hallow' d spear the men of blood to 
 tame. 
 
 And next, "Wellington, to thee is due 
 
 The plausive tribute, and the laurel crown ! 
 And them with thee, whose kindred spirits flew 
 For Britain's safety to despise their own! 
 Hail to the gallant sons of pure renown ! 
 Hail to the guardians of their native strand ! 
 Oh ! gracious Heaven, around their head hang 
 down 
 Thy sacred mantle — speed their generous hand 
 To blast oppression's plans, and save an injured 
 land ! 
 
CONCLUSION. 193 
 
 Flush 1 d with success, we saw the lawless crowd 
 
 (Whose every threat the natious wont to weep. 
 As deed already done) — they rush' d — they voVd 
 
 To whelm our slighted legions in the deep. 
 Oh feeble boast ! from Torres Vedras' steep 
 
 Behold the furious bloodhounds kept at bay ! 
 Behold them fly from thence, a troubled heap, 
 
 Distress and danger lowering round their way. 
 Till then last hopes are quench'd in Salamanca's 
 fray! 
 
 Bise, Spaniards, rise, and grasp the battle brand, 
 Avenge your wrongs, — redeem your trampled 
 laws ; 
 Bise, and repel the harpies of your land ! 
 Bor now the foe his iron rod withdraws ; 
 And to sustain his brethren's baffled cause, 
 Calls off his hordes, and leaves you time to 
 dare, — 
 
 o 
 
194 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Curse on the wretch who slights this happy 
 pause, 
 To rush in arms to Freedom's shrine, and 
 swear 
 His dying land to save, or her sad fate to share ! 
 
 They wake — they rise — they cast their bonds 
 away, 
 Burst the vain fetters of their erring pride ; 
 'Neath Britain's standard join in firm array, 
 And call on "Wellington their rage to guide ! 
 Lo to thy doom, proud Tyrant, far and wide 
 The precepts of the British Fabius fly ! 
 
 Hear'st thou the shouts that on the north 
 wind ride ? 
 Hear'st thou, dark man, thy hapless people's 
 cry, 
 To sink 'mid Eussian snows, and curse thee as they 
 die? 
 
CONCLUSION. 195 
 
 Behold the murderers of the world's repose 
 Advance in mad ambition's full career ; 
 
 The summer sun upon the pageant glows, 
 And visionary spoils their labours cheer, — 
 But famine and disaster hover near, 
 
 And midst the waste spring down upon their prey. 
 Ruin and dearth instead of spoils appear — 
 
 Repulsed, distress' d, beset upon their way, 
 Thousands on thousands fall in horrible dismay. 
 
 When, righteous Heaven, will all these horrors 
 cease ? 
 When will the measure of thy wrath be 
 spann'd ? 
 When will thy angel ministers of peace 
 
 Descend on earth, and wave their hallow' d 
 
 wand? 
 Then shall the smiling muse with raptured 
 hand, 
 
 o2 
 
196 THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 Tear from her patriot lyre the sanguine string, 
 And cowering to her long-loved Fairy land, 
 Strive on the golden links of peace to fling 
 A wreath of votive flowers, fresh cnll'd from Fancy's 
 spring. 
 
 Dublin. 1812, 
 
197 
 TO A FIELD-FLOWEB, 
 
 Found beside a favourite arbour early in Spring. 
 
 Hail, lovely harbinger of Spring ! 
 
 Hail, little, modest Flower ! 
 Fann'd by the tempest's icy wing, 
 
 Dash'd by the hoary shower. 
 Thy balmy breath, thy soften' d bloom 
 
 Was ever welcome here ; 
 But at this hour of Wintry gloom 
 
 Thy smile is doubly dear. 
 
 The storm that o'er thy mossy bed, 
 Subdues the towering tree, 
 
 Flies harmless o'er thy shelter'd head, 
 And wears no scowl for thee ; — 
 
198 TO A FIELD-FLOWER. 
 
 But resting in security, 
 
 Thou teachest haughty souls 
 
 The blessings of obscurity, 
 Where ruin's whirlwind rolls. 
 
 The tulip flaunts in rich array ; 
 
 The rose is passing sweet ; — 
 But, ah ! with Summer's golden day, 
 
 Their gaudy charms retreat : 
 But while the lingering Winter lowers, 
 
 And saddens all the green, 
 Thou, herald mild of brighter hours, 
 
 Thy soothing smiles are seen. 
 
 Thy gems are strew' d in every place, 
 On every bank they fling 
 
 An early wreath, with artless grace 
 Around the brows of Spring ; 
 
TO A FIELD-FLOWER. 199 
 
 In woodland wilds, in gardens gay, 
 
 In vale, on mountain drear ; 
 The first to meet the sunny ray, 
 
 And hail the waking year. 
 
 Oh ! thou art Nature's fondest care, 
 
 The foster-child of Spring ! 
 The virgin twines thee in her hair 
 
 To dance at village ring. 
 The bee, in thy soft bosom, stays — 
 
 His winglet's wild career ; 
 The lark his morning song of praise 
 
 Pours in thy dewy ear ! 
 
 Dear, little, timorous, gentle flower, 
 
 Sweet pilgrim of the storm, 
 Still, still beneath my sheltering bower 
 
 Recline thy paly form ! 
 
200 TO A FIELD-FLOWER. 
 
 No plundering grasp, no heedless bruise, 
 Shall harm one bud of thine : 
 
 And gaudier sweets while others choose, 
 The Primrose shall be mine. 
 
 Balloiv -Water, April 27, 1812. 
 
201 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Sweetest daughter of the year, 
 Smiling June, I hail thee here. 
 Hail thee with thy skies of blue, 
 Days of sunshine, nights of dew. 
 Hail thee with thy songs and flowers, 
 Balmy air, and leafy bowers, 
 Bright and fragrant, fresh and clear, 
 Smiling June, I hail thee here. 
 
 Yet, sweet June, it is not these 
 Perfumed gales and whispering trees, 
 Blossoms shed with liberal hand, 
 Like a star- shower o'er the land, 
 
202 SONG. 
 
 Waves at rest and woods in tune ; 
 'Tis not these, delicious June, 
 Gives thee such a charm for me, 
 Moves me thus to welcome thee. 
 
 'Tis that Agnes on thy skies 
 Open'd first her brighter eyes : 
 That the flower of all thy flowers 
 Woke to life within thy bowers ; 
 Grave thy charms a higher tone, 
 Lent thee honours not thy own ; 
 And for this, thy brightest boon, 
 Take thy tribute, lovely June. 
 
 1816. 
 
203 
 
 MAT FLOWEES. 
 
 Sweet Babes, dress' d out in flowers of May, 
 And fair and innocent as they ; 
 A lovely type in them we see 
 Of what you are, and what must be. — 
 Like them you rise, like them you bloom, 
 Like them you hasten to the tomb. — 
 Ye human flowers, smile on, smile on ! 
 Your hours of bliss will soon be gone. 
 
 Soon manhood with its cares and crimes 
 Shall cloud these early sunny times, 
 And call you from your sports and flowers 
 To passions and pursuits like our's. 
 
204 MAY FLOWERS. 
 
 And what are all that men pursue 
 But flowrets, gather' d flowrets, too ? 
 Howe'er they tempt, howe'er they please, 
 More fleeting and less fair than these. 
 
 Enjoyments, honours, talents, sway, 
 Wealth, beauty, all must pass away ; 
 A cloud must come across their sky, 
 A frost but nips them, and they die. — 
 One flower alone, when all are gone, 
 Shall bloom for aye unfading on — 
 'Tis Grace — the treasure seek and prize ; 
 It grows to Grlory in the skies. 
 
 1817. 
 
205 
 
 A. M. M. L. 
 
 A i i;w brief moons the Babe who slumbers here 
 
 Smiled on her parents, and that innocent smile 
 
 Was daylight to their eyes. They thought her fair, 
 
 And gentle, and intelligent, and dared 
 
 To lean their hearts upon her. There are ways 
 
 And looks of hers that long will dwell with them, 
 
 And there are bright anticipations held, 
 
 How fondly and feelingly resign' d ! 
 
 Her very helplessness endear' d her to them, 
 
 And made her more their own. — But this is done ; — 
 
 The wintry wind pass'd o'er the opening flower, 
 
 And nipp'd it in the bud — and it is gone. 
 
 Still there is comfort left. It still is joy 
 
 That they can lift their weeping eyes to Heaven, 
 
206 A. M. M. L. 
 
 And think that one of theirs is settled there ; 
 Can know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, 
 That she is safe with Him who bears the lambs 
 Within His bosom, and, no longer Babe 
 But Angel, now beholds her Father's face, 
 And shares the fulness of eternal joy. 
 
 Sweet Spirit, since now the ministry of love 
 From Grod to erring man is thine, O draw 
 The souls of those who loved thee to the place 
 Where thou art gone before them ; make them feel 
 That earth is not their home ; fix their thoughts 
 On Heaven, on Him who once on earth took up 
 Babes such as thou, and blessed them, and bade all 
 Who look'd for Heaven become like Babes, — like 
 
 thee, 
 Pure, innocent, lowly, loving, and new-born. 
 
SERMONS. 
 

SERMON V 
 
 Ephes. ii. 1*2. 
 " Without God in the world." 
 
 In every part of the universe with which we arc 4 
 acquainted, God has left abundant evidence o\' His 
 presence and agency ; and all that we behold, and 
 all that we experience, present us with lessons of 
 Divine wisdom. The invisible things of Him, to 
 use the Apostle's words, from the creation of tin 
 world, are clearly seen, being understood l>i/ the 
 things that are wade, even His eternal power and 
 Godhead. The heavens and the earth, in fact, alike 
 
 1 Preached id the Chapel at Saltram, October 1!). 1823 
 in the New Church of Lower Brixham. March 5, 1826. 
 
210 SERMON I. 
 
 declare the glory of God. From the flower that we 
 trample under foot, to the planet that rolls in ma- 
 jesty above our heads, all things speak His praise ; 
 all declare that they were made by Him ; and that 
 He who made them is infinite in wisdom, power, 
 and goodness. The dispensations of Providence 
 speak the same language. Effects demand a cause: 
 and the existence, order, variety, and continued 
 support of the universe, drive us to a Superintend- 
 ing Power and Intelligence, and forbid us to be 
 without God in the icorld. 
 
 In addition, however, to these outward monitors, 
 we have likewise an inward witness, whose still 
 small voice bears faithful testimony to her God and 
 to His laws. Amid the ruins of fallen nature, Con- 
 science still holds her place, the stern arbitress of 
 all we say, or do, or design. Showing, in a certain 
 sense, the ivork of the Laic written in the heart, she 
 bears her witness ; the thoughts accusing, or else ex- 
 
WITHOUT GOD IK THK WORLD. 211 
 
 cusint/. one another. She remains, as it were, the 
 last particle of that Divine breath which wa> 
 breathed into mans nostrils at his creation, and still 
 gires evidence of her origin: for, however slighted, 
 or stifled, or perverted, her testimony may be, she 
 will not altogether cease to speak of her Author. 
 
 But, abundant as the witness may be which is 
 thus given to God and His attributes, He has not 
 seen good to leave us to these alone for instruction 
 concerning Him. They indeed, as man was origi- 
 nally formed, might have been sufficient to lead 
 him into all truth ; but the state of the greater 
 portion of mankind is a proof that it is lamentably 
 otherwise now. The evidences derived from natural 
 sources, though powerful corroboratives of the truth 
 when once revealed, are yet, as the experience of 
 six thousand years abundantly testifies, quite in- 
 adequate to its original development. They are 
 indeed admirable remembrancers, both of God's 
 p2 
 
212 SERMON I. 
 
 presence, and of our duties towards Him ; but still 
 very insufficient guides in our attempts originally 
 to feel after Him. Accordingly, God has not left 
 us dependent on these natural monitors for instruc- 
 tion in such important matters. He has given us 
 the Bible. On the page of revelation He has stamped 
 a full, correct, image of Himself, His attributes, 
 and His claims. He is there displayed, as indeed 
 He is, glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, chal- 
 lenging alike our love and our respect. No human 
 imagination could have conceived a character so 
 exalted, and yet so suitable and consistent in all its 
 parts. Every touch of the stupendous picture 
 betrays the Divine pencil by which it has been 
 sketched. The King of Eternity there bows His 
 heavens, and comes down, and stands in all His ma- 
 jesty before us. Erom other sources He is revealed 
 to us by hints, by inference, and deduction : here 
 He is displayed, as it were, to our very senses, — He 
 
r 
 
 WITHOUT GOD IN THE WORLD. 213 
 
 acts and speaks before us in His proper character. 
 In other rases, examination is requisite in order to 
 our obtaining an obscure idea of Him ; here He 
 presents Himself directly to our attention ; He 
 vindicates His presence with us, and defies us to 
 overlook Him. 
 
 These, then, are the various witnesses and advo- 
 cates of God with man. All around us and within 
 us speak of Him ; and, lest their language should 
 be mistaken or disregarded, Revelation is added, 
 the Bible is promulged ; and, in this Christian land, 
 a regular ministry is moreover appointed, to press 
 its truths upon us, and leave us without excuse for 
 our ignorance or neglect of God. By these a con- 
 stant appeal is made in His behalf to all our better 
 faculties and affections. They enforce His claims, 
 by every consideration of duty and expediency, of 
 His greatness and our dependence. They remind 
 us that the issues of life and death are in His hands. 
 
214 SERMON I. 
 
 Let His sustaining influence be withdrawn from us 
 for a moment, and we must perish. It is not neces- 
 sary that He should exert His energies against us — 
 let Him cease to employ them in our behalf, and 
 we are instantly no more ; let the Power that per- 
 vades, actuates, and upholds the universe withdraw, 
 and the mighty machine immediately stops, and 
 falls in pieces. If we gave but a single acknow- 
 ledgment to each of His favours, every successive 
 minute of our lives must be filled with His praises, 
 because every successive minute of our lives comes 
 to us loaded with His benefits. Tet, if we turn to 
 inquire what are the practical effects of these con- 
 siderations, how are these claims generally an- 
 swered ? I fear it must be acknowledged by every 
 candid mind, that God and His concerns hold but 
 a very inadequate place in our regards. If we do 
 not openly slight Him and His service, yet surely a 
 very small portion of our time, and still less of our 
 
WITHOUT GOD IN THE WORLD. 215 
 
 hearts, are His ; surely very few of our actions arc 
 performed with a direct reference to Him and His 
 word. And though we may maintain a decent ex- 
 terior, ma}' avoid open transgression, and go through 
 the ordinary offices of life with credit and decency ; 
 yet, surely, the actuating motives to all this must 
 be allowed to be, in general, both mixed and defec- 
 tive : surely little is still done simply and cheerfully 
 to G-od, and from a principle of love and duty. His 
 service is, in truth, generally irksome to us ; His 
 worship a burden ; and, so far from our deriving 
 happiness from a sense of His presence, it commonly 
 brings us only gloom and uneasiness. Religion, in 
 fact, with most of us, seems to be incompatible 
 with cheerfulness ; and we therefore shun it and 
 its Great Object. The heaviest afflictions too 
 often fail to drive us effectually to His bosom. 
 The most unhoped-for favours cannot melt down 
 our hearts to Him. And, while all around seem in 
 
216 SERMON I. 
 
 some degree to confess their God, man alone walks 
 along forgetful of Him by whom he is never for- 
 gotten ; the most favoured and the most thankless 
 being in creation; and, though, surrounded with 
 such appeals to his understanding and his heart, 
 yet too often without God in the world. 
 
 When circumstances like these exist (and as- 
 suredly our consciences, if allowed to speak, will 
 confirm the greater part of this plain representa- 
 tion) there must be a cause for them ; and this 
 cause must be found either in God and the things 
 belonging to Him, or in ourselves. In the former, 
 however, the defect cannot exist. The things which 
 belong to God are worthy of our noblest faculties ; 
 they are fitted to engage and fill all the mind ; they 
 are without length, or Ireadth, or height, or depth, and 
 alone suitable for an infinite and immortal soul to 
 expatiate on. God, too, is a perfect character. In 
 1 1 im is no darkness nor defect at all. All which 
 
WITHOUT GOD IN THE WORLD. 217 
 
 the imagination can conceive, that Ho actually is. 
 Whatever of excellence we find in created things, 
 is but a glimmering ray reflected and borrowed 
 from the Supremely Excellent ; and every object in 
 earth and heaven grows estimable only as it grows 
 like to Him. — The defect, then, is not in God or 
 His concerns. They are worthy of our highest 
 faculties and affections ; and the reason why they 
 do not engage them must be sought in ourselves. 
 In truth, experience shows us that we are naturally 
 averse to Divine things ; that there is in our very 
 constitution something that is, as it were, instinc- 
 tively hostile to God. If we obey Him, it is as a 
 hard task-master ; if we worship Him, it is either 
 through fear, or shame, or some other inferior 
 motive, than through love. The defect, then, is in 
 the very disposition of man ; and this must there- 
 fore be improved before we can expect any radical 
 change for the better. — Now this testimony of 
 
218 
 
 SERMON I. 
 
 experience exactly tallies with that of the Scrip- 
 tures. They inform us that man is a fallen crea- 
 ture ; that his faculties are impaired, and his affec- 
 tions depraved. His heart (for the defect is here, 
 even more than in his understanding) is described 
 there as desperately ivicked ; and it was for the 
 purpose of redeeming man from this degraded state 
 — of raising, refining, regenerating his soul, and 
 restoring him to the lost image and favour of his 
 God — that the Holy Spirit descended from above, 
 that the Saviour died, and the Gospel was preached. 
 — Here, then, we have the true reason that we are 
 in our dispositions so averse to Divine things, that 
 we are so insensible to all the judgments and 
 mercies we experience, and continue with so little 
 regret or remorse without God in the world. 
 
 It is a remarkable circumstance, that, wherever 
 God is represented in the Divine records as de- 
 scending to converse with man, the latter is described 
 
WITHOUT GOD IN THJC WORLD. 219 
 
 as dreading His presence. In the brief sketch we 
 have of the terms on which man lived with his God 
 before the Fall, we find aothing but mutual love 
 ami harmony between them ; but no sooner has lie 
 broken the one easy command that was given him, 
 than the whole scene is changed, and God appears 
 an offended Judge ; while man, a conscious culprit, 
 hides himself from His presence. Wherever, in 
 the Scriptures, God and man again meet, it* we 
 hare any account of the feelings of the latter, they 
 are almost invariably full of terror. Under what- 
 ever circumstances, and in whatever character. 
 God appears to him. the self-condemned sinner 
 trembles and is humbled before Him. To pass 
 over more general instances, even the righteous 
 Job, however vehement and unsubdued before, no 
 sooner sees Him than he has nought to answer ; lie 
 lays his hand on his mouth, abhors himself, ami 
 repents in dust and ashes. The first exclamation 
 
220 SERMON I. 
 
 of the holy Isaiah, when he heholds in his temple 
 the King, the Lord of hosts, is, Woe is me, for I am 
 a man of unclecm lips ! The shepherds of Bethlehem, 
 when the glory of the Lord shone around them, and 
 His angels descended to proclaim even the glad 
 tidings of salvation, are represented as sore afraid ; 
 and our Lord's own disciples, when they see Him 
 tread the waves of the sea, and enter into the 
 midst of them after His resurrection, are both times 
 terrified at the sight of Him. " Depart from me, 
 for I am a sinful man, O Lord," is the natural 
 exclamation of fallen humanity. 
 
 These are proofs that at all times, and in the 
 very best of men, there has existed a certain inde- 
 finite terror at meeting with their G-od. And if at 
 the present hour we observe human nature with 
 attention, methinks we may still discover traces of 
 a similar feeling. For, though preternatural ap- 
 pearances of every kind may have ceased, have 
 
WITHOUT GOD IN THE WORLD. 221 
 
 they, 1 would ask, yet lost their credence and 
 influence with mankind? Whence the awe and 
 agitation with which thousands still listen to every 
 
 supernatural tale? Whence the terrific illusions 
 with which superstition still peoples the darkness 
 o\* the night ? Whence the alarm which every 
 strange sight or sound there excites with many: 
 Why those anxieties that haunt the bed of sick- 
 ness ? Why those terrors that madden the hour 
 of death ? How is it that the meanest wretch who 
 begs his bread from door to door, helpless, friend- 
 less, desolate as he may be, clings so convulsively 
 to his present shred of existence, rather than 
 venture into the presence of his God? It is, I 
 would say. Conscience that condemns us ; it is 
 human nature that bears unwilling witness against 
 itself. We fear to encounter an impartial Judge ; 
 for we too well conjecture what must be His sen- 
 tence upon us. We feel ourselves to be unworthy 
 
222 
 
 SERMON I. 
 
 of heaven ; and we therefore prefer any state of 
 known misery here, to that which we dread here- 
 after. But, ah ! if the darkness of night fill persons 
 with such apprehensions, how will they bear the 
 darkness of the grave ? If the illusions of the 
 imagination be so awful to them now, what will 
 the realities of another world be, when they rush 
 upon them hereafter? If the presence of God in 
 the character of mercy be so distressing, what shall 
 they feel when they see Him coming in the clouds of 
 heaven to judgment ? — Beloved, if our hearts con- 
 demn us, God is greater than our hearts, and know- 
 eth all things ; and therefore the summons, Prepare 
 to meet thy God, may well alarm us under our pre- 
 sent circumstances. 
 
 Here, then, is the true secret of our aversion to 
 Grod and to Divine things. Our hearts condemn us, 
 as unfit for conversing with them. We are sinners, 
 and therefore tremblers in the Divine presence. 
 
WITHOUT GOD IN THE WORLD. 223 
 
 Things that are opposite to each other cannot agree; 
 and therefore, neither sinful man with a holy God, 
 nor an unhallowed mind with heavenly subjects. 
 
 If wo were not aware of our unfitness for the favour 
 of God, we should feel no reluctance to a transla- 
 tion into His preseuee. He is a God of love alone 
 to those who are holy ; and death would be no 
 object of terror to a pure being. We suffer more, 
 perhaps, at our entrance into life, than in our de- 
 parture from it. A siugle sigh might waft our 
 spirits up above, and set us free for ever. We 
 should only go to mingle with the better part of 
 our friends, enrolled with all the good and great of 
 earth ; we should come to the city of the living God, 
 to the innumerable company ofanr/els, to the spirit* 
 of just men made perfect, and to Jesus the Mediator 
 of the new covenant. But ah! the truth is, we feci 
 ourselves unfit for such company, we do not desire 
 it. The service of angel and archangel has no 
 
224 
 
 SERMON I. 
 
 charms for us. We hear of no enjoyments in hea- 
 ven akin to those we prize on earth. The blessed 
 there, find all their joy in pouring out the praises, 
 or doing the commands of God ; and if such occu- 
 pations are so wearisome to us for a time here, 
 what would they be when continued through eter- 
 nity ? In fact, according to the descriptions of the 
 Bible, the offices of true religion constitute the 
 chief happiness of heaven ; and unless we find plea- 
 sure in these here, we cannot expect to find it in 
 them hereafter. Our Church acknowledges no pur- 
 gatory, no probationary or preparatory state, beside 
 the present life. Now is the accepted time, now is 
 the day of salvation : and if we pass through this 
 world without God, we must be without Him also 
 in the world to come. 
 
 Persons who are under the circumstances and 
 feelings now described, are said in the Scripture to 
 be of the world, and, as such, for from the favour of 
 
WITHOUT GOD IN THE WORLD. 225 
 
 God. The language of the Bible, indeed, on this 
 Bubjeet, is awfully Btrong and expressive, We can- 
 not, it Bays, serve God and mammon : but, if we Jove 
 the one. we must hate the other ; and if any wan be 
 
 the friend of the world, he is the enemjf of God. In 
 bet, a devotedness to worldly objects lias the direct 
 effect of dethroning God in onr hearts. If our 
 time and thoughts, hands and hearts, are wholly 
 dedicated to the world, what then remains for Him? 
 This animating, influencing, actuating, engrossing 
 object, what is it but onr god? The Lord that 
 made ns will not be content with a secondary place 
 in our affections ; the concerns of eternity claim 
 more than the mere refuse of onr time and 
 thoughts : and if the enjoyments and businesses 
 oi life, bo they what they may, so occupy ns as to 
 Bhut out the great business for which we were 
 brought into existence, wo arc. according to Scrip- 
 ture phraseology, however we may attempt to soften 
 
 Q 
 
226 SERMON I. 
 
 down or explain away the term, of the worlds there- 
 fore, of necessity, without God. 
 
 Whoever, then, is in such a state as this, let him 
 remember, that, whatever else he may have, he is 
 yet without God. He may have wealth, honours, 
 amiabilities, talents, accomplishments ; he may be 
 loved, revered, courted by men ; his cup of pleasure 
 may be filled to the brim ; his every appetite may 
 be fed to satiety ; he may have all that earth can 
 furnish : but, one thing he has not— and that is, 
 Grod — and, whatever he may have beside, without 
 Him he is still poor. What is a man profited, if 
 he gain the whole world, yet lose his own soul? 
 Had we, indeed, all the goods that this world 
 could supply, we should feel their insufficiency to 
 satisfy an immortal soul : we should sit, amidst 
 them all, as others have done before, supreme yet 
 solitary. We should look inward, and be miserable, 
 if we had not something still beyond. — My fellow- 
 
WITHOUT GOD IN THE WOULD. 227 
 
 Christians, it is an awful thing, under any circum- 
 stances, to be without God in the icorld. But, ah ! 
 to be without Him in such a world as this gene- 
 rally proves — in a world so false, so fleeting, so full of 
 wretchedness, and which, even in its fairest aspect, 
 so soon must pass from us, or we from it ! — When 
 the storm grows loud and the clouds darken around 
 us, where shall we flee for refuge, if we have none 
 in heaven ? In sickness, in bereavement, in ad- 
 versity — and which of us is exempted from their 
 visitations ? — when foes assail, and friends forsake 
 us ; what shall we do, if we have not God to turn 
 to ? What shall we feel, wdth even Him added to 
 the number of our enemies ? And, yet, an enemy 
 He must be, if He is not a friend. We may turn 
 from the smiles of His love, but it must be to en- 
 counter the frowns of His vengeance. If we will 
 not receive Him under the mild character of mercy, 
 we must meet Him in His sterner attribute of jus- 
 Q 2 
 
228 SERMON I. 
 
 tice. We may seek to drive God away from our 
 thoughts, and refuse to notice or acknowledge Him; 
 but the Omnipresent will still be near us in one 
 form or another. 
 
 But, while we are discussing these topics, and 
 are yet undecided, time travels on, with swift 
 though silent wings, and brings us to the hour 
 when we shall learn to form a true estimate of 
 these matters. Picture to yourselves the situation 
 of a man passing out of the world without God. 
 Imagine him, as he feels at length earth sliding 
 from beneath him, starting up to look over the 
 edge of his present state of existence, and learning 
 where he is and what are his prospects. "With 
 eyes opened, just as they are about to close for ever, 
 he looks around, and discovers his awful situation. 
 Conscience, too, that had long been drowned amidst 
 the din of pleasure and the hurry of business, rising 
 on him now, when least able to bear it, with her 
 
WITHOUT c;oi> IN THE WORLD. 229 
 
 still small voice Bwelling into thunder, bids him 
 hope no more. Bring him now his friends ; give 
 him his enj yments! Ah! what are they? Ins 
 soul sickens at the thought of them. He wants the 
 friendship of God; he wants a claim to the enjoy- 
 ments of heaven!— Well! the struggle ends! — He 
 is gone ! — Gone ! whither ? to the grave ? No ; there 
 is no rest for the wicked, not even the rest of the 
 tomb. He is gone to meet his God ; to meet the 
 withering look of the Saviour whom he slighted; 
 who might have been his Advocate, but is now his 
 overwhelming Judge ; —He is gone where no rocks 
 will fall on him, nor mountains cover him from 
 the face of outraged Omnipotence ; he is gone to 
 the place prepared, not only for the incorrigibly 
 wicked, but for all the people that forget God. 
 
 The picture I have here drawn is a gloomy one- 
 It might have been desirable to relieve it with 
 matter of a different cast, but time will not admit 
 
230 SERMON T. 
 
 of our doing this fully at present. There is, 
 doubtless, another state of heart and mind, very 
 unlike to that which we have now described — a 
 high and holy state, in which to live is Christ, and 
 to die is gain ; in which God is our Father, heaven 
 is our portion, and the things of this world are 
 held with the slack and un-anxious grasp of one 
 who feels that he is a pilgrim and a stranger on 
 earth, and who is looking to, and longing for, his 
 home. If, then, that which has been said here 
 to-day may have made an impression on the heart 
 of any present, let him not seek to obliterate it. 
 A serious and contemplative disposition is the soil 
 on which the seeds of every virtue may best be 
 sown ; in which they most readily take root, and 
 from whence they give the most abundant fruit. 
 When we are convinced of our wants and errors, 
 half the work of reformation is accomplished ; 
 there is no want for which God does not afford 
 
WITHOUT GOD IX Till. WORLD. 231 
 
 an adequate supply ; no error which the Gospel 
 will not enable us to amend. Do any feel that 
 they have to-day had a true picture of their own 
 state : and that they have been too much without 
 God in the world f What, I may ask, what but 
 their own unwillingness or indifference, can hinder 
 their escaping from this condition ; from going 
 direct to God, and being His for ever r Is there 
 not a new and living way opened for us to Him, 
 through a Redeemer ? Is not the blood of the Lord 
 Jesus Christ sufficient to cleanse from all sin ? And 
 are there not, in every page of His Gospel, invita- 
 tions and welcomes to all that are disposed to come 
 to God through Him ? Has not the Holy Spirit 
 promised to help our infirmities, and speed our way 
 to glory ? And will not every angel in heaven shout 
 for joy over another sinner repenting t — AYliere is 
 the want of encouragement in the Divine word, to 
 those that are truly humbled and penitent, feeling 
 
232 SERMON I. 
 
 that they have wandered, and desirous of return ? 
 Are not the invitations strong enough ? Are not 
 the promises free enough ? Oh, where is the ob- 
 stacle to their reception, if it exist not in their own 
 hearts ? If they are willing to return, who is un- 
 willing that they should ? Is God unwilling, who 
 has spared them and pleaded with them so long ? 
 Is Jesus unwilling, who has laid down His life for 
 their sakes ? Is the Holy Spirit unwilling, who is 
 even now perhaps striving with them for their 
 souls ? Oh, let not Satan, let not the world, let 
 not your own indolence or indifference, keep you 
 from God. Go to Him, like the poor Prodigal, 
 and tell Him you have sinned against heaven, and 
 before Him, and are no more worthy to be called 
 His son. Tell Him you have too long slighted 
 His judgments and abused His mercies ; that you 
 have too long forsaken Him for a cold and cheerless 
 world, and preferred its service to His, its joys 
 
WITHOUT GOD IN THE WORLD. 233 
 
 to those of heaven. Tell Him that you have at 
 last felt its worthlessness and insufficiency, and 
 your own guilt and folly ; that you " do earnestly 
 repent, and are heartily sorry for these your mis- 
 doings ;" and that you would now return, and he 
 reconciled to Him, and dwell with Him for ever. 
 Tell Him this in humbleness and simplicity of 
 heart ; and depend on it the Lord will not reject 
 His child, His creature, His repenting suppliant. He 
 w r ill lift up the light of His countenance on you and 
 bless you. And, if He be for you, ivho can be 
 against you? If He be your friend, what good 
 thing can long be absent from you ? You will 
 have, through Him, peace in life, hope in death : 
 and this once passed, then lift up your heads, O ye 
 gates ; and be ye lifted up, O ye everlasting doors ; 
 and the King and the heirs of glory shall come in. 
 
SERMON II. 1 
 
 John xxi. 6. 
 " Cast the net on the right side of the ship, and ye shall find." 
 
 It was my intention, brethren, to have addressed 
 this congregation from a different text, and on dif- 
 ferent topics, from those which I am now about to 
 bring before them. But the affecting and interest- 
 ing sight which presents itself here to-day, induces 
 me to select a subject more directly suitable to our 
 dear fishermen, whom I so rejoice to meet in the 
 House of God this morning, There is surely not 
 one person present who does not partake of the 
 
 1 Addressed to the Fishermen of Brixham, on the Sunday 
 after the Coronation, 1838. 
 
236 SERMON II. 
 
 emotions which I feel in standing up among such 
 a body of my parishioners, and who will not 
 excuse me for addressing myself on this occasion 
 almost exclusively to them. Join me then, my dear 
 friends, in praying, that the words spoken in weak- 
 ness may come in power to the hearts of those who 
 hear, and prove a savour of life unto life to many 
 among us. 
 
 The manner in which our fishermen have con- 
 ducted themselves throughout this week, cannot 
 have failed to gratify all who have witnessed it. 
 The people of Brixham may well be proud of a 
 body of men, who have so practically proved that 
 they can command themselves. If, my dear friends, 
 there has, heretofore, been any grounds for doubt 
 on this point, your proceedings through the past 
 week have done much to wipe off the reproach, and 
 your own hearts must at this moment be richly en- 
 joying the moral triumph you have achieved. It 
 
CAST THE NET ON T THE RIGHT SIDK. 237 
 
 was highly gratifying to all the friends of order and 
 sobriety in this place, to hear of the admirable de- 
 terminations with which you opened your proceed- 
 ings on Thursday ; and it is the more encouraging 
 to think, that these determinations arose, and have 
 been maintained, altogether among yourselves. 
 You were right indeed in thinking, that a man is 
 never more degraded than when in a state of in- 
 toxication ; he truly then places himself below the 
 level of the brute, for the brute will not voluntarily 
 deprive himself of his sober senses. The inward 
 satisfaction which you must now enjoy in the re- 
 view of the last few days, is surely more than a 
 recompence for any self-denial that you may have 
 imposed on yourselves ; and let me hope that this 
 experience of the past may, through God's blessing, 
 give you moral encouragement, moral strength, for 
 the future ; and that the conduct of this week may 
 prove the auspicious earnest, the happy first-fruits, 
 of a rich and abundant harvest. 
 
238 SERMON II. 
 
 But if the opening of your proceedings was 
 praiseworthy, the close of them is not less so. To 
 meet you here, my brethren, in the House of God, 
 to witness your orderly conduct, your devotional 
 manner here, is, indeed, most pleasing and encou- 
 raging. It seems to me to say, that you know 
 from whence high and holy motives and principles 
 may alone be derived : that in order to persevere 
 in that which is right and good, you feel that we 
 must look for grace to Him, "from whom all holy 
 desires, all good counsels, and all just works do pro- 
 ceed." It seems to me to intimate, that you have 
 a proper sense of the religious nature of the great 
 ceremony we have just been celebrating in these 
 realms; that you view it, as indeed it is, as a 
 solemn national transaction, carried on in the sight 
 of God, in one of His holy temples, between His 
 Vicegerent on earth and the people He has commit- 
 ted to her charge; and that you are aware that 
 God must be appealed to, in order that she may 
 
(AST THK XKT ON THE RIGHT BIDE. 239 
 
 prove a blessing to us, or that we may be enabled 
 
 to discharge our duties to her. My dear friends. 
 nothing is really great in which God and religion 
 have not a place. Deprive the coronation of these, 
 
 strip the pageant of its heavenly halo, and how 
 poor and insignificant does it beeome ! It is. as 
 connecting itself with God, with His will, His sanc- 
 tions, His appointment, and His blessing, that tin 
 ceremony becomes truly impressive. In this light 
 I trust that your presence here to-day shows that 
 yon view it. It is, I trust, as if you said, we have 
 but half discharged our duty on this occasion, till 
 we have gone to the house of God and asked Eia 
 blessing on our youthful Sovereign ; asked the 
 King of kings and the Lord of lords to supply the 
 deficiencies o\' our services towards her. The 
 prayers, in which we have all joined here to-day. 
 afford a striking compendium, both to monarch and 
 subject, of their respective duties to each other: 
 
240 SERMON II. 
 
 and I trust that we shall all make a point of study- 
 ing their contents, and of pouring them forth ear- 
 nestly every Sabbath at the throne of grace. Then 
 may our loyalty be expected to be, not like the 
 vows and garlands that adorned the festal hour, 
 and then faded away ; but like the jewels of the 
 royal crown, that have come down, precious and 
 untarnished, through successive generations. 
 let the loyalty of British hearts once thus vent 
 itself in fervent persevering prayer for their Sove- 
 reign, and who shall say what benefits may thus 
 descend upon her head, and through her upon her 
 people ? 
 
 Tour presence, however, here to-day implies, I 
 trust, even something more than enlightened loyalty 
 to an earthly monarch ; it shows that you recognize 
 the superior claims of the lung eternal, immortal, 
 in risible, the only wise God, on the homage and 
 allegiance of His creatures. Whatever God's Re- 
 
CAST THE NKT ON' THE HIG11T SIDE. 24 1 
 
 presentative on earth may demand from us, such 
 demands are few and feeble, compared with those 
 of God Himself; and the utmost that duty and 
 devotedness can bestow may well be offered at the 
 feet of Him, to whom we owe all, and on whom we 
 depend for all. That great coronation-day will come 
 at last, when, before the assembled universe, amidst 
 ministering angels, the crown shall be placed upon 
 the bleeding brow of the Conqueror of sin and 
 death, and all things in heaven and earth be put 
 under His feet ; and it is the interest, as well as the 
 duty of His servants now, to learn to enthrone Him 
 in their hearts ; to learn to cast their crowns before 
 Him ; to learn how to join in the universal accla- 
 mation, the Alleluia, the honour, glory, power, and 
 blessing, that shall then burst forth from ev< •} 
 tongue. I rejoice then to meet you here, anticipat- 
 ing, in the House of God, some of the holy services 
 of Heaven. Fear God. and honour the king. are. 
 
 R 
 
242 SERMON II. 
 
 we know, coupled together in the Bible. Bender 
 unto Ccesar the things that are Ccesar's is imme- 
 diately followed by Render unto God the things that 
 are God's. And there is truly no office of life that can 
 be properly performed, till we are duly sensible of 
 our religious obligations, and till the motives to its 
 performance are drawn from the sanctuary. It is 
 the religious man that is always, and in every rela- 
 tion of life, the best member of society ; the most 
 useful to others, and the most happy in himself: 
 and be assured, my dear friends, that no man ever 
 casts the net on the right side of the ship, none ever 
 catches any thing worth his finding, who does not 
 seek and find the favour of God through Christ, 
 forgiveness of sins through His blood, the hope of 
 glory by His merits, the preparation for Heaven by 
 His Holy Spirit, and all the blessed motives and 
 principles, which keep a man in the narrow way 
 through this life, and bring him to everlasting hap- 
 
CAST THI XLT ON THE RIGHT BIDE. 243 
 
 pinesfl in the life to come. Whatever else may be 
 sougbt or acquired by us, if these be neglected, we 
 shall find at last that we have toiled all night and 
 
 caught nothing ; yea, toiled in vain through the night 
 of time, and found nothing but disappointment for 
 eternity. 
 
 The language of the text was addressed by our 
 newly-risen Lord to Peter and his fellow-fishermen 
 of Galilee ; who, after the bitter disappointment 
 they had experienced in seeing their Lord and 
 Master, Him of whom they had trusted, that it had 
 been He that should have redeemed Israel, crucified 
 and slain, had returned to their ordinary occupa- 
 tions at the sea of Tiberias. Jesus had called them 
 originally to be His disciples by a miraculous 
 draught of fishes, and He now revived their slum- 
 bering faith and hopes by a similar miracle. He 
 taught them His divine power and authority over 
 all creation, intimated to them His intention of 
 b 2 
 
244 SERMON II. 
 
 delegating a part of that power to them in 
 making them fishers of men, and reminded them, that 
 in order to pursue this or any other avocation with 
 success, we must depend continually on His 
 guidance, on His blessing. Such is the lesson 
 which the words still convey to you, my bre- 
 thren, and to me. They contain a direction 
 and a promise applicable to all circumstances in 
 which we may be placed ; teach us, that on every 
 occasion there is a right side of the ship for us, one 
 to which Grod's word points, and in which His 
 blessing may be expected, and that it is only when 
 we cast in the net there that we may hope to find. 
 This lesson of dependence is applicable to all cases 
 and persons, but it is peculiarly so to those who 
 occupy their business in the great waters, and above 
 all to fishermen. Grod indeed gave man at the first 
 dominion over the fish of the sea, as well as over the 
 fowls aud brutes, but how little could we do to- 
 
CAST THE NET OX THE RIGHT SIDE. 245 
 
 wards exercising that dominion without TI is special 
 interference! Diligence and perseverance and in- 
 genuity, needful as they are, could effect but little 
 in the exercise of the fisherman's craft, unless God 
 was pleased to add His favour and blessing. If but 
 an east wind, you know, prevail for a few weeks, as 
 it sometimes does, on our coasts, what distress and 
 destitution does it bring with it to the fisherman ! 
 How sternly does it admonish those who sacrifice 
 unto their net, and burn incense unto their drag, to 
 depend not on these, but on Him who brings forth 
 the winds from His treasury, who stills the waves 
 with a word, and overrules the restless elements to 
 His will and our good ! My dear friends, He from 
 whom we thus derive our all, is not the Being that 
 we ought lightly to offend. His Sabbaths ought 
 not to be rashly broken, His house deserted, His 
 name profaned, His word neglected. A sailor's 
 heart is generally a warm and generous one: he 
 
245 SERMON II. 
 
 scorns to be ungrateful for, insensible of, the light- 
 est favour ; and yet he too often thinks little of 
 insulting and trampling on Him, to whom he owes 
 more than to all beside. He thinks little of irre- 
 verence and ingratitude towards God. O, I am 
 sure, that if the honest, manly hearts that are now 
 before me, thought a little more of their obligations 
 to Him ; of all that He does for them and bears 
 from them; of the manner in which He hourly 
 spares and tends them ; of the provision He daily 
 makes for them, the protection He daily affords 
 them ; of the means He uses for awakening and 
 blessing them ; of the mighty machinery He puts 
 in motion for their salvation, the gift of His dear 
 Son to be their Redeemer, the descent of His Holy 
 Spirit to prepare their souls for heaven; all the 
 means of grace that He provides for them ; all the 
 hopes of glory He holds out to them ; if these 
 things were but duly thought of, I am sure that 
 
CAST THE NET ON THE RIGHT SIDE. 247 
 
 sailors could not blaspheme God's name as fchey do; 
 could not turn their backs on His house ; could not 
 shut their ears to His invitations ; coidd not cast 
 contempt on His ordinances. JN"o, they would soon 
 throw themselves down in sorrow and shame at 
 their Benefactor's feet; and determine, through His 
 grace, to worship Him, serve Him, and obey Him, 
 in a very different way for the future. 
 
 But not only does gratitude thus call you, my 
 dear friends, to devote yourselves more fully to 
 God, to ask yourselves what shall we render unto 
 the Lord for all His benefits to us, your own interests. 
 temporal and eternal, are alike involved in having 
 Him for your friend. I will not dwell on the con- 
 sideration, how little any can hope for prosperity 
 with Him who ordereth all things according to the 
 counsel of His icill opposed to them. It is, indeed, 
 specially enumerated as one of those sins which 
 brought evil from God on Jerusalem, that the 
 Sabbath was profaned by " carrying" and traffick- 
 
248 SERMON II. 
 
 ing in " fish " there on that day '; and I think it seems 
 to be now pretty generally acknowledged, that 
 those who rob God of His holy day, and employ 
 it in secular pursuits, find their temporal interests 
 but little promoted thereby. Without, however, 
 dwelling on these general topics, allow me to turn 
 to matters of more immediate and personal interest. 
 The dangers, temporal and spiritual, to which sea- 
 men are exposed, urge them more than any other 
 class of men to seek Divine protection and blessing. 
 Many persons seem to wish to keep out of sight the 
 precariousness of the sailor's life ; and think it 
 politic to maintain, that men are as safe at sea 
 as on shore. Now it is not my maxim, nor do I 
 think it that of the Bible, to shut my eyes to the 
 truth, however ungracious it may be. I had much 
 rather look danger full in the face, and make what 
 provision I could to meet it ; and to persuade you. 
 
 1 Nehem, xiii. 61. 
 
CAST THE NET ON' THE RIGHT SIDE. 249 
 
 brethren, thai you were not exposed to greater 
 perils than others, even if I could hope to do so in 
 the face of so many evidences to the contrary, 
 would be only to lull you into a fatal self-security, 
 and to say peace, peace, when there was no peace. 
 But I will not attempt thus to insult your common 
 sense, to contradict your e very-day's experience. 
 Alas! the mourning weeds of too many around 
 me would be sufficient to confute me ; widows, 
 and orphans, and childless parents, would, on every 
 side, rise to rebut my assertions : there is scarcely 
 a family here that has not some melancholy memo- 
 rial to testify to them of the dangers of the sea. 
 The insurance offices, those shrewd calculators of 
 the value of human life, will not, you know, insure 
 that of a sailor, without a large additional premium. 
 How many a gallant vessel have we seen leave this 
 port, her sails set, her colours flying, the breezes 
 fair, and the water smooth, her men on her deck 
 
250 SERMON II. 
 
 all joy and confidence, and the merchant on the 
 shore viewing, with pride, her departure, and cal- 
 culating his gains from her return ; and now the 
 mother has taken her last leave of her young 
 sailor son, and the weeping wife has been soothed 
 and dismissed with an assurance of a safe voyage 
 and a speedy and joyful re-union, and forth the 
 vessel glides, like a full-plumed swan, into the 
 deep. But by and by the clouds muster ; the 
 storm descends ; she heels ; she fills : there is a 
 struggle ; there is a cry ; and the wind passeth over 
 her, and she is gone, and the place thereof shall 
 know her no more. She is gone to the bottom of 
 the deep, and her crew are gone to meet their 
 God ! Ah, of how many a noble vessel is this 
 the history ! And why do I dwell on these things ? 
 Is it to damp and daunt the spirit and enterprize 
 of our gallant seamen ? O no ! It is to strengthen, 
 to confirm them : to induce them to lay in a stock 
 
CAST THE NET ON THE RIGHT SIDE. 251 
 
 of heavenly energy, of Divine strength ; to bid 
 them be strong in the Lord and in the power of 1 1 is 
 might ; to teach them to prepare for the worst 
 that can come ; to be ready for whatever the Lord 
 may send ; to be able, if death itself should call, to 
 reply in humble, yet holy trust, Lord, now lettest 
 thou Thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have 
 seen Thy salvation ! That solemn hour, when we 
 shall exchange time for eternity, must come at last, 
 may come when least expected or prepared for. 
 A death-bed repentance, even under the most 
 favourable circumstances, is always a precarious 
 hope to cling to ; even when persons die quietly 
 in their beds, such a support is not to be trusted 
 in. But how little time has the drowning sailor 
 even for such preparation as this ! What ! the 
 hour of shipwreck, with all its hurry and confusion, 
 its raging winds and roaring waves, its shrieks, 
 and agonies, and terrors ; is this a time for making up 
 
252 SKRMON II. 
 
 our account with God ? Or suppose the sufferers 
 not swept off at once to their fate : Oh, to think of 
 some poor fellow lashed to the mast, or clinging to 
 some spar or rock, from which each successive 
 wave threatens to dislodge him ! Oh, to imagine 
 his feelings and reflections there ! What does he 
 think now of the admonitions he once slighted ? 
 What would he give now for one of the oppor- 
 tunities he before threw away ? What is it that now 
 appears to him the most important of all pursuits, 
 the most valuable of all possessions ? Would that 
 he had thought more of God, of Christ, of his soul, 
 of his Bible. Oh, that earnest prayer ! Oh, that 
 agonizing cry, Lord, have mercy wpon me ! May 
 God hear that dying cry, that parting prayer, for 
 perhaps they are the only ones which the suppliant 
 has ever poured forth from his heart ! 
 
 How different from this is the state of him 
 whose soul is stayed on God, who possesses a well- 
 
CAST THE NET OX THE RIGHT SIDE. 253 
 
 founded hope of His mercy through Jesus Christ ! 
 In the hour of danger he is not obliged to look 
 anxiously about him for a refuge. He flees at once 
 under the shadow of Almighty wings, and is safe. 
 He can gaze on death with composure, for the 
 sting of death is taken away. He can encounter 
 the terrors of the deep unshaken, for Christ is in 
 the vessel, the vessel of his soul, and it therefore 
 cannot perish. The storm may rage around him, 
 but there is a still small voice which calms the 
 storm within ; and amidst the din of conflicting 
 elements he is enabled to exclaim, The Lord is my 
 hope and strength, a very present help in trouble; 
 therefore will I not fear, though the mountains be 
 carried into the midst of the sea. Ah, my friends, 
 I need not tell you that a man is not less calculated 
 to discharge the offices of this life when he has a 
 good hope for the life to come. You have, me- 
 thinks, only to look round on your own body for 
 
254 SERMON II. 
 
 evidence, that a sailor is not less effective and 
 enterprising and trustworthy, who is under the 
 influence of religion ; and in the hour of peril who 
 is it that stands erect and unflinching, like Paul 
 amidst the agitated crew that he sailed with ? Who 
 but the man. that has God at his side ; whose feet 
 are on the everlasting hills, who is built on the rock 
 Christ Jesus, the sure foundation, which cannot be 
 moved ? 
 
 But we have been here only speaking of the 
 sailor's dangers at sea : his dangers on shore are not 
 less numerous and formidable, I mean the spiritual 
 dangers, which threaten shipwreck to his soul. 
 Temptation in every shape, perhaps, assaults sailors 
 more than any other class of the community : the 
 free, open, unsuspecting character of the seaman, 
 renders him peculiarly the prey of the designing ; 
 and when on shore, in a strange port, thrown 
 among the most abandoned characters, in the 
 
CAST THE KET ox THE BIGHT BIDE. 255 
 
 streets and public-houses, without that great safe- 
 guard of morality, a home, without those uncon- 
 scious guardian angels, affectionate friends and 
 relatives, is it to be wondered that he should often 
 be warped from his heavenly course, and hurried 
 headlong down the hroad way that leadcth to de- 
 struction? Deeply, alas, are these unhappy in- 
 fluences felt by our own poor fishermen, in their 
 yearly visits to Eamsgate, and the eastern coasts 
 of the kingdom ; and ill are the moral evils which 
 are incurred in these expeditions repaid by any tem- 
 poral gains which they may bring into our place. 
 How many a fine young fellow have I seen, on 
 whose soul the most favourable impressions ap- 
 peared to have been made, of whom the highest 
 hopes might have been formed, and over whom 
 angels seemed ready to strike their exulting harps, 
 and to welcome one more sinner to repentance ; 
 and yet one season spent, or rather misspent, there 
 
256 SERMON II. 
 
 was enough to blight all these opening promises, 
 and to send him back to us demoralized, and 
 besotted, and hardened ; forgetful alike of duty 
 and of decency ! Believe me, my dear friends, that 
 there is none more exposed to spiritual danger, 
 none more constantly assailed by the world, the 
 flesh, and the devil, than the sailor ; and he must 
 indeed guard against exposing himself to seduction, 
 struggle hard with his own passions, yea, watch and 
 pray, and strive in Almighty strength, if he expects 
 at length to have the victory. You would think 
 the master of a vessel very improvident who went 
 to sea without a chart or compass to direct his 
 course ; who, when he knew himself surrounded 
 with dangers, took no pilot on board, stationed no 
 steady hand at the wheel or helm, and kept no look- 
 out a-head for breakers ; who, during a long voyage 4 
 kept no log, made no soundings, took no observa- 
 tion, hoisted no sail when the breeze was favourable. 
 
Cast THE NET ON THE RIGHT BIDE. 257 
 
 and dropped no anchor when wind and tide were 
 adverse. And yet what shall we say of him who 
 ventures on the much more perilous voyage of life, 
 without any similar precautions ; who never calls 
 on Christ to be his pilot, never consults the chari 
 of His word, never uses the compass of God's 
 Spirit, never rides at the sure anchor of hope, 
 never lifts his sail to the prosperous breezes of 
 God's grace, never keeps watch against the rocks 
 and quicksands of the world, but lets his vessel 
 drive over the deep without precaution or direction r 
 How can such a man hope to make a successful 
 voyage ? How can he look for prosperity or safety ? 
 How can he expect to pass securely through the 
 waves of time, and land auspiciously in the haven 
 of eternity ? It cannot be ; they only who use the 
 appointed means may expect to obtain the desired 
 end. It is so in temporal things ; it is so in 
 spiritual. And as well might the husbandman 
 
 s 
 
258 SERMON II. 
 
 look for the fruits of the earth without working 
 or sowing the soil; as well might the fisherman 
 expect to obtain fish without using his hook or his 
 net, as the soul hope for spiritual growth here, or 
 heavenly joys hereafter, without a diligent use of 
 the means of grace which God has prescribed for 
 their attainment. 
 
 But if, my dear brethren, you feel the justice, 
 the reasonableness of these observations, let me 
 further remind you, that, as fishermen, you have 
 religious opportunities and advantages which other 
 seamen are deprived of: you have Sabbath privi- 
 leges, which they are unacquainted with. Tou are 
 commonly on shore on that day, while they, in the 
 fulfilment of their calling, are tossing on the dis- 
 tant wave. The Sabbath bell tolls in vain for them ; 
 the house of God is opened in vain for their recep- 
 tion ; they hear not the preached Gospel ; they 
 cannot join in public prayer and praise. But this, 
 
(AST THE NET ON THE RIGHT SIi)K. 
 
 dear brethren, is not your case. You, during 8 
 great part of the year, are permitted, are invited, 
 to partake of all the privileges of public worship. 
 Our Sailors' Sunday School likewise offers to those 
 who cannot read the opportunity of learning to 
 do so ; and to those who can, of having what they 
 read explained to them. Tou have many other 
 religious advantages also in this place, if you were 
 duly careful to lay hold on them ; and remember, 
 dear friends, that for every one of these you must 
 be responsible to Him who gave them to you. 
 I might pass on to the enumeration of other special 
 incentives to piety, which you possess in common 
 with others. "When the seaman stands on his deck 
 at watch by night, with the starry firmament over 
 head and the boundless deep around him, can he 
 fail of falling into a meditative frame, and thinking 
 of Him who called all these things into being with 
 a word ? will not God come down to him, walking 
 s 2 
 
260 SERMON II. 
 
 on the icings of the ivind? and will not thoughts 
 arise like those of David, When I consider the 
 Heavens, the tvork of Thy hands, the moon and the 
 stars which Thou hast made, Lord, what is man 
 that Thou art mindful of him, or the son of man 
 that Thou visitest him? "What inducements and 
 opportunities has the seaman for solemn con- 
 templation, for entering into his own soul, for 
 breathing up his silent prayers, for reflecting on 
 the love of God in Christ, and resolving to dedicate 
 himself to His service ! And then again, in the 
 hour of danger and distress, what appeals are 
 made to his conscience and his heart! What 
 awakening providences, what perils and deliver- 
 ances are daily assailing him ! Every rock and 
 quicksand around has a voice to call him to Grod ; 
 every wave rolls a lesson to his feet ; every breeze 
 bears an admonition on its wings ; the loss of 
 every messmate says, Be ye also ready. Ah, I have 
 
CAST THE NET ON THE RIGHT SIDE. 20 1 
 
 little doubt that many before me can, from their 
 own experience, testily that sailors are not without 
 their awakenings. Tou have, perhaps almost every 
 one of you, at some time or other, been aroused, 
 been convinced, been humbled. Tou have almost 
 all, at the hour of peril, repented, and called on 
 God, and formed your good resolutions for the 
 future. Alas, that these feelings should too often 
 prove but as the morning cloud or the early dew, 
 that passeth away ! 
 
 How loudly then do all these considerations call 
 on us to arouse and exert ourselves, that matters 
 may be better with us for the future ! How em- 
 phatically do they all re-echo the language inscribed 
 on the banner you have borne with you hither to- 
 day, a banner so appropriate to a sailor's occupations 
 and prospects, Prepare to meet thy God! How 
 loudly do they warn you, whatever else you omit, 
 not to omit the one thing needful ! How forcibly 
 
262 SERMON II. 
 
 do they admonish you, not to fear the pointed finger 
 of man, the profane sneer of a fellow worm, more 
 than the power of an angry God ! How do they 
 urge you to prize, to treasure up, to improve any 
 good impressions which His Holy Spirit may make 
 on your hearts ; and to pray to Him to carry you 
 from strength to strength ! How do they encourage 
 you, not to let this blessed opportunity slip ; not 
 to let these better feelings and resolves pass away ; 
 but to determine, by God's help, to persevere in 
 the course in which you have now begun, to con- 
 tinue the self-restraint which you have this week 
 so well commenced, to employ the Sabbath as you 
 have this morning employed it, at the throne of 
 grace, in the House of God, in the service of 
 Christ, on the salvation of your own souls. In 
 commencing from this day a holy, humble, pious, 
 self-denying walk, you will not be less happy in 
 yourselves, not be less worthy members of society ; 
 
CAST THE NET ON THE RIGHT sidk. 263 
 
 you will not less benefit your employers, and not 
 
 less please your God. Be assured too, that in 
 
 i 
 
 acting thus you will find, in the end, that you 
 have cast the net on the right side of the ship, and 
 will have no reason to regret the result. The 
 drunkard, the blasphemer, the Sabbath-breaker, 
 the neglecter of God's ordinances and commands, 
 will find, at last, that he has made an awful mistake. 
 He will feel the force of that terrible inquiry, What 
 is a man profited, if he gain the whole world, and 
 lose his own soul? Ten thousand worlds were a 
 poor equivalent for the loss of one smile from God, 
 one hope for Heaven. Learn then to value these. 
 Begin to pursue them ; and let not the instances 
 of pious fishermen be confined to the days when 
 Peter, and James, and John were called from their 
 nets to follow Christ, and preach His Gospel. The 
 same divine grace that wrought on their hearts, 
 and enabled them to give up all for their Saviour's 
 
264 ' PSALMS. 
 
 sake, is as near and as influential for you ; seek it, 
 my brethren, and ye shall find it, and with it all 
 things else that are worth attaining. 
 
 PSALMS 
 
 Sung on the occasion when this Sermon was delivered. 
 PSALM XLVI. 
 
 The Lord is our refuge, the Lord is our guide ; 
 We smile upon danger with Him at our side : 
 The billows may blacken, the tempest increase, 
 Though earth may be shaken, His saints shall have 
 peace. 
 
 A voice still and small by His people is heard, 
 A whisper of peace from His life-giving word. 
 
PSALMS. 265 
 
 A stream in the destot, a river of love, 
 
 Flows down to their hearts from the fountain above. 
 
 Be near us, Kedeemcr, to shield us from ill ; 
 Speak Thou but the word, and the tempest is still. 
 Thy presence to cheer us, Thy arm to defend, 
 A worm grows Almighty with Thee for a friend! 
 
 The Lord is our helper ; ye scorners, be awed ! 
 Te earthlings, be still, and acknowledge your God. 
 The proud He will humble, the lowly defend ; 
 O happy the people with God for a friend ! 
 
 PSALM CYII. 
 
 Blest be the mighty Lord ! 
 The seas obey His will. 
 He called, and lo, the billows heard ! 
 He spake, the storm was still ! 
 
266 PSALMS. 
 
 Fierce was the swelling flood, 
 And weak and helpless I ; 
 But God above the tempest stood 
 And made its rage comply. 
 
 Lord, still make bare Thy arm, 
 When dangers on us press. 
 What fears can move, what foes can harm, 
 With Thee at hand to bless ? 
 
 My shattered bark guide 
 O'er life's tempestuous sea ; 
 And bring me safe through wind and tide 
 To heaven at last and Thee ! 
 
 PSALM XXI. 
 
 Loed, Thy best blessings shed 
 On our Queen's youthful head ; 
 
PSALMS. 267 
 
 Round her abide : 
 Teach her Thy holy will, 
 Shield her from every ill, 
 Guard, guide, and speed her still 
 
 Safe to Thy side. 
 
 Grant her, Lord, to be 
 Wise, just, and good like Thee, 
 
 Blessing and blest. 
 With every virtue crowned, 
 Honoured by nations round, 
 Midst earthly monarchs found 
 
 Greatest and best. 
 
 Long let her people share 
 Here her maternal care ; 
 
 Long 'neath her smile 
 May every good increase, 
 May every evil cease, 
 
268 PSALMS. 
 
 And freedom, health, and peace 
 Dance round our isle. 
 
 Under Thy mighty wings 
 Keep her, King of kings ! 
 
 Answer her prayer : 
 Till she shall hence remove 
 Up to Thy courts above, 
 To dwell in light and love 
 
 Evermore there. 
 
SERMON III. 1 
 
 2 Cor. xiii. 11. 
 
 M Finally, brethren, farewell. Be perfect, be of good com- 
 fort, be of one mind, live in peace ; and the God of love and 
 peace shall be with you." 
 
 Thou (in very ill able to address you, my dear 
 friends, I am unwilling to leave you without a part- 
 ing word. Excuse me, if it is a short one, and im- 
 pute its brevity to bodily indisposition and weakness. 
 I have just read to you the words of St. Paul in 
 taking leave of his flock at Corinth. Of all the 
 Churches founded by the Apostle, there was none 
 that had caused him more anxiety and distress 
 than that of the Corinthians, — there was none in 
 
 1 Preached at Brixham, October 1, 1844. 
 
270 SERMON III. 
 
 which he had experienced so much opposition, — 
 there was none more full of contention and division, 
 — none in which crimes and inconsistencies more 
 abundantly prevailed. Still this very Church 
 seemed to be peculiarly dear to him. It was his 
 own prodigal child, whose wanderings he watched 
 with affectionate regret, and whose return he was 
 ready to welcome with tears and embraces. There 
 are no epistles so full of earnest and impassioned 
 feeling as those of St. Paul to the Corinthians. 
 And these words, which occur almost at the close of 
 the last of them, are highly suitable to every like 
 occasion, and give both ministers and people many 
 useful suggestions, to some of which we will now 
 advert. 
 
 First, then, observe St. Paul addresses the Co- 
 rinthians as brethren, and in doing so brings him- 
 self down into the midst of his flock, and dwells 
 among them as one of a great family, one of many 
 
CHRISTIAN PERFECTION. 271 
 
 children, whose common Father is God. Though 
 highly favoured and (waited in being called to such 
 an office as he filled, and ready enough, on proper 
 occasions, to magnify that office, he was disposed in 
 his general demeanour rather to identity himself 
 with those among whom he ministered, to make 
 common cause with them, to be their sympathizing 
 brother, entering into their feelings, interested in 
 their concerns, and imitating in this his blessed 
 Master, who put off His glories, and put on flesh, in 
 order that lie might rejoice in the joys and grieve 
 in the afflictions of His people. This word then, 
 brethren, if duly pondered, speaks at once of conde- 
 scension and kindness, and suggests to us the two 
 qualities which, perhaps, more than any others, tend 
 to give a minister influence with his flock. May He 
 whose whole life on earth was one beautiful exem- 
 plification of these graces, pour more of His own 
 humble and affectionate Spirit on us all ; and then, 
 
272 SERMON III. 
 
 may true religion be expected to flourish indeed on 
 God's earth, His priests to be clothed with righteous- 
 ness, and Sis Saints to sing with joy fulness ! But 
 next a word respecting the exhortation which follows. 
 Be perfect, &c. Now, perfection, I need not re- 
 mind you, is not the attainment of any created 
 being. Still it is the duty of every servant of God 
 to be pressing on to perfection, to be aiming con- 
 stantly at higher spiritual attainments, to be striv- 
 ing after closer and closer conformity with The 
 Supremely Perfect. To be, in fact, daily endeavour- 
 ing to correct what is evil, to supply what is defec- 
 tive, and to rise to what is better. And though, 
 when we have done all, we must still feel that we 
 are unprofitable servants, yea, miserable sinners, 
 who must fly to the cross for daily pardon 
 and peace, we may yet hope, by the help of Divine 
 grace, to make such advances in spiritual life 
 as may prepare us on earth for a better in- 
 
CHRISTIAN PERFECTION. 273 
 
 hcritancc in Heaven, and net leave ns, at the last 
 great trying hear, strangers to Him who alone 
 make a death-bed easy. 
 
 But the Apostle proceeds, Be of good comfort, 
 or, as he says elsewhere, Be strong in the Lord, 
 and in the power of His might. Exercise faith 
 and dependance on the divine word and nature, and. 
 in the midst of discouragements from within and 
 without, still hope and hold on in the Lord. This, 
 be assured, is not an unnecdful exhortation to a 
 thoughtful spirit in a world like this ; and when 
 the clouds darken over our heads, it is good to have 
 the divine word to remind us that there is still sun- 
 shine above them, and to cry in our desponding ear. 
 Hallelujah, the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth ! 
 How well might we, looking only to things that 
 are seen, tremble often for the safety of God's ark 
 amidst the tempests by which it is assailed ! How 
 often might we fear for our own shipwreck indi- 
 
 T 
 
274 SERMON III. 
 
 vidually ! But there is One who says to the stormy 
 winds and waves, Be still, and immediately there is 
 calm and safety. ! for more of fervent faith and 
 dependance on Him ! What a comfort should we 
 find it under every trial, and what a stimulus to 
 every duty ! 
 
 But the Apostle continues, Be of one mind; live 
 in peace ; cultivate union and affection among each 
 other ; be as the members of one body, feeling for 
 each other, helping one another, making common 
 cause against our common foe, and wasting none of 
 those energies, all of which united are too little for 
 the demands that duty makes on them, in mutual 
 opposition and contention. 
 
 What importance our blessed Saviour and His 
 Apostles attached to this precept, we may judge 
 from the frequency of its occurrence in their various 
 exhortations: — Little children, love one another, fol- 
 low peace with all men. And what was our Lord's 
 
 
CHRISTIAN PERFECTION. 273 
 
 last prayer for His Church? — that they all may hi 
 one; as Thou, Father, art in Me, and I in Thee, that 
 they may be one in us : * * * that they may 
 be one even as ice are One, I in Them and Thou in 
 Me, that they may be made perfect in one. 
 
 Such value did our Lord set ou mutual union 
 and affection among His people. He deemed it 
 absolutely essential to the well-being of His Church: 
 and where once division and strife crept in, He 
 ever expected to see every evil follow. Kow, how 
 far this principle is maintained among professing 
 Cliristians at the present day, a very slight glance 
 at the state of the nominally religious world around 
 us will abundantly show. Alas ! instead of union 
 and harmony there is nothing but opposition, and 
 strife, and discord. Instead of men cultivating 
 mutual concord and good will, we hear nothing, on 
 every side, but contention and recrimination. In- 
 stead of marching together, like one vast Mace- 
 t 2 
 
276 SERMON III. 
 
 donian phalanx, under the Captain of our salva- 
 tion, to the great conflict against the world, the 
 flesh, and the devil, we turn our arms one against 
 another, and waste our time and powers in petty 
 party conflicts, while the enemy of souls looks 
 exulting on, and rejoices to see us doing his own 
 work for him. And all this, my brethren, is 
 carried on under the name of Christ, and with 
 the plea of zeal for His service ; as if the first and 
 best evidence of that zeal were not a proper respect 
 for His own great precept of mutual love, and 
 charity, and forbearance ! 
 
 My dear Christian brethren, these divisions, and 
 contentions, and schisms, this rending of the seam- 
 less garment of Christ into a thousand pieces, is 
 to every thoughtful eye big with ominous fore- 
 bodings, and tells us too plainly that, in despite 
 of all our boasted religious attainments, in spite 
 of the progress that may seem to have been made 
 
 
CHRISTIAN PERFECTION. 277 
 
 of late in the circulation of scriptural knowledge, 
 
 the extension of education, and the spread of the 
 Gospel among the heathen, there is still something 
 fearfully defective in our system — some rottenness 
 at the core, some worm at the root of our gourd 
 which is sure to blight and wither it in the end. 
 And it teaches us, that among all our spiritual 
 acquisitions there is one which too many of us 
 have not yet made, and that the very one on which 
 our Saviour sets the highest value. 
 
 Think then, my dear Christian friends, think of 
 these things, and learn to bear and forbear for 
 the sake of mutual union and concord; study 
 Christian charity and kindness ; seek to maintain 
 the unity of the spirit in the bond of peace ; and 
 be willing to make some sacrifices, if sacrifices 
 they may be felt to be, for the sake of upholding 
 Christian consistency, and having it said of you 
 as of the Church of old, Behold how these Chris- 
 
278 SERMON III. 
 
 tians love one another! And, thus the Apostle 
 finally assures his disciples that the God of Jove 
 and peace should be with them. "While they were 
 seeking to conform to His will, He would abund- 
 antly be present with them, and be to them a sun 
 and a shield, a light and a protection. My dear 
 Christian friends, there are, as you know, persons, 
 who can live, and live apparently at ease, without 
 God in the world. But they cannot so live with 
 any just views of their true condition. They 
 must shut their eyes to their real state. They can- 
 not regard themselves as they are, accountable 
 beings, possessors of immortal souls, expectants of 
 death, and judgment, and eternity. Tes, they must 
 shut their eyes to all the great realities of life and 
 death, of the present and the future, before they 
 can be at ease without God for a friend. 
 
 Do not then, I entreat you, make so fearful an 
 experiment, but cultivate true religion as you value 
 
CHRISTIAN PERFECTION. 279 
 
 peace and security. Kemember how little a man 
 is profited, if he gain the whole world and lose his 
 own soul. And unless God be for us, and with 
 us, though all else may be ours, yet lack we one 
 thing, and that, alas ! the one thing needful. 
 
 It has been my endeavour, dear friends, for many 
 years to press this great truth in public and private 
 on you all. I have ever sought to press on you 
 plain and practical piety — not to feed you with dry 
 husks of religious controversy, not to amuse you 
 with questionable novelties, but to urge you, one 
 and all, to holy, humble, devotional, dutiful piety ; 
 and how can I better occupy this last address, which, 
 for some time at least, I shall make to you, than 
 in a like exhortation ? Think then, dear brethren, 
 of the parting address of the Apostle in the text, 
 and let it be mine to you : be men of piety ; be 
 men of prayer ; be followers of the meek and lowly 
 Jesus. 
 
280 SERMON III. 
 
 Eemember, that it is not party spirit, not head 
 knowledge, not belonging to this or that body of 
 religionists that will save you, but humble faith in 
 the blood of Christ, and holy obedience to His 
 blessed will. Be diligent attendants then on the 
 means of grace; wait on God perseveringly in 
 public and in private ; keep the Sabbath holy ; 
 frequent the house of God ; and, when you assemble 
 here, think, at times, of your absent minister. O ! 
 prize and use, I say, the means of grace, and you 
 will not find them empty vessels, but rich in the 
 waters of life. Finally then, brethren, farewell. I 
 cannot trust myself to say more ; but be perfect, 
 be of good comfort , be of one mind, live in peace, and 
 the God of love and peace shall be with you. Amen. 
 
SERMON IV. 1 
 
 1 Cor. xi. 26. 
 
 " For as often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, ye do 
 show the Lord's death till he come." 
 
 Ml dear friends, I am not going to preach a 
 sermon to you ; nor will you indeed expect one 
 from me ; yet, I am thankful to be allowed to 
 address a few words to you ; and, more especially 
 to do so on an occasion like this. The Holy Com- 
 munion of the body and blood of Christ is a solemn 
 yet delightful subject to dwell on ; and it is a rich 
 and fertile one too, affording matter for much 
 meditation, many discourses. 
 
 We shall therefore confine ourselves exclusively 
 
 1 Preached at Lower Brixham, September 4, 1847. 
 
282 SERMON IV. 
 
 to it now. It is but little that I can say on any- 
 subject, and I would rather not distract your 
 thoughts from the sacred service that is before 
 us by the introduction of any thing foreign to it. 
 The Sacrament of the Lord's Supper is the 
 most solemn rite of the Christian Church. It 
 is at the same time the most comforting and 
 cheering. It leads us bach to the time when the 
 disciples sat around their Lord on earth, and re- 
 ceived His parting admonitions and consolations ; 
 and it leads us onward to that day, when His saints 
 shall again sit around Him at His marriage feast in 
 Heaven, and hear His voice, and behold His face in 
 glory. In the mean time, on their journey thither, 
 toils and difficulties beset them ; and here in this 
 holy feast their Lord supplies them with strength 
 and support against them. As the angel said to 
 Elijah in the wilderness, He says to his wayfaring 
 people here, Arise and eat, because the journey is 
 
HOLY COMMUNION. 283 
 
 too great for thee, in thy own strength. And if' 
 we, like the prophet, eat and drink in faith and 
 thankfulness of the food He offers us, we like him 
 may hope to go many days in the strength of that 
 meat. Hear how our blessed Lord Himself speaks 
 of the efficacy of that sacred food : My flesh is 
 meat indeed, and My blood is drink indeed. He that 
 eateih My flesh, and drinketh My blood, dwelleth in 
 Me, and I in him. As the living Father hath sent 
 Me, and I live by the Father, so he that eateth Me, 
 even he shall live by me. Tes, the Lord has insti- 
 tuted no ordinance in His Church that is not rich 
 in blessings to those who rightly partake of it. He 
 does not present a cup of His life to servants that 
 shall mock them with emptiness. Least of all can 
 it be supposed that His Sacraments would partake 
 of this character ; and if they are not effectual 
 means of peace to us, full, free, copious channels, 
 by which the streams of spiritual life may flow to 
 
284 SERMON IV. 
 
 our souls, the fault, depend upon it, is in ourselves, 
 and not in them. We expect and desire little ; 
 we open not our mouths, or rather our hearts, as we 
 ought : and can we wonder then that God does not 
 fill them ? Among the various lights in which this 
 Holy Communion presents itself to our view, I must 
 content myself with merely touching at present 
 on two, both of them sufficiently obvious, but not on 
 that account the less worthy of our consideration. 
 It shows forth, we are told, the Lord's death. It 
 presents us with a vivid picture of that awful 
 event. It brings that mighty and mysterious act 
 in the most striking manner before our very senses. 
 The broken bread represents His body, broken and 
 pierced upon the cross ; the poured out wine ex- 
 hibits His blood flowing freely for the remission of 
 sin. While partaking of these hallowed emblems 
 we can speak with the Apostle, not merely of 
 that which we have heard, but ichich we have seen 
 
HOLY COMMUNION. 285 
 
 witli our eye*, irhich W6 hare looked on, and our 
 hands hare handled of the word of life. And we 
 thus vividly behold and apprehend llim in the 
 astonishing acl of yielding up His life for our 
 Redemption. Now while they are in the Chris- 
 tian religion abundance of holy truths worthy of 
 oiu notice and consideration, (and while he who 
 Blights or overlooks any to which God in His wisdom 
 demands attention, will be fearfully responsible for 
 such neglect,) there is still one great truth, that 
 rises pre-eminent above all others ; one mighty fact 
 that should more than all besides fill the Christian's 
 eye ami heart — and that is, the death and sacrifice 
 of his Saviour. There is no fact beside so touch- 
 ing, so eloquent, so persuasive as this. None that 
 speaks so awfully of our condition by nature ; a 
 condition that needed so stupendous a sacrifice ! 
 None that so assures us of the sufficiency oi the 
 remedy ; for what can be wanting where God spared 
 
286 SERMON IV. 
 
 not His own Son for our ransom ? There is nothing 
 so calculated to make the thoughtless pause and 
 tremble as to look at Jesus agonizing in his behalf ; 
 nothing so fitted to awaken every grateful and 
 generous feeling in the soul, and stimulate it to 
 daily duty and self-denial ; nothing that can bring 
 such comfort to the penitent, or present such a 
 pillow of consolation to a dying head. brethren, 
 I can speak feelingly, experimentally on this latter 
 point ; and I stand up here among you seasonably 
 to-day, as alive from the dead, if I may hope to 
 impress it upon you, and induce you to prepare for 
 that solemn hour, which must come to all, by a 
 timely acquaintance with, appreciation of, depend- 
 ence on, the death of Christ. And if you would 
 realize that death to your souls, here is the sacred 
 ordinance which God has appointed for that pur- 
 pose ; here is the blessed rite that can best bring 
 it home to your hearts, As often as ye eat this 
 
HOLY COMMUNION. 287 
 
 bread, and drink this cup aright, you not only 
 show forth, but taste and enjoy, the Lord's death 
 fill lie en me. 
 
 But we must proceed to the other point of view 
 in which this hallowed ordinance presents itself; 
 one perhaps of a still more inviting and attractive 
 nature. It not only renews for us the great sacri- 
 fice of the cross, but it spreads for us a feast of 
 love, and s;ivs to all that hunger and thirst after 
 righteousness, Come, eat of my bread, and drink of the 
 icine that I have mingled. When a sacrifice was 
 offered up of old, it was always followed by a holy 
 feast. The parts of the victim that remained un- 
 consumed were eaten by those who had made the 
 offering, and they rejoiced together in the hope 
 that (rod had been appeased by it. Kow in the 
 blessed ordinance that comes this day before us all, 
 this is beautifully maintained and preserved. We 
 have there not only the mighty sacrifice of the 
 death of Christ, but the feast upon sacrifice likewise. 
 
288 SERMON IV. 
 
 The body and blood of the Mighty Victim are not 
 only offered np to God, but they are presented 
 likewise to us, for our spiritual food and refresh- 
 ment. Tes, ificith a true penitent heart and lively 
 faith we receive that Holy Sacrament, ice spiritually 
 eat the flesh of Christ, and drink His blood ; ice 
 dwell in Clirist, and Christ in us ; we are one with 
 Christ, and Christ with us; and as the bread 
 and wine go to nourish and sustain the outer 
 man, so do the body and blood, which they repre- 
 sent, support and strengthen the inner man of the 
 soul in all those who receive them as they ought. 
 Here then, from His holy table the Saviour still, as 
 of old, feeds His feeble disciples, saying, Take, eat, 
 this is My body, ichich is given for you — this is My 
 blood, which is shed for you, — the ordinance is still 
 the Lord's Supper as well as the Lord's sacrifice. 
 We hold communion in it with Him, and with each 
 other ; and find in it, like the Israelites of old, not 
 only the blood of the Paschal Lamb wherewith to 
 
HOLY COMMUNION. 289 
 
 sprinkle the door-posts, but food to strengthen us 
 for the journey that is before us. It is in this 
 point of view, as I have said, that the ordinance pre- 
 senta itself to us in a peculiarly attractive and allur- 
 ing form. The Saviour exhibits Himself in it in His 
 endearing and condescending attitude ; inviting us 
 to sit down and eat and drink with Him, and grant- 
 ing us a nearness of approach to Him: a fulness 
 of intercourse with Him, which by no other means, 
 and on no other occasion, can we hope on earth to 
 experience. The death of Christ on the Cross, 
 without this relief, would be an object of awe and 
 distress. The contemplation of Him as He now 
 is, in glory, would overpower us with its grandness. 
 The prospect of His coming in the clouds of 
 Heaven to judgment, might well overwhelm us 
 with apprehensions. But in this beautiful and 
 benignant ordinance He meets us as the Friend of 
 sinners, as the Lamb of God that taketh away the 
 sins of the world. As He that gave Himself of old to 
 
 u 
 
•290 SERMON IV. 
 
 redeem us from our iniquities, and still gives Him- 
 self to those who meet Him at His holy table, to 
 feed them with the tread of life, and refresh them 
 with the streams of salvation. 
 
 And now, my dear friends, having presented this 
 holy ordinance before you in these twofold points 
 of attraction, as renewing the great sacrifice so 
 indispensable to our pardon, and as spreading a 
 sacrificial feast for us, rich in spiritual life and con- 
 solation, let me ask all before me, How they intend 
 to meet its recurrence ? When the Saviour hung 
 upon the Cross at Jerusalem, those that stood 
 around Him there were actuated by various emo- 
 tions. Some hated and reviled Him ; some tortured 
 and slew Him ; some shouted, Crucify Him, Crucify 
 Him. While others, we hear, stood afar off, looking 
 on, perhaps with unconcern, or holding back with 
 cowardly selfishness from Him who then most 
 needed their sympathies. A few, and very few, we 
 find clinging to the foot of the Cross. His mother 
 
HOI.V COMMUNION'. 291 
 
 and the beloved disciple, and one or two besides. 
 Now, which of all these, my brethren, do you intend 
 to imitate here to-day ? Not, I am sure, inten- 
 tionally, His murderers and revilers, though, be it 
 remembered, that there is such a thing as crucify- 
 iiuj the Lord afresh. Nor was it the Jews or the 
 (1 entiles that in reality slew Him; not the spear, 
 nor the nails that wounded and pierced Him, but 
 the sins, the sins of His creatures. Let us take 
 care then, lest we should come under even this 
 class of the spectators of Christ's Crucifixion. 
 But there were others, again, that stood afar off, 
 that looked on with indifference, or that turned 
 their backs coldly on the spectacle, as a matter in 
 winch they had no concern. Shall we to-day imi- 
 tate in our conduct and turn our backs on Him, 
 w r ho gave His life for us? Or shall we not rather 
 with the faithful few press to the foot of His 
 Cross, to tender Him the homage of our hearts, 
 and hear in return His parting benedictions and 
 
292 SERMON IV. 
 
 injunctions ? On receiving the ordinance in ano- 
 ther light, as the Supper of the Lord, may we not, 
 every time that it is spread before us, hear from 
 that table a solemn voice, the voice of the Saviour, 
 saying to all present, Will ye also go away ? A 
 great Supper is prepared for us, the oxen and the 
 fatlings are killed, and all things are ready. Are 
 we ready to hear the invitation that is made to 
 us ? Or shall ive go our way, one to our farm, and 
 another to our merchandize, and make light of the 
 feast and its Provider ? Weigh this question with 
 yourselves, my brethren, and the Lord direct your 
 decision. For how shall they who slight His 
 ordinance here, hope to sit down at the great Mar- 
 riage Feast above ? How shall they who reject 
 His invitations hope to share His promises and 
 blessings ? 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Gilbert & Rivington, Printers, St. John's Square, London. 
 
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