'%. ' % S^ \ -XT. A^^ o5 -^ci- ^"^ % <. '0..^ x'\ .^^ .^^ % 0^ ^\...,^t. ^. 1* -T- ^K V- '°'A 8 M - ^^^ .V = ^^,<^' .Oc .A *.^. *' C ^ ' -?; '^^ v*^ Oo^. ■'':;-'.«'. \"^-« *.^/' .0^ 0^" ^ C' :^P^ .-^.' > C SENSIBILITY. Of its Almighty Maker ! Was the boon Bestowed to be abused in cruel sport By Man, into whose nostrils the same power Breathed with creating will the breath of life ? I know for Man's convenience and support, Nay, for his luxuries, the inferior kinds Must toil and bleed. But God, who gave so far Dominion over them, extended not The royal grant to torture or abuse : And he who overtasks them, or inflicts Protracted or unnecessary pain, By far outstrips his warrant, and heaps up On his own head for the great reck'ning day Such measure as he metes withal to them, Of tender mercy. I would not devote My person, as the pious Hindoo doth. To banquet noxious vermin ; nor engage The patient carcass of some needy wretch To make them pasture ; nor abstain, like him. From food of every kind that has contained The living essence. — I despise and loathe The affected whine of canting sentiment, That loves to expatiate on its own fine frame Of exquisite perception — nerve all o'er — Too tremblingly alive for the mind's peace To every shade of delicate distress. Such sensitives there are, whose melting souls Dissolve in tender pity, or flame out With gen'rous indignation, if they see A dog chastised, or noxious reptile crushed ! — Does a fly tease you, and with impulse quick Your dext'rous hand destroys the buzzing pest — SENSIBILITY. 47 Prepare ye for an eloquent appeal On the sweet duties of humanity, And all the tender charities we owe To the poor, pretty, little, helpless things " That float in aether." Then some hackneyed verse (Your sensitive must doat on poetry) She quotes to illustrate the touching theme — How "the poor beetle that we tread upon. In corp'ral sufferance feels a pang as great As when a giant dies." 'Tis odious thus To hear the thing one venerates profaned By sickly affectation : to my ear Doubly distasteful, for I heard the words' First from her lips whose heart was pity's throne. That voice maternal taught my infant tongue To speak the sentence, and my youthful heart To feel and cherish, while its pulses beat, Mercy and kindness for all living things. Go where you will, the sensitive finds out Whereon t' expatiate largely ; to pour forth The flood of her pathetic eloquence : — A plodding clown to market drives along His swine obstreperous : right and left they run In sheer perversity : so right and left Resounds the whip, but scarcely reaches them, Whate'er their horrid dissonance implies ; No matter — feeling's champion cannot hear Unmoved the cry of innocence oppressed ; So forth she steps, and speaks, with hand on heart. Tender remonstrance to the boor, who stands Scratching his bushy pate — with hat pushed up, And eyes and mouth distended with surprise. 48 SENSIBILITY. Vented at last when the oration ends In one expressive expletive — " Anan !" A cart comes by — ah ! painful sight indeed, For it conveys, bound fast with cruel cords, To the red slaughter-house a bleating load Of fleecy victims. Now th' impassioned soul Of sensibility finds ample scope T' excruciate its own feelings, and their hearts Condemned to hear, while she minutely dwells On things revolting — " how the murd'rous knife Shall stop those bleating throats, and dye with gore Those milk-white fleeces." Thus expatiates she, While feeling turns aside, and hurries on. But vulgar suff^'rings, 'mongst the vulgar part Of our own species, often. fail to excite Those tender feelings that evap'rate half O'er flies and earwigs, and expend themselves In picturesque affliction. " Ah !" cries one, " How happy is the simple peasant's lot, Exempt from polished life's heart-riving woes, And elegant distresses !'' Bid them turn (Those sentimental chymics, who extract The essence of imaginary griefs From overwrought refinement), bid them turn To some poor cottage — not a bower of sweets Where woodbines cluster o'er the neat warm thatch, And mad Marias sing fantastic ditties, But to some wretched hut, whose crazy walls, Crumbling with age and dripping damps, scarce prop SENSIBILITY. 49 The rotten roof, all verdant with decay ; Unlatch the door, those starting planks that ill Keep out the wind and rain, and bid them look At the liome-comforis of the scene within. There on the hearth a few fresh-gathered sticks, Or smouldering sods, diffuse a feeble warmth, Fann'd by that kneeling woman's lab'ring breath Into a transient flame, o'erhanging which Cowers close, with outspread palms, a haggard form, But yesterday raised up from the sick-bed Of wasting fever, yet to-night returned From the resumption of his daily toil. " Too hastily resumed — imprudent man !" Ay, but his famish'd infants cried for bread ; So he went forth and strove, till nature failed, And the faint dews of weakness gathered thick In the dark hollows of his sallow cheek. And round his white-parched lips. Then home he crawled To the cold comforts of that cheerless hearth. And of a meal whose dainties are set out Invitingly — a cup of coarse black tea, With milk unmingled, and a crust of bread. No infant voices welcome his return With joyous clamour, but the piteous wail, " Father ! I'm hungry — Father ! give me bread !" Salutes him from the little-huddled group Beside that smoky flame, where one poor babe, Shaking with ague-chills, creeps shuddering in Between its mother's knees — that most forlorn, Most wretched mother, with sad lullaby Hushing the sickly infant at her breast. Whose scanty nourishment yet drains her life. Martyrs of sensibility ! look there ! 6 SPORTSMEN. Relieve in acts of charity to those Th' exuberance of your feelings. " Ay, but those Are horrid objects — squalid, filthy, low Disgusting creatures — sentiment turns sick In such an atmosphere at such a sight. True cottage children are delightful things. With rosy dimpled cheeks, and clustering curls ; It were an interesting task to dress Such pretty creatures in straw cottage-bonnets And green stuff gowns, with little bibs and aprons So neat and nice ! and every now and then (When visitors attend the Sunday school) To hear them say their catechism and creed. But those ! — Oh heaven! what feelings could endure Approach or contact with those dirty things ? True — they seem starving ; but 'tis also true The parish sees to all those vulgar wants ; And when it does not, doubtless there must be (Alas ! too common in this wicked world) Some artful imposition in the case." Martyrs of sensibility ! farewell ! I leave ye to your earwigs and your flies. But, gentle sportsman ! yet a word with you Ere to the starting-point I come again From this long ramble unpremeditate. Your silvan sports you call most innocent. Manly, and healthful. Are they always such ? Healthful I grant — for while the sons of sloth Doze half their sleepy lives in morning dreams Ye are awake and stirring with the lark ; And like the lark ye meet on breezy hill, In dewy forest glade, on perfumed heath SPORTSMEN. 51 The breath of morning and her I'oseate smile. Most healthful practice — and so far most pure. But is it innocent, for murderous sport To scare sweet peace from her beloved haunts ? To sadden and deface with death the scene Where all breathes life, and love, and harmony ? And is it manly, with assembled rout Of horses, dogs, and men, to hunt to death A poor defenceless, harmless, fearful wretch. The panting hare ? For life — for life she flios. And turns, and winds, and doubles in her course With art instinctive — unavailing all. Now the wild heath, the open plain she tries ; Now scuds for refuge to the pleasant brake. Where many a morning she was wont to sit In her old form, all spangled round with dew ; No rest — no respite — danger presses near — 'Tis at her heels. They burst the thicket now, Yet still she moves not — for she cannot move ; Stiffened with terror, motionless she sits With eyes wide staring, whence (I've heard some say) Large tears roll down, and on her panting sides The soft fur wet with dews of agony. Finish the picture ye who list — I turn Disgusted from the task. But can I pass Regardless the more lingering, torturing death Too oft inflicted ? We behold indeed The furred and feather'd trophies of his skill, Disgorged from that fell gulf, the sportsman's bag ; Not pleasing to all hearts, I trow, the sight Of even that lifeless spoil. But could we see — Ah ! could we follow to their sad retreats Those more unhappy that escape with life, But maimed and bleeding. To the forest deptlis 52 MY HARE. They crawl or flutter; there with dabbled plumes (All stiff with clotted gore their burnished gold) The graceful pheasant cowers beneath some tree, Whose pleasant branches he shall mount no more. Down droops the shattered wing, and crimson drops Mark where the shot has entered in his breast. There are no surgeons 'mongst the woodland tribes To set such fractures — no purveyors there To cater for the wounded, helpless bird ; Nay, his own species, with unnatural hate (As if, like some of humankind, they feared Contagion from approach to misery), Drive the poor sufferer from their gay resorts ; So to some lonely nook he creeps away To starve and die — abandoned and unseen. Such wretched fate my little hare's had been, But he, whose erring shot performed but half Its deadly mission, brought it gently home To be my guest and plaything, if it lived ; And to my loving care its life was given. I nursed it fondly, every want and wish Promptly contenting. So I won at last Its grateful confidence ; but not like those, Beloved of Cowper, did my hare abide Long after years in pleased captivity. Nature prevailed ; and when the prickl}^ furze Girdled our meadow with its golden belt Of od'rous blossoms ; to that tempting brake, Where harboured some of his own kind, my hare Cast many a wistful look, as by my side He leapt and frolicked in the garden near ; Yet long the powerful instinct he withstood Prompting to liberty. Compunctious thought MY HARE. 53 Perhaps it was of gratitude to me That kept him still a prisoner on parole. How oft in human hearts such strife springs up 'Twixt inclination and the scrup'lous doubts Of rigid conscience ! Bold at first, we cry, " Satan, avaunt !" to the seducing fiend, And he retires ; but seldom in despair. Wise by experience, close at hand lurks he, Watching the time through some unguarded chink To slip into the " swept and garnished" hold Of his old citadel. Perchance disguised Like whispering Prudence — or in Feeling's mask — Or Reason's pompous robe, he enters in. Then Hesitation, with her shaking hand And ever-shifting balance, weighs the cause ; And if a mote — a hair — a dust prepond (No matter how it came there, or why left) On Inclination's side, down drops the scale. A cause less trivial fixed at last the fate Of my poor Puss. One morning by my side In that same garden well content she sat Nibbling some fresh-picked dainty, when, behold ! With horrid bark, in bursts a stranger dog (One who had never learnt respect for hares) And scents the victim ; but in vain, for they Who follow close restrain his savage speed. And Puss escapes, o'erleaps the shallow fence, And scuds across the mead, and safely gains That prickly covert, which beheld from far. Had filled her heart with wand'ring wishes long. From that day forth the hare (no longer mine) 6* 54 . OLD EPHRAIM. Made her abode in that same hollow bank Thick set with bushes, whence I saw her oft Come forth at morn and even to sport and feed ; And oft the truant slave, the wild maroon, With bold assurance leapt the garden fence For purposes of plunder. Base return For kind protection to her helpless state So long accorded ! nay, extended still To shield her from the penalty of guilt ; For direful wrath in Ephraim's bosom rose (The dragon he, whose guardianship had rule Within the garden), when he found at morn Traces yet recent of the plunderer's work. His early lettuces all nibbled round. And ranks of tender peas (his fondest pride !) Laid down in patches, where th' audacious thief, Squatting composedly, had munched her fill. Dire was the wrath of Ephraim ! much raved he Of traps, and guns, and vengeance — whence restrained By interdiction of the higher powers. He muttered 'twixt his teeth reflections keen About the blind indulgence oi some folk For children's whimsies — " Who could keep, forsooth, A garden as it should be kept — not he — If noxious varmint was encouraged there ? What was the use of hares but for the spit ? He wished with all his heart that the whole race Was killed and spitted. Every thing he did Was crossed and thwarted — mischief was at work In every corner. If he could but ketch Them folk that meddled when his back was turned Among his mouse-traps ! 'Twas a thing unknown That mouse-traps should be set from day to day With toasted cheese, and never catch a mouse." OLD EPHRAIM. \y' 55 Ah friend ! " there are more things in heaven and earth" Than were dreamt of in iliy philosophy. Yet Ephraim had his shrewd suspicions too, Though darkly hinted. There was meaning couched, Tho' liitle terror in his threat'nings vague ; For he too loved me well — the kind old man ! And would have torn from his own reverend head The ^ew white locks ere hurt a hair of mine. Who but old Ephraim treasured up for me The earliest strawberry, cunningly matured On the red plane of sun-reflecting tile ? Who laid aside for me the longest string Of clear white currants 1 With inviting smile. Who dangled temptingly above my head Twin cherries 1 — luscious prize ! soon caught and won — Who but old Ephraim, for his " little Queen," Picked out (his favourite emblem of herself) The smallest pippin with the pinkest cheek ? It pleased him that I took delight to watch His rural labours — that I asked the names Of seeds and plants, and when to sow and set, And their fixed season to bear flower and fruit. With patient seriousness he made reply To questions multiplying faster still Than he could answer. But it puzzled oft His honest head (no learned Pundit he) To solve the curious questions I proposed, Why such and such things were ; to which most part One answer served — incontrovertible. Oracular — " they were, because they were." Oh ! what a deal of mischief were unmade If Ign'rance always on^erplexing points Replied as prudently— if folks at least 56 OLD EPHRAIM. Pretended to teach only what they know. ''^ Young ladies ! how especially for you 'Twould simplify the training ! No she-Crichtons, No petticoat professors would engage To teach all 'ologies and 'ographies, And every thing in all the world (of course Accomplishments included), all complete In all their branches. What a load of rubbish, Now cramm'd, poor dears ! into your hapless brains, Would leave the much abused organ room T' expand, and take in healthful nutriment. \ Wise — honest Ephraim ! Shall I leave unsung Thy skill in fashioning small wooden toys, Small tools, adapted to my pigmy grasp ? His hand is eagerly stretch'd out on whom. Fortune bestows a sceptre ; his no less To whom she gives the baton of command, The marshal's truncheon ; and she smiles herself At his more solemn transport, from beneath The penthouse of enormous wig, who eyes The seals of office dangling in his reach. And bearded infants — babies six feet high, Scramble for glitt'ring baubles ; ribbons, stars, And garters, that she jingles on a pole For prizes to the foremost in the race, Or who leaps highest, or with supplest joints Who twists, and turns, and creeps, and wriggles best. But none with greater eagerness than I From Ephraim's hand received the finish'd spada Whose small dimension might have served at need Some kitchen damsel for a tasting spoon. Albeit proportion'd aptly for my use ; And other tools he fashioned, rakes and hoes, TRAVELLED PUPPIES. 57 And oh ! sublime perfection of his craft, Most precious specimen ! his genius last Shaped out a wheelbarrow, and I attain'd (Possess'd of that long coveted machine) The climax of my wishes. What delight To cram it with such offsets, plants, and bulbs As Ephraim from his own neat borders cast ; Then to wheel off the load (no matter what) To my own garden. Nought came then amiss Or out of season. Scions of tall trees, And bushy shrubs, that, had they taken root And flourish'd, would have fill'd the small domain ; And ragged pinks, with huge old scraggy roots, Past hope of e'er producing flower or bud, And plants full blown, that nothing lack'd — but roots. But not unfrequently the wheelbarrow Was freighted with a living, yelping load — Old Chloe's puppies : She the while, poor fool ! Trotting beside with anxious look and whine Much eloquent of wonder and dismay And half-displeased remonstrance, at th' enforced And early travels of her progeny. Many there are among Creation's Lords Whom Fashion wheels abroad (a listless load !) As blind and senseless as those noisy whelps, — As blind to all the wonders in their way Of Art and Nature : with as senseless noise Chatt'ring among themselves their mother-tongue In foreign lands, disdaining to acquire The useless knowledge (spiritless pursuit !) Of a strange people's customs, arts, and speech ; And who return with minds as unenlarged. And skulls as empty, to their native land;. 68 SYMPATHY. As to their kennel Chloe's brood return'd. But tlfey, poor innocents ! were safe restored With simple unsophisticated minds ; While two-legg'd puppies bring a cargo home Of affectation, pedantry, and vice. It is not all who having eyes can see, Or having ears can hear : That truth we learn From everyday experience. How it frets One's soul to be associated with those Deaf hearers, blind beholders ! Frets one more, That all the outward organs they possess, As it appears unblemish'd. So we're led To utter freely what we warmly feel ; And then it proves that all the wires and pipes That should communicate 'twixt eyes and ears And the indwelling Soul, to empty cells Lead only, sending back response nor sound. Say with a friend we contemplate some scene Of nat'ral loveliness, from which the heart Drinks in its fill of deep admiring joy ; Some landscape scene, all glorious with the glow Of summer evening, when the recent shower (Transient and sudden) all the dry white road Has moistened to red firmness ; every leaf (Wash'd from the dust) restored to glossy green ;- In such an evening oft the setting Sun, Flaming in gold and purple clouds, comes forth To take his farewell of our hemisphere ; Sudden the face of Nature brightens o'er With such effulgence, as no painter's art May imitate with faint similitude. The rain-drops dripping fast from every spray SYMPATHY. 59 Are liquid topazes ; bright emeralds those Set on the green foil of the glist'ning leaves, And every little hollow, concave stone, And pebbly wheel-track, holds its sparkling pool Brimming with molten amber. Of those drops The Blackbird lights to drink ; then scatt'ring thick A diamond shower among his dusty plumes, Flies up rejoicing to some neighb'ring elm. And pours forth such a strain as wakens up The music of unnumber'd choristers. Thus Nature to her great Creator hymns An hallelujah of ecstatic praise. And are our voices mute ? Oh ! no, we turn (Perhaps with glist'ning eyes), and our full heart Pour out in rapt'rous accents, broken words, Such as require no answer, but by speech As little measured, or that best reply. Feeling's true eloquence, a speaking look. But other answer waits us ; for the friend — (Oh ! heaven ! that there are such) with a calm smile Of sweet no-meaning gently answers — " Yes, Indeed it's very pretty — Don't you think I'ts getting late though — time to go to tea ?" Some folks will tell you, of all things on earth They most like reading ; poetry with them Is quite a passion ; but somehow it is. They never find a moment's leisure time For things they dote on. What a life is theirs ! There's the new poem — they would give the world To skim it over, but it cannot be ; That trimming must be finish'd for the ball. liyoii indeed^ who read aloud so well. With so much feeling, would but take the book — 60 SYMPATHY. 'Tvvould be so nice to listen ! such a treat ! And all the while the trimming might go on. You cannot have the heart to disappoint Wishes express'd so sweetly. Down you sit But unreluctant to the task, which soon Absorbs your every feeling. 'Tis perhaps Of Roderick, that immortal Goth, you read — (Immortalized in verse that cannot die Till Poesy is dead, and every heart Warm'd with her sacred fire a senseless clod). The first few pages smoothly on you go, Yourself delighted, and delighting much (So simply you believe) your hearers too. At length a whisper, audibly aside, Or cross the table, grates upon your ear, And brings you from the region of romance — " Dear ! how provoking ! have you seen my thread 1 — No — here it is — Oh ! pray don't stop — go on With that delightful story." On you go ; But scarce recover from the first rude shock, When lo ! a second. Deep debate ensues, Grave, solemn, nice, elaborate, profound, About the shade of some embroider'd leaf, Whether too dark — or not quite dark enough — Or whether pea green were not after all Fitter than apple green. And there you sit Devoutly banning in your secret soul Balls, trimmings, and your own too easy faith In sympathy from hearers so engross'd. " Better leave off," you say, and close the book, " Till some more leisure morning." — But at once All voices clamour at the barb'rous thought SYMPATHY. Of such adjournment : — And you recommence, Loath and disheartened ; but a lull succeeds Of seeming deep attention, and onco more The noble song absorbs you, heart and soul. That part you reach, where the old Dog who lies Beside Rusilla, and, unnoticed, long Has eyed the dark-cowl'd Stranger ; all at once (Confirm'd by Love's strong instinct) crawls along And crouches at his royal Master's feet, And licks his hand, and gazes in his face " With eyes of human meaning." Then — just then, When trembling like a harp-string to the touch Of some impassion'd harmonist, your voice Falters with strong emotion — "Oh!" cries she, The passion of whose soul is poesy, " That dear sweet dog ! — it just reminds me though That poor Tonton was wash'd two hours ago, And I must go and comb him, pretty love ! So for this morning (though it breaks my heart) From that dear book I tear myself away." Ah ! luckless reader ! wilt thou e'er again On such as these expend thy precious breath ? Some travell'd exquisites profess a taste (" Gusto," they call it) for the sister art — For painting. Heaven preserve us from such taste ! These learnedly harangue on breadth and depth, Gradation, concentration, keeping, tone, Tint, glazing, chiaroscuro, and what not. At some old picture (moderns cannot pc«nt), Some smoke-dyed canvass, where experienced eyes In the brown chaos may distinguish for-m, 62 CONOSCENTI. Lo ! where they gaze with reverential awe, Peer through the focus of their rounded hand, With features screw'd up to the exactest pitch Of connoisseurship — fall enraptured back, With head aside, and eyes all pucker'd up Obliquely glancing — then with folded arms They stand entranced, and gaze, and sigh, and gaze, And mutter ecstacies between their teeth — " Divine ! incomparable ! grand ! unique !" Less learn'd critics condescend t' admire Some amateur production — yours perhaps ; These, little skill'd in jargon technical Of conoscenti, murmur gentle praise ; — Holding your drawing to their eyes quite close, As 'twere a newspaper, and they perplex'd To make out the small print. — " Dear me !" they cry, " How nice ! how natural ! how very soft !" These phrases serve, or some as richly fraught With meaning, for all subjects and all styles ; Or, if with more discriminating taste, They own a preference— it falls, be sure, On the most worthless, whose tame character Is in this gentle phrase — " So very soft !" Inflict not on me, Stars ! the killing blight Of such companionship. Oh ! rather far Assign me for my intimate and friend One who says plainly — " I confess to me Painting's but colour'd canvass. Music noise. And Poetry prose spoilt ; those rural scenes Whereon you gaze enraptured, nothing more Than hill, and dale, and water, wooded well With stout oak timber groaning for the axe." CONOSCENTI. 63 *Twixt such a heart and mine there must be still A bar, oft painfully perceived indeed, And never overstepp'd : But I could feel Respect — affection — confidence for such. If dignified with sound clear-judging sense And piety, that gem beyond all price. Wherewith compared all gifts are valueless. It is not once an age two hearts are set So well in unison that not a note Jars in their music ; but a skilful hand Slurs lightly over the discordant tones, And wakens only the full power of those That sound in concord. Happy, happy those Who thus perform the grand concerto — Life ! PART THE THIRD CONTENTS. The Old Mile-stone. — Angling. — Royden Stream. — The Silvan Feast. — Age of Intellect. — Afternoon. — Isaac Walton. — A Bitter Night. — The Farmer. —The Pet Lamb.— Our Old Garden.— Painting.— The Altar.— Priscilia.— Tea Drinking. — Curiosities. — The Cuckoo Clock. — William Gilpin. — The Visit.— The Vicarage.— The Study. 7* PART THE THIRD Old friend ! old stone ! old way mark ! art thou gone ? I could have better spared a better thing Than sight of thy familiar shapeless form, Defaced and weather-stained. But thus it is Where'er I turn me, wheresoe'er I look, Change, change, change, change is every where at work In all mine ancient haunts. Gramercie though ! Reform — improvement is the proper word-— We live, God wot, in an improving age, And our old world, if it last long enough. Will reach perfection. Lo ! conceptions vast Germ not alone in patriot statesman's mind Or great philanthropist's. Our public men, Ours in this rural district nook o' th' world, " Armed with a little brief authority," Wield it like Jove's own thunder, and affect Th' Olympic nod. Would they had nodded off Their sapient heads, ere, in an evil hour, Beautiful elms ! your spreading branches fell, Because, forsooth ! across the King's highway. Conspiring with the freeborn "chartered" air, Your verdant branches treasonably waved, And swung perchance the pendant dewdrops off On roof of royal mail, or in the eyes Of sleepy coachman, wakened so full well For safety of his snoring " four insides," 68 THE OLD MILE-STONE. Unconscious innocents ! — or on his pate — His awful pate— ev'n his, mine ancient foe, Your ruthless enemy — the man of power. Of measurement, and acts of Parliament, The great road dragon — man of flinty heart, Belike ye showered the- liquid crystal down, Irreverend boughs ! and so your fate was sealed. But, veteran oak ! what rank offence was thine ? In memory of man thou hadst not flung One flickering shadow 'thwart the royal road. Nor intercepted sunbeam from the head Of noontide traveller. Only left of thee The huge old trunk, still verdant in decay With ivy garlands, and a tender growth (Like second childhood) of thine own young shoots ; And there, like giant guardian of the pass. Thou stood'st, majestic ruin ! thy huge roots (Whose every fretted niche and mossy cave Harboured a primrose) grappling the steep bank, A wayside rampart. Lo ! they've rent away The living bulwark now — a ghastly breach, A crumbling hollow left to mark its site And the proud march of utilitarian zeal. And the old thorns are gone — the thorns 1 loved, For that in childhood I could reach and pluck Their first sweet blossoms. They were low like me, Young, lowly bushes, I a little child. And we grew up together. They are gone ; And the great elder by the mossy pales — How sweet the blackbird sang in that old tree ! Sweeter, methinks, than now, from statelier shades — They've felled that too — the goodly harmless thing ! That with its fragrant clusters overhung THE OLD MILE-STONE. 69 Our garden hedge, and furnished its rich store Of juicy berries for the Christmas wine Spicy and hot, and its round hollow stems (The pith extracted) for quaint arrow heads, Such as my father in our archery games Taught me to fashion. That they've ta'en away, And so some relic daily disappears. Something I've loved and prized ; and now the last — Almost the last — the poor old mile-stone falls. And in its place this smooth, white, perked up thing. With its great staring figures. Well ! well ! well ! All's doubtless as it should be. Were my will The rule of action, strange results, I doubt. Would shock the rational community. No farmer round should clip one straggling hedge, No road-surveyor change one rugged stone, Howe'er illegible its lettered face. Nor pare, nor trim, nor chop one craggy bank. Nor lop one wayside tree, although its boughs Arched all the royal road. I'd have the road One bowery arch — what matter if so low No mail might pass beneath ? For aught I care The post might come on foot — or not at all, At least with tidings of the troublous world. In short — in short, it's quite as well, perhaps, I can but rail — not rule. Splenetic words Will not tack on again dissevered boughs, Nor set up the old stone ; so let me breathe The fulness of a vexed spirit out In impotent murmurs. Gentles ! could ye guess What thoughts, what feelings, what remembrances Are in my mind associated with sight 70 ANGLING. Of that cold senseless stone, that shapeless thing Which there lies prostrate, ye would smile perhaps. But not methinks in scornful wonderment At the strange utterings of my wayward mood. Here, to this very spot (the guardian hand Still clasping mine) with tottering steps I came — A good half mile from home — my first long walk — The first remembered. Here, the goal attained, They set me up on the old stone to rest. And called me woman ! — Baby now no more, Who walked so stoutly ; filled my lap with flowers, And pulled within my reach the woodbine down, That I might pluck, with mine own eager hand, A wreath for Dido's neck. She sat beside, (The grave old creature !) with her large brown eyes Intently, as in delegated watch. Fixed on her master's child. Soon came the days, When Ids companion, his — his only one My father's — I became. Proud, happy child ! Untiring now, in many a lengthened walk, Yet resting oft (his arm encircling me) On the old mile- stone, in our homeward way. My father loved the patient angler's art ; And many a summer day, from early morn To latest evening, by some streamlet's side We two have tarried ; strange companionship ! A sad and silent man ; a joyous child — Yet were those days, as I recall them now. Supremely happy. Silent though he was. My father's eyes were often on his child Tenderly eloquent — and his few words Were kind and gentle. Never angry tone Repulsed me, if I broke upon his thoughts ROYDEN STREAM. 71 With childish question. But I learnt at last — Learnt intuitively to hold my peace When the dark hour was on him, and deep sighs Spoke the perturbed spirit — only then I crept a little closer to his side, And stole my hand in his, or on his arm Laid my cheek softly ; till the simple wile Won on his sad abstraction, and he turned With a faint smile, and sighed, and shook his head. Stooping toward me : so I reached at last Mine arm about his neck, and clasped it close, Printing his pale brow with a silent kiss. That was a lovely brook, by whose green marge, We two (the patient angler and his child) Loitered away so many summer days ! A shallow sparkling stream, it hurried now Leaping and glancing amiong large round stones, With everlasting friction chafing still Their polished smoothness — on a gravelly bed, Then softly slipt away with rippling sound. Or all inaudible, where the green moss Sloped down to meet the clear reflected wave, That lipped its emerald bank with seeming show Of gentle dalliance. In a dark, deep pool Collected now, the peaceful waters slept Embayed by rugged headlands ; hollow roots Of huge old pollard willows. Anchored there, Rode safe from every gale, a silvan fleet Of milk-white water lilies ; every bark Worthy as those on his own sacred flood To waft the Indian Cupid. Then the stream Brawling agaim o'er pebbly shallows ran. On — on, to where a rustic, rough-hewn bridge, 72 ROYDEN STREAM. All bright with messes and green ivy wreaths, Spanned the small channel with its single arch ; And underneath, the bank on either side Shelved down into the water darkly green With unsunned verdure ; or whereon the sun Looked only when his rays at eventide Obliquely glanced between the blackened piers With arrowy beams of orient emerald light Touching the river and its velvet marge — 'Twas there, beneath the archway, just within Its rough mis-shapen piles, I found a cave, A little secret cell, one large flat stone Its ample floor, embedded deep in moss, And a rich tuft of dark blue violet. And fretted o'er with curious groining dark, Like vault of Gothic chapel, was the roof Of that small cunning cave — " The Nereid's Grot !" I named it learnedly, for I had read About Egeria, and was deeply versed In heathenish stories of the guardian tribes In groves, and single trees, and silvan streams Abiding co-existent. So methought The little Naid of our brook might haunt That cool retreat, and to her guardian care My wont was ever, at the bridge arrived, To trust our basket, with its simple store Of home-made, wholesome cates ; by one at home Provided, for our banquet-hour at noon. A joyful hour ! anticipated keen With zest of youthful appetite I trow, Full oft expelling unsubstantial thoughts Of Grots and Naids, sublimated fare — The busy, bustling joy, with housewife airs THE SILViVN FEAST- 73 (Directress, handmaid, lady of the feast !) To spread that " table in the wilderness !" The spot selected with deliberate care, Fastidious from variety of choice, Where all was beautiful : Some pleasant nook Among the fringing alders ; or beneath A single spreading oak ; or higher up Within the thicket, a more secret bower, A little clearing, carpeted all o'er With creeping strawberry, and greenest moss Thick veined with ivy. There unfolded smooth The snowy napkin (carefully secured At every corner with a pebbly weight). Was spread prelusive ; fairly garnished soon With the contents (most interesting then) Of the well-plenished basket : simple viands, And sweet brown bread, and biscuits for dessert, And rich, ripe cherries ; and two slender flasks. Of cyder one, and one of sweet new milk. Mine own allotted beverage, tempered down To wholesome thinness by admixture pure From the near streamlet. Two small silver cupa Set out our grand buffet — and all was done- But there I stood immovable, entranced. Absorbed in admiration — shifting oft My ground contemplative, to re-peruse In every point of view the perfect whole Of that arrangement, mine own handy work. Then glancing skyward, if my dazzled eyes Shrank from the sunbeams, vertically bright, Away, away, toward the river's brink I ran to summon from his silent sport My father to the banquet ; tutored well. As I approached his station, to restrain 74 THE SILVAN FEAST. All noisy outbreak of exuberant glee ; Lest from their quiet haunts the finny prey Should dart far off to deeper solitudes. The gentle summons met observance prompt, Kindly considerate of the famished child : And all in order left — the mimic fly Examined and renewed, if need required, Or changed for other sort, as time of day, Or clear or clouded sky, or various signs Of atmosphere or water, so advised Th' experienced angler ; the long line afloat — The rod securely fixed ; then into mine The willing hand was yielded, and I led With joyous exultation that dear guest To our green banquet room. Not Leicester's self, When to the hall of princely Kenil worth He led Elizabeth, exulted more With inward gratulation at the show Of his own proud magnificence, than I, When full in view of mine arranged feast, I held awhile my pleased companion back. Exacting wonder — admiration, praise With pointing finger, and triumphant " There !" Our meal concluded — or, as Homer says, " Soon as the rage of hunger was appeased" — • And by the way, our temp'rate silvan feast Deserved poetic illustration more Than those vast hecatombs of filthy swine, Where Trojans, Greeks, and half-immortals gorged, Sharp'ning their wits for council. Process strange ! But most effectual doubtless, as we see Clearly illustrated in this our day, AFTERNOON. 75 In this our favour'd isle, where all affairs (Glory to Britain's intellectual age !) Begin and end with feasting : Statesmen meet To eat and legislate ; to eat and hang* Judges assemble ; chapters congregate To eat and order spiritual affairs ; Philhellenists to eat and free the Greeks ; Committees of Reform, Relief, Conversion, Eat with amazing unction : and so on, Throughout all offices, sects, parties, grades, Down to the Parish worthies, who assemblef In conclave snug to eat, and starve the poor. Our banquet over, — nor omitted then Grateful acknowledgment for good received From Him, whose open hand all living things " Filleth with plenteousness,"— my dear companion Sought once again the river's flowery marge, To me committing (as the spreading out) The gath'ring up all fragments of the feast, " That nothing might be lost." Instruction wise, By simple illustration well enforced ! Nor strain'd to Pharisaic meaning hard, Forbidding to communicate the good Abundantly bestow'd. So lib'ral dole I scatter'd round for the small feathei^'d things Who from their leafy lodges all about * There exists, or did exist, in one of the Channel Islands, a singular con- vivial custom connected with the execution of criminals. The members of Court meet to celebrate the occasion with a dinner, and a few non-professional friends are invited " to come and eat a dead man." t It may be almost superfluous to mention that this line, and, .ndeed, the whole paragraph, was written previous to the passing of the Municipal Reform Bill. 76 AFTERNOON. Had watch'd the strange intruders and their ways ; And eyed the feast with curious wistful ness, Half longing to partake. Some bold, brave bird, He of the crimsom breast, approaching near, And near, and nearer, till his little beak Made prize of tempting crumb, and off he flew Triumphant, to return (permitted thief!) More daringly familiar. Neatly pack'd Napkin and cups, with the diminish'd store Of our well-lighten'd basket — largess left For our shy woodland hosts some special treat In fork'd branch or hollow trunk for him The prettiest, merriest, with his frolic leaps And jet black sparkling eyes, and mimic wrath Clacking loud menace. Yet before me lay The long bright summer evening. Was it long, Tediously long in prospect ? Nay, good sooth ! The hours in Eden never swifter flew With Eve yet innocent, than fled with me Their course by thy fair stream, sweet Royden Vale ! The stream, the mead, herb, insect, flower and leaf, Sunbeam and shadow, — all, as I have said, Were books to me, companionable things ; But lack of other volume, Man's device, Was none, when turning from the outspread scroll Of beauteous Nature, sweet repose I sought In varied pleasure. In a certain pouch, Ample and deep, the Fisher's coat within, Lurk'd an old clumsy russet cover'd book, That with permitted hand extracted thence — (I see the smile to the young smiling thief Vouching impunity) — for many an hour ISAAC WALTON. 77 Furnish'd enjoyment, flavour'd not the less For oft renew'd experience intimate. Just where the river with a graceful curve Darken'd and deepen'd in the leafy gloom Of a huge pollard oak — a snug retreat I found me at the foot of that old tree, Within the grotto work of its vast roots, From whose fantastic arches, high upheaved, Sprang plumy clusters of the jewell'd fern. And adder's-tongue, and ivy wreaths hung down Festooning elegant ; soft greenest moss Flooring the fairy cave ; the temper'd light (As through an emerald roof) stole gently in, Caressingly, and play'd in freckling gleams On the dark surface of the little pool, Where as it seem'd the ling'ring stream delay'd As loath its brawling course to recommence In glaring sunshine. Ah ! could we delay Time's current, as it bears us through some reach Where the rough stream sinks waveless,- peace-embay'd, The river at my feet, its mossy bank, Clipt by that cavern'd oak my pleasant seat ; Still as an image in its carved shrine I nestled in my silvan niche, like hare Upgather'd in her form, upon my knees The open book, o'er which I stooped intent. Half-hidden (the large hat flung careless off*) In a gold gleaming shower of auburn curls. Ah ! gentle Isaac ! by what glamourie Chain'd ye the eyes of restless childhood down To pages penn'd for other readers far, Mature and manly ? What concern of mine Thy learn'd lessons to the docile twain, 8* 78 ISAAC WALTON. Thy sometime pupils ? What concern of mine Thy quaint directions how to dress a chub ? Or bait the barb'd hook with hapless frog " Lovingly handled ?" What concern of mine Thy merry meetings at that rural hostel With the fair hostess ? lavender i' th' window, And « twenty ballads stuck about the wall ?" Yet sure I long'd to share of that same chub, And took no thought how that unlucky frog Relish'd such loving treatment ; and full fain Would have made one at that same merry board, And drank in with insatiate ear thy words. Rich in the truest wisdom, for throughout (Hallowing whate'er of homely, quaint, and coarse Might shock fastidious taste, less pure than nice) The love of God, and Man, and holy Nature Breathed like the fragrance of a precious gum From consecrated censor. Then those scraps From th' olden poets ! " the divine Du Bartas !" And " holy Master Herbert !" and Kit Marlowe ! Whose ballad by the modest Milkmaid sung Combined methought sweet strain of sweetest bird. And pleasant melody of trickling rill. And hum of bees, and every natural tone Most musical. And then what dear delight Beneath the sheltering honeysuckle hedge To share thy leafy covert, while " the shower* * " But turn out of the way a little, good scholar, towards yonder high honey- suckle hedge ; there we'll sit and sing, whilst this shower falls so gently upon the teeming earth, and gives yet a sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that adorn these verdant meadows. Look, under the broad beech-tree I sat down, i when I was last this way a-fishing, and the birds in an adjoining grove seemed^ to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live inn a hollow tree, near to that primrose hill."— Isaac Walton. ISAAC WALTON. 79 Fell gently down upon the teeming earth, From the green meadows all with flowers bedeck'd, Wakening delicious odours ; while the birds Friendly contention, from a grove hard by, Held with an echo, whose dead voice did live (So seeming) in a hollow tree high up Crowning the primrose knoll." Ah ! gentle Isaac ! How could I choose but love thy precious book. Then in that blessed springtime of my life When life was joy, this fair earth paradise, And thine a master-key, in its green glades Opening innumerous paths ! I love thee still With an exceeding love, old batter'd book ! And from thy time-discolour'd leaves outsteal Methinks sweet breathings of that merry May So long o'erpast. My winter is at hand (Summer departed, Autumn on the wane), But as I read, and dream, and smile, and sigh. Old feelings stir within me, old delights Kindle afresh, and all the past comes back With such a rush, as to its long dried bed The waters of a stream for many a year Pent from its natural course. Oh ! nothing dies — Nothing is lost or wholly perisheth That God hath called good, and given to Man, Worth his immortal keeping. Let them go, Let them pass from me like a troubled dream, The things of this world ; bitter apples all. Like those by the Dead Sea, that mock the eye With outward fairness, ashes at the core. Let this frail body perish day by day, And to the dust go down, and be resolved Thereunto — earth to earth : But I shall live 80 A BITTER NIGHT. In spiritual identity unchanged, And take with me where happy spirits dwell (Through Christ, the door, I hope admittance there) All thoughts, desires, affections, memories Sealed with the heavenly stamp, and set apart (Made worthy) for duration infinite. " This is a bitter night for the young lambs," My father said, and shivering drew his chair Close in to the warm hearth. " The biting air, When 1 looked out but now, was thick with snow Fast driven in furious gusts — and, hark ! that's hail Clattering against the window." To the storm Listening a moment, with a pitying thought For houseless wanderers ; to our dear fire-side We turned with grateful hearts, and sweetest sense Of comfort and security, that each Reflected in the other's face, read plain As in a page of some familiar book Long learned by heart. " Gary ! what makes you sigh And look so sad i' th' sudden ?" asked my mother, As letting fall my pencil, I rose up, And stealing to my father's side, drew close The little stool, my own peculiar seat, And, leaning on his knee, looked earnest up, With that long deep-drawn breath, that ends so oft Childhood's reflective pause. " I'm thinking, mother, Of what my father said about the lambs- — What will become of them this bitter night, Poor little pretty creatures ? We looked at them A long, long while, in our way home to-day, THE FARMER. 81 While with their mothers they were folded up By the old shepherd. Some could hardly stand. So very weak they were, so very young ! Don't you remember, father ! you said then A cold hard night would kill them." " Did J, child ? Well, this is cold enough. But then the shepherd Will take good heed to them — and Little girl ! Have you not heard, and read, and learnt, how God ' Tempers the wind to the shorn lamb V So these. Helpless and tender as they are, his eye Still watcheth, and his guardian care protects."' " Oh ! but I wish" unuttered was the wish ; For the door opened, and a burly form. Much like a walking bear, the hairy cap And shaggy wrapping coat, all white with snow, Announced by baying house-dogs, and shown in With little form by Joe, within the room Advanced a step or two, in country fashion, Scraping obeisance. Up sprung old Di With hostile growling, from her master's feet ; But sniffing round the stranger, in a moment Dropping her tail, she came contented back To her warm station. " What's the matter, Farmer, That you're abroad so late this blust'rous night ?" My father, with a friendly greeting, asked. " My little lassie, here, was just bewailing For your young lambs — but they're all snug, I guess." " Ay, ay, sir ! thank ye kindly, snug enough ; And many thanks to miss, God bless her heart !" He added, with a loving look at me, S2 THE PET LAMB. Who had stolen round by this to my old friend, Admiring much his bruin-like aspect. A knowing twinkle with that loving look Was mingled ; and his bluff good-natured face Brightened with kindliness, as he went on : — *' I'll lay my life on't, Miss will never guess What I've got here, all cuddled up so warm Under my old great coat. And yet. Lord love her ! The thing's for her, whatever it may be !" Then there was wonder and impatient joy, And jumping round and round, and " Oh, dear Farmer ! Is it alive ? — what is it ? — let me look — Only one peep." — And eagerly I pulled At the wet shaggy coat. "Justletme/eeZ.'" Then with feigned caution he admitted slow One little curious hand. " How soft — how warm ! — It's a young kitten !" " Kitten ! — sure I'd scorn To bring such vermin." " Well, a rabbit, then — Or — no — I'm sure now it's a guinea pig — Isn't it, Farmer ?" " Guinea pigs don't bleat — Harken !" « Oh mercy !— it's a little lamb !" *'My Missis said 'twas just the thing for Miss, When Amos brought it in an hour agone From the dead ewe. The poor dumb brute had three, THE PET LAMB. This only living ; well enough for strength. Considering : and Miss will mud* it up I know, as clever as a little queen, If I may leave it for her." If !— that if Checked in a moment my ecstatic fit. And a quick glance imploringly I turned To the parental faces. Smiles were there, But not consenting ones — and heads were shaken, And sage remonstrance was preparing plain. And lips were opened ; but I stopt them quick With smothering kisses, and — the lamb was mine. And thanks to Lydia, maiden most expert In things pertaining to the dairy's charge, And country matters — ever mine ally, Ready and faithful — the small creature throve As though the mother's milk and her strong love (Nature's unerring course) had nurtured it ; And from a tender fondling, soon became My mate and playfellow. Such friends we were — Willy and I ! Inseparable friends. In door and out — up-stairs and down — where'er My step was heard, the little pattering hoofs Close following, or before me, sounded too. Only at lesson time awhile disjoined The fond companionship. Good reason why — The pupil never much renowned at best For patient application ; little chance Was there of any, when that gamesome thing Made scoff of learning, and its teachers grave ; Upsetting inkstands — nibbling copy-books — And still provoking to irreverend mirth * Mud — Provincial. . 84 THE PET LAMB. With some new merry mischief. Time went on (More wondrous had he stopt), and winsome Willy, The pet lamb still, drew near to ram's estate — Then 'gan affairs to alter. Budding horns, Fondled at first, grew formidable things, And pretty freedoms to audacious onslaughts. Old Di was sent off howling — from the lines Linen hooked down and tattered — maids laid sprawling- And visitors attacked, and butchers' boys, And bakers, with their trays and baskets butted, And forced to fly and halloo for their lives. Our mutual love still perfect, I alone Scaped molestation, threatening life or limb ; Only for summer wear more cool and airy The muslin frocks were made, by sundry slits From top to bottom, and large eyelet holes ; But that was all in sport — no harm intended — And I the last to take offence at thinors o Concerning only those who had to mend Or to replace my wardrobe. But all hearts Were not so placable, and day by day Dark looks and angry murmurs darker grew. And waxed more wrathful. " 'Twas not to be borne . The beast was dangerous : some serious mischief Would come of it at last; it must be seen to." Oh Willy ! Willy ! how I quaked for fear At those vague threatenings, with ingenious art Concealing or excusing as I could Thine oft delinquencies. But all in vain ; The fatal day, long dreaded, came at last. It was the time of blossoms, and my father, Who in '' trim gardens" much delight did take, THE PET LAMB. 85 Was scanning with a gardener's pride ful eye His neat espaliers ; every well-trained branch Thick set with bloom — deep blushing like the morn, Or fainter tinged, or snow-white, of each sort Indicative, and its abundant fruit. Fair show ! Rich promise ! Many a season cold, unkind. Had nipped the gardener's hope since such was seen — " If frost returns not, and no cruel blight Comes near us" — with exultant hope broke forth My father's meditation — when, alas ! Destruction was at hand, and in mid speech He stopt astounded. Frost nor blight most dire So direful as the sight of visible mischief Personified in Willy's form, at work Ten paces off, where thick as snow flakes fell A shower of milk-white blossoms. Glorious sport ! Another butting charge, and down they come, Whitening the walk and border. "Help! help! help! Ho, Ephraim ! Ephraim !" At the call appear More than the summoned — rushes out amain The gaping household, mistress, maids, and man. And I, half guilty, much confounded cause Remote, of all the evil, helpless then To stay its progress. " Here he is — here ! here ! Stop him — he's off again !" " Where ? where ?" " There, there V Down comes the flowery rain — that shake will do For the old golden rennet — fair pearrnain ! Thy turn comes next — and next — " Destruction ! death ! There goes the gansels bergamy — will no one Stop the cursed brute ?" 4 9 86 THE PET LAMB. How beautiful he looked ! (Even in my shame and terror so I thought), When at safe distance he stood still and gazed At his pursuers with provoking air Of innocent wonder, dangling from his mouth A bunch of apple blossoms, now and then Mumbled in wantonness. " Confound him ! there ! He's at the golden pippin — Where's the gun ? Joe ! run and fetch it — or — hold, hold — a rope ! We'll noose the rascal !" Oh my heart ! my heart ! How died ye at the sound of guns and ropes ! But capture was not death — and he was caught, Caught and led up to judgment. Willy ! Willy ! That ever to such strait and to such wo Thine evil courses should have brought us both ! For the decree went forth that parted us — Thou to return to thy first owner's flock, And I {bereaved !) to mourn my merry mate. Ah doleful day ! when for the last, last time We two went forth together — thou, poor fool ! In thine unconscious gladness by my side Trotting contentedly, tho' every step Took thee to exile nearer, and my tears Fell fast as summer rain drops. How I clung (When to the farm we came) with sobbing clasp About thy snowy neck ! refusing comfort. Although they told me, to assuage my grief, A many flattering tales of good designed. Peculiar good to thee. Thou wert to range For life respected — master of the flock — To crop the sweetest herbage, and be housed, When winter came, in warm luxurious crib. OUR OLD GARDEN. " But shall I see him sometimes ?" " Ay, ay, sure. Often and often, when the flock comes back From the far pastures." Back it came — alas ! I saw not Willy — saw him never more ; But half deluded still by glozing words, I thought not (witless!) of the butcher's cart, Nor transmutation fell, by murderous sleight Of sheep to mutton. To thy manes peace, Offending fav'rite ! wheresoe'er thy grave. Dear garden ! once again with lingering look Reverted, half remorseful, let me dwell Upon thee as thou wert in that old time Of happy days departed. Thou art changed, And I have changed thee — Was it wisely done ? Wisely and well, they say who look thereon With unimpassioned eye — cool, clear, undimmed By moisture such as memory gathers oft In mine, while gazing on the things that are Not with die hallowed past, the loved, the lost Associated as those I now retrace With tender sadness. The old shrubbery walk Straight as an arrow, was less graceful far Than this fair winding among flowers and turf, Till with an artful curve it sweeps from sight To reappear again, just seen and lost Among the hawthorns in the little dell. Less lovely the old walk, but there I ran Holding my mother's hand, a happy cliild ; There were her steps imprinted, and my father's, And those of many a loved one, now laid low In his last resting place. No flowers methinks 88 PAINTING. That now I cultivate are half so sweet, So bright, so beautiful as those that bloomed In the old formal borders. These clove pinks Yield not such fragrance as the true old sort That spiced our pot-pourrie (my mother's pride) With such peculiar richness ; and this rose, With its fine foreign name, is scentless, pale, Compared with the old cabbage — those that blushed In the thick hedge of spiky lavender — Such lavender as is not now-a-days ; And gillyflowers are not as they were then Sure to " come double ;" and the night breeze now Sighs not so loaded with delicious scents Of lily and sevinger. Oh, my heart ! Is all indeed so altered ? — or art thou The changeling, sore aweary now at times Of all beneath the sun ? Such weariness Knows not that blessed springtime of the heart When " treasures dwell in flowers." How glad was I, How joyously exultant, when I found Such virtues in my flowery treasury As hitherto methought discoverer's eye Had passed unheeded ! Here at once I found, Unbought, unsued for, the desired command (How longingly desired !) of various dyes, Wherewith to tint the semblance incomplete In its hard pencil outline, of those forms Of floral loveliness, whose juices now Supplied me with a palette of all hues, Bright as the rainbow. Brushes lacked I none For my rude process, the soft flower or leaf Serving for such ; its moisture nice expressed By a small cunning hand, where'er required THE ALTAR. 89 The imitative shadow to perfect With glowing colour. Heavens ! how plain I see, Ev'n at this moment, the first grand result Of that occult invention. There it lies, Living as life itself (I thought no less), A sprig of purple stock, that dullest eye Must have detected, and fault-finding critic Have owned at least a likeness. Mother's love Thought it perfection, when with stealing step And flushing face and conscious, I drew near And laid it on her lap without a word ; Then hung upon her shoulder, shrinking back With a child's bashfulness, all hope and fear, Shunning and courting notice ; But I kept Profoundly secret, certain floral rites Observed with piously romantic zeal Through half a summer. Heaven forgave full sure The unconscious profanation, and the sin, If sin there was, be on thy head, old friend, Pathetic Gesner ! for thy touching song ■ (That most poetic prose) recording sad ' The earliest annals of the human race. And death's first triumph, filled me, heart and brain, With stirring fancies, in my very dreams Exciting strange desires to realize. What to the inward vision was revealed, Haunting it like a passion. For I saw, Plain as in substance, that first human home In the first earthly garden ; — saw the flowers Set round her leafy bower by banished Eve, And watered with her tears, as they recalled Faintly the forfeit Eden ; the small rills She taught to wander 'mongst their blooming tribes, 9* 90 THE ALTAR. Completing — not the semblance, but the shade. But beautiful, most beautiful methought The altar of green turf, whereon were laid Offerings as yet unstained with blood — choice fruits, And fairest flowers fresh culled. "And God must still,"— So with myself I argued — " surely love Such pure, sweet offerings. There can be no harm In laying them, as Eve was wont, each day On such an altar ; — what if I could make Something resembling that !" To work I went With the strong purpose, which is strength and power ; And in a certain unfrequented nook Of our long rambling garden, fenced about By thorns and bushes, thick with summer leaves, And threaded by a little water-course (No substitute contemptible methought For Eve's meandering rills), uprose full soon A mound of mossy turf, that when complete, I called an altar ; and with simple faith — Ay — and with feelings of adoring love Hallowing the childish error — laid thereon Daily my floral tribute — yet from prayer, Wherewith I longed to consecrate the act. Refraining with an undefined fear (Instinctive) of offence : and there was doubt Of perfect blamelessness (unconscious doubt) In the suspicious, unrelaxing care With which I kept my secret. All's not well, When hearts, that should be open as the day, Shrink from inspection. So by slow degrees I grew uneasy and afraid, and longed To cast off the strange burthen — and at last, Ceasing my visits to " the sacred grove," PRISCILLA. 91 I soon forgot, absorbed in fresh pursuits, The long neglected altar — till one day, When coming winter, with his herald blasts Had thinned the covert's leafiness, I saw Old Ephraim in his clearing progress pause, And strike his spade against a mossy heap. Washed low by autumn's rains, and littered round Among the thick strewn leaves, with spars and shells, And broken pottery, and shrivell'd things That had been garlands. " This is Missy's work," Quoth the old man, and shook his head, and smiled — " Lord bless her ! how the child has toiled and moiled To scrape up all this rubbish. Here's enough To load a jackass !" Desecrated shrine ! Such was thy fate, demolished as he spoke ; And of my Idyl, the concluding page. " The Thane of Fife"^said some one — " hath a wife," And so had Ephraim — a precise old dame. Looking like ancient waxwork ; her small face Of lemon-coloured hue (framed closely round With most elaborate quilling) puckered up To such prim fixedness, the button mouth Scarcely relaxed into a button hole When with a smile distended ; and the eyes, (Two small black beads) but twinkled, never moved. And mincing was her speech, and picked withal. Dainty and delicate, as was her frame. Like an old fairy's. She had spent her youth. And prime, and middle age — two thirds of life — In service of a maiden gentlewoman Of the old buckram sort, wellnigh extinct ; 9^ PRISCILLA. Prudent, and formal, and fantastical, Much given to nervous tremors, and hysterics, Flutterings, and qualms, and godly books, and tales Of true love crossed, and dreams, and pious courtship. Of that soft sisterhood was Mistress Martha, On one-legged bullfinches and wheezing lapdogs Who lavish sympathies long run to waste, " Since that unhappy day" — ('twas her own phrase Mysterious, unexplained) oft hinted at In memory's melting mood to faithful Prissey, With sighs deep fetched, and watery upturned eyes Glancing unutterable things, where hung Enshrined in shagreen case, a miniature Set round with garnets, in a true love knot Wreathed at the top ; the portraiture within Of a slim, pink and white young gentleman In bag and solitaire, and point cravat, With a peach blossom coat — " Ah Prissey ! Prissey ! Good girl ! remember." So the lady still Addressed her handmaiden, when forty years And five full told, her girlhood had matured — " Men are deceivers all — put no faith in them ; But live and die a chaste and peaceful maid." With decent grief, Priscilla to the grave Followed her monitress ; and that day month To Ephraim (who had waited for his wife With patriarchal patience), nothing loath. Plighted her virgin troth. Came with the bride Into her husband's long prepared home. In carved oak chest, and trunks with gilded nails, Curiously flourished, store of household stuff. And goodly raiment — of the latter, much Unfitting wear, for decent humble folk PRISCILLA. 03 Knowing their station, as full well did they, Keeping thereto, with sense of self-respect Ensuring that of others. But Priscilla (A favoured handmaiden, and privileged). Accustomed long to copy (half unconscious) Her lady's speech, and habits, and attire — I well remember now her puffed out kerchief. Closed with a garnet pin, her black fringed mils. And narrow velvet collar — thought no wrong On Sundays, and on suitable occasions. To come f^rth, awful to the cottage children, In rustling pomp of some grave coloured lustring, Sprigged muslin apron, short black satin cloak (A thought embrowned with age, but handsome still). Edged ro'^nd with rabbit skin, and on her head. By long black pins secured to cap and cushion, A bonnet — Mistress Martha's second best — A velvet skimming dish, flounced round with lace Darned to a double pattern. Then her shoes ! Black velveteen, high-heeled, with silver buckles. So in her glory did Priscilla shine On holidays and high days. Then her wits (In housewifery expedients rich) were taxed To cut, convert, turn, twist, transmogrify Incongruous elements to useful ends. Triumph of female skill ! — as by enchantment, Even at the waving of the magic shears. Sacks, petticoats, and negligees, became Waistcoats and breeches. Shade of Mistress Martlia ! Saw ye the desecration ? So on Sundays, Donning brocaded vest, and nether garment Quilted like wise King Jamie's — warm and rich — His goad drab broadcloth coat with basket buttons (Heir'd from his grandsire) making all complete U4 PRISCILLA. Of Ephraim's outward man ; forth sallied he, Doing discredit none to her whose eye Glanced side-long approbation, as they took Leisurely, arm in arm, the churchward way. No scholarship had Ephraim. A plain man, Plain spoken, chary of his words was he. But full of reverence for Priscilla's claims To knowledge, learning, and superior breeding. Deep read was she in varied lore profound, — - Divinity, Romance, and Pharmacy, And — so the neighbours whispered — in deep things Passing the Parson's wisdom. Store of books (The richest portion of the bridal dower) Were ranged in goodly order on two shelves (The third and topmost with choice porcelain piled), Surmounting an old walnut-tree bureau ; The Holy Bible, cased in green shaloon, And Book of Common Prayer (a fine black type) Were laid conspicuous on the central spot. As first in honour : flank'd on either side By Taylor's Golden Grove, The Pilgrim's Progress, And Fox's Book of Martyrs. How I loved To ransack those old tawny, well-thumb'd leaves. Supping my fill of horrors! Sermons too — (Discourses hydra-headed) had their place, And " Hervey's Meditations 'mongst the Tombs/' With courtly Grandison and Pamela (All full of cuts — supreme delight to me !) And the true history — sweetly scented name ! Of Jemmy and fair Jenny Jessamy. Then came a ragged row of Magazines, And songs, and hymn-books. — " Kettlewell on Dcatu, And " Glass's Cookery." Treatises abstruse TEA-DRINKING. 95 On Moles and Warts, and virtues of all herbs, And ailments manifold that flesh is heir to. Whai ?vonaer if respect akin to awe For her who own'd and studied those grave tomes Impress'd the simple neighbours ? For m3^self — — Unblushingly I do confess it now — Not without tremor, half delight, half fear, I enter'd, clinging to the Nursemaid's hand. Through the dipt laurel porch, that small neat room, So nicely sanded round the clean swept hearth. Where sat expectant — (Mistress Jane I trow Had her appointments for occult discourse And cup of fragrant Hyson) — the wise woman With her strange primm'd up smile ; the round claw table Set out before her with its precious freight (In Sheffield tea-tray) of old real china, The sugar-basin a scoop'd cocoa-nut Curiously carved all o'er and ebon stain'd. On three small toddling silver feet, rimm'd round With the same precious metal ; silver tongs Stuck for effect among the sparkling knobs. With two thin tea-spoons of the treasured six ; There on its trivot the bright kettle sang, Its cheek all ruddy with rich fire-light glow ; And piping hot the butter'd oven-cake Smoked on the fender ledge, all ready quarfer'd ; Inviting preparations ! not alone To black-eyed Jane : the treat had charms for me More irresistible ; — that butter'd cake ! ^ — Forbidden dainty — tea with cream and sugar ! True, hni just finish'd was my nursery meal — Dry bread and milk and water. " What of that ? The precious lamb had walk'd a weary way, And sure must need refreshment. One small piece 96 CURIOSITIES. Of nice hot butter'd cake would do her good, And tea, a saucer-full, to wash it down.'' So urged the Dame : Jane shook her head and smiled. Conscience made faint resistance, — the rich steam Rose fragrant to my nostrils, and — I fell. My treat despatch'd, the Maid and Matron turned To whisper'd consultation, leaving me (Right glad) to seek amusement as I would. No lack of that, though I had staid for hours. — ■ There was the cat and kitten — always one, A creature of immortal kittenhood, For whom, suspended by a worsted thread To knob of dresser drawer, a bobbing cork Dangled, perpetual plaything ; there aloft Among the crock'ry stood a small stufT'd pug, Natural as life, tight curl'd up tail and all, And eyes that glared a snarl ; and there i' the sun A venerable one-eyed cockatoo With gouty legs, snored dozing in his cage — A sacred trust ! by dying lips consign'd. With his life income, to Priscilla's care. Then there were prints and pictures hung all round — Prints of the parables, and one rare piece, A landscape — castles, clouds, trees, men, and sheep, All featherwork ! Priscilla when ^e died Bequeath'd it to me. Poor old harmless soul ! That ever half-afraid I should have shrank, Scarce knowing why, from one who loved me kindly : But then she look'd so strangely, and they said Such strange things of her. Well ! and then — and then — There was the Book of Martyrs, and The Pilgrim, And fifty other rarities and treasures ; THE CUCKOO CLOCK. 97 But chief — surpassing all — a cuckoo clock ! That crowning wonder! miracle of art ! How have I stood entranced uncounted minutes, With held-in breath, and eyes intently fix'd On that small magic door, that when complete Th' expiring hour — the irreversible — Flew open with a startling suddenness That, though expected, sent the rushing blood In mantling flushes o'er my upturn'd face ; And as the bird (that more than mortal fowl !) With perfect mimicry of natural tone, Note after note exact time's message told. How my heart's pulse kept time with the charm'd voice ! And when it ceased made simultaneous pause As the small door clapt to, and all was still. Long did I meditate — yea, often dream By day and night, at school-time and at play — Alas ! at holiest seasons, even at church The vision haunted me, — of that rare thing, And his surpassing happiness to whom Fate should assign its fellow. Thereupon Sprang up crude notions, vague incipient schemes Of future independence : Not like those Fermenting in the youthful brain of her Maternally, on fashionable system, Train'd up betimes i' the way that she should go To the one great end — a good establishment. Yet similar in so77ie sort were our views Toward contingent power. " When I'm a woman I'll have," quoth I, — so far the will and when Tallied exactly, but our difference lay Touching the end to be achieved. With me, .Not settlements, and pin-money, and spouse 10 98 WILLIAM GILPIN. Appendant, but in unencumber'd right Of womanhood — a house and cuckoo clock ! Hark ! as I hang reflective o'er my task, The pen fresh nibb'd and full, held idly yet ; What sound comes clicking through the half-closed door, Distinct, monotonous ? — 'Tis even so ; Years past, the pledge (self-plighted) was redeem'd ; There hangs with its companionable voice The cuckoo clock in this mine house. — Ay, mine ; But left unto me desolate. Such end Crowns oft Ambition's most successful aim (Success than disappointment more defeating) ; Passionate longing grasps the ripen 'd fruit And finds it marr'd, a canker at the core : What shall I dare desire of earthly good The seeming greatest ; what in prayer implore Or deprecate, of that my secret soul In fondness and in weakness covets most Or deepest dreads, but with the crowning clause, The sanctifying — " Lord ! thy will be done ?" Farther a-field we journey'd, Jane and I, When summer days set in, with their long, light Delicious evenings. Then — most happy child ! Most favour'd ! I was sent a frequent guest, Secure of welcome, to the loveliest home Of all the country, o'er whose quiet walls Brooded the twin-doves — Holiness and Peace : There with thine aged partner didst thou dwell. Pastor and master ! servant of thy Lord, Faithful as he, the labours of whose love Recorded by thy pen, embalm for aye The name of Gilpin heired by thee — right heir WILLIAM GILPIN— THE VICARAGE. 99 Of the saint's mantle. Holy Bernard's life, - Its apostolic graces unimpaired, Renewed in William's, virtuous parish priest ! Let me live o'er again, in fond detail, One of those happy visits. Leave obtained, Methought the clock stood still. Four hours past noon, And not yet started on our three mile walk ! And six the vicarage tea hour primitive, And I should lose that precious hour, most prized, When in the old man's study, at his feet, Or nestling close beside him, I might sit With eye, ear, soul intent on his mild voice. And face benign, and words so simply wise, Framed for his childish hearer. " Let us go !" And like a fawn I bounded on before. When lagging Jane came forth, and off we went. Sultry the hour, and hot the dusty way, Though here and there by leafy ski^een o'erarched— And the long broiling hill ! and that last mile When the small frame waxed weary ! the glib tongue Slackening its motion with the languid limbs. But joy was in my heart, howe'er suppressed Its outward show exuberant; and, at length, Lo ! the last turning — lo ! the well-known door, Festooned about with garlands picturesque. Of trailing evergreens. Who's weary, now ? Sounding the bell with that impatient pull That quickens Mistress Molly's answering steps To most unusual promptness — turns the lock — The door uncloses — Molly's smiling face Welcomes unasked. One eager, forward spring, And farewell to the glaring world without; The glaring, bustling, noisy, parched-up world ! 100 WILLIAM GILPIN— THE STUDY. And hail repose and verdure, turf and flowers, Perfume of lilies, through the leafy gloom White gleaming ; and the full, rich, mellow note Of song thrush, hidden in the tall thick bay Beside the study window ! The old house Through flickering shadows of high-arching boughs. Caught gleams of sunlight on its time-stained walls, And frieze of mantling vine ; and lower down. Trained among jasmines to the southern bow, . Moss roses, bursting into richest bloom. Blushed by the open window. There she sate^ The venerable lady (her white hair White as the snowy coif), upon her book Or needlework intent ; and near at hand The maiden sister friend (a life long guest) At her coarse sempstresship — another Dorcas, Unwearying in the work of charity. Oh ! kindest greeting ! as the door unclosed That welcomed the half-bold, half-bashful guest ; And brought me bounding on at a half word To meet the proffered kiss. Oh kindest care ! Considerate of my long, hot, dusty walk. Of hat and tippet that divested me, And clinging gloves ; and from the glowing cheek And hot brow, parted back the clustering curls. Applying grateful coolness of clear lymph, Distilled from fragrant elder — sovereign wash For sunburnt skin and freckled ! Kindest care, That followed up those offices of love By cautionary charge to sit and rest " Quite still till tea time." Kindest care, I trow, But little relished. Restless was my rest. WILLIAM GILPIN— THE STUDY. 101 And wistful eyes still wandering to the door, Revealed " the secret of my discontent/' And told where I would be. The lady smiled, And shook her head, and said, — " Well ! go your ways And ask admittance at that certain door You know so well." All weariness was gone — Blithe as a bird, thus freed, away I flew, And in three seconds at the well-known door Tapped gently ; and a gentle voice within Asking " Who's there ?" '• It's we," I answered low, Grammatically clear. " Let me come inJ^ The gentle voice rejoined ; and in I stole. Bashfully silent, as the good man's smile, And hand extended, drew me to his chair ; And there, all eye and ear, I stood full long, Still tongueless, as it seemed ; love-tempering awe Chaining my words up. But so kindly his, His aspect so benign, his winning art So graciously conforming ; in short time Awe was absorbed in love, and then unchained By perfect confidence, the little tongue Questioned and answered with as careless ease As might be, from irreverend boldness free. True love may cast out fear, but not respect, That fears the very shadow of offence. How holy was the calm of that small room ! How tenderly the evening light stole in. As 'twere in reverence of its sanctity I Here and there touching with a golden gleam Book-shelf or picture-frame, or brightening up The nosegay set with daily care (love's own) Upon the study table. Dallying there 10=^ 102 WILLIAM GILPIN— THE STUDY. Among the books and papers,, and with beam Of softest radiance, starring like a glory The old man's high bald head and noble brow — There still I found him, busy with his pen — (Oh pen of varied power ! found faithful ever. Faithful and fearless in the one great cause) — Or some grave tome, or lighter work of taste (His no ascetic, harsh, soul-narrowing creed), Or that unrivalled pencil, with few strokes. And sober tinting slight, that wrought effects Most magical — the poetry of art ! Lovely simplicity ! (true wisdom's grace) That condescending to a simple child. Spread out before me hoards of graphic treasures ; Smiling encouragement, as I expressed Delight or censure (for in full good faith I played the critic), and vouchsafing mild T' explain or vindicate ; in seeming sport Instructing ever ; and on graver themes Winning my heart to listen, as he taught Things that pertain to life. Oh precious seed ! Sown early ; soon, too soon the sower's hand, The immediate mortal instrument withdrawn, Tares of this evil world sprang thickly up Choking your promise. But the soil beneath (Nor rock nor shifting sand) retained ye still, God's mercy willing it, until his hand. Chastening as fathers chasten, cleared at last Th' encumbered surface, and the grain sprang up.- But hath it flourished ? — hath it yet borne fruit Acceptable ? Oh Father ! leave it not For lack of moisture yet to fall away ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE CHURCHYARD The thought of early death was in my heart ; Of the dark grave, and "dumb forgetfuhiess;" And with a weight like lead. And overwhelming dread, Mysteriously my spirit did oppress. And forth I roamed in that distressful mood Abroad into the sultry, sunless day ; All hung with one dark cloud, That like a sable shroud On Nature's deep sepulchral stillness lay. Black fell the shadows of the churchyard elms (Unconsciously my feet had wandered there), And through that awful gloom — Head-stone and altar tomb Among the green heaps gleam'd with ghastlier glare. Death — death was in my heart, as there I stood, Mine eyes fast fixed upon a grass-grown mound ; As though they would descry The loathsome mystery Consummating beneath that charnel ground. Death — death was in my heart. Methought I felt A heavy hand, that pressed me down below ; 106 THE CHURCHYARD. And some resistless power Made me, in that dark hour. Half long to he, where I abhorred to go. Then suddenly, albeit no breeze was felt, Through the tall tree-tops ran a shiv'ring sound — Forth from the western heaven Flashed out the flaming levin. And one long thunder-peal rolled echoing round. One long, long echoing peal, and all was peace ; Cool rain-drops gemm.ed the herbage — large and few ; And that dull vault of lead, Disparting over head, Down beamed an eye of soft celestial blue. And up toward the heavenly portal sprang A skylark, scattering off the feathery rain — Up from my very feet ; — And oh ! how clear and sweet Rang through the fields of air his mounting strain. Blithe, blessed creature ! take me there with thee — I cried in spirit — passionately cried — But higher still and higher Rang out that living Lyre, As if the Bird disdained me in his pride. And I was left below, but now no more Plunged in the doleful realms of Death and Night — Up with the skylark's lay, My soul had winged her way To the supernal source of Life and Light. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 107 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS, How happily, how happily the flowers die away ! Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ; Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence, and bloom, Then drop without decrepitude or pain into the tomb. The gay and glorious creatures ! " they neither toil nor spin," Yet lo ! what goodly raiment they're all apparelled in ; No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems more bright Than ever brow of eastern Queen, endiademed with light. The young rejoicing creatures ! their pleasures never pall — Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all ; The dew, the shower, the sunshine ; the balmy blessed air. Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely share. The happy careless creatures ! of time they take no heed ; Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed ; Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light away ; Nor when 'tis gone, cry dolefully, " Would God that it were day." And when their lives are over, they drop away to rest. Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy Nature's breast — No pain have they in dying — no shrinking from decay. Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ! THE SPELL OF MUSIC. THE SPELL OF MUSIC *' Oh ! never, never hand of mine Will wake the harp again, The viewless harp, the many voiced, The long beloved in vain. " Oh ! never, never heart of mine, Throughout its inmost core, With thrilling tones and symphonies Will vibrate as of yore. " On hand, and heart, and spirit now A deadening spell has dropt — * The Vision and the Voice' are o'er, The stream of fancy stopt." 'Twas thus I mused, when suddenly A strain of music stole, Like perfume on the night breeze borne, Into mine inmost soul. And lo ! the living instrument, The chords unswept so long. Responded that mysterious touch, And trembled into song. TO DEATH. 103 TO DEATH. Come not in terrors clad, to claim An unresisting prey — Come like an evening shadow, Death ! So stealthily ! so silently : And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath — Then willingly — oh ! willingly With thee I'll go away. What need to clutch with iron grasp What gentlest touch may take ? What need, with aspect dark, to scare So awfully — so terribly. The weary soul would hardly care, Called quietly, called tenderly, From thy dread power to break ? 'Tis not as when thou markest out The young — the blest — the gay ; The loved, the loving ; they who dream So happily, so hopefully ; Then harsh thy kindest call may seem, And shrinkingly — reluctantly The summoned may obey. But I have drank enough of life (The cup assigned to me 11 no TO DEATH. Dashed with a little sweet at best, So scantily — so scantily) — To know full well that all the rest, More bitterly — more bitterly Drugged to the last will be : — And I may live to pain some heart That kindly cares for me — To pain, but not to bless. O Death ! Come quietly — come lovingly, And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath ; Then willingly — oh ! willingly With thee I'll go away. WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? lu WHEN SHALL WE BIEET AGAIN? " When shall we meet again ?" my friend, An awful question thine ; " Where shall we nqeet again ?" not ours The secret to divine. Not ours to lift the veil, perchance In tender mercy drawn ; Oh ! CQuld we look beyond, would Hope Still lead us cheerly on ? Should we behold two living friends, Long sundered, meet at last In the far distance ? or appalled, Our shuddering glances cast On a dark mound of Paynim mould Uncrowned by turban'd stone ; Or a green grave of English earth. As lowly and as lone ? Oh ! likelier iJiat — that English grave ; And one methinks may stand Hereafter on its sod, and think " Alas, my native land ! 112 WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? " A warmer welcome had been mine This trying hour to cheer, Had the poor heart been warm with life Which darkly mioulders here." Nay let it fall that blessed veil Which shuts the future out; The earthly future — but beyond, Away with dread and doubt. " Wlien shall we meet ?" When Time is o'er, And Sorrow past, and Pain ; " Where shall we meet ?" God grant in Heaven, Never to part again. TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. 113 TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. *Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, when Hope hath built a bower Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower, To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust, A whirlwind from the desert comes, and " all is in the dust." 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, that when the poor heart clings With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings. That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast. Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast. 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss, With looks too bright and beamtiful for such a world as this ; One moment round about us their " angel* lightnings" play. Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all hath past away. 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth — Seraphic sounds, that float away (borne Heavenward) in their birth ; The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute, The sweet bells all are silent, and hushed the lovely lute. 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with all that's best below. The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go, * •' II lampeggiar del angelico riso." 11* 114 TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. The bird that sings the sweetest, the pine that crowns the rock,^ The glory of the garden, the flower of the flock. 1 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair, Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly natures bearr A little while they dwell with us, blest ministers of love, Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their homi: above. "AURA VENI." 115 AURA VENI." BALi'Y freshness ! heavenly air, Cool, oh ! cool this burning brow ; Loose the fiery circlet there — Blessed thing ! I feel ye now. Blessed thing ! depart not yet, Let me, let me quaft' my fill, Leave me not my soul to fret, Gasping for what mocks me still. Oh ! the weary, weary nights I've lain awake and thought of thee ; Of clouds and corn — and all sweet sights Of shade and sunshine, flower and tree ; Of running waters, rippling clear. Of greenwood glen, and gipsy camp ; Then how I loathed to see and hear That ticking watch, that sickly lamp ; And longed, at least for light again. For day — that brought no change to me- The weight was on my heart and brain ; God might remove it — only He. 1!B "AURA VENL" And now and then the fount of tears, So seeming dry, was free to flow ; t 'Twas worth a score of joyous years, That short-lived luxury of wo. And in the midst of all my pain, I knew I was not quite forgot, I knew my cry was not in vain, So I was sad, but fainted not. And now the merciful command Has lightened what was worst to bear, And given of better days at hand A foretaste in this blessed air. THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 117 THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. ly Baby ! my poor little one ! thou'rt come a winter flower, : pale and tender blossom, in a cold unkindly hour ; 'hou comest like the snowdrop, and like that pretty thing, jhe power that calls my bud to life will shield its blossoming. he snowdrop hath no guardian leaves, to fold her safe and warm, et well she bides the bitter blast, and weathers out the storm ; shall not long enfold thee thus— not long, but well I know 'he everlasting arms, my Babe ! will never let thee go. 'he snowdrop— how it haunts me still !— hangs down her fair young head ; o thine may droop in days to come, when I have long been dead, ind yet, the little snowdrop's safe— from her instruction seek ; i'or who would crush the motherless, the lowly and the meek 1 let motherless thou'lt not be long— not long in name, my life ! rhy father soon will bring him home another, fairer wife j 3e loving, dutiful to her— find favour in her sight, But never, O ! my child, forget thine own poor mother quite. But who will speak to thee of her ?— the gravestone at her head iWill only tell the name and age, and lineage of the dead ; 118 THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. But not a word of all the love— the mighty love for thee, That crowded years into an hour of brief maternity. They'll put my picture from its place, to tix another's there, That picture that was thought so like, and then so passing fliir ! !^ Some chamber in thy father's house they'll let thee call thinJ own; Oh ! take it there to look upon, when thou art all alone— To breathe thine early griefs unto, if such assail my child ; To turn to from less loving looks, from faces not so mild. Alas ! unconscious little one, thou'lt never know that best, That holiest home of all the eartl], a living Mother's breast. I do repent me now too late of each impatient thought, That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I ought : I've been too hasty, peevish, proud ; 1 long'd to go away ; And now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let me stay. Oh ! when I think of what I was, and what / might have been,— A bride last year— and now to die !— and I am scarce nineteen : And just— just op'ning in my heart a fount of love so new ! So deep !— Could that have run to waste— could that have fail'd me too ? The bliss it would have been to see my daughter at my side f My prime of life scarce overblown, and hers in all its pride. To deck her with my finest things— with all I've rich and rare ; To hear it said—" How beautiful ! and good as she is fair !" And then to place the marriage wreath upon that bright young brow — —Oh! no— not that— his full of thorns Alas! I'm wand'ring now. THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 119 ^his weak, weak head! this foolish heart! they'll cheat me to the last : 've been a dreamer all my life, and now that life is past. .^hou'lt have thy father's eyes, my child !— Oh ! once how kind they were I lis long black lashes — his own smile — and just such raven hair. 5ut here's a mark— Poor innocent ! he'll love thee for't the less— ^ike that upon thy Mother's cheek his lips were wont to press. ?^nd yet — perhaps I do him wrong — perhaps when all's forgot 3ut our young loves, in memory's mood he'll kiss this very spot ; 3h ! then, my dearest ! clasp thine arms about his neck full fast, A.nd whisper that I bless'd him now, and loved him to the last. ['ve heard that little infants converse by smiles and signs With the guardian band of angels that round about them shines, Unseen by grosser senses ; — Beloved one ! dost thou Smile so upon thy heavenly friends, and commune with them now ? And hast thou not one look for me ? Those little restless eyes Are wand'ring, wand'ring, ev'rywhere, the while thy Mother dies ; — And yet— perhaps thou'rt seeking me— expecting me, mine own ! Come, Death! and make me to my child at least in spirit known. 120 TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. T LOVE thee well, my dainty flower ! My wee, white cowering thing, That shrinketh like a cottage maid, Of bold, uncivil eyes afraid. Within thy leafy ring ! I love thee well, my dainty dear ! Not only that thou'rt fair — Not only for thy downcast eye. Nor thy sweet breath, so lovingly, That woos the caller air — But that a world of dreamy thoughts The sight of -thee doth bring ; Like birds who've wander'd far from hence, And come again (we know not whence) At the first call of spring. As here I stand and look on thee, Before mine eyes doth pass — (Clearing and quick'ning as I gaze) An evening scene of other days. As in a magic glass. I see a small old-fashioned room, With pannell'd wainscot high — • TO THE SWEET-SCENTEI) CYCLAMEN. 121 Old portraits, round in order set, Carved heavy tables, chairs, buffet Of dark mahogany ; Twin china jars, on brackets high. With grinning Monsters crown 'd ; And one, that like a Phoenix' nest, Exhales all Araby the Blest, From that old bookcase round. And there a high-back'd, hard settee, On six brown legs and paws, Flow'r'd o'er with silk embroidery, And there, — all rough with filigree, — Tall screens on gilded claws. Down drops the damask curtain there In many a lustrous fold ; The fire-.ight flashing broad and high, Floods its pale amber gorgeously With waves of redder gold. And lo ! the flamy brightness wakes Those pictured shapes to life — My Lady's lip grows moist and warm, And dark Sir Edward's mailed form Starts out for mortal strife — And living, breathing forms are round — Some gently touch'd by Time, Staid Elders, clust'ring by the hearth, And one, the soul of youthful mirth Outksting youthful prime. 12 122 TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. And there— where slie presides so well, With fair dispensing hands — Where tapers shine, and porcelain gleams, And muffins smoke, and tea-urn steams, The Pembroke Table stands — That heir-loom Tea-pot ! — Graphic Muse I Describe it if thou'rt able — Methinks — were such advances meet — On those three, tiny, toddling feet, 'Twould swim across the table. And curtsy to the coffee- pot (Coquettishly demure), Tall, quaint compeer ! — fit partner he To lead with her so gracefully Le minuet de la cour ! Ah, precious Monsters ! dear Antiques \ More beautiful to me. Than modern, fine, affected things. With classic claws, and beaks, and wings (" God save the mark !") can be — How grateful tastes th' infused herb ! How pleasant its perfume ! Some sit and sip ; — with cup in hand This saunters round ; — while others stand In knots about the room — In cozy knots — there, three and four-— And here, one, two, and three— ^ Here by my little dainty flower — ■ TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. 123 Oh fragrant thing ! Oh pleasant hour ! Oh gentle company ! Come, Idler, set that cup aside, And tune the flute for me — What will I have ? Oh, prithee, play- That air I love — " Te bien aimer Pour toujours ma Zelie." Sweet air ! — sweet flower ! — sweet social looks ! — Dear friends ! — young, happy hearts ! How now ! — What ! all alone am I ? Come they with cruel mockery Like shadows to depart ? Ay, shadows all — gone every face I loved to look upon — Hush'd every strain I loved to hear, Or sounding in a distant ear — " All gone ! — all gone ! — all gone !" Some far away in other lands — In this — some worse than dead — Some in their graves laid quietly — One, slumb'ring in the deep, deep sea — All gone !— all lost !— all fled ! And here am I — I live and breathe, And stand, as then I stood. Beside my little dainty flower — But now, in what an alter'd hour ! In what an alter'd mood ! 124 TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. And yet I love to linger here — ■ To inhale this od'rous breath — (Faint as a whisper from the tomb) To gaze upon this pallid bloom As on the face of Death. THE TREATY. 125 THE TKEATY. Never tell me of loving by measure and weight, As one's merits may lack or abound ; As if love could be carried to market like skate, And cheapen'd for so much a-pound. If it can — if yours can, let them have it who care — You and I, friend ! shall never agree — Pack up, and to market be off with your ware ; It's a great deal too common for me. D'ye linger ? — d'ye laugh ? — I'm in earnest I vow — Though perhaps over hasty a thought ; If you're thinking to close with my terms as they are, Well and good — but I wont bate a jot. You must love me — We'll note the chief articles now, To preclude all mistakes in our pact — And I'll pledge ye, unask'd and beforehand, my vow, To give double for all I exact. You must love me — not only through " evil report," When its falsehood you more than divine ; But when upon earth I can only resort To your heart as a voucher for mine. 12* 126 THE TREATY. You must love — not my faults — but in spite of them, me, For the very caprices that vex ye ; Nay the more, should you chance (as it's likely) to see 'Tis my special delight to perplex ye. You must love me, albeit all the world I offend By impertinence, whimsies, conceit ; While assured (if you are not, all treaty must end) That I never can stoop to deceit While assured (as you must be, or there too we part) That were all the world leagued against you, To loosen one hair of your hold on my heart Would be more than " life's labours" could do. You must love me, howe'er I may take things amiss, Whereof you in all conscience stand clear ; And although, when you'd fain make it up with a kiss, Your reward be a box on the ear. You must love me — not only when smiling and gay. Complying, sweet temper'd, and civil ; But when moping, and frowning, and froward — or say The thing plain out — as cross as the Devil. You must love me in all moods — in seriousness, sport ; Under all change of circumstance too : Apart, or together, in crowds, or — in short You must love me — because I love you. THE LAST JOURNEY. 127 THE LAST JOURNEY MiCHAUD, in his description of an Egyptian funeral procession, which he met on its way to the cemetery of Rosetta, says — " The procession we saw pass stopped before certain houses, and sometimes receded a few steps. I was told that the dead stopped thus before tlie doors of their friends to bid them a last farewell, and before those of their enemies to eiFect a reconciliation before they parted for ever." — Correspondence d^ Orient, par MM. Michaud et Poujoulat. Slowly, with measured tread. Onward we bear the dead To his long home. Short grows the homeward road, On with your mortal load. Oil, Grave ! we come. Yet, yet— ah ! hasten not Past each faniiliar spot Where he hath been ; Where late he walked in glee, There from henceforth to be Never more seen. Yet, yet — ah ! slowly move — Bear not the form we love Fast from our sight — Let the air breathe on him, And the sun leave on him Last looks of lifzht. 128 THE LAST JOURNEY Rest ye — set down the bier, One he loved dwelleth here. Let the dead lie A moment that door beside, Wont to fly open wide Ere he came nigh. Harken ! — he speaketh yet — " Oh, friend ! wilt thou forget (Friend more than brother l) How hand in hand we've gone. Heart with heart linked in one — All to each other ? " Oh, friend ! I go from thee, Where the worm feasteth free, Darkly to dwell — Giv'st thou no parting kiss ? Friend ! is it come to this ? Oh, friend, farewell !" Uplift your load again. Take up the mourning strain ! Pour the deep wail ! Lo ! the expected one To his place passeth on — Grave ! bid him hail. Yet, yet — ah ! — slowly move ; Bear not the form we love Fast from our sight — Let the air breathe on him, And the sun leave on him Last looks of light. THE LAST JOURNEY. 1U9 Here dwells his mortal foe ; Lay the departed low, E'en at his gate. — Will the dead speak again ? Uttering proud boasts and vain, Last words of hate ? Lo ! the dead lips unclose — List ! list ! what sounds are those, Plaintive and low ? " Oh thou, mine enemy ! Come forth and look on me Ere hence I go. " Curse not thy foeman now — Mark ! on his pallid brow Whose seal is set ! Pard'ning I past away — Thou — wage not war with clay — - Pardon — forget." Now his last labour's done ! Now, now the goal is won ! Oh, Grave ! we come. Seal dp this precious dust — Land of the good and just, Take the soul home ! I3D ONCE UPON A TIME. ONCE UPON A TIME Sunny locks of brightest hue Once around my temples grew, — Laugh not, Lady ! for 'tis true ; Laugh not, Lady ! for with thee Time may deal despitefully ; Time, if long he lead thee here, May subdue that mirthful cheer ; Round those laughing lips and eyes Time may write sad histories ; Deep indent that even brow Change those locks, so sunny now, To as dark and dull a shade, As on mine his touch hath laid. Lady ! yes, these locks of mine Cluster'd once with golden shine, Temples, neck, and shoulders rouna. Richly gushing if unbound, If from band and bodkin free, Wellnigh downward to the knee. Some there were took fond delight, Sporting with those tresses bright. To enring with living gold Fingers, now beneath the mould (Wo is me !) grcAvn icy cold. ONCE UPON A TIME. 131 One dear hand hath smooth 'd them too Since they lost the sunny hue, Since their bright abundance fell Under the destroying spell — One dear hand ! the tenderest Ever nurse child rock'd to rest. Ever wiped away its tears — Even those of later years From a cheek untimely hollow, Bitter drops that still may follow, Where's the hand will wipe away ? Hers I kiss'd — (Ah ! dismal day) Pale as on the shroud it lay. Then, methought, youth's latest gleam Departed from me like a dream — Still, though lost their sunny tone, Glossy brown those tresses shone, Here and there, in wave and ring, Golden threads still glittering ; And (from band and bodkin free) Still they flowed luxuriantly. Careful days, and wakeful nights. Early trench'd on young delights. Then of ills an endless train, Wasting languor, wearying pain, Fev'rish thought that racks the brain, Crowding all on summer's prime, Made me old before my time. So a dull, unlovely hue O'er the sunny tresses grew, Thinn'd their rich abundance too, Not a thread of golden light In the sunshine glancing bright. 132 ONCE UPON A TIME. Now again a shining streak 'Gins the dusky cloud to break ; — Here and there a glittering thread Lights the ringlets, dark and dead, — Glittering light ! — but pale and cold- Glittering thread ! — but not of gold. Silent warning ! silvery streak ! Not unheeded dost thou speak. Not with feelings light and vain — • Not with fond regretful pain, Look I on the token sent To declare the day far spent ; — Dark and troubled hath it been — Sore misused ! and yet between Gracious gleams of peace and grace Shining from a better place. Brighten — brighten, blessed light ! Fast approach the shades of night, — When they quite enclose me round, May my lamp be burning found ! LITTLE LEONARD'S "GOOD-NIGHT." 133 LITTLE LEONARD'S "GOOD-NIGHT." " GooD-night ! good-night ! I go to sleep," Murmur'd the little child ; — And oh ! the ray of Heaven that broke On the sweet lips that faintly spoke That soft " Good-night," and smiled. That angel smile ! that loving look From the dim closing eyes ! The peace of that pure brow ! But there — Ay — on that brow, so young ! so fair ! An awful shadow lies. The gloom of evening — of the boughs That o'er yon window wave ? — Nay, nay — within these silent walls, A deeper, darker shadow falls, The twilight of the Grave — The twilight of the Grave — for still Fast comes the fluttering breath — One fading smile — one look of love — A murmur — as from brooding dove — " Good-night." And this is Death ! Oh ! who hath called thee " Terrible !" Mild Angel ! most benign ! 13 134 LITTLE LEONARD'S "GOOD-NIGHT. Could mother's fondest lullaby Have laid to rest more blissfully That sleeping babe than thine ! Yet this is Death — the doom for all Of Adam's race decreed — " But this poor lamb ! this little one ! — What had the guiltless creature done ?" Unhappy heart ! take heed ; Though he is merciful as just Who hears that fond appeal — He will not break the bruised reed, He will not search the wounds that bleed — He only wounds to heal. " Let little children come to me," He cried, and to his breast Folded them tenderly — To-day He calls thine unshorn lamb away To that securest rest ! DEPARTURE. 135 DEPARTURE. When I go away from my own dear home Let it be at the fall of the leaf — When the soulless things that to me have been Like spirits peopling the silent scene, Are fading, as if in grief. When the strains of the summer birds have ceased, Or in far-off regions swell — Oh ! let me not hear the blithesome song Of that Blackbird I fed all winter long, When I'm taking my last farewell. The Robin-redbreast will come, I know, That morn to the window pane. To look, as wont, for the scattered feast, With his large dark eyes : — and that day, at least, tie shall not look in vain. Let the Autumn wind, when I go away. Make moan with its long-drawn breath — " Fare thee well, sad one !" 'twill seem to say — " Yet a little while, and a little way. And thy feet shall rest in death." And here, and there, an evergreen leaf I'll gather from shrub and tree, 136 DEPARTURE. To take with me wherever I go ; And when this poor head in dust lies low, To be laid in the coffin with me. I go not like one in the strength of youth, Who hopes, though the passing cloud May pour down its icy hail amain, That summer and sunshine may break out again The brighter from sorrow's shroud. An April morn and a clouded day My portion of life hath been : And darker and darker the evening sky Stretches before me gloomily, To the verge of the closing scene. Gloomily darkens the evening sky : I shall go with a heavy heart — Yet — would I change, if the power were mine, One tittle decreed by the will Divine ? Oh ! no — not a thousandth part ; — In my blindness I've wished — in my feebleness wept — With a weak, weak woman's wail — But humbling my heart and its hopes in the dust (All its hopes that are earthly)— I've anchored my trust On the strength that can never fail. HOW SWIFT IS A GLANCE OF THE MIND!" 137 "HOW SWIFT IS A GLANCE OF THE HINDI' AN EXILE'S SONG " When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there." That flower, that flower ! Oh ! pluck that flower for me ! There, in the running stream, Its silvery* clusters gleam : j Oh ! give it me ! | The same ! the very same ! I knew it well, I Last seen so long ago. Oh, simple flower, That sight of thee should waken up this hour Thoughts more than tongue can tell ! I A moment since and I was calm and cold — Cold as this world to me, , With all its pageantry, i Grown stale and old. Now the warm blood, through every throbbing vein Fast hurrying, mantles over cheek and brow, Like youth and hope rekindling — ebbing now '■ To the full heart again : j I * The Buckbean. * j 13* ! 138 "HOW SWIFT IS A GLANCE OF TPIE MIND Leaving a paler cheek — a glistening eye With watery gaze fixecf fast On visions of the past ; Oh ! where am I ? At home, at home again in mine own land ; Its mountain streams are murm'ring in mine ear, And thrilling voices from loud lips I hear. There — there the loving band. Mine own long lost ! — Oh ! take the weary one To weep on some dear breast This agony to rest — On thine, my son ! Thou answerest not — None answer me — that cry Was from mine own sad heart ; and they are gone — And at my feet the little brook flows on, Tranquilly — tranquilly. No mountain streamlet of my native land ; Yet doth its voice to me Sound sweet and soothingly ; And in mine hand, Of those pale flowers (now gemmed with tears) I hold Henceforth to memory sacred : — from this hour That they've awakened with such wondrous power, Dreams of the days of old. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 139 THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED Tread softly — bow the head — In reverent silence bow — No passing bell doth toll. Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. Stranger ! however great, With lowly reverence bow ; There's one in that poor shod— r One by that paltry bed, Greater than thou. Beneath that Beggar's roof, Lo ! Death doth keep his state Enter — no crowds attend — Enter — no guards defend This palace gate. That pavement damp and cold No smiling courtiers tread : One silent woman stands Lifting with meager hands A dying head. No mingling voices sound — An infant wail alone ; 140 THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. A sob suppress'd — again That short deep gasp, and then The parting groan. Oh ! change — Oh ! wond'rous change- Burst are the prison bars — This moment there, so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars ! Oh ! change — stupendous change ! There lies the soulless clod : The Sun eternal breaks — The new Immortal wakes — Wakes with his God. TO MY OLD CANARY. TO MY OLD CANARY. 'Tis many a long year now, Birdie ! Ay, sure — some seven years good, Since I rhymed to you one day. On a certain morn of May, In an idle, sing-song mood. I remember it all as well, Birdie, The hour, and the place and the mood, As if time, since slipt away. Were little more than a day. And yet is it seven years good ! A great sum of life struck off. Birdie ! And I feel it has told with me — But you're looking as young and bright As you did in that May morn's light, And you're singing more merrily. For then you were moping and mute. Birdie, Though I begg'd (and you seem'd to hear me) That you'd tune up that little throat, But you never vouchsafed a note. Not a single note to cheer me. 142 TO MY OLD CANARY. And your silence seem'd very unkind ; For, in sooth — as I well remember — Though Earth wore her best array That beautiful month of May, My heart was as sad as December* For then first I felt myself lonely, Quite — quite left alone upon earth, Hid for ever the last loving face, And even the old dog's place. Forsaken beside the hearth. And I — though a sickly creature, Might still live lingering on, Like a trampled passion-flower, Torn down from its bonny bower. When all I had clung to was gone. I sat at my pleasant window. Where the myrtle and rose peeped in. And without such a smile serene Pervaded the quiet scene, That sorrow seem'd almost a sin. And I tried to rejoice with Nature, For my heart was not sullen though sad ; But the cloud of my spirit lay On all beautiful things that day. And I could not — I could not be glad. So I bent again to the task That had dropt unperceived on my knee. And my needle began to ply. Busily — busily — As fast, as fast could be. TO MY OLD CANARY. 143 Stitch after stitch I set Mechanically true, But the seeming gaze intent, On that dull labour bent, Had little with thought to do. And soon from the careless finger A crimson drop was drawn — And next — from a source less near — Another, as crystal clear, Dropt on the snowy lawn. And my sight grew dim — and again My hands fell listlessly-^ And the sound of my very breath, In that stillness as deep as death, Was a distress to me. " Oh ! for a sound of life From a single living thing," I passionately cried — And thou wert by my side, Birdie ! and didst not sing. Then 'twas that rhymed remonstrance (So famous !) I spake to thee, Not surely less improving, • Than it was deeply moving, And its effect on me Was wondrously relieving — For as my verse flowed on, Sad thoughts it did beguile, And for a little while My loneliness was gone. 144 TO MY OLD CANARY. And from that very moment, Birdie ! I do opine, There has been more in thee Than common eyes can see — Or any eyes but mine. ^ ^Tis not because thy music Is ceaseless now all day (As many a deafen'd guest Can ruefully attest) That thus of thee I say : But that when night is round us, And every guest is gone, And by the taper's beam, Or fire-light's ruddier gleam, I'm sitting all alone, Forth from thy gilded prison, Soft silvery tones 'gin swell, More sweet and tender far Than tenderest warblings are Of love-lorn Philomel — And thou, the while, fast perch 'd, As if asleep — so still ! That tremulous under tone, Liquidly gurgling on, Like a tiny, tinkling rill. — And when I watch thee closer. Small creature ! with surprise, Half doubtful, if from thee That marvellous melody, I meet thy watchful eyes TO MY OLD CANARY. 145 Those bright black eyes, so strangely, Methinks, that answer mme ; It surely seems to me, Some spirit thou must be. Pent in that plumy shrine — But whether spirit, fairy, Or mortal fowl thou art, I thank thee, pretty creature ! My comforter ! my teacher ! I thank thee from my heart — My comforter I call thee — For many a heavy hour, Hath lightened of its sadness, Nay — half attuned to gladness. Thy small pipe's witching power. And often-time while list'ning, I've caught th' infectious tone ; And murmur'd fitful words — And struck a few faint chords, Wild music of my own ; Till to the realms of Cloudland, Freed Fancy wing'd her flight, Far, far beneath her leaving This world of sin and grieving — So, Birdie, with good right My Comforter I call thee — My Teacher thou shouldst be ; For sure some lesson holy. Of wisdom meek and lowly, May reason learn from thee. 14 146 TO MY OLD CANARY. Debarr'd from choicest blessings. Inferior good to prize — Thou hymn'st the light of Heaven, Though not to thee 'tis given To soar into the skies. Content thou art, and thankful, For some poor gather'd weed ; Though nature's charter'd right In gardens of delight Gave thee to sport and feed — Thou renderest good for evil, For sad captivity Sweet music — all thy treasure ; — ■ Oh ! Birdie ! when I measure Philosophy with thee. I feel how much I'm wanting, Though more is given to me — That thou, poor soulless creature! Mayst truly be the teacher Of proud humanity. TO LITTLE MARY. 147 TO LITTLE MARY. I'm bidden, little Mary ! To write verses upon thee ; I'd fain obey the bidding If it rested but with me : But the Mistresses I'm bound to (Nine Ladies hard to please) Of all their stores poetic So closely keep the keys, It's only now and then, By good luck as one may say, That a couplet or a rhyme or two Falls fairly in my way. Fruit forced is never half so sweet As that comes quite in season — But some folks must be satisfied With rhyme in spite of reason. So, Muses ! now befriend me, Albeit of help so chary. To string the pearls of poesie For loveliest Little Mary. And yet,iye pagan Damsels ! Not over fond am I T' invoke your haughty favours, 148 TO LITTLE MARY. Your fount of Castaly. I've sipt a purer fountain, I've deck'd a holier shrine. I own a mightier Mistress — Nature ! Thou art mine. And Feeling's fount than Castaly Yields waters more divine ! And only to that well-head. Sweet Mary ! I'll resort, For just an artless verse or two, A simple strain and short. Befitting well a Pilgrim Wayworn with earthly strife, To offer thee, young Traveller ! In the morning track of life. There's many a one will tell thee 'Tis all with roses gay — There's many a one will tell thee 'Tis thorny all the way — Deceivers are they every one. Dear Child ! who thus pretend ; God's ways are not unequal — Make Him thy trusted friend, And many a path of plesantness He'll clear away for thee, However dark and intricate The labyrinth may be. I need not wish thee beauty — 1 need not wish thee grace — Already both are budding In that infant form and face TO LITTLE MARY. J49 I will not wish thee grandeur — I ivlll not wish thee wealth — But only a contented heart, Peace — competence — and health — Fond friends to love thee dearly, And honest friends to chide, And faithful ones to cleave to thee, Whatever may betide. And now, my little Mary ! If better things remain, Unheeded in my blindness, Unnoticed in my strain, I'll sum them up succinctly. In " English undefiled," My Mother tongue's best benison, — God bless thee — precious Child ! 14=^ 150 THE HEDGEHOG. THE HEDGEHOG. Some carping, cross-grained souls there be (Male specimens are not the rarest) Will split you half a hair in two In argument ; to prove green hlue, Or this not that — or truth not true, When it shines fairest. 'Twould wear the patience of a saint, A Job, a Grizzelj all to tatters, One of those wearying .wights to hear Harp-harping on for half-a-year (His motto's always " persevere") Anent such matters. But, if you prize an hour of peace (We'll just suppose, Ma'am ! he's your Sposo), Be cautious how you make pretence To pose him with superior sense. Or airs of calm indifference, Play *' grandioso." That way won't do — believe me, twon't — You might as well oppose a river ; Or — after fighting very hard, If you do take him off his guard, THE HEDGEHOG. ISl And get the best on't — mark my word; You're lost for ever. To be convinced he's in the wrong ! — That all his manly wit's been wasted ! — • To prove liimself a goose ! — and you An oracle ! and to eschew Your meekly Christian triumph too ! — More bitter dose — (that dose you'll rue) — Man never tasted. And it's by no means very safe A-lways to suffer, like a martyr. In silent sweetness, — or to yield, At the first onset, sword and shield ; He'd rather you'd defend the field, And woman's charter. Or there's an end of his enjoyment !— He canH talk on without an answer From morn till night ! — But have a care How far you venture with your share 0' th' argument ; — a nice affair T' engafre Drawcansir ! '0"0- But there are methods. — Just look here. Observe this odd, brown bunch of tiiistlcs Touch where you will the living ball — (For 'tis alive I — 'twill eat and crawl !) — Its rusty coat is guarded all With thick black bristles ! Well ! will you try your naked grasp To clutch the crabbed creature firm in, 152 THE HEDGEHOG. And all his charms unfold to view ? Handle him gently — That won't do — Boldly — he'll prick your fingers through — " Deuce take the vermin !" Come, come — we've other ways. Let's set This cream down by the churlish villain — Ah ! ha ! — how soon he smells it out ! Look, there's a paw ! and. there's a snout ! An's all unrolled now ! Liq'rish lout ! See how he's swilling ! And all his bristles laid so smooth ! Well, what a change ! who could have thought it ? He's really (for a hedgehog) pleasing ; 'Twas neither tenderness nor teasing, But that good cream he's over seas in, To pass that brought it. And to effect such change benign In human Hedgehog — saint or sinner — To smooth his bristles — soothe his rage — There's not an argument so sage, Or so prevailing, I'll engage, As a good dinner. TO MY LITTLE COUSIN. 153 TO MY LITTLE COUSIN, WITH HER FIRST BONNET, Fairies ! guard the baby's bonnet — Set a special watch upon it : Elfin people ! to your care I commit it, fresh and fair ; Neat as neatness, white as snow — See ye make it ever so. Watch and ward set all about. Some within and some witiiout ; Over it, with dainty hand. One her kirtle green expand ; One take post at every ring ; One at each unwrinkled string ; Two or three about the bow Vigilant concern bestow ; A score, at least, on either side. 'Gainst evil accident provide (Jolt, or jar, or overlay) ; And so the precious charge convey Through all the dangers of the way But when those are batled through, Fairies ! more remains to do. Ye must gift, before ye go. The bonnet and the Babe also — Gift it to protect her well, Fays ! from all malignant spell, 154 TO MY LITTLE COUSIN. Charms and seasons to defy, Blighting winds and evil eye. And the bonny Babe ! on her All your choicest gifts confer ; — Just as much of wit and sense As may be hers without pretence — Just as much of grace and beauty, As shall not interfere with duty — Just as much of sprightliness, • As may companion gentleness — Just as much of firmness, too, As with self-will hath nought to do — Just as much light-hearted cheer. As may be melted to a tear — By a word — a tone — a look — Pity's touch, or Love's rebuke — As much of frankness, sweetly free. As may consort with modesty — As much of feeling, as will bear Of after life the wear and tear — As much of life But, but Fairies ! there Ye vanish into thinnest air ; And with ye parts the playful vein That loved a light and trivial strain. Befits me better. Babe ! for thee T' invoke Almighty agency — Almighty love — Almighty power To nurture up the human flower; To cherish it with heavenly dew, Sustain with earthly blessings too ; And when the ripe full time shall be, Engraft it on Eternity. ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 155 ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. Silent friends ! fare ye well — Shadows ! adieu. Living friends long I've lost, Now I lose you. Bitter tears many I've shed, Ye've seen them flow Dreary hours many I've sped. Full well ye know. Yet in my loneliness, Kindly, methought, Still ye look'd down on rne. Mocking me not, With light speech and hollow words, Grating so sore The sad heart, with many ills Sick to the core. Then, if my clouded skies Brighten'd awhile, Seem'd your soft serious eyes Almost to smile. 156 ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. Silent friends ! fare ye well — Shadows ! adieu. Living friends long I've lost. Now I lose you. Taken from hearth and board, When all were gone ; I look'd up at you, and felt Not quite alone. Not quite companionless, While in each face Met me familiar The stamp of my race. Thine, gentle ancestress ! Dove-eyed and fair, Melting in sympathy Oft for my care. Grim Knight and stern visaged ! Yet could I see (Smoothing that furrowed face) Good- will to me. Bland looks were beaming Upon me I knew, Fair sir ! — bonnie lady ! — From you, and from you. Little think happy ones, Heart-circled round, How fast to senseless things Hearts may be bound ; ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 157 How, when the living prop's Moulder'd and gone, Heart-strings, low trailing left. Clasp the cold stone. Silent friends ! fare ye well — Shadows ! adieu. Living friends long I've lost, Now I lose you. Often when spirit-vex'd. Weary and worn, To your quiet faces, mute Friends, would I turn Soft as I gazed on them, Soothing as balm, Lulling the passion-storm. Stole your deep calm — Till, as I longer look'd, # Surely methought, Ye read and replied to My questioning thought. " Daughter," ye softly said — " Peace to thine heart : We too — yes, daughter ! have Been as thou art, " Toss'd on the troubled waves. Life's stormy sea ; Chance and change manifold Proving like thee. 15 158 ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. " Hope-lifted — doubt-depressed — Seeing in part — Tried — troubled — tempted — Sustained as thou art- " Our God is thy God — what He Willeth is best- Trust him as we trusted : then Rest, as we rest." Silent friends ! fare ye well — Shadows ! adieu — One friend abideth still All changes through. OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 159 OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK Old friend ! that many a long year through (Dog-days and all), in brown surtout. Hath stood ensconced, with wintriest look, F th' warmest side o' the chimney-nook — That standeth still i' the self-same place, With that same cool composed face, — (Few, by the way, 'mongst human creatures, Made up of more expressive features), Nor e'er in all that weary while, Hath utter'd plaint of durance vile — In that stiff garment all of oak. Thy sentry-box — of heat or smoke ; Of task perpetual — (worse than mighty) Monotonous — of tsedium vitse — Of false reflections on thy truth, From weary age — impatient youth, Of Time's deliver'd message, scorned Or heeded not by those thou'st warned. * All these, and other ills in turn " That clocks are heirs to," hast thou borne With patience most exemplary — No peevish frown, or look awry. Marring the placid, polished grace Of that smooth, broad, reflecting face J CO OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. That shineth still (example rare To mortal dames) as smooth and fair, As first, some threescore years agone, To the admiring light it shone. Yet I, who've known thee long and well, Could of some prison secrets tell — How all unseen hy mortal eye, In darkness and in mystery. When all the house at dead midnight Is hushed and still — like tortured sprite, Deep hollow murmurs — long-drawn groans Thou utterest, and unearthly tones. Such as if heard by silly ear Of simple Joan, she quakes for fear, Shrinks down beneath the bed-clothes deep, And pants and prays herself to sleep. Old friend ! I've listened many a night. To those strange murmurs with affright Unmoved, or superstitious dread. Yet, as to utterings from the dead — Low mystic groanings — sounds of doom Deep. voiced, up-issuing from the tomb — And then methought 'twas Timers own tongue, Not thine, that solemn dirge that sung For generations swept away — For ages gathered to decay. But Fancy from her loftier range Descending soon — a milder change Came o'er my spirit, that full fain To thy familiar voice again Gave ear, discoursing sad, sweet sighs Over the heart's own memories. OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 101 Sweet memories of that blissful time, Life's dayspriag ! lovelier than its prime, When, with the bird on summer morn That carolled earliest from the thorn, I was awake, and singing too, And gathering wild-flowers wet with dew, Till summoned home, old friend ! by thee (Far-echoing down our cowslip lea) To the dear breakfast board, I came With scattered curb and cheek of flame All glowing from the fresh wind's kiss. One to receive of purer bliss — What was the balmied morn's caressing To that best balm — a Parent's blessing ? And when the winter evening long Closed round us, and the cricket's song Clicked from the clean-sw^ept hearth, where Di Stretched yawning out, luxuriously — The heavy curtains dropt — thrown on The hoarded log — the tea-things gone — The candles trimmed and bright — and we . (A silent, not unsocial three) , In our warm parlour snug together, Little cared we for winter weather. There sat my mother — on that chair, Intent on book or work ; and there (Just opposite) my Father sate, Poring o'er task elaborate. All redolent — ^(his angler's books) — Of summer time, green fields, and brooks — Arrangement finically nice ! Snares of all pattern ; each devico — OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. Insects, with such ingenious art Copied from nature, every part So perfected with curious skill, You only wondered they were still. Proud was my Father's little maid, His nestling neighbour, when the aid Of her small fingers was required — (What ministry like Love's unhired ?) And young sharp eyes, some hair so fine. Some feathery filament to twine In cunning knot, that, deftly wrought. Must be invisible as thought ; The service done, a kind hand pressed Her up-turned brow, and she was blessed ; And soon, old friend ! thy sober tone Telling her happy day was done, Down kneeling at the mother's knee. Hands clasped, and eyes raised reverently, The simple prayer was simply said, The kiss exchanged — and so to bed. Not soon to sleep — for fancies vain Crept oft into that bus^ brain, At that lone hour. Some light and gay, Of birds and flower — of toys and play : Ambitious some — of bold essay At lofty rhyme — conceptions grand Of giants, dwarfs, and fairy land ; Or elegy on favourite bird, Dormouse, or lamb (first griefs that stirred The deep, deep, source !) — and some of fear. As all in darkness, on the ear Smote hollow sounds. Hark ! hark ! and then How the heart throbbed ! — and there airen ! OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 103 What could it be ? — a groan — a knock — " Oh dear ! 'tis only the old Clock." Then, simple child, thy witless head, With happy sigh, sank back in bed, And ere revolved the minute hand. The soul was in the " dreaming land." Oh ! days, of all I ever knew The happiest — ay, the wisest too. In that sweet wisdom of the heart, Our fallen nature's better part — That lingering of primeval light, Not yet all sunk in sin and night. 'Twill be renewed that blessed time ! 'Twill be renewed that loveliest prime ; Renewed, when we again shall be Children around the Father's knee Of one immortal family ! Our portion each — (no more to part) — Angelic wisdom — childlike heart. Ah ! wandering thoughts — ye've stolen away From this dark prison-house of clay ; From earth to heaven ! a pleasant track ! Too pleasant to be trodden back Without a sigh. But, ancient friend ! Not here our colloquy must end — Thy part therein I freely own Subordinate ; an undertone Of modest bass. But thou art one Too sober, serious, and sedate, To be much given to idle prate — So, to thy grave concerns attend, And let me talk. Ah, honest friend ! OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. Sparing and measured though thy speech, What eloquent sermons dost tliou preach When the heart listens. Wo is me If profitless such listening be. " But to my chronicles." Full well Was thy watch kept, old sentinel ! Full well thine endless duty done — While fluttering on from sun to sun, A butterfly among the flowers, I noted not the passing hours. Till the rain fell, the storm beat sore, And that sweet summer dream was o'er. Then first, old friend ! thy voice to me Sounded with sad solemnity ; The tones upon my heart that fell Deep mingled with a passing bell Since then, through many a checkered scene Of good and ill my path hath been — The good — a gleam not long to last; The evil — widely overcast. But still to thee in many a mood, By night — by day — in solitude. Or circled round — in hope or fear, Hath turned my long-awakened ear As to an oracle, that spoke More than the time-dividing stroke. Oh ! gladsome to my soul, thy sound, Heard wakening first from sleep profound (Youth's liglit deep slumber) the first morn. After long absence, of return To my dear home — Oh, happiness ! To lie in blissful consciousness OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 165 Of all around : The picture there — The books — the flower-glass filled wiih care By a kind hand — And then to know, 'Twas but to rise, and nneet below Such a heart's welcome ! Wo is me. The sweet and bitter memory Of that old time ! of those bright wakings ! Followed by some — ah ! sore heart-breakings, Leaving a wreck of youthful feeling Beyond the reach of Time's own healing. But though all powerless evermore Life's young illusions to restore — (Beautiful dreams !) the wise one brought, In kind exchange, awakened thought, Awakened seriousness ; and Hope That, crushed below, took higher scope — Yea heavenly — for her after-flight. Then, in the watches of the night, With mine own heart while communing, Friend ! 'twas a sadly 'pleasing thing To hear thee tell how Time went on, And how another hour was gone. The earthly hopeful, little care To heed how swift Time's pinions are — But they attend with willing ear Who must make their heart's home here. Yet, faithful watchman ! time hath been In more than one late after scene, That, list'ning to thy voice, I've said, " Oh ! would that restless tongue were staid." 166 OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. I've said so — weak and selfish heart ! When time drew near that I must part With some beloved, whose sojourn here Might have made sunshine all the year ; Whose presence for a little day- Chased half the wintry clouds away. I've thought so — weak and sinful heart ! When some were summon'd to depart — Call'd from their labours here to cease, The fall of days, faith, hope, and peace, Who long had linger'd here in pain ; TVIy loss in them their countless gain — Yet with long watching, worn and low, Too soul-opprest for tears to flow ; When the deep hush of night and death Was in the house — and every breath From those dear lips the last might be ; A shudd'ring ear I've turn'd from thee, Watchman ! whose every minute stroke, On fever'd nerves o'erstrained, broke . As if a leaden, pond'rous blow Fell on some hollow vault below — " Oh ! for an hour," I could have pray'd, " Stern reckoner ! that thy tongue were staid.'* These things are past. Of hopes and fears, The current now, with length'ning years Flows narrowing in a deeper bed. No spark of early feeling fled, But all subdued and chastened — Too little yet. The Christian strife Can finish but with finish'd life — OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 167 The spirit may be all resign'd, /et inly bleed — The willing mind Too oft may faint — The hopeful eye Sink rayless in despondency ; But one who reads the secret heart In all its griefs can take a part — Can pity all its weakness too — For He who ne'er corruption knew Nor sin, hath yet our nature borne And hung at woman's breast — And he hath said — Oh ! words that calm The troubled heart with holiest balm, — " Come unto me, ye travel- worn ! And I will give you rest," 168 THE CHILD'S UNBELIEF. THE CHILD'S UNBELIEF. " Come hither, my little Child ! to me, Come hither and hearken now. My poor, poor Child ! is this a day For thee to dance , and sport, and play, Like blossom on the bough ? " Fair blossom ! where's the fostering; bousfh ? And where's the parent tree ? Stem, root, and branch — all, all laid low ; Almost at once — at one fell blow : Dear Child ! cling close to me, " (My Sister's Child !) for thou shalt grow Into my very heart : But hush that ringing laugh — to me The silver sound is agony ; Come, hearken here apart, " And fold thy little hands in mine, Thus standing at my knee ; And look up in my face, and say — Dost thou remember what, to-day, Weeping, I told to thee ? THE CHILD'S UNBELIEF. 169 " Alas ! my tears are raining fast Upon thine orphan head ; And thy sweet eyes are glistening now Harry ! at last, believest thou That thy poor mother's dead ?*' *' No, no, my mother is not dead — She can^t be dead, you know : Oh aunt ! I saw my father die, All white and cold I saw him lie — ■ My mother don't look so. " She cried when I was sent away, And I cried very much ; And she was pale, and hung her head, But all the while her lips were red, And soft and warm to touch. " Not like my father's — hard and cold And then she said, beside. She'd come to England soon, you know." "But, Harry ! that was months ago — She sickened since and died ; " And the sad news is come to-day, Told in this letter. See, 'Tis edged and sealed with black." — " Oh ! dear, Give me that pretty seal. Look, here I'll keep it carefully, " With all these others, in my box — They're all for her. Don't cry, I'll learn my lessons every day, That I may have them all to say When she comes by and by." 16 '70 THE CHILD'S UNBELIEF. " Boy ! boy ! thy talk will break my heart — Oh Nature ! can it be That thou in his art silent so ? — Yet what, poor infant ! shouldst thou know Of life's great mystery ? " Of time and space — of chance and change— Of sin. decay, and death : What canst thou know, thou sinless one ! Thou yet unstained, unbreathed upon By this world's tainting breath ? " A sunbeam all thy little life ! Thy very being bliss — Glad creature ! who would waken thee To sense of sin and misery From such a dream as this V THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 171 THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM Come listen to a monkish tale of old, Right Catholic, but puerile some may deem, Who all unworthy their high notice hold Aught but grave truth, or lofty learned theme ; Too wise for simple fancies, smiles, and tears, Dreams of our earliest, purest, happiest years. Come — listen to my legend ; for of them Surely thou art not : and to thee I'll tell How on a time in holiest Santarem Strange accident miraculous befell Two little ones ; who to the sacred shrine Came daily to be schooled in things divine. Twin Sisters — orphan innocents were they: Most pure I ween, from all but the olden taint, Which only Jesu's blood can wash away : And holy, as the life of holiest saint. Was his, that good Dominican's, who fed His master's lambs, with more than daily bread. The Children's custom, while that pious man Performed the various duties of his state Within the spacious church, as Sacristan, Was on the altar steps to sit and wait, Nestling together ('twas a lovely sight !) Like the young turtle doves of Hebrew rite THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM. A small rich chapel was their sanctuary, While thus abiding ; — with adornment fair Of curious carved work, wrought cunningly, In all quaint patterns, and devices rare : And over them, above the altar, smiled From Mary-Mother's arms, the holy child. Smiled on his infant guests, as there below. On the fair altar steps, those young ones spread — (Nor aught irreverent in such act I trow) Their simple morning meal of fruit and bread. Such feast not ill beseemed the sacred dome — Their father's house is the dear children's home. At length it chanced, upon a certain day, When Frey Bernardo to the chapel came, Where patiently was ever wont to stay His infant charge ; with vehement acclaim, Both lisping creatures forth to meet him ran. And each to tell the same strange tale began. " Father !" they cried, as hanging on his gown On either side, in each perplexed ear They poured their eager tidings — " He came down— Menino Jesu has been with us here ! — We asked him to partake our fruit and bread ; And he came down — and sate with us — and fed." — " Children ! my children ! know ye what ye say ?" Bernardo hastily replied — " But hold ! — Peace, Briolanja ! — rash art thou alway : Let Inez speak." And little Inez told. In her slow silvery speech, distinctly o'er. The same strange tidings he had heard before. THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 173 " Blessed are ye, my children !" with devout And deep humility the good man cried — "Ye have been highly favoured. Still to doubt Were gross impiety and sceptic pride. Ye have been highly favoured. Children, dear ! Now your old master's loving counsel hear. " Return to-morrow with the morning light. And as before, spread out your simple fare On the same table ; and again invite Menino Jesu to descend and share : And if he come, say — ' Bid us, blessed Lord ! We and our master, to thy heavenly board.' " Forget not, children of my soul ! to plead For your old master : — Even for his sake Who fed ye faithfully : and he will heed Your innocent lips ; and I shall so partake With his dear lambs. — Beloved, with the sun Return to-morrow. — Then — His will be done." ** To-night ! to-night ! Menino Jesu saith We shall sup with him, Father ! we and thee," Cried out both happy children in a breath As the good Father entered anxiously About the morrow's noon, that Holy Shrine, Now consecrate by special grace divine. " He bade us come alone ; but then we said We could not, without thee, our Master dear— At that, he did not frown, but shook his head Denyingly : Then straight with many a tear We prayed so sore, he could not but relent, And so, he smiled at last, and gave consent." THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM. "Now, God be praised !" the old man said, and fell In prayer upon the marble floor, straight way, His face to Earth : And so, till Vesper bell, Entranced in the spirit's depths he lay ; Then rose like one refreshed with wine, and stood Composed among th' assembling Brotherhood. The mass was said ; the evening chaunt was o'er ; Hushed its long echoes through the lofty dome : And now Bernardo knew the appointed hour That he had prayed for, of a truth was come. Alone he lingered in the solemn pile. Where darkness gathered fast from aisle to aisle ; Except, that through a distant door-way streamed One slanting sunbeam, gliding whereupon Two angel spirits — (so in sooth it seemed That loveliest vision) — hand in hand came on. With noiseless motion. " Father ! we are here," Sweetly saluted the good Father's ear. A hand he laid on each fair sun-bright head. Rayed like a seraph's with effulgent light, And — " Be ye blest, ye blessed ones," he said, " Whom Jesu bids to his own board to-night — ■ Lead on, ye chosen, to th' appointed place Lead your old master." So, with steadfast face. He followed, where those young ones led the way To that small chapel — like a golden clue Streamed on before that long bright sunset ray, Till at the door it slopt. Then passing through, The master and the pupils, side by side, Knelt down in prayer before the Crucified. THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 175 Tall tapers burnt before the holy shrine ; Chalice and paten on the altar stood, Spread with fair damask. Of the crimson wine Partaking first alone ; the living food Bernardo next with his dear children shared — Young lips, but well for heavenly food prepared. And there we leave them. Not for us to see The feast made ready, that first act to crown ; Nor to peruse the solemn mystery Of the divine Menino's coming down To lead away th' elect, expectant three, ^ ^,u ^i.ui tt:* nie-ht, at his own board to be. Stiilice it) that with him mey surely \v-i?r© 1 hat night in Paradise ; for those who eame Next to the chapel found them as in prayer, Still kneeling — stiffened every lifeless frame, W.th han Is and eyes upraised as when they died, Toward the image of the Crucified* That mighty miracle spread far and wide, And thousands came the feast of death to see ; And all beholders, deeply edified, Returned to their own homes more thoughtfully, Musing thereon : with one great truth imprest— That "to depart and be with Christ is best." 176 THE RIVER. THE RIVER. River ! River ! little River ! Bright you sparkle on your way, O'er the yellow pebbles dancing, Through the flowers and foliage glancing, Like a child at play. River ! River I swelling River ! On you rush o'er rough and smooth — Louder, faster, brawling, leaping Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping, Like impetuous youth. River ! River ! brimming River ! Broad and deep and still as Time, Seeming still — yet still in motion. Tending onward to the ocean. Just like mortal prime. River ! River ! rapid River ! Swifter now you slip away ; Swift and silent as an arrow, Through a channel dark and narrow, Like life's closing day. THE RIVER, 177 River ! River ! headlong River ! Down you dash into the sea ; Sea, that line hath never sounded, Sea, that voyage hath never rounded, Like eternity. 17? TO THE LADY-BIRD. TO THE LADY-BIRD. "Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home" — The field-mouse is gone to her nest. The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes, And the bees and the birds are at rest. Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home — The glow-worm is lighting her lamp, The dew's falling fast, and your fine speckled wings Will flag with the close clinging damp. Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home — Good luck if you reach it at last : The owl's come abroad, and the bat's on the roam, Sharp-set from their Ramazan fast. Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home — The fairy bells tinkle ^far, Make haste, or they'll catch ye, and harness ye fa.«t, With a cobweb, to Oberon's car. Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home — Buf, as all serious people do, first Clear your conscience, and settle your worldly aflairs, And so be prepared for the worst. TO THE LADY-BIRD. 179 Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! make a short shrift — Here's a hair-shirted Palmer hard by ; . And here's Lawyer Earwig to draw up your will, And we'll witness it, Death-Moth and I. Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! don't make a fuss — You've mighty small matters to give ; Your coral and jet, and — there, there — you can tack A codicil on, if you live. Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away now To your house, in the old willow-tree. Where your children, so dear, have invited the ant, And a few cozy neighbours to tea. Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home, And if not gobbled up by the way, Nor yoked by the fairies to Oberon's car, You're in luck — and that's all I've to say THE SELECT LITERAEY WOEKS, PROSE AND VERSE, OF MRS. CAROLINE SOUTHEY: THE BIRTH-DAY, SOLITARY HOURS, THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE, OUR OLD CLOCK, THE SMUGGLER, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, &c. ember, as I do, to have held in their hands the pretty speckled insect, the Lady Bird, and to have addressed to it, as it pi-epred to fly, the half sportive, half serious warning, "Lady Bird, Lady Bird ' fly away home ; your house is on fire, your children will tarn '"-Bat possibly even they will laugh at my confession, that I had a sort of vague, mysterious idea of some real meaning (m- telUgible to the beautiful insect) being couched in my metrica warnin.. ! And they will laugh still more unrestrainedly when I avow, that I have often shuddered, with superstitious horror, when the nursemaid, on seeing me pull the small heart-shaped pods of the white chickweed, has startled me with the vulgar saying, " Ah, naughty child ! you've plucked your mother s heart out . Be it as it may ;-I still, even to this hour, connect with those trivial things-those nursery tales-those senseless saymgs-the recollection of mental impressions so vivid, so delicious, and oc caionally so painful, yet secretly and intently dwelt on, ^v«h a strange kind of infatuation-especially those feelings of enthusi- a.tic affection to particular individuals I was far too shy to ex- m-ess in half their glowing warmth-and those vague, dreamy, iuperstitious reveries, and awfully delightful terrors, that always made me court solitude and darkness, though the sound of a fall- ing leaf, or a nibbling mouse, would at such times set my heart beating audibly, and, in the stillness and blackness of night, my very breathing would seem impeded, and I have closed my eye- lids, and kept them fast shut for hours, fearing to encounter the 36 CHILDHOOD. sight of some grisly phantom ; then opened them in sudden des- peration, and in the expectation of seeing — I knew not what. I j still, even to this hour, at sight of many insignificant objects, recall to mind so vividly what were formerly my feelings associ- ated with such, that the intermediate space between past and present seems in a manner annihilated, and I forget my actual self in the little happy being, whose heart and fancy luxuriated in a world of beauty and happiness, such as the most inspired dream of poet or philosopher has never yet portrayed. The world of a child's imagination is the creation of a far holier spell than hath ever been wrought by the pride of learning, or the inspiration of poetic fancy. Innocence, that thinketh no evil ; ignorance, that apprehendeth none ; hope, that hath experi- enced no blight ; love, that suspecteth no guile. These are its ministering angels — these wield a wand of power, making this earth a paradise. Time, hard, rigid teacher ! — Reality, rough, stern reality ! — World, cold, heartless world ! — that ever your sad experience, your sombre truths, your killing colil, your with- ering sneers, should scare those gentle spirits from their holy temple ! — And wherewith do ye replace them ? With caution, that repulseth confidence ; with doubt, that repelleth love ; with a reason, that dispelleth illusion ; with fear, that poisoneth enjoy- ment; in a word, with knowledge — that fatal fruit, the tasting whereof, at the first onset, cost us Paradise ! And the tree of knowledge — transplanted to this barren soil, together with its scanty blossoms — doth it not bring forth thorns abundantly ? And of the fruits that ripen — have any yet ripen- ed to perfection ? — what hand hath ever plucked unscathed ? Blessed be He who hath placed within our reach that other tree, once guarded by the flaming sword of the cherubim (now no longer forbidden), whereof, whoever hungereth, may taste and live ! IT IS NOT DEATH." 37 "IT IS NOT DEATH." It is not Death — it is not Death, From which I shrink with coward fear ; It is, that I must leave behind All I love here. It is not Wealth — it is not Wealth, That I am loth to leave behind ; Small store to me (yet all I crave) Hath fate assiou'd. o It is not Fame — it is not Fame, From which it will be pain to part ; Obscure my lot — but mine was still An humble heart. It is not Health — it is not Health, That makes me fain to linger here ; For I have languish'd on in pain This many a year. It is not Hope — it is not Hope, From which I cannot turn away ; Oh, earthly Hope hath cheated me This many a day. 38 "IT IS NOT DEATH." But there are Friends — but there are Friends, To whom I could not say, " Farewell !" Without a pang more hard to bear Than tongue can tell. But there's a thought — but there's a thought, Will arm me with that pang to cope ; Thank God ! we shall not part like those Who have no hope. And some are gone — and some are gone — Methinks they chide my long delay — With whom, it seem'd, my very life Went half away. But we shall meet — but we shall meet, Where parting tears shall never flow ; And, when I think thereon, almost I long to go. The Saviour wept — the Saviour wept O'er him he loved — corrupting clay ! — But then He spake the word, and Death Gave up his prey ! — A little while — a little while, And the dark Grave shall yield its trust ; Yea, render every atom up Of human dust. What matters then — what matters then Who earliest lays him down to rest ? — Nay, "to depart, and be with Christ," Is surely best. SONNET. 39 SONNET Traveller of Life ! what plant of virtues rare Seeketh thy curious eye ? 'Mongst earth's excess, Will none but the exotic, Happiness, Content thine eager longing ? Fruitless care ! It groweth not beneath our clouded skies. But when amongst the groves of Paradise The soft winds wanton, haply they may bear, From thence to earth, some vagrant flower or leaf. Some fluttering petal, exquisite as brief Its od'rous beauty ! — Oh, if to thy share It fall, one blossom on thy path to find — Quick ! snatch it to thine heart, ere the rough wind Despoil its freshness. It will fade e'en there ; Thou can'st not quite exclude this cold world*s nipping air. 40 THE LADYl S BRYDALLE. THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. " Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page I And beare to my gaye Ladye This ringe of the good red gowde, and be sure Rede well what she tellethe to thee. " And take tent, little Page, if my Ladye's cheeke Be with watchinge and weepinge pale ; If her locks are unkempt, and her bonnie eyes redde ; And come back and tell me thye tale. " And marke, little Page, when thou showest the ringe, If she snatchethe it hastelye, If the red blude mount up her slendere throate To her forehedde of ivorye. " And take good heede, if, for gladnesse or griefe, So changethe mye Ladye's cheere. You shalle know bye her eyes, if their lichte laugh oute Through the miste of a startinge tea re. " (Like the Summer sunne thro' a morninge cloude), There needethe no furthere token ne, That mye Ladye brighte, to her owne true Knighte, Hath keepit her faithe unbrokenne. THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 41 " Now ride, little Page ! for the sunne peeres oute Owre the rimme of the eastern heavenne, And backe thou must bee, with thy tidinges to mee, Ere the shadowe falles far at evenne." — Awaye, and awaye ! and he's farre on his waye The little foot-page alreddye; For he's backed on his Lordes own gallante graye, That steede so swifte and steddye. But the Knighte stands there like a charmedde manne, Watchinge with eare and eye. The clatteringe speede of his noble steede, That swifte as the windes doth flye. But the windes and the lichtninges are loitererres alls To the glaunce of a luver's mynde, And Sir Alwynne, I trow, had thocht Bonnybelle slowe, Had her fleetnesse outstrippit the wynde. Beseemed to him, that the sunne once more Had stayedde his course that daye ; Never sicke manne longed for morninge licht, As Sir Alwynne for eveninge graye. But the longeste daye must ende at laste, And the brighteste sunne must sette ; Where stayde Sir Alwynne at peepe of dawne, There at even he stayethe him yette. And he spyethe at last — " Not soe, not soe, ^Tis a small graye cloude, Sir Knighte, That risethe up like a courser's hedde On that borderre of gowden licht.'* 21 42 THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. " Bot harke ! bot harke ! for I heare it nowe, 'Tis the comynge of Bonnybelle !" " Not soe, Sir Knighte ! from that rockye height, *Twas a clatteringe stone that felle." " That slothefuUe boye ! but I'll thinke no more Of him and that lagginge jade to-daye." " Righte, righte, Sir Knighte !" — " Nay, now by this lichte, Here comethe my Page, and my gallante graye !" " Howe nowe, little Page ! ere thou lichteste downe, Speake but one worde out hastylye ; Little Page ! hast thou seen mye Ladye luve ? Hathe mye Ladye keepit her faith with me ?" " I've seene thye Ladye luve, Sir Knighte, And welle hathe she keepit her faithe with thee.'^ " Lichte downe, lichte downe, mye trusty Page ! A berrye browne barbe shall thy guerdon be. " Telle on, telle on — Was mye Ladye's cheeke Pale as the lilye, or rosye redde ? Did she put the ringe on her finger smalle ? And what was the very firste worde she sedde ?" *' Pale was thye Ladye's cheeke, Sir Knighte ! Blent with no streake of the rosye redde ; I put the ringe on her finger smalle. But there is no voice amongste the dedde." There are torches hurryinge to and froe In Raeburne Towerre to-nighte ; THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. ' 43 And the chapelle dothe glowe with lampes alsoe, As if for a brydalle ryte. But where is the Bryde ? and the Brydegroonne where ? And where is the holye prieste ? And where are the guestes that shoulde biddenne be, To partake of the marriage feast ? The Bryde from her chamberre descendethe slowe, And the Brydegroome her hande hath ta'en ; And the guestes are mette, and the holy Prieste Precedethe the marriage traine. The Bryde is the fayre Maude Winstanlye, And Dethe her sterne Brydegroome; And her father followes his onlye childe To her mothere's yawninge tombe. An agedde manne ! and a wofulle manne ! And a heavye moane makes he ; " Mye childe ! mye childe ! mine onlye childe ! Would God I had dyedde for thee !" An agedde manne, those white haires telle, And that bendedde backe and knee ; Yette a stalwart Knighte, at Tewkesburye fighte, Was Sir Archibalde Winstanlye ! 'Tis a movinge thinge to see the teares Wrunge oute frae an agedde eye, Seldome and slowe, like the scantye droppes Of a fountaine that's neere a drye. 44 THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. ^Tis a sorrye sighte to see graye haires Brochl downe to the grave with sorrowe ! Youth lukes thro' the cloude of the presente daye For a goldenne gleame to-morrowe. Bot the palsyede hedde, and the feeble knees, Berefte of earthlye staye ! God help thee novve, olde Winstanlye ! Gude Christians for thee praye ! — Bot manye a voice in that burialle traine Breathes gloomilye aparte, " Thou hadst not been childelesse nowe, olde manne, Bot for thine owne harde hearte !" Ana manye a mayde, who strewethe floweres Afore the Ladye's biere, Weepes oute, " Thou hadst not dyede, sweete Maude, If Al Wynne had beene heere !" What solemne chaunte ascendeth slowe ? What voices peale the straine ? The Monkes of St. Switholm's Abbaye neare Have mette the funeralle traine. They hold their landes, full manye a roode, From the Knightes of Raeburne Towerre ; And everre when Dethe doth claime his preye From within that lordlye bowerre. Then come the holye Fatheris forthe, The shrowdedde corse to meete, THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 45 And see it laide in hallowde grave, With requiem sadde and svveete. And nowe they turne, and leade the waye To that laste home so nigh, Where all the race of Winstanlye In dust and darknesse lye. The holye altarre blazethe brighte With waxenne taperres high ; Elsewhere, in dimme and doubtfulle lycht Dothe alle the chape^lle lye. Huge, undefinedde shadowes falle From pillare and from tombe ; And manye a grimme olde monumente Lookes ghastelye through the gloome. And manye a rustye shirt of maile The eye maye scantlye trace ; And crestedde helmette, blacke and barred, That grinnes with sterne grimace. Bannerre and scutcheon from the walles Wave in the cald nighte aire ; Gleames out their gorgeous heraldrye In the ent'ringe torches' glare. For nowe the mourninge companye, Beneathe that archedde doore, Beare in the lovely e, lifelesse claye, Shall passe thereoute no more. 21* 46 THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. And up the soundinge aisle ye stille Their solemne chaunte may heare ; Tille 'neath that blazonned catafalque They gentlye reste the biere : Then ceasethe everye sounde of life ; So deepe that awfulle hushe, Ye heare from yon freshe opennedde vaulte The hollowe deathe-winde rushe. Backe from the biere the mournerres alle Retire a little space ; Alle bot that olde bereavedde manne, Who takethe there his place Beside the dedde : but none may see The workinges of his mynde ; So lowe upon that sunkenne breste Is that graye hedde declin'de. The masse is saide, they raise the dedde, The palle is flunge aside ; And soone that coffinn'd lovelyenesse The darksome pit shalle hide. It gapethe close at hande. — Deep downe Ye maye the coffinnes see (By the lampe's dull glare, freshe kindledde there) Of many a Winstanlye. And the gildedde nails on one looke brighte, And the velvette of cramoisie ; THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 47 She hathe not laine there a calendcrre yeere, The laste Dame Winstanlye. " There's roome for thee heere, oh daughter deere !" Methinkes I heare her saye ; — " There's roome for thee, Maude Winstanlye ; Come downe — make no delaye !" And, from the vaulte, two grimlye armes Upraised, demaunde the dedde ! . . . . Hark ! hark ! 'tis the tramp of a rushinge steede ! 'Tis the clanks of an armedde tredde ! There's an armedde hedde at the chapelle doore ; And in armoure all bedighte In coal-black Steele, from hedde to heele, In steppes an armedde Knighte ! And uppe the aisle, with heavye tredde. Alone advauncethe he ; To barre his waye, dothe none essays Of the fun'ralle companye. And never a voice amongste them all Dothe aske who he mote be ; Nor why his armedde steppe disturbes That sadde solemnitye. Yette manye an eye, with fixedde stare, Dothe sternelye on him frown ; Bot none may trace the straungcr's f; He weares his vizorre downe. 48 THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. He speakes no worde, but waves his hande, And straighte theye alle obeye ; And ev'rye soule that standethe there, Falles backe to make him v/aye. He passethe on — no hande dothe stirre ; His steppe the onlye sounde ; He passethe on, and signes them sette The coffinne on the grounde. A momente gazinge down th'ereonne, With foldedde armes dothe staye ; Then stoopinge, with one mightye wrench He teares the lidde awaye. Then risethe a confusedde sounde, And some half forwarde starte, And murmurre " sacriledge !" And some Beare hastilye aparte. The agedde Knighte, at that straunge sighte Whose consciousnesse hathe fledde — Bot signe, nor sounde disturbethe him Who gazethe on the dedde. And seemethe sune, as that faire face Dothe alle exposedde lye. As if its holye calme o'erspredde - The frowninge faces bye. And nowe beside the Virginne corse Downe kneeles the straunger Knighte, And backe his vizorrede helnie he throwes, Bot not in openne sight ; 1 THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 49 For to the pale, colde clammye face, His owne he stoopethe lowe, And kissethe firste the bludelesse cheeke, And then the marble browe. Then, to the dedde lippes gluede, so long The livinge lippes do staye, As if in that sad silente kisse The soule had paste awaye. Bot suddenne, from that mortal trance, As with a desp'rate straine, Up ! up ! he springes — his armoure ringes — His vizorre's downe againe. With many a flouerre, her weepinge maydes The Ladye's shroude have dressed ; And one white rose is in the faulde That veiles her whiterre breste. One gowden ringlette on her browe (Escappede forthe) dothe straye ; So on a wreathe of driftedde snowe The wintrye sunbeames playe. The mailedde hande hath ta'en the rose From oife that breste so fayre ; The faulchion's edge, from that pale hedde, Hath shorne the gowden haire. One heavye sighe ! — the firste and last — One deepe and stifledde groane ! A few longe strides, a clange of hoofes, And the armedde straunger's gone ! fiO SONNET.— 1818- SONNET.-1818 Dark rolling clouds, in wild confusion driven, Obscure the full-orb'd moon. In all the heaven One only star (th' appointed evening light) Beams mildly forth ; like friendly Pharos bright, That, kindled on some towering summit, streams Wide o'er the ocean-paths. Its far-off beams First seen by him who on the silent deck Paces his lonely watch — a glimmering speck, Doubtful in distance. But his homeward eye Is keen the faithful beacon to descry, And mine, like his, impatient to explore (With friends and kindred throng'd) the distant sliore Is fix'd on that lone star, whose lovely ray Points to a happier home, the heavenward way. ABJURATION. ABJURATION There was a time — sweet time of youthful folly ! Fantastic woes I courted, feign'd distress, Wooing the veiled phantom Melancholy With passion, born,Jike Love, "in idleness." And like a lover — like a jealous lover — I hid mine idol with a miser's art, Lest vulgar eyes her sweetness should discover, Close in the inmost chambers of mine heart — And then I sought her — oft in secret sought her, From merry mates withdrawn and mirthful play, To wear away, by some deep stilly water In greenwood haunt, the livelong summer day — Watching the flitting clouds, the fading flowers, The flying rack athwart the waving grass ; And murmuring oft — "Alack ! this life of ours ! — Such are its joys — so swiftly doth it pass '" And then mine idle tears (ah, silly maiden !) Bedropt the liquid grass like summer rain. And sighs, as from a bosom sorrow-laden, Heaved the light heart that knew no real pain. 59 ABJURATION. And then I loved to haunt lone burial-places, To pace the churchyard earth with noiseless tread, To pore in new-made graves for ghastly traces — Brown crumbling bones of the forgotten dead. To think of passing bells, of death and dying — 'Twere good, methought, in early youth to die. So loved ! lamented ! — in such sweet sleep lying, The white shroud all with flowers and rosemary Stuck o'er by loving hands ! — But then, 'twould grieve me Too sore, forsooth ! the scene my fancy drew — I could not bear the thought to die and leave ye, And I have lived, dear friends ! to weep for you. And I have lived to prove what " fading flowers" Are life's best joys, and all we love and prize — What chilling rains succeed the summer showers ! What bitter drops wrung slow from elder eyes ! And I have lived to look on " death and dying," To count the sinking pulse — the short'ning breath — To watch the last faint life-streak flying — flying — To stoop — to start ! to be alone with death ! And I have lived to feign the smile of gladness, When all within was cheerless, dark, and cold — When all earth's joys seem'd mockery and madness, And life more tedious than " a tale twice told." And now — and now — pale, pining Melancholy No longer veil'd for me your haggard brow In pensive sweetness, such as youthful folly Fondly conceited; I abjure ye now ! — ABJURATION. 53 Away ! avaunt ! — No longer now I call ye, " Divinest Melancholy ! mild, meek maid !" No longer may your siren spells enthrall me, A willing captive in your baleful shade. " Give me the voice of mirth, the sound of laughter, The sparkling glance of pleasure's roving eye ! — The past is past — avaunt, thou dark hereafter ! — Come, eat and drink — to-morrow we must die !" So in his desperate mood the fool hath spoken — The fool, whose heart hath said " There is no God.'' But for the stricken soul — the spirit broken — There's balm in Gilead still : The very rod, If we but kiss it as the stroke descendeth, Distilleth oil t' allay the inflicted smart. And " Peace that passeth understanding" blendeth With the deep sighing of the contrite heart. Mine be that holy, humble tribulation — No longer " feign'd distress, fantastic woe ;" I know my griefs — but then my consolation, My trust, and my immortal hopes I know. 22 54 SONNET.— 1821. S0NNET.-1821. Stay, flaming chariot ! fiery coursers, stay, Soft gleams of setting sunshine, that doth cast A lustrous line along the dark wide waste ! Oh ! wherefore must ye fade so swift away ? Wherefore, oh ! wherefore, at the close of day Shine out so glorious, when Night's sable pall Will drop around so soon, and cover all ? Beautiful beam ! bright trav'Uer ! stay, oh, stay ! And let my spirit on your parting ray Glide from this world of error, doubt, distress— (Oh ! I am weary of its emptiness) — To happier worlds, where there is peace for aye, Peace ! less abiding here, than Noah's dove — When we shall never part from those we love ! BEAUTY. 55 BEAUTY. " Quel dommage que tout cela pourrira ?" " Oui, Monsieur ! mais cela n'est pas pourri." John Bull and Lord Byroii are agreed on one point. Both assert « Cant" to be the prevailing moral feature of the age we live in. Innumerable scribblers have caught up the same note, and spun it out in endless variation, and I, among the small fry of literature, am fain to join in the chorus. Of all cants, then, one of the most sickening to my taste is that of some parents who pretend (I give them little credit for sincerity) to deprecate for their female offspring that precious gift, as it really is, or, as they are pleased to term it, " that dangerous distinction,"— personal beauty. They affect, forsooth, to thank Providence that their daughters are " no beauties," or to sigh and lament over their fatal attractions ; and then they run out into a long string of trite axioms, and stale commonplaces, about the snares and vanities of this wicked world, as if none but beauties were exposed to the as- saults of the Tempter. Now, I am firmly of opinion— nay, every- day experience proves it is so— that ugly women, called plain by courtesy, are just as liable to slip and stumble in those treacher- ous pitfalls, as others of their sex distinguished by personal attrac- tiveness ; and, on a fair average, that pretty women are the hap- piest, as well as the most agreeable, of the species. Let us take a fair sample of this genera— not a yerfect sped- 56 BEAUTY. men ; the botanist may select such a one for his herbal, but it v/ould not so well answer our purpose in exemplifying human va- rieties. Let us suppose a child endowed with moderate abilities, an amiable disposition, and a decent share of beauty, and other children of the same family gifted in an equal proportion with mental qualifications, but wholly destitute of external charms ; will not the fair attractive child be the most favoured, the best be- loved, generally speaking, even of those parents who endeavour to be, and honestly believe that they are, most conscientiously impartial ? The same anxious care may, it is true, be equally bestowed upon all — the same tender and endearing epithets be applied to all ; but the eye will linger longest on the sweet coun- tenance of the lovely little one, the parental kiss will dwell more fondly on its rosy lip, and the voice, in speaking to it, will be in- voluntarily modulated to softer and more tender tones. I am not arguing that this preference, however involuntary it may be, is even then wholly defensible, or that, if knowingly, weakly yielded to, it is not in the highest degree cruel and inexcusable. I only assert that it is in human nature ; and, waving that side of the question, which, if analysed, would involve a long moral discus- sion not necessarily connected with the present subject, I would simply observe, that if this unconscious, irresistible preference frequently influences even the fondest parents, how far more un- restrainedly does it manifest itself in the circle of friends, guests, relations, and casual visiters ! How many indulgences and grat- ifications are obtained for the irresistible pleader ! How many petitions granted for the remuneration of a kiss ! How tenderly are the tears of contrition wiped away from eyes that look so beautifully remorseful ! And all this, I firmly believe, if re- strained by right feeling and firm principle from reaching a blam- able excess, is productive of good results only in the young mind, and that children thus happily constituted, thrive best (even in a moral sense) in that atmosphere of tender indulgence, and become BEAUTY. 57 eventually more amiable and equable, least selfish and exacting, in all the various circumstances and relations of life. The reason of this I take to be, that they feel the most perfect confidence in the good-will and affections of their fellow-creatures ; and how many of the best affections of our nature spring up and flourish under the kindly influence of that most Christian feeling ! The fair engaging girl expands into womanhood, in the warm sunshine of affectionate encouragement, and all the delicate and grateful feelings of her heart are drawn out to bud and blossom in that congenial clime — every individual of her family and friends fondly or courteously contributing to her happiness or pleasure — Will not the desire to repay kindness with kindness, love with love, blessing with blessing, be the responsive impulse of her young heart ? She finds, by everyday experience, that the tenderest approbation, the warmest encomiums, the fondest caress- es, reward her endeavours after the attainment of useful infor- mation and elegant accomplishment; and that blessings, more expressively silent (the eloquent blessings of the eye), beam un- utterable things on her performance of higher duties. What a powerful stimulus to persevere in the path of well-doing ! to strive to be all she is thought capable of being ! Her natural failings and youthful errors are most mildly and tenderly rebuked, her motives most charitably interpreted. What incentives to conquer those failings, to avoid those errors ; to justify indulgence so ten- der, to realize hopes so sanguine ! Happiness is far less selfish than sorrow. Its natural tendency (that is, of happiness derived from pure and holy sources — the only true happiness, in short) is to communicate, to infuse itself, as it were, into every surround- ing object ; and of a surety nothing inspires us with such good-will and charity towards our fellow-creatures, as the pleasant con- sciousness that they are benevolently disposed towards us. If all the discourteous, uncharitable, ill-natured things that are said and done, were traced back to their real source, it would be found 22* 58 BEAUTY. that at least every other one resulted, not from resentment for the infliction of serious injury, but from some wounded feeling — some smarting sense of neglect, unkindness, disrespect — or, it may be, of conscious insignificance and deficiency in the power of pleas- ing ; a consciousness, by the way, widely differing from Christian humility, and operating far otherwise (generally speaking) on the neart and temper. Allowing these to be fancied, or at least fancifully exaggerated injuries, their influence on the character is not therefore less per- nicious ; and the question is. Would these baleful, corroding, crushing thoughts, have sprung up in the cheering sunshine of favour and indulgence ? Have they not been generated and fos- tered in a cold ungenial shade, where " flowers that love the light" could never blossom ? But " Vanity ! vanity !" saith the preacher. — What sevenfold shield can fence the heart of woman against vanity and its sa- tanic legion ? The only shield, I reply, of proof to repel from any human heart the perpetual, insidious, and ever-varying as- saults of the tempter — sound moral principles founded on religious knowledge, and a firm and humble faith in the truths of revela- tion. When these have not been early and sedulously inculcated, the Beauty is exposed indeed to imminent and peculiar dangers. But is the ugly woman, on her part, more secure from those temptations to which she also is peculiarly exposed ? Is vanity solely confined to the consciousness of personal attractions ? Is there no such thing as conceit of sense, of talent, of taste, of clev- erness (that is the fashionable word), of goodness, nay, even of humility ? There is also (if I may so express myself) conceit active, and conceit passive. That which plumes itself on being superior on such and such points, is to my taste less odious than the Pharisaical cant — " Well, thank God ! I am not so and so." Now, verily, I am inclined to believe, that of all modifications of this infirmity — this vice^ if you will have it so — that is most BEAUTY. 53 harmless which plumes itself on outward and visible perfections, (I speak with exclusive reference to female beauties ;) and, in point of fact, have we not often occasion to remark, that a pretty, vain, giddy girl, one of the most apparently inconsiderate char- acter, will settle down for life, with a companion who deserves and possesses her respect and affection, into a domestic, prudent wife, a careful and tender mother, an exemplary mistress of a family ; while some grave, demure-looking miss, guarded at all points in the armour of ugliness, bristling all over with decorum, and pinched into the very pattern of primness and propriety, doth as often (if occasion offer) launch out into such extravagancies and indiscretions, as defy all calculation on probability and liability, and utterly confound the wise theories of all declaimers against the dangerous endowment of Beauty. But, to sum up all, are there in the class of Beauties fewer good wives, good mothers, good women, and good Christians, than amongst those of the sex to whom nature has been sparing of out-, ward adornments ? An impartial observer will acknowledge, that such characters are found in pretty equal proportions amongst the lovely and unlovely. But, reverting from that higher ground of observation to minor considerations, I will venture to assert that there is less vanity, or perhaps, more correctly speaking, less so- licitude about personal appearance, in pretty than in plain women. The cause is obvious — one is perpetually striving to make her- self what nature has made the other. Its frequent result is more perplexing. That exuberant self-complacency with which an ugly woman, in the full pomp and panoply of dress and decora- tion, seems as it were to inflate and expand her whole person ; and if some solitary charm of form or feature had been grudgingly bestowed upon her, what sedulous anxiety to exhibit it to the best advantage ! How the malady concentrates itself, in a manner, in that particular part ! — betrays itself by an unnatural and perpet- ual distension of the mouth, if a set of white and even teeth is the 60 BEAUTY. seat of the disorder ; is distinguished by a delicate curve of the fingers, or a rennarkable action of the hand, if that happens to be the part affected ; or by a frequent protrusion of the foot, should the disease have possessed itself of the lower extremities. Good Heaven ! in what thing, in what place, under what cir- cumstances, will not vanity take root and thrive ? Stick it, like houseleek, on a bare wall, its fibres will insinuate themselves into the crevices, and the plant will prosper somehoio. Strew it, like mustard and cress, over a few woollen threads, in an earthen plat- ter, and you may pick salad to-morrow. Hang it up, like the air plant, between heaven and earth by a single thread, and, like the air plant, it will bud and blossom without other than ethereal nu- triment. They are inexperienced naturalists who affirm that it flourishes only, or peculiarly, in soil or climate of such and such nature and temperature. But to all who persist in the belief that Beauty is the forcing- bed of this idle flaunting weed — to all parents who are really sincere in deprecating for their female offspring, what they are pleased to term so fatal an endowment — I would compassionately suggest one simple expedient, calculated to strike at the very root of the evil. Let the pride of civilisation condescend for once to adopt the practice of those unsophisticated savages, who (for very opposite purposes, indeed) flatten the noses, depress the skulls, and slit the lips and ears of their new-born females. The most obsti- nate charms — the most inveterate beauty — must infallibly yield to this early discipline ; to which, as a measure of further security, may be added the Chinese precaution of compressing the feet, and a general tattooing of the whole person, so that no separate part or portion thereof may become a lurking stronghold for that subtle demon, who can entrench himself in the hem of an ear, or " take his stand" on the tip of a little finger. Results incalculably important, powerfully influential on the whole system of society, might arise from a skilful and determined BEAUTY. 6. practice of these precautionary measures. We learn from natu- ral history, and daily observation confirms it to us, that human science and ingenuity, sometimes dexterously availing themselves of chance occasions, often obtain signal triumphs over the stubborn laws of nature. In America (I think) a breed of sheep has been propagated (springing, in the first instance, from an accidental variety) so crippled in the hind-legs, that the slightest fence im- aginable — a mere ridge of turf — is sufficient to restrain the ani- mals within the boundaries of their rich pastures, where they crawl about like monstrous grubs, the qualities of the wool and mutton being noways deteriorated by their disproportionate form- ation. Why should not similar modes of treatment (if brought to bear on the human species) be rewarded by similar success ? The Chinese, in particular, (were it possible that the light of sci- ence should penetrate those dark mists of ignorance and obstinacy which envelope "the celestial empire,") instead of torturing, with barbarous pressure, the tender feet of their infant daughters, might happily obtain and cultivate a breed fofemales, as incapa- ble of active locomotion as the woolly crawlers above mentioned; or, if that degree of perambulatory power should be deemed in- compatible with the moral security of the female flock, doubtless the triumph of experimental philosophy might be carried still fur- ther, in the ultimate perfecting of a species wholly divested of legs and feet ; very useless appendages, it must be owned, when the possessors are predestined to squat on cushions and carpets throughout the whole term of their mortal existence. In Barbary and Turkey, also, and amongst all those nations where female beauty is secluded from the public eye, and valued by the hun- dred-weight, the attainment of so valuable and curious a variety would be an object of infinite importance. But these are desul- tory considerations, thrown out at random, from whence the patri- otic mind reverts, with concentrated zeal, to the dearer interests of its native land. To my countrymen, therefore — But whither 62 BEAUTY. tends my speculative genius ? — what would be the probable result of those measures I have ventured to suggest, in my compassion- ate tenderness for parental society ? If adopted by a few leaders of rank and fashion, the universal rage for novelty and imitation would soon make the practice general; and then, indeed, not alone a separate caste might be attained, sanctified in the beauty of ugliness, but a great and decided conquest over Beauty itself might be confidently anticipated. But, with its utter extinction in the land, might not our present conceptions of its component parts and general combinations, fade away to dim recollections ? Those also, in process of time, could hardly fail to be wholly obliterated ; and in their stead would grow up a new standard of perfection, not less the object of dangerous and profane worship for being the very reverse of its present idol. With the customs of savage nations, we may import their tastes also ; and thenceforward, a celebrated beauty of the British court may be constituted such, by perfections similar to those that qualify a Hottentot Venus, an Esquimaux Petite Maitresse, or a reigning toast of the Sandwich Islands ; and the first glance of a flat nose, thick lips, flapping ears, and depressed pericranium, in his new-born babe, may strike into the heart of an anxious parent the same pious horror with which he now contemplates the Grecian outline and delicate pro- portions of the infant Beauty, who smiles in his face with such innocent and pitiable unconsciousness of the fatal charms with which nature has endowed her. MY GARDEN. MY GARDEN. I LOVE my Garden ! — dearly love That little spot of ground ! — There's not, methinks — (though I may err In partial pride) — a pleasanter, In all the country round ! The smooth green turf winds gently there, With no ungraceful bend, Round many a bed and many a border, Where, gaily group'd in sweet disorder, Young Flora's darlings blend. Spring ! Summer ! Autumn ! — Of all three, Whose reign is loveliest there ? Oh ! is not she who paints the ground, When its frost fetters are unbound, The fairest of the fair ? I gaze upon her violet beds, Laburnums, golden tress'd ; Her flower-spiked almonds — Breathe perfume, From lilac and seringa bloom, And cry, "I love Spring best!" MY GARDEN. But Summer comes, with all her pomp Of fragrance, beauty, bliss ! — And from amidst her bowers of roses, I sigh, as purple evening closes, " What season equals this ?" That pageant passeth by. Comes next Brown Autumn in her turn ; — Oh ! not unwelcome cometh she ; The parched earth luxuriously Drinks from her dewy urn. And she hath flowers, and fragrance loo, Peculiarly her own ; Asters of ev'ry hue — perfume, Spiced rich with clematis and broom, And mignonette late blown. Then if some lingering rose I spy Reclining languidly. Or the bright laurel's glossy green, — Dear Autumn ! my whole heart, I ween, Leaps up for love of thee ! . Oh, yes ! — I love my garden well. And find employment there ; — Employment sweet ; for many an liour. In tending every shrub and flower With still unwearied care. I prop the weakly, — prune the rude, — Scatter the various seeds, — MY GARDEN. 65 Clear out intruders, — yet of those Oft sparing, what the florist knows To be but gaudy weeds. But when my task — my pleasant task !^ Is ended for the day — Sprinkled o'er every sun-bow 'd flower The artificial evening shower, Then oftentimes I stray — (Inherent is the love of change In human hearts) — far, far Beyond the garden-gate ; — the bound That clips my little Eden round. Chance for my leading star ; Through hollow lanes or coppice paths, By hill or hawthorn fence, Oe'r thymy commons, clover fields, Where every step I take reveals Some charm of sight or sense. The winding path brings suddenly A rustic bridge in sight ; Beneath it, gushing brightly out, The rivulet, where speckled trout Leap in the circling light. Pale water-lilies float thereon. The Naiads' loveliest wreath ! The adders' tongues dip down to drink ; The flag peers high above the brink, From her long slender sheath. 23 66 TMY GARDEN There, on the greensward, an old oak Stands singly. One, I trow, Whose mighty shadow spread as wide, When they were in their prime, who died An hundred years ago. A single ewe, with her twin lambs, Stands the grey trunk beside ; Others lie clustering in the shade. Or, down the windings of the glade. Are scattered far and wide. Two mossy thorns, o'er yonder stile A bowery archway rise; — Oh, what a flood of fragrance thence Breathes out ! — Behind that hazel fence A flowering bean-field lies. The shadowy path winds gently on That hazel fence beneath ; The wild-rose, and the woodbine there Shoot up, festooning high in air Their oft-entangled wreath. The path winds on — on either side Wall'd in by hedges high ; Their boughs so thickly arching over, That scarce one speck you can discover— One speck of the blue sky ! A lovely gloom ! It pleaseth me And lonely Philomel. MY GARDEN. Hark ! the enchantress sings ! — that strain Dies with a tremulous fall ! — again — Ohj what a gushing swell ! Darker and darker still the road, Scarce lit by twilight glances ; — Darker and darker still But, see ! Yonder, on that young aspen-tree, A darting sunbeam dances. Another gems the bank below With em'ralds ! Into one They blend — unite one em'rald sea ! And last, in all his majesty, Breaks through the setting sun ! And I am breathless, motionless, Mute with delight and love ! My very being seems to blend With all around me — to ascend To the great Source above. I feel I am a spark struck out From an eternal flame ; A part of the stupendous whole. His work, who breathed a deathless soul Into this mortal frame. And they shall perish — all these things — Darkness shall quench this ball : Death-throes this solid earth shall rive, Yet I — frail thing of dust ! — survive The final wreck of all. f)« MY GARDEN. " Wake up my glory! Lute and harp !" Be vocal ev'ry chord ; Lo ! all His works in concert sing, " Praise, praise to the Eternal King," The Universal Lord ! Oh, powerless will ! oh, languid voice ! Weak words ! imperfect lays ! Yet, could his works alone inspire The feelings that attune my lyre To these faint notes of praise. Not to the charms of tasteful art That I am cold or dull ; I gaze on all the graceful scene, The clust'ring flowers — the velvet green, And cry, — " How beautiful !" But when to Nature's book I turn, The page she spreads abroad ; Tears only to mine eyes that steal, Bear witness that I see and feel The mighty hand of God ! AUTUMN FLOWERS. 69 AUTUMN FLOWERS. Those few pale Autumn flowers ! How beautiful they are ! Than all that went before, Than all the Summer store, How lovelier far ! And why ? — They are the tast — The last ! — tne last I — tiie last ! — O, by that little word, How many thoughts are stirr'd ! That sister of the past ! Pale flowers ! — pale perishing flowers ! Ye're types of precious things ; Types of those bitter moments That flit, like life's enjoyments. On rapid, rapid wings. Last hours with parting dear ones (That time the fastest spends), Last tears, in silence shed, Last words, half-uttered, Last looks of dying friends ! 23* AUTUMN FLOWERS. Who but would fain compress A life into a day ; The last day spent with one, Who, e'er the morrow's sun, Must leave us, and for aye ? O, precious, precious moments ! Pale flowers ! ye're types of those- The saddest ! sweetest ! dearest ! Because, like tTiose, the nearest Is an eternal close. Pale flowers ! Pale perishing flowers I I woo your gentle breath ; I leave the summer rose For younger, blither brows, Tell me of chang^e and death ! SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY, ETC. SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY IS THE EVIL THEREOF." Oh ! by that gracious rule Were we but wise to steer On the wide sea of Thought, What moments, trouble-fraught, Were spared us here ! But we (perverse and blind) As covetous of pain, Not only seek for more Yet hidden, but live o'er The past again. This life is called brief — Man on the earth but crawls His threescore years and ten — At best fourscore — and then The ripe fruit falls. Y''et, betwixt birth and death. Were but the life of man By his thoughts measured, To what an age would spread That little span ! SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY There are, who're born and die, Eat, sleep, walk, rest between- Talk — act by clockwork too, So pass, in order due, Over the scene. With whom the past is past, The future, nothing yet ; And so, from day to day They breathe, till call'd to pay The last great debt. Their life, in truth, is brief; A speck — a point of time, Whether in good old age Endeth their pilgrimage, Or in its prime. But other some there are (I call them not more wise), In whom the restless mind Still lingereth behind. Or forward flies. With these, things pass away ; But past things are not dead ; In the heart's treasury. Deep-hidden, dead they lie, Unwithered. And there the soul retires, From the dull things that are, IS THE EVIL THEREOF. To mingle, oft and long, With the tinne-hallow'd throng Of those that were. Then into life start out The scenes long vanished ; Then we behold again The forms that have long lain Among the dead. We seek their grasp of love, We meet their beaming eye ; We speak — the vision's flown, Dissolving with its own Intensity. Years rapidly shift on, (Like clouds athwart the sky), And, lo ! sad watch we keep, When, in perturbed sleep. The sick doth lie. We gaze on some pale face. Shown by the dim watch-light ; Shuddering we gaze, and pray. And weep — and wish away The long, long night. And yet minutest things, That mark time's tedious tread, Are on the feverish brain, With self-protracting pain, Deep minuted. 74 SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY The drops, with trembling hand, (Love steadied,) pour'd out ;— The draught replenished, — The label oft re-read With nervous doubt. The watch, that ticks so Loud ; The winding it, for one Whose hand lies powerless ; — And then, the fearful guess, — " Ere this hath run . . . ." The shutter, half unclosed As the night wears away ; Ere the last stars are set — Pale stars ! — that linger yet, Till perfect day. The morn, so oft invoked. That bringeth no relief: From which, with sickening sight, We turn, as if its light But mock'd our grief. Oh never, after-dawn, For us the east shall streak ; But we shall see agen, With the same thoughts as then, That pale daybreak ! The desolate awakening, When first we feel alone ? IS THE EVIL THEREOF. 75 " Dread memories" are these ! — ■ Yet who, for heartless ease, Would exchange one ? These are the soul's hid wealth — Relics embalm'd with tears. Or, if her curious eye Searcheth futurity — The depth of years ; There (from the deck of youth) Enchanted land she sees ; Blue skies and sun-bright bowers Reflected, and tall towers, On glassy seas. But heavy clouds collect Over that bright-blue sky ; And rough winds rend the trees, And lash those glassy seas To billows high ! And then, the last thing seen By that dim light, may be (With helm and rudder lost) A lone wreck, tempest-tost. On the dark sea ! Thus doth the soul extend Her brief existence herei Thus multiplieth she, (Yea, to infinity !) The short career. SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY Presumptuous and unwise ! As if the present sum Were little of life's woe ! — Why seeketh she to know Ills yet to come ? Look up, look up, my soul, To loftier mysteries ; Trust in His word to thee, Who saith, " All tears shall be Wiped from all eyes." And when thou turnest back, (Oh ! what can chain thee here ?) Seek out the Isles of light, On " Mem'ry's waste" yet bright ; Or if too near To desolate plains they lie, All dark with guilt and tears ; Still, still retrace the past, Till thou alight at last On life's first years. There not a passing cloud Obscures the sunny scene ; No blight on the young tree ; No thought of what may he. Or what hath been. There all is Hope — not hope — For all things are possest. IS THE EVIL THEREOF. 77 No — bliss without alloy, And innocence and joy, In the young breast. And all-confiding love, And holy ignorance, Thrice blessed veil ! Soon torn From eyes foredoom'd to mourn For man's offence. D, thither, weary spirit ! Flee from this world defiled How oft, heart-sick and sore, I've wish'd I were once more A little child ! 24 78 GRACIOUS RAIN. GRACIOUS RAIN. The east wind had whistled for many a day, Sere and wintry, o'er summer's domain ; And the sun, muffled up in a dull robe of gvejf Look'd sullenly down on the plain. The butterfly folded her wings as if dead, Or awaked ere the full destined time ; Ev'ry flower shrank inward, or hung down its head Like a young heart frost-nipp'd in its prime. I, too, shrank and shiver'd, and eyed the cold earth, The cold heaven with comfortless looks : And I listen'd in vain for the summer birds' mirth. And the music of rain-plenish'd brooks. But, lo! while I listen'd, down heavily dropt A few tears from a low-sailing cloud ; Large and few they descended — then thicken'd — then stopt. Then pour'd down abundant and loud. O, the rapture of beauty, of sweetness, of sound, That succeeded that soft gracious rain ! With laughter and singing the valleys rang round, And the little hills shouted again. GRACIOUS RAIN. 79 The wind sank away like^a sleeping child's breath, The pavilion of clouds was upfurl'd ; And the sun, like a spirit triumphant o'er death, Smiled out on this beautiful world. On this " heauiiful world^''^ such a change had been wrought By these few blessed drops. Oh ! the same On some cold stony heart might be work'd too, methought, Sunk in guilt, but not senseless of shame. If a ^Q\v virtuous tears by the merciful shed, Touch'd its hardness, perhaps the good grain That was sown there and rooted, though long seeming dead, Might shoot up and flourish again. And the smile of the virtuous, like sunshine from heaven, Might chase the dark clouds of despair ; And remorse, when the rock's flinty surface was riven. Might gush out and soften all there. Oh ! to work such a change — By God's grace to recall A poor soul from the death-sleep ! To this ! To this joy that the angels partake, what were all That the worldly and sensual call bliss ? THE WELCOME HOME. THE WELCOME HOME-1820. Hark ! hark ! they're come ! — those merry bells, That peal their joyous welcome swells ; And many hearts are swelling high, With more than joy — with ecstacy ! And many an eye is straining now T'ward that good ship, that sails so slow ; And many a look toward the land They cast, upon that deck who stand. Flow, flow, ye tides ! — ye languid gales. Rise, rise, and fill their flagging sails ! — ■ Ye tedious moments, fly, begone, And speed the blissful meeting on. Impatient watchers ! happy ye. Whose hope shall soon be certainty ; Happy, thrice happy ! soon to strain Fond hearts to kindred hearts again ! Brothers and sisters — children — mother — All, all restored to one another ! All, all return'd ! — And are there none To me restored, return'd ? — Not one. THE WELCOME HOME. 81 Far other meeting mine must be With friends long lost — Far other sea Than thou, oh restless ocean ! flows Betwixt us — One that never knows. Ebb-time or flood ; — a stagnant sea ; — Time's gulf- — its shore Eternity ! — No voyager from that shadowy bourne With chart or sounding may return. There, there they stand. — the loved ! — the lost ! They beckon from that awful coast ! — They cannot thence return to me, But I shall go to them. — I see E'en now, methinks, those forms so dear, Bend smiling to invite me there. — Oh, best beloved ! a little while. And I obey that beck'ning smile ! 'Tis all my comfort now, to know. In God's good time it shall be so ; And yet, in that sweet hope's despite. Sad thoughts oppress my heart to-night. And doth the sight of others' gladness Oppress this selfish heart with sadness ? Now Heaven forbid ! — But tears will rise — Unbidden tears — into mine eyes. When busy thought contrasts with theirs My fate, my feelings — Four brief years Have wing'd their flight, since, where they stand, I stood, and watch'd that parting band, 24* THE WELCOME HOME. {Then parting hence) — and one, methought, (Oh, human foresight ! set at nought By God's unfathom'd will !) was borne From England, never to return ! — With sadden'd heart, I turn'd to seek Mine own beloved home — to speak With her who shared it, of the fears She also shared in .... It appears But yesterday that thus we spoke ; And I can see the very look With which she said, " I do believe Mine eyes have ta'en their last long leave Of her who is gone hence to-day !" Five months succeeding slipp'd away ; And on the sixth, a deep-toned bell Swung slow, of recent death to tell ! It toU'd for her, with whom so late I reason'd of impending fate ; To me, those solemn words who spoke So late, with that remember'd look ! And now, from that same steeple, swells A joyous peal of many bells, Her welcome, whose approaching doom We blindly thought — a foreign tomb ^ TO A DYING INFANT. B3 TO A DYING INFANT, Sleep, little Baby ! sleep ! Not in thy cradle bed, Not on thy mother's breast Henceforth shall be thy rest, But with the quiet dead. Yes, with the quiet dead, Baby ! thy rest shall be — Oh ! many a weary wight. Weary of life and light. Would fain lie down with thee ! Flee, little tender nursling ! Flee to thy grassy nest — There the first flowers shall blow. The first pure flake of snow Shall fall upon thy breast. Peace ! peace ! the little bosom Labours with shortening breath. Peace ! peace ! that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh — Those are the damps of Death. I've seen thee in thy beauty, A thing all health and glee ; 84 TO A DYING INFANT. But never then, wert thou So beautiful, as now. Baby ! thou seem'st to me. Thine upturn'd eyes glazed over Like harebells wet with dew — Already veil'd and hid By the convulsed lid, Their pupils darkly blue. Thy little mouth half open, The soft lip quivering, As if, like summer air. Ruffling the rose leaves, there Thy soul were fluttering. Mount up, immortal essence ! Young spirit ! hence — depart ^ And is tliis Death ? Dread thing ! If such thy visiting, How beautiful thou art ! Oh ! I could gaze for ever Upon that waxen face, So passionless ! so pure ! The little shrine was sure An angel's dwelling-place. Thou weepest, childless mother ! Ay, weep — 'twill ease thine heart ; He was thy first-born son — Thy first, thine only one ; 'Tis hard from him to part. TO A DYING INFANT. 85 'Tis hard to lay^thy darling Deep in the damp cold earth, His empty crib to see, His silent nursery, Late ringing with his mirth. To meet again in slumber His small mouth's rosy kiss. Then — waken'd with a start By thine own throbbing heart — His twining arms to miss. And then to Vie and weep, And think the livelong night (Feeding thine own distress With accurate greediness) Of every past delight. Of all his winning ways. His pretty, playful smiles, His joy at sight of thee, His tricks, his mimickry. And all his little wiles. Oh ! these are recollections Round mothers' hearts that cling ! That mingle with the tears And smiles of after years. With oft awakening. But thou wilt then, fond mother. In after years, look back 86 TO A DYING INFANT. (Time brings such wondrous easing) With sadness not unpleasing, Even on this gloomy track. Thou'lt say, " My first-born blessing ' It almost broke my heart, When thou wert forced to go, And yet for thee, I know 'Twas better to depart. " God took thee in his mercy, A lamb untask'd — untried — He fought the field for thee — He won the victory — And thou art sanctified. " I look around, and see The evil ways of men. And oh, beloved child ! I'm more than reconciled To thy departure then. " The little arms that clasp'd me, The innocent lips that prest. Would they have been as pure Till now, as when of yore I luU'd thee on my breast ? " Now, like a dewdrop shrined Within a crystal stone, Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove ! Safe with the Source of love. The everlasting One ! TO A DYING INFANT. 87 '•' And when the hour arrives, From flesh that sets me free, Thy spirit may await The first at heaven's gate, To meet and welcome me.'' 88 THK NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK. THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK. Come, look at this Plant, with its narrow pale leaves, And its tall, slim, delicate stem, Thinly studded with flowers ! — Yes, with flowers ! — There they are ! Don't you see at each joint there's a little brown star ? But, in truth, there's no beauty in them. So you ask why I keep it ? the little mean thing ! Why I stick it up here, just in sight ; — 'Tis a fancy of mine. — " A strange fancy !" you say ; " No accounting for tastes !" — In this instance you may, For the flower .... But I'll tell you to-night. Some six hours hence, when the Lady Moon Looks down on that bastion'd wall, "When the twinkling stars dance silently On the rippling surface of the sea. And the heavy night-dews fall ; Then meet me again in this casement niche. On the spot where we're standing now. — Nay, question not wherefore ? Perhaps, with me, To look out on the night, and the broad, bright sea, And to hear its majestic flow ! THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK. 89 Well, we're met here again ; and the moonlight sleeps On the sea, and the bastion'd wall ; And the flowers there below — How the night-wind brings Their delicious breath on its dewy wings ! — " But there's one," say you, " sweeter than all !" " Which is it ? The myrtle, or jessamine, Or their sovereign lady the rose ? Or the heliotrope ? or the virgin's bower ? What ! neither ?" — Oh, no ; 'tis some other flower, Far sweeter than either of those. Far sweeter ! And where, think you, groweth the plant That exhaleth such perfume rare ? Look about, up and down — But take care ! or you'll break, With your elbow, that poor little thing that's so weak, .... "Why, 'tis that smells so sweet, I declare !" Ah ha ! is it that ? Have you found out now , Why I cherish that odd little fright ? " All is not gold that glitters," you know ; And it is not all worth makes the greatest show In the glare of the strongest light. There are human flowers full many, I trow, As unlovelv o«= that by your side, 25 90 THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK. That a common observer passeth by With a scornful lip, and a careless eye, ii> ihe heyday of pleasure and pride. But move on. f those to some quiet spot, From the mia-uay sun's broad glare, Where domestic peace broods with dove-like wing ; And try if the homely, despised thing, May not yield sweet fragrance there. Or wait till the days of trial come— The dark days of trouble and wo ; When they shrink, and shut up, late so bright in the sun ;~ Then turn to the little despised one, And see if 'twill serve you so. And judge not again at a single glance. Nor pass sentence hastily : There are many good things in this world of ours— Many sweet things and rare I-weeds that prove precious flowers ! Little dreamt of by you or me. THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 91 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. Epistolary as well as personal intercourse, is, according to the mode in which it is carried on, one of the pleasantest or most irksome things in the world. It is delightful to drop in on a friend without the solemn prelude of invitation and acceptance ; to join a social circle, where we may suffer our minds and hearts to re- lax and expand, in the happy consciousness of perfect security from invidious remark and carping criticism — where we may give the reins to the sportiveness of innocent fancy, or the enthusiasm of warm-hearted feeling — where we may talk sense or nonsense, (I pity people who cannot talk nonsense !) without fear of being looked into icicles, by the cold surprise of unimaginative people — living pieces of clockwork — who dare not themselves utter a word, or lift up a little finger, without first weighing the important point in the hair-balance of propriety and good-breeding. It is equally delightful to let the pen talk freely and unpremeditatedly, to one; by whom we are sure of being understood ; but a formal letter, like a ceremonious morning visit, is tedious alike to the writer and receiver, for the most part made up of unmeaning phrases, trite observations, complimentary flourishes, and protestations of respect and attachment, so far not deceitful, that they never de- ceive any body. Oh ! the misery of having to compose a set, proper, well-worded, correctly pointed, polite, elegant epistle — one that must have a beginning, a middle, and an end, as method- ically arranged and proportioned as the several parts of a sermon under three heads, or the three gradations of shade in a school- 92 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING girl's first landscape. For my part, I would rather be set to beatt hemp, or weed in a turnip-field, than to write such a letter exactly every month or every fortnight, at the precise point of time from i the date of our correspondent's last communication, that he or she i set pen to paper after the receipt of ours, as if one's thoughts bub- ■ bled up to the well-head periodically, a pint at a time, to be bot- tled off for immediate use. Thought ! What has thought to do in such a correspondence ? It murders thought, quenches fancy, , spoils paper, wears out innocent goose-quills. *' I'd rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! than one of those same" prosing letter- mongers. Surely in this age of invention something may be struck out to obviate the necessity (if such necessity exists) of so tasking, de- grading, human intellect ! Why should there not be construct- ed a sort of mute barrel-organ, on the plan of those that play sets of tunes and country-dances, to indite a catalogue of polite epistles, sufficiently meaning to answer all the purposes of cere- monious good-breeding ? Oh the unspeakable relief (were such a consummation possible) of having only to g7'ind an answer to one of " one's dear five hundred friends !" Or suppose there were to be an epistolary steam-engine ! Steam does every thing nowa- days. Worthy Mr. Brunei, take the matter into serious consid- eration, I beseech you ! Set your wits to work, and achieve what would be the masterpiece of your marvellous inventions. The block-machine at Portsmouth would be nothing to it. That spares manual labour — this would relieve mental drudgery ; and thou- sands yet unborn .... But hold ! I am not so sure that the fe- male sex in general may quite enter into my views of the subject. Those who pique themselves on " I'eloquence du billet;" those fair Scribblerinas just emancipated from boarding-school restraint, or from the dragonism of their governesses, just beginning to pour out their pretty souls in the refined intercourse of sentimental, confidential, ineffable correspondence, with some Angelina, Sera- THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. phina, or Laura Matilda, dwelling at Roseniount Cottage, or Myr- tle Villa, or Eglantine Vale ; to indite beautiful little notes with long-tailed letters, upon vellum-paper with pink margins, sealed [with sweet mottoes and dainty devices — all new and original — « Je ne change qu'en mourant," " Forget-me-not," or Cupid with a rose, and " Une seule me suffit;" the whole delicately per- fumed with musk and atar of roses ; young ladies who collect "copies of verses" and charades, receipts for painting boxes and making alum-baskets and bead-necklaces; keep albums, copy patterns, make bread-seals, work little dogs upon footstools, and paint flowers without shadow — Oh no ! the epistolary steam-en- gine will never come into favour with those dear industrious crea- tures, whose minds are in a state of constant activity, like the lit- tle eels in rain-water, and must work off their exuberant energies somehow. They must luxuriate in " the feast of reason and the flow of soul ;" and they must write— ye gods— how they do write ! But for another genus of female scribes. Unhappy innocents ! who groan in spirit at the dire necessity of having to hammer out one of those aforesaid terrible epistles, though having in due form dated the gilt-edged sheet that lies outspread before them in ap- palling whiteness ; having also felicitously achieved the custom- ary and most veracious exordium—" My dear Mrs. P. ;" or, " My dearest Lady V. ;" or, " My dear, dear ... any thing else,'^ feel that they are in for it, and must say something. Oh, that sojne- thing that must be made out of nothing /—those bricks that must be made without straw !— those pages that must be covered over with words ! — yea, with words that must be sewed into sentences —yea, with sentences that must seem to mean something !— the whole to be ingeniously tacked together— all neatly fitted and dovetailed, so as to form, when complete, one smooth, polished surface of elegant composition. What were the labours of Her- cules to such a task ? The very thought of it puts one in a men- tal perspiration ; and from my inmost heart I compassionate the 25* 94 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. unfortunates, now (at this very moment perhaps) screwed up per. pendicular in the seat of torture — having in the right hand a fresh- nibbed patent pen, (the infliction of the thumbscrew would be mord bearable !) dipped ever and anon in the inkbottle, as if to fish up; ideas— and under the outspread palm of the left hand, (spread out immovably in the very flatness of despair !) a fair sheet of the bestj Bath post (ready to receive ideas yet unhatched), on which theiri eyes are riveted with a stare of disconsolate perplexity, infinitely i touching to a feeling mind. To such unhappy persons, in whose i miseries I deeply sympathize Have I not groaned under j the experience of similar horrors, from the hour when I was first | shut up (under lock and key, I believe) to indite a dutiful epistle to an honoured aunt ? I remember, as if it had occurred but yes- terday, the moment when she, who had enjoined the task, entered to inspect the performance, for which, by her calculation, ample time had been allowed me — I remember how sheepishly I hung down my head, and began twitching to pieces the feathery top of my pen, when she snatched from before me the paper, on which I had made no further progress than " My dear Ant," angrily ex- claiming, " What, child ! have you been shut up here three hours to call your aunt a pismire !" From that hour of humiliation, I have too often groaned under the endurance of like penance ; and have learned, from my own sufferings, to commiserate those of my dear sisters in affliction. To those distressed persons, then, I feel myself irresistibly im- pelled to offer a few hints (the fruit of long and bitter experience), which, if they have not been already suggested by their own ob- servation, may prove serviceable in the hour of emergency. Let them, or suppose I address myself to one particular sufferer — there is something more satisfactory, more confidential, in communicating one's ideas, when, as Moore says, " heart speaks to heart !" — Therefore, dear sister in aflfliction, to you I address myself. And, first, I recommend — Take always special care to THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 95 (frrite by candlelight ; for not only is the apparently unimportant operation of snuffing the candle in itself a momentary relief to the depressing consciousness of mental vacuum, but not unfre- quently that trifling manual exertion, together with the brighten- ing flame of the taper, elicits, as it were, a sympathetic spark of fortunate conception from the dull embers of the brain. Should such a one occur, seize it quickly and dexterously, but, at the same time, with tender caution, so as not to huddle up and con- tract in one short paltry sentence, that which, if ingeniously man- aged, may be beat out, and wire-drawn, so as to undulate smooth- ly and gracefully over a whole page. For the more skilful prac- tice of this invaluable art of dilating, it will be expedient to stock your memory with a large assortment of those precious words of many syllables that fill whole lines at once—" incomprehensibly — amazingly — indubitably — inconceivably — incont rovertibly," &c., &c. These words have not only, to the eye, a fine general effect, but, if the letter is read aloud, there is something very im- posing in the mere sound of them ; and a long paragraph about nothing, composed in this grand rolling style, will, nine times out of ten, pass current for very fine writing, when a pithy sentence, full of excellent matter, will be skimmed over with contempt, if " Ten low words creep slow in one dull line." An opportunity of introducing these thunderers is invaluable to a distressed spinner, besides that, they are really as delightful to trace on the paper, as a copy all m's and n's is to a child—" Com- mand you may, your mind from play." I have known a judicious selection of such, cunningly arran- ged, and neatly linked together with a few monosyllables, inter- jections, and epithets (the two latter may be liberally used with good general effect), so worked up as to form altogether a very respectable and e-ven elegant composition ; such as, amongst the best judges of that peculiar style, has been pronounced « a charm- 96 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. ini? letter !"— and yet, by more homely, matter-of-fact readers, i would not, perhaps, have been allowed to contain one sentence of meaning in the whole three pages, two ends, and precious little bit under the seal. Then the pause— the break— has altogether a picturesque efi feet; long-tailed "down-sweeping" and " up-swaling" letters^ and d's turning "jauntily" over, with a grand whisking curvel like squirrels' tails, are not only beautiful in themselves, but the use of them necessarily creates such a space between the lines^ as helps one honourably and expeditiously over the ground to bej covered. Your " down-sweepers," in particular, may be dashed:! off so boldly, as beautifully to obscure the line underneath, with- out rendering it wholly illegible. This, however, is but a minori elegance — a mere illumination of the manuscript. I pass on to remarks of more importance. There is one expedient which, if judiciously resorted to, is of inestimable value in times of extreme mental dearth, but requir- ing to be managed with such nice tact, that none but an expe- rienced spinner should have recourse to it. You may contrive, by the help of a little alteration, amplification, and transposition, &c. &c., to amuse your correspondent with a recapitulation of the very matter which formed the groundwork of his or her last epistle to yourself. Should he detect this manoeuvre (against which the chances are at least equal), he will be restrained by good-breeding from making any observations to yourself on the subject ; and indeed (if he be a candid and reasonable person) will rather give you credit for the ingenious and obliging manner in which you have contrived to refresh his memory, and to im- press on it more indelibly those interesting points he had con- ceived worthy to fix your attention. Again— you need not ap- prehend that he shall turn your own arms against you. The ammunition will be quite spent in your retort, so that it will still THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 97 De his business to furnish fresh charges— every thing (you per- jeive) at this game depending on the first fire. This species of manoeuvre, as I have already observed, should by no means be rashly ventured on, but it is an art well worth the trouble of acquiring, at the expense of some pains and study —one (if you are so fortunate as to become a proficient in it) that will relieve you from all further anxiety on the score of letter- writing, furnishing you, at the expense of your correspondents, with ample materials for your own epistolary compositions. As to the strict honesty of this proceeding, no conscience need, I think, be so squeamish as to hesitate on the subject ; for, in fact, what has conscience to do with the style of correspondence under our present consideration ? It were well, in truth, if a fine lady's letter were often so honestly made up ; for (generally speaking) would not the abstract of such a one, fairly interpreted, run thus ?— 98 THOUGHTS ON LETTER- WRITING. My dearest Lady D. With feelings of the most inexpressibly affectionate interest, ] take up my pen to congratulate you on the marriage of your[ lovely accomplished Alethea. [ To you, who know every thought of my heart, it is almost] unnecessary to say, that, next to the maternal tenderness with which I watch over my own girls, I am most anxiously interested in every thing that relates to your charming family. That sweet love, Alethea, has always, you know, been my, peculiar favourite ; and tears of exulting tenderness swell into my eyes, when I think of the brilliant establishment you have, secured for her. Our long intimacy, my beloved friend, and my maternal affec- . tion for the dear creature, are pleas which I shall urge in claim- J ing the delightful office of presenting her. With what prides shall I see the superb V diamonds in her lovely auburn locks ! ! Soon, very soon, friend of my, heart ! may I have to congratu-. late you on 55onne equally advantageous ftstahlislirnpnt for your ^ sweet, delicate Anna Maria. I earnestly hope that foolish story (which you have heard of course) about Lord V.'s keeping an opera girl at Paris, and hav- ing lost L. 10,000 at the Salon at one sitting, will not reach the ■ ear of our sweet sensitive girl. But people are so malicious ! ' Where are your two lovely boys ? We have not seen them since they came from Eton, and you know how I delight in their charming spirits. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. And remains ever, With the most inviolable attachment, My dearest Lady D.'s Most truly affectionate, M. G. THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. You TIRESOME OLD ToAD, You've manoeuvred off one of your gawky frights at last ; and I must say something on the occasion. How the deuce did you contrive to hook that noodle of a lord, when I have been angling ever since he came of age to catch him for my eldest girl 1 That pert minx Alethea has always been my peculiar aver- sion ; and I'm ready to cry with spite at the idea of her being a Countess. You can't hobble to court on your crutches, so I, forsooth, shall be asked to present her Ladyship ; and I must do it, though I know I shall expire with vexation at seeing the V diamonds in her odious red hair. One comfort is, you'll never be able to get off that little hump- backed thing Anna Maria ; and you know well enough there's no hope of it, so hate to be talked to about her. You won't care much about it, even if it were true : but I can think of nothing else to plague the old cat. I'll take care the young one shall know it somehow. I'd as lieve have a couple of wild-cats turned loose into my drawing-room as those two riotous cubs. But I've nine girls to bring out yet, and the young M.'s will be tolerable catches, though only honourables. Fudge, fudge, fudge, fudge, fudge ! I think I have given you enough for one dose, though I am afraid you're up to me. I hate you cordially ; thafs certain. M. G. "I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY." I NEVER CAST A FLOWEE AWAY I NEVER cast a flower away, The gift of one who cared for me — A little flower — a faded flower — But it was done reluctantly. I never look'd a last adieu To things familiar, but my heart Shrank with a feeling almost pain. Even from their lifelessness to part. I never spoke the word " Farewell," But with an utterance faint and broken ; An earth-sick longing for the time When it shall never more be spoken. THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF." 101 "THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. There is a tongue in every leaf, A voice in every rill ! — A voice that speaketh every where, In flood and fire, through earth and air- A tongue that's never still ! 'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused Through every thing we see, That with our spirits communeth Of things mysterious — Life and Death- Time and Eternity. I see him in the blazing sun, And in the thunder-cloud — I hear him in the mighty roar, That rusheth through the forest hoar When winds are piping loud. I see him, hear him every where, In all things — Darkness, Light, Silence, and Sound — but, most of all, When slumber's dusky curtains fall At the dead hour of night. \feel him in the silent dews By grateful earth betray 'd — 26 ^ THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. I feel him in the gentle showers, The soft south wind — the breath of flowers- The sunshine and the shade. And yet, ungrateful that I am ! I've turn'd in sullen mood From all these things — whereof he said, When the great work was finished. That they were " Very good !" My sadness on the fairest things Fell like unwholesome dew — The darkness that encompass'd me, The gloom I felt so palpably, Mine own dark spirit threw. Yet he was patient, slow to wrath, Though ev'ry day provoked By selfish pining discontent, Acceptance cold, or negligent. And promises revoked. And still the same rich feast was spread For my insensate heart. Not always so — I woke again To join creation's rapt'rous strain — " Oh Lord ! how good Thou art !" The clouds drew up, the shadows fled, The glorious sun broke out — And Love, and Hope, and Gratitude, Dispell'd that miserable mood Of darkness and of doubt. THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. lOS THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. My child was beautiful and brave ! An opening flower of spring ! He moulders in a distant grave, A cold forgotten thing. Forgotten ! — Ay, by all but me. As e'en the best beloved must be — Farewell, farewell, my dearest ! Methinks 't had been a comfort now To have caught his parting breath — Had I been near, from his damp brow To wipe the dews of death — With one long ling'ring kiss to close His eyelids for the last repose — Farewell, farewell, my dearest ! I little thought such wish to prove, When, cradled on my breast. With all a mother's cautious love His sleeping lids I prest. Alas, alas ! his dying head Was pillow'd on a colder bed — Farewell, farewell, my dearest ! 104 THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. They told me Vict'ry's laurels wreath'd His youthful temples round — That " Vict'ry !" from his lips was breathed, The last exulting sound — Cold comfort to a mother's ear, That long'd his living voice to hear — Farewell, farewell, my dearest ! E'en so thy gallant father died, When thou, poor orphan child ! A helpless prattler at my side. My widow'd grief beguiled. But now, bereaved of all in thee. What earthly voice shall comfort me ? — Farewell, farewell, my dearest \ MY EVENING. 105 MY EVENING. Farewell, bright Sun ! mine eyes have watch'd Thine hour of waning light ; And tender twilight ! fare-thee-well — And welcome star-crown'd night ! Pale ! serious ! silent ! with deep spell Lulling the heart to rest : As lulls the mother's low sweet song The infant on her breast. Mine own beloved hour . — mme own ! Sacred to quiet thought, To sacred mem'ries, to calm joys, With no false lustre fraught ! Mine own beloved hour ! for now, Methinks, with garish day I shut the world out, and with those Long lost, or far away, The dead, the absent, once again My soul holds converse free — To such illusions, Life ! how dull Thy best reality ! 26* MY EVENING. The vernal nights are chilly yet, And cheerily and bright The hearth still blazes, flasliing round Its ruddy flick'ring light. " Bring in the lamp so — set it there, Just show its veiled ray (Leaving all else in shadowy tone). Falls on my hook and — stay — " Leave my work by me" — Well I love The needle's useful art ; 'Tis unambitious — womanly — And mine's a woman's heart. Not that I ply with sempstress rage, As if for life, or bread ; No, sooth to say — unconsciously Slackening the half-drawn thread, From fingers that (as spell-bound) stop, Pointing the needle wrong. Mine eyes towards the open book Stray oft, and tarry long. " Stop, stop ! Leave open the glass-door Into that winter bower;" For soon therein th' uprisen moon Will pour her silvery shower ; Will glitter on those glossy leaves ; On that white pavement shine : And dally with her eastern love, That wreathing jessamine. MY EVENING. 107 " Thanks, Lizzy ! No ; there's nothing more Thy loving zeal can do ; Only — Oh yes ! — that gipsy flower,* Set that beside me too." — " That Ethiop, in its china vase ?" — '• Ay ; set it liere ; — that's right. Shut the door after you." — 'Tis done ; I'm settled for the night. Settled and snug j — and first, as if The fact to ascertain, I glance around, and stir the fire, And trim the lamp again. Then, dusky flower ! I stoop t' inhale Thy fragrance. Thou art one That wooeth not the vulgar eye, Nor the broad staring sun : Therefore I love thee ! — (Selfish love Such preference may be ;) That thou reservest all thy sweets, Coy thing ! for night and me. What sound was that 1 Ah, Madam Puss ! I know that tender mew — That meek, white face — those sea-green eye-s— Those whiskers, wet with dew, To the cold glass — the greenhouse glass — Press'd closely from without ; * The night-smelling stock. 108 MY EVENING. Well, thou art heard — I'll let thee in, Though skulking home, no doubt, From lawless prowl. — Ah, ruthless cat ! What evil hast thou done ? What deeds of rapine, the broad eye Of open day that shun ? What ! not a feather pluck'd to-night ? Is that what thou wouldst tell With that soft pur, those winking eyes, And waving tail ! — Well, well, I know thee, friend ! — But get thee in, By Ranger stretch and doze ; Nay, never growl, old man ! her tait Just whisk'd across thy nose. But 'twas no act premeditate, Thy greatness to molest : Then, with that long luxurious sigh. Sink down again to rest ; But not before one loving look Toward me, with that long sigh. Says, " Mistress mine ! all's right, all's well ! TAow'rt there, and here am /.'" — That point at rest, we're still again. I on my work intent ; At least, with poring eyes thereon. In seeming earnest bent : MY EVENING. 109 And fingers, nimble at their task, Mechanically true ; Tho' heaven knows where, what scenes, the while, My thoughts are travelling to ! Now far from earth — now over earth, Traversing lands and seas ; — Now stringing, in a sing-song mood. Such idle rhymes as these ; — Now dwelling on departed days — Ah ! that's no lightsome mood ; — On those to come — no longer now Through hope's bright focus view'd. On that which is — ay, there I pause. No more in young delight ; But patient, grateful, well assured, " Whatever is, is right !" And all to be is in His hands— Oh, who would take it thence ? Give me not up to mine own will. Merciful Providence ! Such thought, when other thoughts, may be, Are darkening into gloom. Comes to me like the angel shape. That, standing by the tomb, Cheer'd those who came to sorrow there. — And then I see, and bless His love in all that he withholds, And all I still possess. MY EVENING. So varied — now with book, or work, Or pensive reverie. Or waking dreams, or fancy flights. Or scribbling vein, may be ; Or eke the pencil's cunning craft, Or lowly murmur'd lay To the according viola — Calm evening slips away. The felt-shod hours move swiftly on, Until the stroke of ten (The accustom'd signal) summons round My little household. Then, The door unclosing, enters first That aged faithful friend, Whose prayer is with her Master's child Her blameless days to end. The younger pair come close behind ; But her dear hand alone — (Her dear old hand ! now tremulous With palsying weakness grown) — Must rev'rently before me place The Sacred Book. 'Tis there— And all our voices, all our hearts, Unite in solemn prayer. In praise and thanksgiving, for all The blessings of the light ; In prayer, that He would keep us through The watches of the night. MY EVENING. Ill A simple rite ! and soon perform'd ; Leaving, in every breast, A heart more fittingly prepared For sweet, untroubled rest. And so we part. — But not before, Dear nurse ! a kiss from thee Imprints my brow. Thy fond good-night ! To God commending me ! Amen ! — And may His angels keep Their watch around thy bed, A.nd guard from every hurtful thing That venerable head ! FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS. FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS. Oh ! wear no mourning weeds for me, When I am laid i' the ground ! Oh ! shed no tears for one whose sleep Will then be sweet and sound ! Only, my friends ! do this for me, — Pluck many a pale primrose. And strew them on my shroud, before The coffin-lid they close. And lay the heart's-ease on my breast, (Meet emblem there 'twill be,) And gently place in my cold hand A sprig of rosemary. And by the buried bones of those Whom living I loved best ; See me at last laid quietly — Then leave me to my rest. And when the church-bell tolls for me Its last, long, hollow knell ; As the deep murmur dies away. Bid me a kind farewell. FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS. 113 And, slay — Methinks there's something yet I'd fain request of ye ; Something — I'd bid ye comfort, keep, Or love, for love of me. My nurse ! — Oh ! she will only wait Till I am fast asleep. Then close beside me, stealthily, To her own pillow creep. My dog ! — Poor fellow ! Let him not Know hunger — hardship — wrong — But he is old and feeble too, He will not miss me long. My dwelling ! — That will pass away To those, when I am gone, Will raze the lowly edifice To its foundation-stone. My flowers ! — That in deep loneliness Have been as friends to me — My garden ! — That, let run to waste, A common field will be. My picture ! — That's already yours — Resemblance true, ye say : Oh, true indeed ! — A thing of dust, That vanisheth away ! My harp ! — But that's a fairy gift I can bequeath to none — Unearthly hands will take it back When the last strain is done. 27 114 FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS. So then, I've nothing more to ask, And little left to give ; And yet I know, in your kind hearts My memory will live. And so farewell, my dear good friends ! And farewell, world, to thee — I part with some in love — with all Tn peace and charity. THE PRIMROSE. 115 THE PRIMROSE I SAW it in my evening walk, A little lonely flower ! Under a hollow bank it grew, Deep in a mossy bower. An oak's gnarl'd root, to roof the cave With Gothic fretwork sprung, Whence jewell'd fern, and arum leaves, And ivy garlands hung. And from beneath came sparkling out From a fall'n tree's old shell, A little rill, that dipt about The lady in her cell. And there, methought, with bashful pride, She seem'd to sit and look On her own maiden loveliness, Pale imaged in the brook. No other flower — no rival grew Beside my pensive maid ; She dwelt alone, a cloister'd nun, In solitude and shade. 116 THE PRIMROSE. No sunbeam on that fairy well Darted its dazzling light — Only, methought, some clear, cold star Might tremble there at night. No ruffling wind could reach her there — No eye, methought, but mine. Or the young lamb's that came to drink, Had spied her secret shrine. And there was pleasantness to me In such belief. Cold eyes That slight dear Nature's lowliness, Profane her mysteries. Long time I look'd and linger'd there, Absorb'd in still delight — My spirit drank deep quietness In, with that quiet sight. FAREWELL TO GREECE. 117 FAREWELL TO GREECE. Farewell for ever, classic land Of tyrants and of slaves ! My homeward path lies far away Over the dark blue waves : And when I go, no marble fanes From myrtle steeps arise, Nor shineth there such fervid suns From such unclouded skies. But yet, the earth of that dear land Is holier earth to me, Than thine, immortal Marathon ! Or thine, Thermopylse ! For there my fathers' ashes rest, And living hearts there be — Warm living hearts, and loving ones, That still remember me. And, oh ! the land that welcometh To one such bosom shrine. Though all beside were ruin'd — lost^- That land would still be mine. 27* 118 FAREWELL TO GREECE. Ay, mine ! — albeit the breath of life Not there I breathed first — Ay, mine ! — albeit with barrenness And polar darkness curst. The bird that wanders all day long, At sunset seeks her nest : I've wandered long — my native land ! Now take me to thy rest. THE SMUGGLER. "9 I THE SMUGGLER I SPENT the whole oflast summer, and part of the ensuing win- ter, on the Hampshire coast, visiting successively most of its sea- ports and watering-places, and enjoying its beautiful diversity of sea and wood scenery, often so intermingled that the forest-trees dip down their flexile branches into the salt waters of the solent sea ; and green lawns and heathy glades slope down to the edge of the silver sands, and not unfrequently to the very brink of the water. In no part of Hampshire is this characteristic beauty more strik- ingly exemplified than at the back of the Isle of Wight, that min- iature abstract of all that is grand and lovely in the parent Isle, of which it is so aptly denominated " The Garden." Early in August, I crossed over from Portsmouth to Ryde, pur- posing to fix my headquarters there, and from thence to make ex- cursions to all such places as are accounted worthy the tourist's notice. But a guidebook is at best an unsympathizing compan- ion, cold and formal (though not quite so tiresome) as the human machine that leads you over some old abbey or venerable cathe- dral, pointing out, indeed, in its dull, drowsy tone, unvaried to all visiters, the principal monuments or chapels, but passing by unnoticed a hundred less outwardly distinguished spots, where feeling would love to linger, and sentiment find inexhaustible sources of interest and contemplation. For lack of a better, however, I set out with my silent guide, ^2^ THE SMUGGLER. but soon strayed wide of its directions, rambling hither and thither often tarrying days and hours in places Unhonoured by its notice'i and perversely deviating from the beaten road that would have conducted some more docile tourist, and one of less independent taste, to such or such a nobleman's or gentleman's seat, or sum^ mer-house, or pavilion, built on purpose to be visited and admired. But I did not shape my course thus designedly in a spirit of op. position to the mute director, whose not unserviceable clue led me at last among the romantic rocks and cottages of Shanklin, Niton, and Undercliff. It led me, indeed, to those enchanting spots, and to their beautiful vicinity, but to entice me thence was more than all its inviting promises could effect ; and, finally, I took up my abode for an indefinite time in a cottage of native grey-stone, backed by the solid rock, and tapestried in front with such an in- I terwoven texture of rose and myrtle, as half hid the little case- ments, and aspired far over the thatched roof and projecting eaves. Days, weeks, months, slipped away imperceptibly in this deli- cious retreat, and in all the luxury of lounging felicity. Mine was idleness, it is true— the sensation of perfect exemption from all existing necessity of mental or corporeal exertion— not suspen- sion of ideas, but rather a festival of mind, during which the wild vagrant thought was at liberty to wander at will beyond the nar- row boundaries, within which the cares, and claims, and busi- ness of this world, too often restrained her natural excursive. ness. Summer passed away— the harvest was reaped and gathered into the barns— the hazel-hedges were despoiled of their last clus- ters of nuts— autumn verged on the approach of winter— and I still tenanted the rock-cottage. Nowhere are we so tenderly made sensible of the changes of the season as in the sea's immediate vicinity ; and the back of the Isle of Wight is, of all stations on our coast, that where this common remark is most forcibly illus- trated . Completely screened from the north by a continuous wall THE SMUGGLER. 121 »f high rocky cliff, its shores are exposed only to the southern and vesterly winds, and those are tempered to the peculiar softness ilways — almost always — perceptible in sea-breezes on a mild lutumn's day, or bright winter's morning, when the sun sparkles )n the white sands and scintillating waves — or on the waveless nirror of ^he deep blue sea— on the sails of the little fishing-boats ;hat steal along-shore, with their wings spread open like large butterflies— on the glancing silver of the seagull's wings, as she dives after her finny prey, or flashes upward through a shower of feathery foam— or on the tall grey cliffs; tinted with many-colour- ed lichens. A lounger on the beach will hardly perceive that the year is in " its sear and yellow leaf," or already fallen into the decrepitude of winter : and when his awful heralds, the unchained elements, proclaim aloud that the hoary tyrant Jiat/i commenced his reign— when the winds are let loose from the caverns, and the agitated sea rolls its waves in mountainous ridges on the rocky coast— when the porpoise heaves up its black bulk, and disports itself with uncouth gambols amidst the foam of the shallower wa- ters—when the cormorant's screams mingle in harsh concord with the howling blast— Then !— oh then ! who can tear himself from the contemplation of a scene, more sublimely interesting than all the calm loveliness of a summer prospect ! To me its attractions were irresistible : and, besides those of inanimate nature, I found other sources of lively interest, in studying the character and habits of the almost amphibious dwellers on that island coast. Generally speaking, there is something peculiarly interesting in the character of seafaring men— even of those whose voyages have extended little beyond the windings of their own shores. The fisherman's life, indeed, may be accounted one of the most incessant peril. For daily bread he must brave daily dangers. In that season when the tiller of the ground rests from his labours —when the artisan and mechanic are warmly housed— when the dormouse and the squirrel sleep in their soft woolly nests, and the I''i2 THE SMUGGLER. 1 little birds find shelter in hollow trees and banks, or migrate t milder regions, the poor fisherman must encounter all the fur of the combined elements, for his children's bread is scattered on the waters. It is this perpetually enforced familiarity with danger, tha interests our feelings so powerfully in their behalf, together witl its concomitant effects on their character— undaunted hardihood insurmountable perseverance, almost heroic daring ; and, gene( rally speaking, a simplicity of heart, and a tenderness of deport ment towards the females and the little ones of their families finely contrasting their rugged exterior. But, unfortunately; is not only in their ostensible calling of fishermen, that these mer are forward in efl?*ronting danger ; the temptations held out by contraband traffic, too often allure them from their honest and peaceable avocations to brave the laws of their country, and encounter the most fearful risks in pursuit of precarious, though sometimes considerable, gains. Of late, this desperate trade has extended almost to a regularly-organized system ; and, in spited of all the preventive measures adopted by the government of tha country, it is too obvious that the number of these "freetraders, is yearly increasing, and that their hazardous commerce is more daringly and more vigorously carried on. Along the Hampshire: coast, and more particularly in the Isle of Wight, almost every seafaring man is concerned in it to a greater or less extent. For the most part, they are connected in secret associations, both fori co-operation and defence ; and there is a sort of freemasonry amongst them, the signs and tokens of which are soon discernible to an attentive observer, and one whose unofficial character awakens no distrust on their part. " The Customhouse Sharks," as they call them, are not their most formidable foes, for they wage a more desperate warfare (as recent circumstansces have too fatally testified) with that part of our naval armament em- ployed by Government on the preventive service. Some of the THE SMUGGLER, 123 ' vessels on those stations are perpetually hovering along our coasts ; but in spite of their utmost vigilance, immense quantities of contraband goods are almost nightly landed, and nowhere with more daring frequency than in the Isle of Wight. In my rambles along its shores, the inhabitants of almost every cottage and fisherman's cabin, for many miles round, became known to me. I have at all times a peculiar pleasure in con- versing with this class of people — in listening with familiar interest (to which they are never insensible) to the details of their feelings and opinions, and to the homely history of their obscure lives and domestic cares. With some of my new acquaintances, I had ventured to expos- tulate on the iniquitous as well as hazardous nature of their secret traffic ; and many wives and mothers sanctioned, with ap- proving looks and half-constrained expressions, my remonstrances to their husbands and sons. These, for the most part, listened in sullen, down-looking silence (not, however, expressive of ill-will towards me), or sometimes answered my expostulations with the remark, that " Poor folk must live y" — that half of them, during the war, had earned an honest livelihood in channels that were now closed against them. They were turned adrift to shift for themselves, and must do something to get bread for their little ones. " And after all," they would generally conclude, " while the rich and great folk, and some of those that made the laws too" (their ladies and daughters at least), " were pleased to encourage their trade, it was a plain case they could not think much harm of those that carried it on." This last was a stinging observation — one that generally silenced me for the moment, while it gave fresh fervency to my earnest wish, that the penalties of the law could be enforced ten, twenty, nay, an hundred fold, on those rich and great ones, who, in the mere wantonness of vanity, luxury, or idleness, tempted 124 THE SMUGGLER. these poor creatures to offend, and subjected them to the sever< but necessary awards of retributive justice. Among those poor families was one, at whose cabin I stoppec oflenest, and lingered longest in my evening rambles. The littlt dwelling was in a manner wedged into a cleft of the grey rockl up which, on every little shelf-like platform, the hand of industrj had accumulated garden-mould, and fostered a beautiful vegeta- tion ; and, immediately before it, a patch of the loveliest green, sward sloped down to the edge of the sea-sand, enamelled with aromatic wild thyme, and dotted, nearest the ocean, with tufts of thrift, centaury, and eringo, and with the gold-coloured blossoms! of the horn poppy. The romantic appearance and peculiar neat-:! ness of the little cabin, had early attracted my attention, whichl was further interested by the singular appearance of its owner.' He was a large, tall man, of about sixty, distinguished by an airi of uncommon dignity, and by an accoutrement, the peculiarity of: which, combined with his commanding carriage, and countenance: of bold daring, always brought the Buccaneer of old times to my remembrance. He wore large loose trowsers, of shaggy dark: blue cloth ; a sort of woollen vest, broadly striped with the samei colour, for the most part open at the throat and bosom, and girt : in below with a broad leathern belt, in which a brace of horse- pistols were generally stuck, and not un frequently an old cutlass ; and over his shoulder was slung a cross-belt of broad white knit- ting, to which was suspended a powder-flask, a leathern pouch, and often a short, thick duck-gun. A dark fur cap was the usual covering of his head ; and his thick, black, curling hair, was not so much intermingled with grey, as streaked here and there with locks of perfect whiteness. Add to this costume, a fortnight's growth of grizzly, stubborn beard (the crop was seldom of less standing), and such was the tout ensemble of this uncommon per- sonage. Notwithstanding this formidable equipment, however, his ostensible employment was the harmless one of a fisher of the THE SMUGGLER. 125 deep — though, to all appearance, not very zealously pursued ; for, in the daytime, he was oftener to be seen lying along the shore ia the broad sunshine, or sauntering by the water's edge, or perched like a sea-fowl, immovable for hours, on some commanding sta- tion of the crag, always with a pipe in his mouth — a meerschaum pipe — (uncommon luxury for an English boatman !) — and a spy- glass ever in his hand, or at his eye. He was oftener to be seen thus, or cleaning the lock of his gun under the shadow of some projecting cliff, than busied with the trawling-net, or the eel-spear, or the hook and line, in his little boat, or mending her sails, or his nets, by the cabin-door. At almost all hours of the night a light was seen burning within the cottage ; and the master of the family, with his son, was invariably absent, jvhen, as it often chanced with me, "I looked in on them after dark, on my return from some distant spot to my own habitation. At such an hour, I was sure to find the female inmates (the wife and daughter of the man I have been describing), in a state of evident perturbation, for which it was easy to assign a suffi- cient cause ; but I had remonstrated in vain with the infatuated husband and father, and it was still more fruitless to argue with the helpless women. Richard Campbell was not a native of the Isle of Wight, nor one trained, from his youth up, " to go down to the sea in ships, and occupy his business in deep waters." For many generations his family had owned and cultivated a small farm in the north of England. Himself had been bred a tiller of the ground, contrary to his own wishes, which had point- ed from his very cradle to a seafaring life : and all his hours of boyish pastime and youthful leisure, were spent on the salt ele- ment, close to which, at the head of a small bay or inlet, lay his paternal farm. Just as he had attained his twentieth year his fa- ther died, leaving him (an only child) the inheritor of all his little property, and at liberty to follow the bent of his own inclinations. 28 126 THE SMUGGLER. The temptation was strong. Tumultuous wishes and roving thoughts were busy in his heart ; but " he was the only son of hi&' mother, and she was a widow." He stayed to comfort her old age, and to cultivate his little inheritance ; partly influenced also by his attachment to a pretty blue-eyed girl, whose sweeter smiles rewarded his filial piety, and whose hand in wedlock was, shortly after, its richer recompence. The widowed mother continued to dwell under her son's roof, tended, like Naomi, by a daughter-in-law as loving and dutiful as Ruth, but happier than the Hebrew matron, in the possession of both her children. Many children were born to the young couple, "as likely boys and girls as ever ^e sun shone upon," said the wife of Campbell ; from whom, at sundry times, I collected the simple annals I am relating. " But God was very good to them. He bade their store increase with their increasing family, and provided bread for the little mouths that were sent to crave for it. She never grudged her own labour ; and a better or a kinder husband than she was blessed with, never woman had. To be sure he had his fancies and particular ways ; and, when he could steal a holyday, all his delight was to spend it on the salt waves (the worse luck !) for many an, anxious hour had she known even then, when he was out in his little boat, shooting wild-fowl, in the wild winter nights. But no harm ever came to him; only their eldest boy, their dear Maurice" (the mother never named him without glistening eyes), " took after his father's fancy for the sea, and set his heart upon being a sailor." And the father called to mind his own youthful longings, and would not control those of his child ; especially as he had yet another son, a fine promising lad, who took kindly to the farming business, and already lightened his father's labour. The mother heard all, and " spake not a word though her heart was fit to break,''^ for her sqn's choice was sanctioned by his fa- ther's approbation ; but sorely she grieved at parting with her THE SMUGGLER 127 ^rst-born, (what feelings are like those of a mother towards her first-born ?) and the young Maurice was her most loving and du- tiful child, and she had reared him with such care as only moth- ers can bestow, through the perilous years of a sickly infancy. But the father jested with her fears, and entered with the ardour of a boyish heart into his son's enterprising hopes ; and at last the youth (who could not rest satisfied with her silent acquiescence) wrung from her a faltering and reluctant consent. And when she shook her head mournfully at his promises of bringing rare and beautiful things from foreign parts for her and all his sisters, coaxed a half smile into her tearful looks, by concluding with — " And then, mother ! I will stay quiet at home amongst you all, and never want to leave you again." — " My Maurice sailed away," said the mother, " and from that time every thing went wrong. Before he had been gone a month, we buried my husband's moth- er ; but God called her away in a good old age, so we had no right to take on heavily at her loss, though we felt it sorely, and so did all our little ones, who had learned to read their bible on her knees." In addition to his own land, Campbell cultivated several acres which he rented of a neighbouring gentleman, whose disposition was restlessly litigious, and Campbell's being unhappily fiery and impetuous, disputes arose between them, and proceeded to such lengths that both parties finally referred their differences to legal abitrament. After many tedious and apparently frivolous delays, particularly trying to Campbell's irritable nature, the cause came on, and sentence was given in favour of his opponent ; and from that hour he adopted the firm persuasion that justice, impartial justice, was unattainable in the land of his fathers. This fatal prejudice turned all his thoughts to bitterness — ■ haunted him like a phantom in his fields — by his cheerful hearth — in his once peaceful bed, in the very embraces of his children, " who were born," he would tell them, in the midst of their inno- 128 THE SMUGGLER. cent caresses, " slaves and bond-servants in the land where their fathers had been freemen." In this state of mind he listened, with eager credulity, to the speculative visions of a few agricultural adventurers who had embarked their small capitals on American adventure, and were on the eve of quitting their native country to seek wealth, liberty, and independence, in the back settlements of the United States. In an evil hour Campbell was prevailed on to embark his for- tunes with those of the self-expatriated emigrants. The tears and entreaties of his wife and children availed not to deter him from his rash purpose, and the unhappy mother was torn from her beloved home, where her heart lingered with a thousand tender reminiscences ; and, most tenaciously of all, in the affecting thought, that if ever her absent sailor returned to his native country, his first steps would be directed to the once happy dwelling of his parents, where the cold looks of the stranger would be all his welcome. The ship on board which the Campbells were embarked, with their five remaining children, and all their worldly goods, per- formed two-thirds of her course with prosperous celerity ; but, as she neared her wished-for haven, the wind, which had hitherto been uninterruptedly favourable, became unsteady, then contrary, so that they lost sea-way for many days. At last a storm, which had been gathering with awfully gradual preparation, burst forth with tremendous fury. Three days and nights the vessel drove before it ; but on the fourth, the masts and rigging went over- board, and before the wreck could be cut away, a plank in the ship's side was stove in by the floating timbers. In the general hurry and confusion, when all hands were employed in hacking away the encumbrances and getting up jury-masts, the leak re- mained undiscovered, till the water in the hold had gained to a depth of many feet ; and though the pumps were set to work, and kept going, by the almost superhuman exertions of crew and pas THE SMUGGLER. 129 sengers, all was unavailing, and to betake themselves to the boat, was the last hurried and desperate resource. Campbell had suc- ceeded in lowering his three youngest children into the long-boat already crowded with their fellow-sharers in calamity, and was preparing to send down his youngest son and daughter, and to follow them with their mother in his arms, when a woman, press- ing before him with frantic haste, leaped down into the overloaded boat, which upset in an instant, and the perishing cry of twenty drowning creatures mingled with the agonizing shrieks of parents, husbands, and children, from the deck of the sinking ship. One other boat was yet alongside ; and Campbell was at last seated in her, with his two remaining children and their unconscious mother, who had sunk into a state of blessed insensibility, when the drowning screams of her lost little ones rang in her ears. Five-and-twenty persons were wedged in this frail bark, with a cask of water and a small bag of biscuit. An old sail had been flung down with these scanty stores, which they contrived to hoist, on the subsiding of the storm, towards the evening of their first day's commitment, in that "forlorn hope," to the wide world of waters. Their compass had gone down in the long-boat, and faint indeed were their hopes of ever reaching land, from which they had no means of computing their distance. But the unsleeping eye of Providence watched over them ; and, on the fourth day of their melancholy progress, a sail making towards them was des- cried on the verge of the horizon. It neared, and the ship proved to be a homeward-bound West India trader, on board which the perishing creatures were received with prompt humanity ; and on her reaching her appointed haven (Portsmouth), Campbell, with his companions in misfortune, and the remnant of his late flour- ishing family, once more set foot on British earth. He had saved about his person a small residue of his property ; but wholly in- suflacient to equip them for a second attempt, had he even been •io obstinately bent on the prosecution of his Transatlantic scheme, 28* 130 THE SMUGGLER. as to persist in it against (what appeared to him) the declared will of Providence. Once, in his younger days, he had visited the Isle of Wight; and the remembrance of its bowery cottages and beautiful bays were yet fresh in his mind. He crossed overwithl his family, and a few weeks put him in possession of a neat cabin and small fishing-boat ; and for a time the little family was sub- sisted in frugal comfort by the united industry of the father and son. Soon after their settlement in the island, their daughter! (matured to lovely womanhood) married a respectable and enter- prising young man, the owner of a pilot-vessel. In the course of three years she brought her husband as many children ; and du- ring that time all went well with them. But her William's oc- cupation (a lucrative one in war-time) exposed him to frequent and fearful dangers ; and one tempestuous winter's night, having ventured out to the assistance of a foundering sloop, his own little vessel perished in the attempt ; and the morning's tide floated her husband's corpse to the feet of his distracted wife, as she stood on the sea-beach watching every white sail that became visible through the haze of the grey-clouded dawn. The forlorn widow and her orphan babes found a refuge in her father's cabin ; and he and his son redoubled their laborious ex- ertions for their support. But these were heavy claims ; and the poor family but just contrived to live and struggle on, barely sup- plied with even the coarsest necessaries. When temptation assails the poor man, by holding out to his grasp the means of lessening the hardships and privations of those dear to him as his own soul, shall we deal out to Mm hard measure of judgment, and make more indulgent allowance for those who, without the same excuses to plead, set him the example of yielding ? Campbell (having first been seduced into casual and inconsid- erable ventures) was at last enrolled in the gang of smugglers who carried on their perilous trade along the coast ; and from that time, though comparative plenty revisited his cottage, and THE SMUGGLER. 131 even seasons of temporary abundance, the careless smile of inno- cent security no longer beamed on the faces of its elder inmates. Margaret struggled long, with well-principled firmness, against the infatuation of her husband and son ; but flushed with success, emboldened by association with numbers, and finally rendered by habit quite insensible to the moral turpitude of their proceedings, they resisted her anxious remonstrances ; and at last, heart-sick of fruitless opposition, and shrinking from the stern rebuke and angry frown of him who had been for so many happy years the affectionate partner of her joys and sorrows, she first passively acquiesced in their unlawful traffic, and in the end was brought to contribute her share towards its furtherance, by secretly dis- posing of the prohibited articles. During my residence in the Isle of Wight, I had become ac- quainted with two or three families resident within a few mrles of the spot where I had taken up my habitation. With one of these, consisting of a widow lady of rank and her two grown-up daughters, I had been previously acquainted in London, and at other places. They had been recommended by the medical ad- viser of the youngest daughter, who was threatened by a pulmo- nary affection, to try the effects of a winter at the back of the island ; and I was agreeably surprised to find them inhabitants of a beautiful villa — " a cottage of humility" — at about three miles' distance from my own cabin at the under cliff". They were agreeable and accomplished women ; and a few hours spent in their company formed a pleasing and not unfrequent variety in my solitary life ; and, in the dearth of society incident to their marine retreat, my fair friends condescended to tolerate, and even welcome the eccentric old bachelor with their most gracious smiles. One November evening, my ramble had terminated at the villa ; and I had just drawn my chair into the cheerful circle round the tea-table, when a powdered footman entered with a very knowing 132 THE SMUGGLER. look, and spoke a few words, in a nnysterious half whisper, to his lady, who smilingly replied aloud, " Oh, tell her to come in ; there is no one here of whose observation she need be apprehen- sive !" the communication of which assurance quickly ushered into the room my new acquaintance Margaret Campbell. An old rusty black bonnet was pulled down so as almost to shade her face from sight ; and her dingy red cloak (under which she car- ried some bulky parcel) was strained tight round a figure that seemed endeavouring to contract itself into the least possible com- pass. At sight of me she started and shrunk back, dropping her eyes with a fearful curtsy. " Ah, Margaret !" I exclaimed, too well divining the secret of her darkling embassy. But the lady of the house encouraged her to advance, saying, " Oh, never mind Mr. , he will not inform against us, though he shakes his head so awfully. Well, have you brought the tea ?" " And the lace, and gloves, and the silk scarfs ?" chimed in the young ladies, with eager curiosity sparkling in their eyes, as they almost dragged the precious budget, with their own fair hands, from beneath the poor woman's cloak. " Have you brought our scarfs at last ? What a time we have been expect- ing them !" " Yes, indeed," echoed Lady Mary ; " and, depending on your promise, I have been quite distressed for tea. There is really no dependence on your word, Mrs. Campbell ; and yet I have been at some pains to impress on you a due sense of your Christian duties, amongst which you have often heard me remark (and I am sure the tracts I have given you inculcate the same doctrine), that a strict attention to truth is one of the most essential. Well, Where's the tea ?" " Oh, my lady !" answered the poor woman, with an humbly deprecating tone and look, " if you did but know what risks we THE SMUGGLER. 133 run to get these things, and how uncertain our trade is, you would not wonder that we cannot always oblige our customers so punc- tually as we would wish. I've brought the scarfs and the other things for the young ladies ; but the tea" — " What, no tea yet ! Really, it is too bad, Mrs. Campbell ; I must try if other people are not more to be depended on ; and, indeed, my maid has lately recommended to me a friend of hers, who is, she assures me, the most punctual creature in the world, as well as a very serious person ; and desirous, besides, of sub- scribing to my penny collection for the conversion of the Hindoos, which you know I have never succeeded in getting you to do regularly, though I gave you that affecting tract, with the pic- tures, about Jaggernaut ; and, in short, Mrs. Campbell" — " Indeed — indeed, my lady, we have tried hard to get the goods for your ladyship ; and your ladyship may stop the last three weeks for Jiggernot out of the payment for the scarfs, and you shall have the tea a bargain ; but there's such a sharp look-out now, and the Ranger has been cruising off the island for this week past, and our people haven't been able to get nothing ashore ; and yet I'm sure my husband and son have been upon the watch along the beach, and in the boat, these three nights, in all this dreadful weather ; and to-night, though it blows a gale, they're out again, God help 'em !" And the poor woman cast a tearful shuddering glance towards the window, against which (sounding wildly through the triple barrier of blinds, shutters, and the thick rich folds of the crimson curtains) a tempest of wind and sleet drove uproariously. The lady condescended to be appeased by these assurances that the foreign luxury should be obtained for her that night, if human exertions, made at the peril of human life, could succeed in land- ing it. The silks, &c., were examined and approved of by the young ladies, and finally taken and paid for, after a word of hag- gling about " the price of blood !" as the purchase-money might 134 THE SMUGGLER. too justly have been denominated, and after deducting from it, by their mamma's direction, Margaret's arrear of threepence to her ladyship's Hindoo collection. Mrs. Campbell received her money with a heavy sigh, and humbly curtsying, withdrew from the presence, not without (in- voluntarily as it seemed) stealing an abashed glance of my coun- tenance as she passed me. She was no sooner out of the room than her fair customers began expatiating with rapturous volu- bility on the beauty and cheapness of their purchases — an incon- sistency of remark that puzzled me exceedingly, as, not five minutes before, while bargaining with the seller, they had averred her goods to be of very inferior manufacture, and exorbitantly dear. " Ay, but " observed the managing mamma, " you were both in such a hurry, or you might have made better bar- gains. But it's always the way ; and yet I kept winking at you all the while. I should have got those things half as cheap again. '^ Indulgent as I am by nature to the little whims and foibles of the sex, I could not, on the present occasion, refrain from hinting to my fair friends a part of what was passing in my mind. At first they laughed at my quizzical scruples, resorting, for their defence, to the commonplace remark, that " the few trifles they occasionally purchased could make no material difference ; for that the people would smuggle all the same, and meet with plenty of encouragement from others, if not from them." And when I pressed the question a little further, suggesting to their con- sciences, whether all who encouraged the forbidden traffic were not, in a great measure, responsible for the guilt incurred, and the lives lost in the prosecution of it, they bid me not talk of such horrid things, and hurried away their recent purchases in a sort of disconcerted silence, that spoke any thing rather than remorse and purposed reformation. My " sermonizing," as it was termed, seemed to have thrown a spell over the frank sociability that p THE SMUGGLER. 135 usually characterized our evening coteries. Conversation lan- guished — the piano was out of tune, and the young ladies' voices not in tune. Their mamma broke her netting silk every three minutes ; and, from a dissertation on the rottenness of modern silk, digressed insensibly into the subject of foreign missions, ladies' committees, and branch Bible associations ; ever and anon, as the storm waxed louder and louder, interspersing her remarks with pathetic lamentations at the perverseness with which the very elements seemed to conspire with government against the safe landing of the commodities her " soul longed after." The storm did indeed rage fearfully, and its increasing violence warned me to retrace my homeward way, before the disappear- ance of a yet glimmering moon should leave me to pursue it in total darkness. Flapping my hat over my eyes, and wrapping myself snugly round in the thick folds of a huge boat-cloak, I sal- lied forth from the cheerful brightness of Lady Mary's boudoir, into the darkness visible of the wild scene without. Wildly mag- nificent it was, in truth ! My path lay along the shore, against which mountainous waves came rolling in long ridges, with a sound like thunder. Sleet, falling at intervals, mingled with the sea surf, whirled high into the air in showers of foam, and both were driven into my face by the south-west blast, with a violence that obliged me frequently to stop and gasp for breath. Large masses of clouds now hurried in sublime disorder across the dim struggling moon, whose pale watery rays yet gleamed at intervals, with ghastly indistinctness, along the white sands, and on the frothy crests of the advancing billows. As I pursued my way, buffeting the conflicting elements, other sounds, methought, appeared to mingle in their wild uproar. The hoarse and shrill intonation of human voices seemed blended with the wailing and sobbing of the storm, and the creaking and la- bouring of planks, and the splash of oars, was distinguishable, I thought, in the long lull of the retreating waves. I was not de- 136 THE SMUGGLER. ceived ; a momentary gleam of moonlight glanced on the white sails of a lugger in the offing ; and one of her boats — a black speck on the billows — was discernible, working her way laborious- ly towards the coast. At that moment, another boat shot along close in-shore, with the alacrity of lightning ; and, at the same instant, a man rushed by me, whose tall remarkable figure I rec- ognised for Campbell, even in that dim momentary glance. He darted on with the rapidity of an arrow, and immediately I heard a long shrill whistle, echoed and re-echoed by another and another, from the cliffs, from the shore, and from the sea. Those sights and sounds indicated too plainly that the demons of mischief were at work, and the time and scene were gloomily in unison with their hour of evil agency. The moon had almost withdrawn her feeble light, and I could no longer discern any objects but the white sands under my feet, and the sea-foam that frothed over them. More than two miles of my homeward way yet lay before me, and in that space I should have to cross two gullies furrowed through the sands by land-springs from the cliffs. Intermingled and bedded in these, were numerous rocky frag- ments and foundered masses of the cliff, amongst which it was easy to pick one's daylight way; but the impenetrable darkness that now enveloped every object, made me pause, to consider how far it might be safe, or even practicable, for a stranger to perse- vere in the wave-washed path. A light streaming from one of the windows of Campbell's cottage, a few furlongs up the beach, deci- ded the result of my deliberations, and I turned towards the little dwelling, purposing to apply there for a light and a guide, should the younger Campbell chance to be at home. I had no need to knock for admittance — the door was wide open, and, on its threshold, stood the mother of the family. The light from within slanted athwart her face and figure, and I could perceive that she was listening with intense breathlessness, and THE SMUGGLER. 137 with eyes straining, as if they sought to pierce the darkness, to- wards the quarter from whence I was approaching. Her ear soon caught the sound of my step on the loose shingle, and she started forward, exclaiming, " Oh, Amy ! — thank God I — here they are !" The young woman sprang to the door with a light, and its beams, alas ! revealed my then unwelcome face, instead of that of the father and husband. — " Oh, sir, I thought — " was poor Margaret's hurried, unfinished exclamation, when she discovered her mistake, " but you are kindly welcome," she ad- ded, quickly recovering herself, " for this is not a night for any Christian soul to be out in, though my husband and son, — Oh, sir ! they are both — both tossing in one little boat on that dreadful sea : and that is not all — the Ranger's boats are on the look-out for the lugger they are going to help to unload, and God knows what may happen ! I prayed and beseeched them for this night only to stay peaceably at home, such a night of weather as was working up, but all in vain. We had promised my lady, and the cargo was to be landed to-night. Oh, sir ! my lady, and the like of she, little think — " and the poor woman burst into tears. This was no time for admonition and reproof, or for those consolatory observations so often made to the unhappy, of " I told you it would come to this ;" or, " This would not have happened if you had taken my advice ;" or, " Well, you have brought it all upon yourself." When God has spoken, the fellow-mortal may well forbear all language but that of sympathy and comfort, and He had now spoken to the hearts of these poor people. The fatal consequen- ces of their illicit traffic, and its nefariousness, were brought home to their minds more forcibly by the agonizing suspense they were enduring, than could have been effected by any arguments I might have laboured to enforce. I did my best to allay those terrors — to dispel them would have been impossible, while the tempest ra- ged louder and louder, and, independent of that, there were other 29 138 THE SMUGGLER. grounds of too reasonable apprehension. I suggested the proba- bility of Campbell's not being in the boat, as he had passed me on shore so recently ; but, at all events, he and his son were abroad with a desperate gang, expecting, and armed against re^ sistance. Forgetful of my own purpose of borrowing a lantern to proceed homeward, I entered the cabin with the distressed fe- males, whose looks thanked me for not turning away from them in their hour of trial. A cheerful fire brightened the interior of the little dwelling, where neatness and order still bore testimony that the habits of its: inmates had at one time been those of peaceful and honest indus-. try. The fire-light gleamed ruddy red on the clean brick floor ;| a carved oak table, and a. iew heavy old chairs of the same fash- ion, were bright with the polish of age and housewifery ; and one, distinguished by a high stuffed back and arms and a green | cushion, was placed close beside the ingle-nook, the easily distin- guished seat of the father of the family. His pipe lay close at hand (the curious meerschaum pipe) on the high mantelpiece, where a pair of brass candlesticks, a few china cups, some tall slim ale glasses (their long shanks ornamented with white spiral lines), two foreign shells, some little French pictures of saints, in all the colours of the rainbow, and sundry tobacco-stoppers of fantastical figure, were arranged in symmetrical order. The dresser was elaborately set out with its rows of yellow ware, its mugs of various shape and size, and quaint diversity of mh to and device, its japanned tray and mahogany tea-chest, proudly conspicuous in the centre. The walls were hung round with nets, baskets, and fishing apparatus, and high over the chimneypiece, part of a whale's jaw, and two long crossed peacock's feathers, were affixed in a sort of trophy. All sorts of useful and nonde- script articles were suspended to the rafter ; but Campbell's duck- gun, and his two clumsy pistols, rested not on the hooks he was wont to call his armoury. An unfinished net was suspended by THE SMUGGLER. 139 the chimney corner, at which the youthful widow had recently been employed. She resumed her seat and shuttle, but the hand that held it often rested idly on her lap, while her eyes were riv- eted with mournful solicitude on the countenance of her mother. There was something particularly interesting in the appearance of this young woman. Not beauty of feature, for, excepting a pair of fine dark eyes, shaded by very long black eyelashes, there was nothing uncommon in her countenance, and her naturally dark and colourless complexion was now deeply tinged with the sallow hue of sickness. Her lips were whiter than her cheeks, and her uncommonly tall figure, bowed down with the burthen of weakness and sorrow, was attenuated to a state that would have amounted to gaunt meagreness, had the frame been less slightly and delicately formed. But when she lifted up those dark eyes, their melancholy light was touchingly in unison with the general character of that shadowy figure that seemed almost transparent to the working of the wounded spirit within. Amy's young heart had never recovered the shock of her Wil- liam's untimely death, and her timid tender spirit was overbur- thened with a heavy load of conscious self-reproach, that for her sake, and that of her infants, her father and brother had involved themselves in the perilous unlawfulness of their present courses. As she sat looking in her mother's face, I could read in hers the thoughts that were passing in her mind. At last, a large tear, that had been slowly gathering, swelled over her quivering eye- lid, and rising suddenly, and letting fall the netting and shuttle, she came and edged herself on one corner of her mother's chair, and clasping one arm round her neck, and hiding her face on her shoulder, sobbed out, " Mother !" — " My Amy ! my dear child !" whispered the fond parent, tenderly caressing her, " why should you always reproach yourself so ? You, who have been a good dutiful child, and a comfort to us, and a blessing, ever since you was born ? Before your poor father fell into evil company, and 140 THE SMUGGLER. hearkened to their wicked persuasions, did we not contrive to maintain ourselves, and your dear fatherless babies, by God's blessing on our honest industry ? And where should you have taken refuge, my precious Amy, but under your parents' roof?" A look of eloquent gratitude and a tender silent kiss were Amy's reply to that soothing whisper. For a few moments this touch- ing intercourse of hearts beguiled them from the intense anxiety with which they had been listening to every sound from without ; but the redoubling violence of the storm roused them fearfully from that temporary abstraction, and they started, and shuddered, and looked in one another's faces, and in mine, as if imploring comfort, when, alas ! I had only sympathy to bestow. The con- flict of winds and waters was indeed tremendous, and I felt too forcibly convinced, that, if the poor Campbells were exposed to it in their little nut-shell of a boat, nothing short of a miracle could save them from a watery grave. There was some chance, however, that the landing of the con- traband bales might have been effected by the lugger's boats with- out help from shore ; and in that case, the prolonged absence of the husband and son might arise from their having proceeded with others of the gang to convey them to some inland place of con- cealment. The probability of this suggestion was eagerly caught at by the anxious pair, but the ray of hope elicited from it, gleam- ed with transient brightness. A gust of wind, more awful than any that had preceded it, rushed past with deafening uproar, and as it died away, low sobs, and shrill moaning sounds, seemed mingled with its deep bass. We were all silent — now straining our sight from the cabin-door into the murky darkness without — now gathering together round the late blazing hearth, where the neglected embers emitted only a fitful glimmer. The wind, whist- ling through every chink and cranny, waved to and fro the flame of the small candle declining in its socket, and at last the hour of twelve was struck by " the old clock that ticked behind the door" THE SMUGGLER. 141 in its dark heavy case. At that moment a large venerable-look- ing book, that lay with a few others on a hanging shelf near the chimney, slipped from tl.e edge on M'hich it had been overbal- anced, and fell with a dull heavy sound at Margaret's feet. It was the Bible that had belonged to her husband's mother, and, stooping to pick up and replace it, she perceived that it had fall- en open at the leaf, where, twenty-two years back from that very day, the venerable parent had recorded with pious gratitude the birth of her son's first-born. " Ah, ray dear sou ! my own good Maurice !" ejaculated the heart-struck mother, " I was not used to forget the day God gave thee to me — Thou wert the first to leave me, and now — " She was interrupted by the low indistinct murmur of a human voice, that sounded near us. I started — but Amys ear was familiar with the tone — it was that of one of her little one's, talking and moaning in its sleep. The small cham- ber where they lay, opened from that we were in, and the young mother crept softly towards the bed of her sleeping infants. She was still bending over them, when the outer door was suddenly dashed open, and Campbell — Campbell himself, burst into the cottage. Oh ! with what a shriek of ecstasy was he welcomed — with what a rapture of inarticulate words, clinging embraces, and tearful smiles ! — But the joy was shortlived, and succeeded by a sudden chill of nameless apprehension ; for, disengaging himself roughly from the arms of his wife and daughter, he made straight towards his own old chair, and flinging himself back in it, covered his face with his clasped "hands. One only cause for this fearful agitation suggested itself to his trembling wife — " My son ! my son !" she shrieked out, grasping her husband's arm — " What have you done with him, Campbell ? He is dead ! He is murdered ! Oh ! I knew it would come to this — " " Peace, woman !" shouted Campbell, in a voice of thunder, uncovering his face as he started up wildly from his chair with a look of appalling fierceness, — " Peace, woman ! your son is 29* 142 THE SMUGGLER. safe ;" then his voice abruptly sinking into a hoarse low tone, hej added, " This is not Jus blood," and he flung on the table before him his broad white cross belt, on which the tokens of a deadly fray were frightfully apparent. " Campbell !" I said, " unhappy man ! what have you done ? To what have you exposed your wretched family? For their sakes escape — -escape for your life, while the darkness favours you." He looked at me for a moment as if wavering, but im- mediately resuming the voice and aspect of desperate sternness, replied, — •' It is too late — they are at my heels — the bloodhounds ! They tracked me home." And while he yet spoke, the trampling of feet, and the sound of loud voices confirmed his words. The door burst open, and several rough-looking men in sailors' garb rushed 1 into the cottage. '* Ah ! we have you, my man," they vociferated ; " we have you safe, though the young villain has given us the slip." — "Vil- lain !" shouted Campbell, " who dares call my boy a villain ?" But, checking himself instantaneously, he added, in a subdued quiet tone, — " But I am in your power, and you must say what you please, and do what you will." And so saying, he once more threw himself back in his old chair, in sullen submissiveness. The women clung weeping around him, his unhappy wife exclaim- ing, — " Oh ! what has he done ? If there has been mischief, it is not his fault — he would not hurt a fly : for all his rough way he is as tender-hearted as a child. — Richard !• Richard ! speak to them, tell them that they have mistaken you for another." He neither spoke nor moved, nor lifted his eyes up from the floor on which they were riveted. " No mistake at all, mistress !" said one of the men, " he has only shot one of our people, that's all, and we must fit him with a pair of these bracelets." And so saying, he began fastening a pair of handcuffs on Campbell's wrists. He offered no resistance. THE SMUGGLER. 143 and seemed, indeed, almost unconscious of what was doing, when the eldest of Amy's children, a pretty little girl about four years old, who, having been awakened by the noise, had crept sofdy from her bed, and made her way unperceived towards her grand- father, burst into a fit of loud sobbing, and, climbing up upon his knees, and clasping her little arms about his neck, and laying her soft cheek to his dark rough one, lisped out — " Send away naughty men, grandad — naughty men frighten Amy !" The springs of sensibility that seemed frozen up in Campbell's bosom, were touched electrically by the loving voice and caresses of his little darling. He hugged her to his bosom, which began to heave convulsively, and for a few minutes the tears of the old man and the little child mingled in touching silence. As he clasped her thus, the handcuff that was already fastened on his left wrist pressed painfully on her tender arm, and as she shrank from it he seemed first to perceive the ignominious fetter. His features were wrung by a sudden convulsion ; but the expression was momentary, and, turning round his head towards his weeping daughter, he said quietly, " Amy, my dear child ! take the poor baby — I little thought, dear lamb ! she would ever find hurt or harm in her old grandfather's arms." It was a touching scene — even the rough sailors seemed affected by it, and they were more gently completing their operation of attaching the other manacle, when again voices and footsteps were heard approaching; again the door opened, and another party of sailors entered, bearing amongst them a ghastly burthen, the lifeless body of the unfortunate young man, who had been sho in the execution of his duty, by the rash hand of the wretched man before us, whose fire was not the less fatal for having been discharged almost aimlessly in the bustle of a desperate conflict. " We've missed our boats, and we could not let him lie bleeding on the beach, poor fellow !" said one of the new comers, in reply to an exclamation of surprise from those of their party already in '*4 THE SMUGGLER. po^ses^ioa of the cottage. Camptell's agitation was fearful to be held; he tiin;ed slmdjering frcn the «;^i,t of his victi.n_the wo,non stood petrified with horror ; I alone, retaining some degree of st>h-posso33ioa, advanced to examine if human aid might yet avail to save the poor youth, who was laid, apparently a corpse, on three chftira noxt the door. Comprehending my purpose, the humane and serviceable ten- derness of poor Margaret's nature prevailed even in that hour of her extreme distress, and she came trembling to assist me in that painful examination. The young man's face had dropt aside on one shoulder towards the wall, and was almost covered by the luxuriant hair (a sailor's pride) which had escaped from the confining ribbon, and fell in dark wet masses across his cheek and brow. His right hand hung down over the side of the chair, and taking it into mine I found that It was already as cold as marble, and that all pulsation had ceased. Margaret had as promptly as her agitation would permit re- moved his black handkerchief, and unbuttoned the collar of his checked shirt, and though she started and shuddered inwardly at the sight of blood thickly congealed over his bosom, persisted he. roically in her trying task. A handkerchief had been hastily stuffed down as a temporary pledget into the wounded breast. In removing it, Margaret's finger became entangled by a black silk cord passed round the youth's neck, to which a small locket was suspended. She was hastily putting it aside, when the light held by one of the sailors fell upon the medallion (a perforated gold pocket-piece), and her eye glancing towards it, a half-choked ex- clamation broke from her lips, and looking up I saw her standing motionless-breathless— her hands clasped together with convul- sive vehemence, and her eyes almost starting from their sockets, in the state of indescribable horror with which they were riveted I ™^™a.E^. us on that bosom-token. At last a cry (such a one as my ears never before heard, the recollection of which still curdles the blood in my veins) burst from her lips, and brought her daughter and hus- band (even the unhappy man himself, manacled as he was) to the side of his victim, over whom Margaret was still bending in lliat intense agony. But at last, as if suddenly conscious that her hus- band stood beside her, and was gazing with her on that ghastly spectacle (while large cold drops gathered on his brow, and his white lips quivered as he gazed), she looked up in his face with such a look as I never shall forget. It was one of horrid calm- ness, more fearful to behold than the wildest expression of passion- ate agony, and grasping his fettered hand firmly in one of hers, and with the other pointing to the perforated gold piece, as it lay on the mangled bosom of the dead youth, she said in a low, dis- tinct, unnatural voice — " Who is that, Richard ?" He started, and his eyes, which had been riveted with an expression of deep horror on the bloody work of his rash hand, now caught sight of the gold token, and from that wandered wildly and hurriedly over the lifeless form, while his whole frame shook as if in the paroxysm of an ague fit. Gradually the universal tremor subsided — the wandering eyes settled into a ghastly stare, the convulsive work- ings of the muscles of his face gave way to a rigid fixedness, and he stood like one petrified in the very burst of despair. Once more Margaret repeated, in that quiet deliberate tone, " Who is that, Richard ?" and, suddenly leaning forward, dashed aside from the face of the corpse the dark locks that had hitherto concealed it. Then, clasping her hands in a sort of joyous triumph, she cried out in a shrill voice — " I knew it was my son ! My son is come home at last ! Richard, welcome your son !" and, snatching her husband's hand, she endeavoured to pull him forward towards the pale face of the dead. But he to whom this heartrending appeal was spoken, replied only by one deep groan, that seemed to burst 14C THE SMUGGLER up, as it were, the very fountains of his heart. He staggered back a few paces — his eyes closed — the convulsion of a moment passed over his features, and he sank down as inanimate as the pale corpse that was still clasped with frantic rapture to the bosom of the brain-struck mother. A FAIR PLACE AND PLEASANT. 147 A FAIR PLACE AND PLEASANT. A FAIR place and pleasant, this same world of ours ! Who says there are serpents 'mongst all the sweet flowers Who says every blossom we pluck has its thorn ? Pho ! Pho ! laugh those musty old sayings to scorn. If you roam to the tropics for flowers rich and rare, No doubt there are serpents, and deadly ones, there ; If none but the rose will content ye, 'tis true You may get sundry scratches, and ugly ones too. But pr'ythee look there — Could a serpent find room In that close- woven moss, where those violets bloom ? And reach me that woodbine (you'll get it with ease) — Now, wiseacre ! where are the thorns, if you please ? I say there are angels in every spot. Though our dim earthly vision discerneth them not ; That they're guardians assign'd to the least of us all, By Him who takes note if a sparrow but fall. That they're aye flitting near us, around us, above, On missions of kindness, compassion, and love — 148 A FAIR PLACE AND PLEASANT. That they're glad when we're happy, disturb'd at our tears, Distress'd at our weaknesses, failings, and fears. That they care for the least of our innocent joys, Though we're cozen'd like children with trifles and toys, And can lead us to bloom-beds, and lovely ones too. Where snake never harbour'd, and thorn never grew. THE THREE FRIENDS. 149 THE THREE FRIENDS. STANZAS ACCOMPANYING A PICTURE. We three were loving friends ! — a lowly life Of humble peace, obscure content, we led : Stealing away, withouten noise or strife. Like some small streamlet in its mossy bed. We had our joys in common — wisdom, wit, And learned lore, had little share in those : Thus, by the winter fire we used to sit, Or in the summer evening's warm repose. At our sweet bowery window, op'ning down To the green grass, beneath the flowering lime. When the deep curfew from the distant town Came mellow'd, like the voice of olden time ; And our grave neighbour, from the barn hard by, The great grey owl, sail'd out on soundless wings, And the pale stars, like beams of memory, Brighten'd as twilight veil'd all earthly things. 'Twas then we used to sit, as pictured thus — My pillow, as in childhood, still the same, 30 150 THE THREE FRIENDS. Those venerable knees, and close to us, Old Ranger, pressing oft his jealous claim — And then I loved to feel that gentle hand Laid like a blessing on my head — to hear The " auld-warld" stories, ever at command, By all but her forgotten many a year ; And when we talk'd together of the days We both remember'd — and of those who slept— And the old dog look'd up with wistful gaze. As if he, too, that faithful record kept. We three were loving friends ! — Now one is gone- And one — poor feeble thing ! — declineth fast — And well I w6t,^the days are drawing on Will find me here, the lonely and the last ; But not to tarry long ; and when I go, The stranger's hand will have dominion here, And lay thy walls, my peaceful dwelling ! low, As my last lodging in the churchyard near. TO MY BIRDIE. 151 TO MY BIRDIE. Herb's only you an' me, Birdie ! here's only you an' me ! An' there you sit, you humdrum fowl ! Sae mute an' mopish as an owl — Sour companie ! Sing me a little sang. Birdie ! lilt up a little lay I When folks are here, fu' fain are ye To stun them with yere minstrelsie The lee-lang day ; An' now we're only twa, Birdie ! an' now we're only twa , 'Twere sure but kind an' cozie, Birdie ! To charm, wi' yere wee hurdy-gurdie, Dull Care awa'. Ye ken, when folks are pair'd. Birdie ! ye ken, when folks are pair'd. Life's fair, an' foul and freakish weather, An' light an' lumbrin' loads, thegither Maun a' be shared : An' shared wi' lovin' hearts. Birdie ! wi^ lovin' hearts an' free ; Fu' fashious loads may weel be borne, An' roughest roads to velvet turn. Trod cheerfully. 152 TO MY BIRDIE. We've a' our cares an' crosses, Birdie ! we've a' our cares an' crosses, But then to sulk an' sit sae glum — Hout ! tout ! — what guid o' that can come To mend ane's losses ? Ye're dipt in wiry fence, Birdie ! ye're dipt in wiry fence ; An' aiblins I, gin I mote gang Upo' a wish, wad be or lang Wi' frien's far hence : But what's a wish, ye ken, Birdie ! but what's a wish, ye ken ? Nae cantrip naig, like hers of Fife, Wha darnit wi' the auld weird wife, Flood, fell, an' fen. 'Tis true, ye're furnish'd fair. Birdie ! 'tis true, ye're furnish'd fair, Wi' a braw pair o' bonnie wings, Wad lift ye whar yon lav 'rock sings, High up i' th' air ; But then that wire's sae Strang, Birdie ! but then that wire's sae Strang ! An' I mysel' sae seemin' free — Nae wings have I to waften me Whar fain I'd gang. An' say we'd baith our wills. Birdie ! we'd each our wilfu' way : Whar lav'rocks hover, falcons fly ; An' snares an' pitfa's aften lie Whar wishes stray. TO MY BIRDIE. 153 All' ae thing weel I wot, Birdie ! an' ae thing weel I wot — There's Ane abune the highest sphere, Wha cares for a' His creatures here, Marks ev'ry lot ; Wha guards the crowned king, Birdie ! wha guards the crowned king, An' taketh heed for sic as me — Sae little worth — an' e'en for thee, Puir witless thing ! Sae now, let's baith cheer up, Birdie ! an' sin' we're only twa— Aff han' — let's ilk ane do our best, To ding that crabbit, canker'd pest, Dull Care awa' ' 30=^ OH! ENVIES AN UNC ANNIE GUEST. OH! ENVIE'S AN UNCANNIE GUEST. Oh ! Envie's an uncanny guest, I've heard it a'way, naethin' doublin' i An' yet, she bideth i' my breast, An' winna gang, for a' my routin'. She does na wear her foulest face To scare me quite, the crafty quean ! But whiles, a sentimental grace — A saft, poetic, pensive mien ; As, " Hark !" quo' she, " that mirthfu' sang, yon Birdie's, frae the dancin' rowans, An' mark yon Lassie link alang, Sae lightsome, o'er the dewy gowans. " Oh, warldly honours ! warldly walth ! How far thae lowly lots surpass ye ; Contentit labour, jocund health, O' yon sma' Bird, an' simple Lassie. " Blythe, bonnie creatures ! fain would I, Tho' walth an' fame I've nane to barter — " Sae softly thus will Envie sigh — Sae saintly, like a Virgin Martyr. OH! ENVIE'S AN UNCANNIE GUEST. 15^ Nor scovvleth she, vvi' fiendish leuks, At heaps o' gowd, or laurel crowns, But gravely whispers, " Gowd buys beuks, An' lovin' lauds, an' silver soun's !" An' that's but truth, an' little wrang, We'll a' alloo, in «iclike havers — But let alane the jaud, or lang She starts mair guilefu' clishmaclavers ; As, " Leuk !" quo' she, " yon burly chiel, Wi' red, round face, like Hob the miller, What blund'rin' turn o' Fortune's wheel Gat him the luck o' mickle siller ? " What earthly bliss conceiveth he Ayont a mess o' sav'ry pottage — A flarin' coach — a shrievaltie — A gimcrack castle, or a cottage ? " An' tither wise-like wizen carle, Wi' visage yellow as a crocus, An' eyes a' pucker'd in a harl, That peer through's han' (which mak's a focus) — " At yonner awfu' brick-dust daub, His bran-new Reubens — Reubens ! horrit ! Ay, warrantit by Mynheer Schaub, Wha's pooch'd the ninny's thoosan's for it. " An' that auld crabbit chuff! wha pays Doon hunderts for an auld Elzeevir ; An' that young fule ! wi' four blood bays, An' nae mair spirit than a weaver, OH! ENVIE'S AN UNCANNIE GUEST. " For aught that's really fine an' gran' — An' yet the cretur's travell'd Europe, An' tauks o' Rome, the Vatican, * The Greeks, the Louvre, Voltaire, an' Merope. " An' that gay Dowager an' daughters, Wha've been abroad, an' brought back hame French laces — graces — scented waters — Mosaics — Cameos, an' — fame. " An' a' thae folk rin to an' fra, An' scatter gowd like chucky-stanes ; While ither folk, for aught I knaw, As glide, if no as lucky anes" " Haud, Madame Envie ! Are ye there ?" Quoth I — " Methinks, frae sma' beginnin's, For a' yere sanctimonious air, Ye're gettin' on till serious sinnin's. "What's ways o' ither folk to me ? Or a' their gowd — or hoo they spend it ? Fause hizzie ! let a bodie be Wha'd fain be humble and contentit." '' Oh ! very weel — nae need," quo' she, •' To rage wi' virtue sae heroic ; Mak much o' yere philosophic, Ye'U need it a', my leddy Stoic ! " When Beltane comes, an' a' the dells An' a' the banks an' braes are ringin' Wi' bleat o' lambs, an' tinklin' bells. An' wimplin' burns, an' lintwhites singin' ; OH! ENVIE'S AN UNCANNIE GUEST. 157 " And a' the bonnie broomie knowes Wi' tufts o' flowerin' may are crested, Festoon'd wi' monie a wildin' rose, An' vi'lets, 'mangst the auld roots nested ; " An' ev'ry whiff o' win's a freight, Frae Heav'n itsel', o' sweet sensation — An' ev'ry livin' thing's elate Wi' Nature's blissfu' renovation ; " An' ye're a captive — sick an' lane, Sae sadly frae yere window peerin', Ye'U need a heart o' flint and stane To bar me fairly out o' hearin'. " An' lillin' loud, like merle in June, Comes kintra Joan, but loupin' pass ye — I guess we'll wauk that auncient croon ' Oh, Heaven ! were I some Cottage Lassie !' " 158 RANGER'S GRAVE. RANGER'S GRAVE. MARCH 1825. He's dead and gone ! — He's dead and gone ! And the lime-tree branches wave, And the daisy blows, And the green grass grows, Upon his grave. He's dead and gone ! — He's dead and gone ! And he sleeps by the flowering lime, Where he loved to lie, When the sun was high, In summer time. We've laid him there, for I could not bear His poor old bones to hide In some dark hole. Where rat and mole And blind. worms bide. We've laid him there, where the blessed air Disports with the lovely light. And raineth showers Of those sweet flowers So silver white ; RANGER'S GRAVE. 15'J Where the blackbird sings, and the wild bee's wings Make music all day long, And the cricket at night (A dusky sprite !) Takes up the song. He loved to lie, where his wakeful eye Could keep me still in sight, Whence a word or a sign, Or a look of mine, Brought liim like light. Nor word, nor sign, nor look of mine, From under the lime-tree bough, With bark and bound, And frolic round. Shall bring him now. But he taketh his rest, where he loved best In the days of his life to be. And that place will not Be a common spot Of earth to me. IT 34 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent; Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: May 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724) 779-2111 05 O /^o, ^ \^ oq< .0 ^o •}• c- . y Xi^- O O . fJ, civ /- ^^^ N^ 0,0 A* !.^''.v°\:.