»1 
 
 I LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. I 
 
 #|,i"f f°ro«sM jj^" # 
 
 J UNITED STATES OF AMERICA | 
 

 
 OtA. 
 
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SIMPLE SETTINGS, 
 
 IN VERSE, 
 
 FOR SIX PORTRAITS AND PICTURES. 
 
 FROM MR. DICKENS'S GALLERY. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 TICKNOR AND FIELD 
 
 MDCCCLV. 
 
A^, 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1854, by 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 TltLRSTOS AND TORKYj PRINTERS. 
 
My dear Friend, 
 
 I send you a copy of a few verses wliicli I have 
 had printed and put into covers, as a Christmas gift. 
 The inditing of them has been to me a most pleasant 
 occupation, — I cannot call it a labor, — and has 
 helped to while away and fill up many an hour, that 
 would otherwise have been weary or vacant, of my 
 invalid life. 
 
 If you find them, — as I hope you will, — earnest, 
 simple, and healthful ; and if they serve to recall to 
 you, pleasantly, him who sends them, I shall be more 
 than content, and they will have been twice blest 
 to me, — first, in the cheerful presence which their 
 growth and blossoming brought into my quiet cham- 
 ber ; and, next, in the kindly remembrance they will 
 have awakened of your old friend, the writer of them. 
 
 E. BARTLETT. 
 
 Woonsocket, R. I., Dec. 25, 1854. 
 
' I MAY quarrel with Mr. Dickens's art, a tliousand 
 and a thousand times ; I delight and wonder at his 
 genius ; I recognize in it, — I speak with awe and 
 reverence, — a commission from that Divine Benefi- 
 cence, whose blessed task we know it will one day be 
 to wipe away eveiy tear from every eye. Thankfully 
 I take my share of the feast of love and kindness, 
 which this gentle and generous and charitable soul has 
 contributed to the happiness of the world. I take and 
 enjoy my share, and say a benediction for the meal.' 
 Mr. Thackeraif s Lecture on Charity and Humor. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 ALICE AND THE MONK 1 
 
 JOHN BROWDIE 11 
 
 TIM LINKINWATER 15 
 
 MRS. JELLYBY. An Etching 28 
 
 POOR JO 34 
 
 AN ALLEGORY 49 
 
 NOTES 79 
 
ALICE AND THE MONK. 
 
 THE STORY OF THE FIVE SISTERS IN NICHOLAS 
 NICKLEBY. 
 
 ' The veil ! O, holy Father, no ; ' 
 She said in gentle tones, and low, — 
 ' We do not read the message so, 
 
 ' That our dear Lord did bring, to light 
 The darkness of this troubled night. 
 And guide our erring steps aright. 
 
 * Thou sayest, when first our days begin, 
 It is in sorrow and in sin ; 
 And all is wrong, without, within ; 
 1 
 
ALICE AND THE MONK. 
 
 ' That life is but a transient beam, — 
 A ripple on the running stream, — 
 A fleeting shade, — a fading dream ; 
 
 ' That Satan's wiles o'er all prevail ; 
 That man is false, and woman frail, 
 And present joy an endless bale ; 
 
 ' That even these gentle tasks are snares, 
 The Tempter's subtle wit prepares. 
 To catch our footsteps unawares ; 
 
 ' That maidens' lives are holiest where 
 The convent breathes its hallowed air 
 Of daily penitence and prayer. 
 
 ' We know, good Father, we must die ; 
 That all we think or do does lie 
 Within the great Taskmaster's eye. 
 
ALICE AND THE MONK. 
 
 'But listen, and I will explain, 
 
 In true and simple speech, and plain, 
 
 The busy thoughts that fill my brain : — 
 
 * We pay Saint Mary's tribute due ; 
 
 We speak the word that 's strict and true ; 
 
 The thing that 's right, we mean to do : 
 
 ' Each morning are our matins said ; 
 We give the poor their daily bread ; 
 The stranger's board is daily spread : 
 
 ' We strive, by kindly word and deed. 
 To cheer the sick man in his need ; 
 We teach the children how to read. 
 
 ' Last night, when o'er the darkened sky 
 The wild winds swept, and no one nigh — 
 We went — sweet sister Maud and I — 
 
ALICE AND THE MONK. 
 
 * To tend old Anselm's dying bed ; 
 We smoothed the pillow for his head ; 
 And from God's Holy book we read. 
 
 ' Wi& ianned his thin and fevered cheek, 
 And saw him look — so worn and weak - 
 The simple thanks he could not speak. ^ 
 
 'And when, at last, his soul found rest, 
 Their white lids o'er his eyes we pressed, 
 And placed the dear cross on his breast. 
 
 ' When all these gracious works are done, 
 
 We walk and play till setting sun. 
 
 Or weave these bright threads, one by one.' 
 
 She ceased a moment — standing there, 
 And gazing up, as if she were 
 An angel, rapt in silent prayer. 
 
ALICE AND THE MONK, 
 
 The holy Abbot said 'Amen ! ' 
 
 The maiden dropped her eyes, and then 
 
 Took up her sweet discourse again. 
 
 ' God made the world, — so wondrous fair, 
 He breathed abroad this flowing air ; 
 He keepeth all things in His care : 
 
 ' He made the day, and He the night ; 
 He spake, and lo ! the living light ; 
 He ever doeth all things right. 
 
 ' How sweet it is to see and hear, 
 
 Through all the circle of the year. 
 
 These sights and sounds from far and near. 
 
 ' This mossy turf whereon we tread ; 
 The various landscape round us spread ; 
 The great deep sky arched overhead ; 
 
ALICE AND THE MONK. 
 
 ' The long, green walks of hedgerow thorn ; 
 The waving fields of yellow corn ; 
 The glory of the dewy morn ; 
 
 ' The shining sail the fresh wind fills ; 
 The flashing of the mountain rills ; 
 The quiet cattle on the hills ; 
 
 ' The softly-falling summer rain ; 
 The floating mist o'er hill and plain ; 
 The heavy, homeward-wending wain ; 
 
 ' The thousand flowers, on field and fell ; 
 The saintly lily's silver bell ; 
 Anemone, and asphodel ; 
 
 ' The rose, in its imperial pride ; 
 And, by the river's grassy side, 
 Pansies and violets, azure-eyed. 
 
ALICE AND THE MONK. 
 
 'And O, those sunset clouds that rest 
 Serenely in the glowing west, 
 Like silent cities of the blest ; — 
 
 ' Their mighty masses grandly rolled 
 In many a gorgeous fold on fold, — 
 Pearl, purple, amber, rose, and gold. 
 
 *And hark ! from out the woody dell. 
 Where the brown thrush and robin dwell, 
 How sweet and clear their voices swell ! 
 
 'And how the soaring sky-lark sings ! 
 And seems to shower, as up he springs, 
 Glad music from his very wings. 
 
 ' In mellow cadence floating wide. 
 From meadow, plain, and steep hill-side, 
 The low of kine at eventide. 
 
ALICE AND THE MONK. 
 
 ' And linked to this soft, summer breeze, 
 Through all the newly-blossomed trees. 
 The murmur of the golden bees. 
 
 ^ And once, from out the starlit sphere, 
 I think, good Father, I did hear 
 The songs of angels greet mine ear. 
 
 ' And in the dreary winter-time, — 
 The jingling sleigh-bells' merry chime ; 
 The sparkle of the morning rime. 
 
 ' O'er the blue ice, like burnished steel. 
 The graceful skater's sweep and wheel ; 
 The clear ring of his iron heel. 
 
 ' And sometimes, up the northern sky. 
 At night, like banners streaming high, 
 Those strange, auroral splendors fly. 
 
ALICE AND THE MONK. 
 
 ' But sweeter than the song of birds, 
 Or sound of bees, or lowing herds, 
 Is the dear breath of loving words. 
 
 'And brighter far than all that lies 
 On the wide earth, or in the skies, 
 Is the dear light of loving eyes. 
 
 ' Good Father, no, it cannot be 
 
 'T is wrong to love — it seems to me — 
 
 This goodly world, so fair to see. 
 
 ' So, still from busy day to day. 
 In pious cares and harmless play, 
 Our happy years shall roll away. 
 
 'And when we die, O, let our eyes 
 
 Look out upon the bending skies. 
 
 To which we hope our souls may rise.' 
 
10 ALICE AND THE MONK. 
 
 She paused, and stooped her lovely head, 
 And signed the holy sign, and said, — 
 ' Dear Mary Mother, overhead ; 
 
 ' With Him who on the cross did bleed, 
 For us and all, O, intercede. 
 And help us ever in our need ! ' 
 
11 
 
 JOHN BROWDIE. 
 
 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 
 
 'TwAS worth a crown, John Browdie, to hear you 
 
 ringing out, 
 O'er hedge and hill and roadside, that loud, hilarious 
 
 shout ; 
 And how the echoes caught it up and flung it all about. 
 
 'T was worth another, John, to see that broad and glo- 
 rious grin, 
 
 That stretched your wide mouth wider still, and 
 wrinkled round your chin, 
 
 And showed how true the heart was that glowed and 
 beat within. 
 
12 JOHN BROWDIE. 
 
 Yes ! Nick has beaten the measther, — 't was a sight 
 
 beneath the sun ! 
 And I only wish, John Browdie, when that good deed 
 
 was done, 
 That you and I had both been there to help along the 
 
 fun. 
 
 Be sure he let him have it well ; — his trusty arm was 
 nerved 
 
 With hoarded wrongs and righteous hate, — so it slack- 
 ened not nor swerved, 
 
 Until the old curmudgeon got the thrashing he deserved. 
 
 The guinea, John, you gave the lad, is charmed for- 
 
 evermore ; 
 It shall fill your home with blessings ; it shall add unto 
 
 your store ; 
 Be light upon your pathway, and sunshine on your 
 
 floor. 
 
JOHN BROWDIE. 13 
 
 These are the treasures, too, laid up forever in the 
 
 sky, 
 Kind words to solace aching hearts, and make wet 
 
 eyelids dry, 
 And kindly deeds in silence done with no one standing 
 
 by. 
 
 And when you tell the story, John, to her, your joy and 
 
 pride — 
 The miller's bonny daughter, so soon to be your 
 
 bride — 
 She shall love you more than ever, and cling closer to 
 
 your side. 
 
 Content and health be in your house ! and may you 
 
 live to see 
 Full many a little Browdie, John, climb up your sturdy 
 
 knee ; 
 The mother's hope, the father's stay and comfort long 
 
 to be. 
 
14 JOHN BROWDIE. 
 
 These are thy crown, O, England ; thy glory, grace, 
 
 and might ! — 
 Who work the work of honest hands, from early morn 
 
 till night, 
 And worship God by serving man, and doing what is 
 
 right. 
 
 All honor, then, to them ! let dukes and duchesses give 
 
 room ! 
 The men who by the anvil strike, and ply the busy 
 
 loom ; 
 And scatter plenty through the land, and make the 
 
 desert bloom. 
 
 I 
 
15 
 
 TIM LINKINWATER. 
 
 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 
 
 Dear, dear Tim Linkinwater ! with that clear, un- 
 clouded face. 
 
 Making sunshine all ahout you, in the old, familiar 
 place. 
 
 Though years have hurried by me, since the hour when 
 first we met. 
 
 The lesson that you taught me then, I never shall 
 forget : — 
 
 Of daily labors well performed, of daily duties done. 
 With ready hand and willing heart, still punctual as the 
 sun ; 
 
16 TIM LINKINWATER. 
 
 Of thoughtful care for others' good, of peace and calm 
 
 content, 
 With which your little round of life, from day to 
 
 day you went. 
 
 Your very name brings back to me, with its ring so 
 
 silver-clear. 
 The sounds that in my boyhood's time I loved so well 
 
 to hear, — 
 The choral hail ! from hedge and grove, that met the 
 
 coming morn ; 
 The ' view halloo,' sent far and wide ; the hunter's 
 
 mellow horn ; 
 
 The reaper's song at evening, floating over field and 
 
 plain ; 
 The whistle of the meadow quail, before the coming 
 
 rain; 
 The tinkle of the sheep-bells from off the distant hill ; 
 The water dripping in the pool, below the dusty mill. 
 
TIM LINKINWATER. 17 
 
 'T was four-and-forty years ago, my good old friend, 
 
 you said, — 
 A bright May morning on the scene its hopeful 
 
 glory shed — 
 When in that ancient day-book, lettered ' A,' and 
 
 ' Number One,' 
 You made the first fair entry, and your life-work was 
 
 begun. 
 
 And since that time, so long agone, there has not passed 
 away, 
 
 With duties unperformed or left, a single wasted day ; 
 
 And you have found, on summing up, with each 
 returning night. 
 
 Your cash account all fair and square, your balance- 
 sheet all right. 
 
 How well do I remember, Tim, that pleasant counting- 
 house, 
 So snug, and nice, and orderly, and quiet as a mouse ; 
 
18 TIM LINKINWATER. 
 
 Its polished walls, and all within, so cheerful and so 
 
 bright, 
 I wondered how a London sun could kindle such a 
 
 light. 
 
 You said, I know, no other could, — that country suns, 
 
 you knew. 
 Were half the time so wrapped in clouds, they could 
 
 not struggle through ; 
 But still, that something of the glow, around you 
 
 always shed, 
 Was left behind them when they passed, by brother 
 
 Charles and Ned. 
 
 And I have not forgotten, Tim, that look of proud de- 
 light. 
 
 When Nick, you said, had done the work, and had 
 done it well and right ; 
 
TIM LINKINWATER. 19 
 
 And you felt the dear old ledgers would be free from 
 
 blot or stain, 
 When you and they had parted, to meet no more again. 
 
 And hallowed in my heart of hearts, forevermore shall 
 
 be 
 The memory of that evening hour, when you took me 
 
 up to see 
 That little attic chamber, where so long in nightly rest. 
 And light and healthful sleep, your cheek its peaceful 
 
 pillow pressed. 
 
 And you pointed out the window, across the shady 
 
 square, 
 Where, lying on his little bed, or propt within his 
 
 chair. 
 With yearning eyes and aching heart, that sick and 
 
 crippled lad, 
 You watched from weary year to year, — so patient 
 
 and so sad. 
 
20 TIM LTNKINWATER. 
 
 And you told me how they brought him, when the days 
 
 were warm and fair, 
 To look upon the summer skies, and breathe the 
 
 summer air. 
 And with his thin, white hands his flowers to water and 
 
 to trim. 
 Though nought to all the world beside, that were so 
 
 much to him. 
 
 You. said he had no playmates, his dreary lot to cheer ; 
 No gentle faces round his bed, no tender mother near ; 
 And you thought a friendly word and look might help 
 
 a little while, 
 Some moments of their loneliness and sadness to 
 
 beguile. 
 
 So when you saw his feeble head against the casement 
 
 leant. 
 Your greeting and inquiry kind across the square were 
 
 sent; 
 
TIM LINKINWATER. 21 
 
 And with his grave and pleasant smile, and his voice 
 
 so weak and low, 
 He said that he was better now, though you knew it 
 
 was not so. 
 
 And when at length the long, bright days of summer 
 
 all had fled. 
 You saw his flowers had faded, and their withered 
 
 leaves were dead. 
 His window was unopened, and they brought him there 
 
 no more ; 
 So you knew that all was ended, and his little life was 
 
 o'er. 
 
 And when we sat together, Tim, in that pleasant little 
 room, 
 
 And you told the simple story in the twilight's gather- 
 ing gloom, 
 
22 TIM LINKINWATER. 
 
 I am sure I saw the angels stooping downward from 
 
 the skies, 
 With a silent benediction in their sweet and solemn 
 
 eyes 
 
 Ah ! no, dear Tim, I cannot doubt, through our Re- 
 deemer's love, 
 
 Your name is written in that book the angel keeps 
 above : 
 
 And if, as earthly shadows must, some earthly stains 
 may stay. 
 
 His tears shall drop upon the page, and wash them all 
 away. 
 
 I wish that we might meet again, as once we met of 
 
 yore ; 
 And that we had between us, Tim, one glorious 
 
 magnum more. 
 Of that old double diamond, so rosy and so bright, 
 That filled with fragrance all the room, and sparkled 
 
 like the light. 
 
TIM LINKINWATER. 23 
 
 With glasses wreathed in laurel leaves, and ruddy to 
 
 the brim, 
 Our parting toast before we went, should be a health 
 
 to him, 
 Who told that pleasant tale so well — the best among 
 
 the best — 
 Of Nick, and Kate, and Newman Noggs, poor Smike, 
 
 and all the rest. 
 
 I know, I know, my dear old friend, that it was hardly 
 fair. 
 
 For him to tell to all the world, the whole that hap- 
 pened there. 
 
 When on the window-seat at dusk, so cosy, side by side. 
 You asked the little darling dear to come and be your 
 bride. 
 
 But then, he meant no harm nor wrong to her or you, 
 
 I know. 
 And she, with all her kind, good heart, forgave him 
 
 Ions; aojo, 
 
24 
 
 TIM LINKINWATER. 
 
 And as she says so often, Tim, you ought not to forget. 
 That if it had not been for him, you never would have 
 met. 
 
 And then, ah! Tim, how changed, indeed, had all your 
 
 journey run, 
 Adown this western slope that leads us toward the 
 
 setting sun ; 
 Without her love to light the path, from shortening day 
 
 to day ; 
 Without her gentle hand to smooth its roughnesses 
 
 away. 
 
 I think he knows the music these meeting goblets 
 
 wake ; 
 I think he knows the color of the light their flashes 
 
 make ; 
 But if he would not join our health, he might drink 
 
 aside — to us — 
 While you and I were pouring out our hearty bumpers 
 
 thus, — 
 
TIM LINKINWATER. 25 
 
 To him, the chiel, whose magic words, through many 
 
 a various page, 
 Assert the right, rebuke the wrong, and charm the 
 
 listening age ; 
 Whom the nations' plaudits follow, wheresoever forth 
 
 he goes, — 
 The gentle Will of these our times, the Shakspeare of 
 
 our prose. 
 
 God bless him, Tim ! for all the good, his gray goose 
 
 quill has wrought. 
 For all the lessons, grave and gay, his genial lips have 
 
 taught ; 
 For all the light his sunny face has shed o'er lonely 
 
 hours ; 
 For all the rugged paths his hands have scattered o'er 
 
 with flowers : 
 
 For all the bonds of human love his cunning skill has 
 knit, 
 
26 TIM LINKINWATER. 
 
 In mingled links of dark arid bright, of wisdom and of 
 
 wit ; 
 For every generous impulse, for every pure desire. 
 His torch has kindled in our hearts with its Prome- 
 thean fire : 
 
 His faith in man, his trust in God, unfaltering and 
 
 serene ; 
 His thorough scorn of every thing unworthy, false, or 
 
 mean; 
 The tender love and pity that warm his throbbing 
 
 breast, 
 For the wronged, the poor, the trodden down, the 
 
 wretched and oppressed : 
 
 For the thousand Christmas fires, lit up in cottage and 
 
 in hall ; 
 For the meriy Christmas meetings that have gathered 
 
 at his call ; 
 
TIM LINKINWATER. 27 
 
 For the children made so happy, in the homes of many- 
 lands, 
 
 Who run to meet him when he comes, and clap their 
 little hands. 
 
 All blessings and all good be his ! — peace, health, 
 
 and length of days ! 
 A life filled up with noble work, and graced with 
 
 grateful praise ; 
 And by and by, to cheer his age, and crown his silver 
 
 hair, 
 His sons all brave and manly men, his daughters good 
 
 and fair ; 
 And children's children on his knee, and round his 
 
 elbow-chair. 
 
28 
 
 MRS. JELLYBY. — AN ETCHING. 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 She stood before me, one 
 Of a strange tribe ; whose children have, I ween, — 
 And fuller grown than she, — been sometimes seen 
 
 Nearer the setting sun. 
 
 Sin's grim and ghastly brood 
 Howled round her house, and crept upon her floor. 
 In every hideous shape ; and at her door 
 
 Gaunt hunger begged for food. 
 
MRS. JELLYBY. 29 
 
 These horrors never stirred 
 One pulse within her; even her babe's faint cry, 
 At her shrunk breasts, for milk, moaned feebly by. 
 
 Half heeded or unheard. 
 
 All sights and sounds like these. 
 She could not hear nor see, — they were too near. 
 She strained her misty eye and muffled ear, 
 
 Far over tropic seas. 
 
 And tropic lands, away. 
 Where sweet acacias drop their odorous balm. 
 And in the shade of cocoa and of palm. 
 
 Young Borrioboolans play. 
 
 She had a glib, sharp tongue, 
 That, right and left, its fierce invectives rang, 
 On high and low, and like the adder's fang, 
 
 That poisoned where it stung. 
 
30 MRS. JELLYBY. 
 
 Her wordy wrath she dealt, 
 In speech not over-clean, but shrill and loud. 
 On all who had not in her service bowed, 
 
 And at her altar knelt. 
 
 With coarse and boastful pride, 
 All courteous phrase that lifts and softens strife, 
 All kind amenities of daily life, 
 
 She scorned and cast aside. 
 
 But chiefest of delights 
 It was to her, to tear, with impious hand, 
 The anointed names of her own age and land, 
 
 Down from their radiant heights. 
 
 The great, the wise, the just. 
 Who would not follow blindly where she led, 
 She slandered living, and spat out, when dead 
 
 Her venom on their dust. 
 
MRS. JELLYBY. 31 
 
 On Orders, Laws, the State, — 
 All due Observance, hoary eld hath stored 
 With garnered dust and reverent love, she poured 
 
 The vials of her hate. 
 
 ' Doctors are fools,' she cried, — 
 'Their ancient art all fable, false and wild ; 
 While her meek husband and her helpless child. 
 
 Wrapt in wet blankets, died. 
 
 All monstrous things and strange. 
 From creeds to costumes, if they were but new, — 
 The last the best, — she followed through and through. 
 
 From fickle change to change. 
 
 That book no man hath read, — 
 Sealed with seven seals, the seer of Patmos saw, — 
 Standing apart, in fear and solemn awe, — 
 
 Her hands had loosed, she said ! 
 
32 MRS. JELLYBY. 
 
 That chain whereon depend, 
 From God's own hand, the lamps that light the day, — 
 Changeless, like Him, — her breath could melt away ! 
 
 Her tricks asunder rend ! 
 
 Right manfully she stood 
 Up for her rights, — until she lost the place 
 That nature gave her, and all maidenly grace 
 
 Of gentle womanhood. 
 
 With hunger lean and diy, 
 On such chopped straw and the east wind she fed, 
 Till her soul famished, lacking wholesome bread, 
 
 Albeit she wist not why. 
 
 Cease but to walk erect. 
 Swing the rank censer underneath her nose ; 
 And she will set your precious name with those, 
 
 Her sainted and elect. 
 
MRS. JELLYBY. 33 
 
 But from the line that lies 
 Before her, if you swerve an inch, beware ! 
 You'll find, my friend, her clutches in your hair, 
 
 Her nails in your sweet eyes. 
 
 With bold, irreverent brow. 
 And loose, free step, her perilous way she trod. 
 Downward and on, till she denied her God, 
 
 And broke her marriage vow. 
 
34 
 
 POOR JO 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 A cabin's rafter-roof o'erhead, — 
 His thin and weary arms outspread, 
 Poor Jo lies on his truckle-bed. 
 
 He turns him on his aching bones, 
 Repeating still, in low faint tones, 
 ' O, keep me from Tom-all -alones ! 
 
 * I'm moving on, I'm moving on, — 
 My hard day's work is nearly done,- 
 I'm moving on, I'm moving on. 
 
POOR JO. 35 
 
 ' Keep moving on, — you always say, — 
 I do move on my weary way, — 
 I do move on my weary way. 
 
 ' I knew that it would soon be so ; 
 The poor old cart drags hard and slow ; 
 Its creaking wheels can barely go.' 
 
 And then, upon the stifled air, 
 Dim with the candle's sickly glare, 
 There fell a few brief words of prayer. 
 
 The words were His, for him and me, 
 Who died upon the accursed tree, — 
 The manger-born, in Galilee. 
 
 They spake his Father's name in Heaven, - 
 They prayed his sins might be forgiven, — 
 And thus the passing soul was shriven ; 
 
36 POOR JO. 
 
 And without priest or sacrament, 
 Or vain devices men invent, 
 Meekly to its great audit went. 
 
 The solemn transit sped apace, — 
 And o'er the poor boy's pallid face 
 Had fallen a fixed and holy grace. 
 
 All trace of pain had passed away, 
 As, still, in death's embraces lay 
 The freshly consecrated clay. 
 
 No smile upon the thin lips staid ; 
 But all the dark eclipse and shade 
 Had fled, that sin and want had made. 
 
 And thus, O listen. Pomp and Pride ! 
 With one kind watcher by his side. 
 The wronged and wretched outcast died. 
 
POOR JO. 37 
 
 And all that orient, morning glow 
 
 Our happy childhood ought to know, — 
 
 O'erarched by Hope's eternal bow ; 
 
 Green grass and roses shining through 
 The tear-drops of the blessed dew 
 Of life's clear dawn, he never knew. 
 
 No mother stilled his first alarm ; 
 No father's strong and guardian arm 
 Shielded his little feet from harm. 
 
 Poor Jo, alas ! is only one 
 
 Of millions underneath the sun. 
 
 Whose life-work is as darkly done 
 
 His sad, short tale is quickly told, — 
 Repeated ever from of old, — 
 Neglect, Sin, Sorrow, Hunger, Cold. 
 
POOR JO. 
 
 Grim shapes were these, with grisly Cares, 
 That by his pallet made their lairs, — 
 He heard no lullaby but theirs ! 
 
 They sang him to his nightly rest ; 
 
 They suckled the hag-dreams that pressed 
 
 So darkly on his infant breast. 
 
 And through each long and bitter year, 
 That followed him from birth to bidr. 
 How went that other world, so near ? 
 
 — That other world great London sees. 
 Rise through its ranks, in fair degrees, 
 From homely thrift to silken ease ? 
 
 Where Plenty her large affluence showers, 
 And Pleasure through her rosy bowers 
 Leads ever on the laughing Hours ; 
 
POOR JO. 39 
 
 Where, through full many a grand old hall, 
 Music and Mirth to revel call. 
 And Beauty holds high festival ; 
 
 Where fairy forms go floating by, 
 And happy hearts are beating high, 
 And health and hope light every eye ; 
 
 Where Wit provokes the playful fight, 
 To keep his flashing lances bright, 
 And merry humors round the night ; 
 
 Where Learning gathers from all shores, 
 And spreads again, her ample stores 
 Of precious gems and golden ores ; 
 
 Where pale, assiduous Science pries. 
 With cunning brain and patient eyes. 
 Into all nature's mysteries ; 
 
40 
 
 POOR JO. 
 
 Where Art its various beauty flings, 
 Like subtle light from unseen wings, 
 Alike o'er rare and common things ; 
 
 And all the nameless grace that flows 
 From gentle manners, softly throws 
 O'er life its perfume and repose. 
 
 • • • Well, be it so ; I would not bate 
 One jot of all this high estate. 
 With gloiy, pride, and power elate ; 
 
 I would not dim a single ray, 
 
 That makes these radiant spheres so gay ; 
 
 I would not pluck one flower away ; 
 
 I would not touch her garment's hem, 
 Who wears so well, with cross and gem, 
 The empire's ancient diadem. 
 
POOR JO. 41 
 
 Lift higher yet, spread wider still, 
 Life's grace and splendor, if you will, — 
 Its brimming beaker overfill. 
 
 But thou, young Queen, whose gentle hand 
 Holds the fair sceptre of command, 
 O'er all the wide and loyal land ; 
 
 Who sitt'st apart, serene, alone ; 
 
 And ye, from social zone to zone. 
 
 Who guard, uphold, and grace the throne ; 
 
 The brave, the great, the wise, the fair, 
 Who breathe this soft and fragrant air, 
 Which suffers no ignoble care ; 
 
 Who ward our thresholds while we sleep ; 
 Our altar-fires, who feed and keep ; 
 Who watch the realm from steep to steep. 
 
42 POOR JO. 
 
 And ye, whose bark joy's wanton breeze 
 Wafts o'er the smooth and sun-lit seas, 
 Lapt in the down of purple ease ; 
 
 O, learn this truth ; take heed, and know, 
 The wretched boy who died below 
 That cabin's roof, was brother Jo ! 
 
 Yes ! yours, and mine ! one Father's face 
 Bends o'er us all ; one Saviour's grace 
 Infolds us with its wide embrace. 
 
 One blood, one brain, one weal or woe, — 
 One heaven, or hell, to which we go, — 
 One judgment-seat for us and Jo ! 
 
 Then be as brothers, kind and just ; 
 Fulfil that Golden Rule and trust. 
 Our great Redeemer said we must. 
 
POOR JO. 43 
 
 Lift up the fallen ; help the weak ; 
 The lost, estraying wanderer seek ; 
 And comfort to the mourner speak ; 
 
 Unveil the mysteries that lie 
 On earth, in ocean, air, and sky, 
 And open every ear and eye, 
 
 To see the beauty that upsprings, 
 
 To hear the music that outrings. 
 
 From all this wond'rous frame of things ; 
 
 O'er all His works, with glory lit, 
 To know the meaning, God has writ 
 In characters so fair and fit. 
 
 Mix love with rule, and right with might ; 
 On darkened brains let in the light ; 
 Dispel this worse than brutish night. 
 
44 POOR JO. 
 
 Unseal the fountains of that deep, 
 In every human soul that sleep, 
 And let their living waters leap, — 
 
 Whence all the kind affections flow 
 That sweeten life, and love doth grow 
 To God above, and man below. 
 
 Her line of light let conscience draw. 
 And, clad in more than mortal awe. 
 Utter the thunders of her law. 
 
 Wash with sweet rains its slimy stones. 
 And hush the ribald jests and moans 
 That echo through Tom-all-alones ; 
 
 Dry up its foul, mephitic fens, 
 
 And purge with fire its noisome dens, — 
 
 Fitter for wild beasts' homes than men's. 
 
POOR JO. 45 
 
 If not for Jo's sake, for your own ; 
 The Upas seeds, here thickly sown, 
 May grow to overshade the throne ; 
 
 These typhus-damps, engendered here, 
 Will rise to cloud your sunny sphere, 
 And fill your pleasant seats with fear. 
 
 And ye, kind souls, whose tender eyes 
 Are on the dreamy land that lies 
 Under far Ind or Afric skies, — 
 
 Turn home your vision ; look below 
 Your window-sills, for sin and woe. 
 And let the Borrioboolans go. 
 
 Be wise in time ; while Toil beguiles 
 His tasks with rest, and Plenty smiles 
 O'er all the continents and isles ; 
 
46 
 
 POOR JO. 
 
 His life and yours may smoothly glide, 
 Like kindred rivers, side by side. 
 Which only floweiy banks divide. 
 
 But should the Lord o'ercloud His path, 
 And tread the wine-press of His wrath, 
 Asjl^ in the ages gone He hath ; 
 
 Should Egypt's scourges come again. 
 And mildew fall, like fiery rain, 
 On harvest field and fertile plain ; 
 
 No more, from smiling east to west. 
 Shall your own stately homes be blest 
 With neighborhood and nightly rest.^ 
 
 No more, that dark-bright, two-fold tide 
 
 Of human life securely glide. 
 
 Its green and floweiy banks beside. 
 
POOR JO. 47 
 
 But in all shapes that Terror wears, 
 Grim Want's battalions, and Despair's, 
 Shall gather from their swarming lairs. 
 
 Their sons and yours, through all the land, 
 Met, face to face, and hand to hand. 
 In fierce and final feud shall stand ; 
 
 And then, in ruddier rains than fall 
 From the sweet heavens, alike on all, 
 On cabin roof, and castle wall ; 
 
 They shall wash out these dark arrears, 
 Uncancelled through a thousand years, 
 Of cruel wrong and bitter tears, 
 
 O, then be wise, while yet ye may ; 
 Pray the just God His arm to stay. 
 And put far off that evil day 
 
48 POOR JO. 
 
 Bridge over the great gulf that lies 
 Between you with fraternal ties, 
 And hearty, human sympathies. 
 
 So shall the struggling Ages climb 
 The heights of that appointed time, 
 Foretold in prophecy sublime ; 
 
 When, wrought and ripe the mighty plan. 
 Heaven's bow of woven light shall span 
 The sacred Brotherhood of Man ; 
 
 And peace shall dwell on every shore, 
 And hate, and wrong, and evil sore, 
 Vex the old troubled earth no more. 
 
49 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 PICKWICK TO HARD TIMES. 
 
 On a green slope that gently fell away, 
 Down toward the valley nestled at its foot, 
 One sweet, clear morning in the early spring, 
 There stood an English youth. His journey lay 
 Up toward the far-off summit of the hill ; 
 But here, midway in the ascent, he paused. 
 And turned, to rest awhile, and look 
 Out on the glorious scene spread wide below : •— 
 Meadow, and field, and forest, dale and hill ; 
 Orchards, green hedgerows, gardens ; stately trees, 
 In clumps or single, scattered o'er the land, 
 Long centuries old, and kinglier than kings ; 
 Broad, shining rivers ; noble parks and lawns ; 
 Cottage and lordly castle ; village spires ; 
 4 
 
50 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 Cathedrals gray with venerable age, 
 
 And green with clinging ivy, here and there ; 
 
 In the dim distance, resting underneath 
 
 Its cloud pavilion, with its mighty dome. 
 
 And towers and temples, and its thronging life, 
 
 The world's imperial city ; and afar, 
 
 On the horizon's edge, a long, low line 
 
 Of level light,^ that showed the gazer where 
 
 His Isle's embracing ocean kissed the land. 
 
 Up the red, eastern sky, half way, the sun 
 
 Shone full on his fair forehead ; and the breeze, 
 
 Fresh with the coolness of an April morn, 
 
 Just stirred the dark waves of his chestnut hair. 
 
 A shade passed o'er his features — not of pain, 
 Nor sorrow ; hardly of regret, — but more 
 Of solemn musing, deeper than his wont. 
 Set like a seal on his firm lips, there lay 
 The lines of steadfast purpose and resolve ; 
 And hope and triumph lit his earnest eyes : 
 For in that scene, much more did he behold. 
 Than all that lay before him ; — earth and sky. 
 The grace and glory of that outward world. 
 
AN ALLEGORY, 51 
 
 Were all transfigured, and became to him 
 
 Instinct with being, and all overwrit 
 
 With strange and mystic meaning, not their own. 
 
 He could not help but see, in that sweet vale, 
 Whence he had started with the early morn, 
 Still fresh with dew, — his childhood's happy home ; 
 And in that pleasant pathway up the hill, — 
 Rugged sometimes, but mostly soft and green, 
 And more with roses than with brambles lined ; 
 And in that bright sun, resting, as it seemed, 
 Midway between its rising and its noon. 
 His own life-journey, thus far towards its end. 
 
 In dimmer light, as through a shadowy veil, 
 Half hidden from his vision, — in the scene 
 Of various beauty round him spread, — he saw 
 His age, his race, his country, and the field 
 Appointed for the work he had to do, — 
 Where his life-battle must be lost or won. 
 
 In that rapt moment, suddenly there dawned 
 On his fine, inner sense, a new-risen star. 
 He had not seen before, that, all at once, 
 Filled the sweet orient full with golden light, — 
 
52 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 With golden light of a great joy and hope, 
 And trembling consciousness, that even to him, 
 It might be, God had given His mighty gift — 
 If joined with high endeavor and true love — 
 Of worthy utterance of that noblest speech 
 The living nations hear — his mother tongue ; 
 Anointed thus, and set apart, to be 
 Above his fellows — teacher, priest and king. 
 
 Was it the dream that young, aspiring hearts 
 Have always dreamed, and must, — of strenuous strife 
 In the thick-coming years, and earnest toil 
 And conflict, for the right and true, at last 
 Crowned with full triumph, and the guerdon fair 
 Of love and glory ? — rather, was it not 
 Authentic prophecy of what should come — 
 The soul foretelling to itself its doom ? 
 
 Over his cradle shone auspicious stars. 
 With kindliest light and promise ; he was bred 
 Under the roof and in the genial air, 
 Laden with blessings, of an English home. 
 With the sweet milk of babyhood, he drank 
 The spell of its enchantment ; its warm light 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 53 
 
 Flowed round him like a charmed atmosphere 
 Of goodness, truth and beauty. While he stood 
 In dreamy musing by his mother's side, 
 Or nestled in her lap, sweet Fancy came, 
 And wove for him her many-colored web, 
 And warbled in his ear her wildest strains. 
 And told her thousand tales, — about the elves, 
 Fairies and genii, dragons, giants, dwarfs. 
 And that redoubtable and valiant Jack, 
 Who slew the giants ; stirring all the depths 
 In his young soul, of wonder and delight, 
 To be in riper years perennial springs 
 Of sacred wisdom, awe and high belief 
 In things the senses cannot comprehend. 
 
 With lengthening days came other gentle friends. 
 Who charmed and cheered the present as it passed. 
 And colored all the current of his life 
 With their sweet talk and dear companionship. 
 
 Great Caliph Haroun showed him fair Bagdad ; 
 And led him underneath her stately palms. 
 And through her gardens, lustrous with the light 
 Of leaping fountains, and the glancing play 
 
54 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 Of golden sunshine through dark orange glooms ; 
 
 Where Persian maidens — fair as full-orbed moons — 
 
 So sing their poets — dip their gleaming feet 
 
 In the cool, lucent basins ; and the air 
 
 Is faint with roses, and all musical 
 
 With light, glad laughter, and the song of birds — 
 
 Bulbuls, and orioles — and the drowsy lull 
 
 Of water dripping from its marble wells. 
 
 He sailed with Sinbad of the sea, and saw 
 Huge marvels of the islands and the deep. 
 
 Boyhood's prime favorite, trustful, brave, and good, 
 Adventurous Crusoe — took him by the hand ; 
 And quick to go, nor willing to return. 
 He wandered with him o'er his lonely Isle ; 
 Wondered to see the shaggy dress he wore ; 
 Helped all his cheerful work ; milked i is tame goats ; 
 Played with his dog or talked with pretty Poll ; 
 Slept in his rocky castle, or looked outj^gm^ 
 With trembling fear while the wild savagfs 
 Danced round their hideous feasts upon the sand ; 
 Laughed at poor Friday's odd and uncouth speech. 
 And wept glad tears of triumph when he saw — 
 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 55 
 
 Steady, and quick, and true as tempered steel — 
 
 The faithful fellow's loyalty and love. 
 
 — So lived he all this hearty, wholesome life ; 
 
 So like, he later thought, some bounteous spring 
 
 That wells up from the deep heart of the earth, 
 
 Fed by the summer rains and silent dews, 
 
 In nature's subtle alchemy distilled. 
 
 Sparkling and pure, — and round its grassy rim, 
 
 Wild flowers as sweet, and the soft turf as green, 
 
 To-day, as when it issued from its bed 
 
 And drank the light a thousand years ago. 
 
 And many a time on summer afternoons, 
 When morning's noisier hours had had their fill, 
 And o'er his heart a gentler pleasure stole. 
 Would kind Sir Roger take him on his knee, 
 And call him his dear child, and fondle him, 
 And look into his face, with such calm light 
 Of tranquil sweetness beaming from his own. 
 That all the boy's quick heart leapt forth to his. 
 
 Through many a calm and sunny hour, did he — 
 That wayward, wandering, luckless, kindly child, 
 So simple-wise, so gentle and so great, 
 
56 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 His heart's twin brother and selectest friend, 
 Who nothing touched which he did not adom^ 
 So wrote the rugged Titan on his tomb — 
 And saw no living thing he did not love, 
 Or pity, and desire to save or serve — 
 Lie with him on the greensward in the shade. 
 And tell once more that ever charming tale. 
 Singing between-whiles to the idle wind — 
 Of the good Vicar and his checkered life ; 
 Or, tired with talk, from his old, vagrant flute, 
 Breathe such delicious melody, that well 
 The entranced world might hush itself to hear, 
 And bless the bringer of this new delight. 
 
 And once — it was a memorable day 
 In his mind's history — there came to him 
 A thoughtful, musing, solitary man. 
 Who t(Jd hinKthat his home was far away. 
 Over the sea, in a still nook that lies — 
 From noisy traffic's crowded marts withdrawn. 
 And the fierce struggles of the restless world — 
 In the blue shadow of the Catskill hills. 
 Then from his ample pocket he took out 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 57 
 
 A dainty tome, with Crayon Sketches filled, 
 
 And showed the Pictures to the wondering boy : — 
 
 Wondering, for all the pages were a-glow 
 
 With a fine hazy splendor, soft and warm 
 
 And tender, like the mellow light that gives 
 
 Their glory to those autumn days, they call 
 
 The Indian Summer, in the Sketcher's land. 
 
 Soft mist of tears lay in his quiet eyes. 
 
 While playful laughter twinkled round their lids, 
 
 Or nestled in the wrinkles of his chin ; 
 
 And from his lips dropped words so rare and rich, 
 
 And woven in such witcheries of phrase, 
 
 As still with amorous delay he talked 
 
 Of Rip Van Winkle, and his doughty dame ; 
 
 Buxom Katrina and lean Ichabod ; 
 
 Lone Sleepy Hollow, and the Tappan Zee, — 
 
 Tl^at while the rapt boy looked and listened there, 
 
 Face, voice, and volume sank into his heart. 
 
 And never were forgotten while he lived. 
 
 Thus all about him blew the pleasant gales 
 Of Song, and Legend, and brave old Romance, 
 And filled his soul with freshness like the dawn ; 
 
58 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 And led by love and kindness, ran the hours 
 Their merry round till boyhood passed away. 
 
 Then came the ruder discipline and strife 
 Of" school and college, — broader realms of thought, 
 And wider fields of action ; tears and smiles, 
 Of parting and of meeting ; vague desires 
 Of fruit, on life's fair tree untasted yet ; 
 Sounds in the air, like those of marching hosts 
 Coming to hail their champion, and to set. 
 Midst streaming banners, and with glad huzzas. 
 Garlands of victory on his youthful brow ; 
 Glimpses beyond the clouds of starry heights, 
 Shining serene in their eternal depths. 
 Above the tumult of the world below. 
 Girt with the glory of some great renown ; 
 And O, more radiant than all else beside, 
 Dreams of one cherished form whose loving eyes 
 Looked into his, and filled his life with joy, 
 Diviner far than power or praise can bring. 
 So phantom-like and dim these visions rose. 
 And passed before him, that he could not tell. 
 If they were memories of some vanished past. 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 59 
 
 Or Strange foreshadows of events to come. 
 
 So he grew up to manhood. Rosy heaUh 
 Now flushed his cheek and nerved his well-knit limbs : 
 And through his being, like a balmy tide, 
 There flowed a fine, free healthfulness, as fresh 
 As the spring winds that on his forehead breathed 
 Their dewy coolness ; not benumbed and chilled 
 By arctic rigors, nor entranced and steeped 
 In dreamy slumbers, by the lotus-dew 
 Of tropic languors ; but provoked and braced 
 To generous action, by the winter's air, 
 ' Frosty but kindly,' and the changing shade 
 And sunshine, genial showers and living winds 
 Of temperate summers : — all his faculties 
 Complete and rounded to their amplest full ; 
 Self-poised and balanced, like the perfect stars ; 
 Each function of this life, so manifold. 
 Fulfilled ; and the mind's hierarchy set, 
 Rank over rank, through all its radiant powers, 
 In order of their nobleness ; and crowned, 
 Of right, with Conscience, Duty, and the great 
 Imperial Reason, o'er the rest supreme. 
 
60 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 To guide and govern. 
 
 He had never fed 
 On his own bitter heart, as some have done, 
 Till all his veins ran gall, and his sweet flesh 
 Was turned to wormwood ; neither had he nursed 
 Pale, girlish fancies, till the very light 
 Of the great sun, and overarching sky 
 Shone sickly green and yellow. In his brain 
 He kept no knotty crotchets ; dreamed no dreams 
 Of Arcady ; nor thought that he could move 
 To his melodious measures, stones and trees, 
 And set the age to music with his song. 
 The satyr's slaver had not slimed his lips, 
 Till maidenly shame and manly modesty 
 Shrank from his ribald speech.* He did not bay 
 With empty bowlings, the pale, innocent moon. 
 Nor scare the holy stillness of the night. 
 With his demoniac ravings ; nor had he 
 Bred fierce intents in his tremendous thought 
 To smite sheer through our tough old rock-ribbed earth ! 
 
 * See Note A. 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 61 
 
 To clutch the stars, and wring their meaning out ! 
 
 And then, still terrible and fell, to bind 
 
 Fast to the axle of his chariot wheels, 
 
 Poor, trembling captives, the astonished spheres ! * 
 
 That had not harmed him nor provoked his ire. 
 
 He had not parched his tongue with fiery draughts, 
 Drugged with hot juices, till his wandering eyes 
 Swam in delirious splendors, and his brain 
 Reeled with the drunken frenzy in his blood ; 
 And all he saw or apprehended took 
 Strange shape and spectral coloring, and became 
 Deformed, fantastical, awry and false, — 
 Warped from itself, and blurred with lurid light ; — 
 The sun, the stars, night's silver queen, the sea, 
 The green round earth, and the wide elements, 
 All wrenched from their great offices, and sent, — 
 From all their fine proprieties divorced, 
 Of their divinest beauty all despoiled. 
 Unnatural, monstrous, without law, unsphered, — 
 On crazy errands, through chaotic realms. 
 
 * See Note B. 
 
62 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 But daily had he slaked his wholesome thirst 
 
 At those ' pure wells of English undefiled,' 
 
 Deep, sweet, and clear, and cool with mossy stones, 
 
 Scattered along the highway of the Past, 
 
 From old Dan Chaucer's time, to his who held 
 
 The circle of our whole humanity 
 
 In his clear vision, like a crystal sea 
 
 Of fluent light, — and measured all its depths ; 
 
 Unsealed the fountains of its secret springs ; 
 
 Knew whence and where its thousand currents ran ; 
 
 Felt every pulse that stirred its dread profounds ; 
 
 Saw all its motions ; guaged the mighty swell 
 
 Of its great tides, and watched the changeful play 
 
 Of its free waves, in all their myriad moods 
 
 Of gloom and glory, terror and delight. 
 
 Unrest and rest ; and so, to his who raised, 
 
 "With solemn song and chant, but yesterday, 
 
 So stainless white, so tender, stern and pure, 
 
 Like some fair pillar, in the desert set. 
 
 Keeping its silent watches, through the night 
 
 Of the dim centuries, o'er its hoarded dust — 
 
 His deathless In Memoriam to his friend. 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 63 
 
 He did not think that with witch-hazel rods, 
 He could find out th^ secret springs that lie, 
 Hid in the earth's dark chambers, whereto men, 
 Dying athirst, might come, and drink and live ; 
 Nor, that with any wand of nice conceits, — 
 Phalanstery or Phalanx, — he could trick 
 The world to goodness. Large as was his heart, 
 And warm with generous impulse, yet to some — 
 Wide, world-embracing, philanthropic souls, — 
 Strange though it seem, — he loved his mother more. 
 Whom he had seen, than all the sooty tribes 
 He had not seen, — of Congo or Ghaboom ; 
 And his dear England's old familiar name 
 Sent quicker pulses through his glowing veins. 
 Than Quasheeogoola's or than Timbuctoo's ! 
 
 He had been taught, and he believed, the earth 
 Was His who made it, — ruled and kept by Him, 
 And not by Satan, — ruled in love, not wrath, — 
 By laws His wisdom had ordained and set. 
 And swathed in beauty, fashioned by His hand ; 
 That all its people were His children, made 
 In His own image, and His equal care. 
 
64 AN ALLEGORY, 
 
 And, harder creed to many, he believed, 
 
 That since that day, near Eden, in the field. 
 
 When the first shepherd, — second born of Eve, — 
 
 Brought from the fold the firstlings of his flock. 
 
 An offering to the Lord, — in every age. 
 
 In every kindred, tongue, and tribe, where men 
 
 Had feared His name, and striven to do His will. 
 
 However darkly, — he had ever found 
 
 Service and love acceptable to Him ; 
 
 Christ's purer worship not the sole, but best. 
 
 Such was the kindly creed his heart received ; 
 But with it, well he knew, too well, that sin 
 Had entered the world's Eden, and had marred 
 The face of its fair beauty ; that foul wrongs. 
 And many, men had done to men ; the strong 
 Had laid their heavy burdens on the weak ; 
 The oppressor's foot had trodden down the oppressed ; 
 The proud man's scorn, or worse, his cold neglect, 
 Had left the lowly and the poor, to dig. 
 Or beg, or steal, or starve, as best they might ; 
 That o'er his slave the hard taskmaster's lash 
 Still cracked, from morn to night, in many a land. 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 65 
 
 This was the lofty moral of his creed : 
 That these were man's chief duties, — trust in God, — 
 The doing of His will in serving men, 
 With earnest work, and words of kindly cheer ; 
 Always with work and words, for good, not ill ; 
 Since man is bound to man by subtle bonds. 
 No strength nor craft can sunder or untie, 
 For help or hurt, for blessing or for bane ; 
 Hands washed in innocence, — the wayward heart 
 Kept with all diligence ; and a daily life 
 Unspotted from the world, through which it flows. 
 
 The fantasy that wrought within my brain 
 Did take another shape, to body forth, 
 In visible form, its meaning ; for I saw, 
 Standing instead of that fair, dreaming youth, 
 A harper with his harp, — in act to strike, 
 With his irresolute fingers, the still strings 
 Of his sweet instrument ; but half in doubt, 
 What audience and what greeting he might find. 
 He touched the chords, that trembled at his touch, 
 5 
 
bb AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 And on the blithesome air there floated out 
 
 A wild, quaint Prelude, — pranksome, fitful, free, 
 
 Half mad with frolic fancies, half grotesque, — 
 
 Leaping with buoyant life, and bubbling o'er. 
 
 Like a full fountain after April rains. 
 
 With light and laughter, — English to the brim ; 
 
 With now and then a low, sad undertone, — 
 
 Felt more than heard on the soft, throbbing air, — 
 
 Of tenderest pity, melting into tears. 
 
 Ere he had ceased, it was a pleasant sight, 
 Througb all the region, far and near, to see 
 The quick and clear intelligence, that caught 
 And gave glad welcome to the minstrel's strain. 
 
 The tired wayfarer on the dusty road 
 Stopped in his path, and leaned against the wall, 
 And toward the player turned his face to hear 
 Better the sounds that cheered him ; by the side 
 Of his bright anvil paused the sweaty smith. 
 In his loud work, and held his hammer still, ^ 
 To catch the tones that charmed his clanging forge ; 
 The farmer's wife came to the cottage door, 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 67 
 
 And hushed her baby's cry, to see whence flowed 
 The new, strange music on the morning air. 
 That stirred the rose-leaves by the window-side, 
 And shook fresh odors from them ; children left 
 Their plays to listen ; and white, jewelled hands 
 Threw open crystal casements, to let in 
 On vaulted ceiling, and on curtained throne, 
 The gay, glad melody that gambolled by. 
 
 Once more the fantasy within me shaped 
 Itself in visible symbols ; and I saw 
 This goodly sight : — On the high table-land, 
 That from the summit of that eastern slope 
 Stretched westward far, and then fell off again, 
 Down towards the solemn sunset, high uprose 
 A fair and stately temple, — such as graced 
 Our Christian lands, in those great ages gone. 
 When holy zeal and faith, with life-long toil. 
 And love and worship, reared their mighty shrines, 
 Meet for the praise of Mary, Christ, and God. 
 
 By an unfinished turret on the roof, 
 
68 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 In thoughtful earnest, pausing from his work, 
 The builder stood. In his right hand he held 
 His shining trowel, and his left still lay- 
 Warm on the stone just hardening to its bed.'^ 
 
 The dreamy boy's fair features still were there, 
 And the young harper's, — changed but yet the same ; 
 Serener light, and softer, in his eyes. 
 Lay like sweet tears, ere sorrow's lightning flash 
 Has turned them into rain ; around his lips 
 Played the same smile, but on his brow there sat 
 A loftier purpose and a nobler aim. 
 Triumph had come ; but with it, also, came 
 Life's various discipline, ordained for all. 
 Its sterner cares and sorrows on his head, 
 Their chastening hands had laid ; and with the leaves 
 Of oak and laurel, round his temples wreathed, 
 Dark cypress mingled, here and there, its shade. 
 Fragrant with memories of the loved and lost. 
 
 On a new grave, whose polished headstone stood 
 Within the shadow of the temple's walls. 
 White as the spotless ermine he had worn. 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 69 
 
 Who slept beneath its consecrated turf, — 
 
 He gazed awhile, — then raised his mournful eyes 
 
 Toward the clear heaven to which his friend had gone, 
 
 And, with its saddened glory on his face, 
 
 Turned to his work ; and in my heart I said : — 
 
 ' Toil on, brave builder, faithful to the end ; 
 Stronger in heart than ever, — what is done. 
 The earnest only of what time shall bring. 
 In the full coming of the ripened years. 
 
 ' Wield mightier strength, and breathe a fairer grace 
 Of preciousness and beauty ; deeper sink 
 The granite basis ; firmer plant and gird 
 The upholding buttress ; toward the silent sky 
 Lift turret, tower and spire, more eminent ; 
 With lighter leap, the lancelike arches spring ; 
 Weave o'er the dim and fretted roof all forms 
 Of delicate tracery ; and throughout the whole. 
 Let the hard marble open into bloom. 
 And foliage, — myrtle, oak, pomegranate, pine ; 
 Thistle and sacred trefoil ; wedded rose, 
 And vestal lily ; lotus and the grape ; 
 
70 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 Holly and amaranth and immortal palm ; — 
 These, and whatever else our God hath made, 
 Of best and fairest, — fruit, and flower, and leaf, 
 And living creatures, happy in the lives 
 That He has given them, filling all the earth, 
 And air, and waters, with the ceaseless praise 
 Of their great Maker ; through the windows pour, 
 In full effulgence, all the mingled dyes 
 That bathe the dawn and sunset ; star and crown 
 The costly altars, with all precious stones, — ^ 
 Sapphire and emerald, agate, amethyst, 
 Beryl and jacynth, sardonyx and pearl ; — 
 With fine-twined linen, curtain them about, — 
 Blue, scarlet, purple ; let the censers smoke 
 With fragrant spices, — frankincense and myrrh, 
 Amber and spikenard, galbanum and balm. 
 
 ' But more than all, and better, — more than power, 
 Or beauty, — more than subtlest craft and skill. 
 Or cunning workmanship, — breathe over all, — 
 From tessellated pavement to the top, — 
 From shaft, and arch, and architrave, — from door 
 
AN ALLEGOKY. 71 
 
 And window, — from each flower and leaf, — from all 
 
 The sculptured forms of prophet, sage, and saint, 
 
 And cherubim, — even from the monstrous shapes 
 
 Of hippogrifF and griffon, — from the gloom. 
 
 And from the splendor, — still the same great end, 
 
 And aim, and purpose, — to repeat the song. 
 
 Sung by the heavenly host when Christ was born, — 
 
 Glory to God on high, peace on the earth, 
 
 Good-will to men ; love, justice, mercy, truth ; 
 
 Help for the faint and weak ; right for the wronged ; 
 
 Ransom for captives ; freedom for the slave ; 
 
 The tyrant's fetters shivered or unloosed ; 
 
 The bigot's fires put out with heavenly rains, 
 
 Or swept in swift, avenging floods away ; 
 
 Scorn of all baseness, cruelty, and craft. 
 
 Hardness of heart, and sordid greed of gold. 
 
 All hollow seeming, cant, and sly chicane ; 
 
 Honor to worthiness, wherever found, 
 
 And nobleness and virtue, — be the shell 
 
 Of the sweet kernel rugged as it may ; 
 
 Shame to the shameless, whatsoe'er they wear, — 
 
72 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 Purple or fustian, linsey or brocade ; 
 Beggars and kings before its equal shrines, 
 Themselves alone, and not their rags or robes ; 
 Light on life's shadows, and the sacred bow 
 Of ancient promise bent above its storms ; 
 Divine compassion for the fallen and lost, 
 God's holy fear, and human brotherhood.' 
 
 So builded, and so hallowed, it shall stand. 
 Long on its hill, — a glory and delight 
 To all the nations ; the wide earth shall wear 
 New beauty in its presence, and be made 
 Worthier and happier ; earliest, shall the Morn, 
 From dewy sleep uprising and refreshed. 
 Greet with fond kisses all its thousand spires. 
 Turning their white to roses ; latest, Eve, 
 Trailing her dusky robe, and loth to go. 
 Shall linger round their summits, — bathing them 
 In the sweet radiance of her parting smile. 
 
 And when the solemn ages shall have shed 
 On its gray walls their majesty and grace. 
 And filled their rents with ' rare old ivy green,' •''- 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 73 
 
 Even then, as now, from many climes shall come — 
 
 But most from those whose swarming millions breathe 
 
 The vital air of liberty and law ; 
 
 Who speak their tongue, and live their lofty life ; 
 
 Pilgrim with scollop-shell, and worshipper, — 
 
 To kneel before its altars, and to rest 
 
 In the cool stillness of its haunted shade. 
 
 Young men shall come, and maidens, — with the dew 
 
 Of the fresh morning on their grassy paths ; 
 
 Old men shall come, — with worn and weary feet, 
 Alt the still even-tide, to breathe its air. 
 And listen to the music of its chimes, 
 And feel their aged hearts grow young again ; 
 And troops of children ; — O, he loved them well, — 
 The dear old builder, — and they gave him back 
 Full, heaped-up measure, pressed and running o'er 
 With the heart's riches ; these, with daisies white, 
 In their white hands, and crocuses, to strew 
 Over their still and narrow beds, whose names, 
 Watered with many tears, are written there, — 
 The angel-child, sweet Nelly's ; little Paul's, — 
 
74 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 The weird, mysterious, musing boy, who watched 
 
 The golden water dancing on the wall ; 
 
 And, dearer even than these, poor Smike's and Jo's, 
 
 Because they were the poor, and suffered most ; 
 
 And they shall look for Tiny Tim's, and find 
 
 With glad surprise, that that was all a dream. 
 
 And often, in the pauses of their play. 
 
 With softened voices they shall talk of him 
 
 Who built the grand old church, and hung so high. 
 
 And linked in such sweet labyrinths of sound, — 
 
 Wedded, and woven, and all intervolved, 
 
 In jubilant peals, glad as angelic songs, 
 
 And tender cadences that float afar, 
 
 To die in silence on the silent hills, — 
 
 Its bells, to ring the welcome Christmas in ; 
 
 And told the stories of their earthly lives. 
 
 Whose graves are there, — and how they went away 
 
 To be good angels in the blessed skies, — 
 
 Clothed in white robes, and bearing in their hands 
 
 Palm branches, — and the incorruptible seal, 
 
 Set on their foreheads, of eternal life, — 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 75 
 
 To watch us there, and beckon us to come, 
 When we, like them, our work have finished here, 
 And so are ready to go home to God ; 
 xlnd in that holy city on the mount, — 
 For her bridegroom, like a prepared bride, 
 Whose walls are jasper, and her gates of pearl, 
 Where from all eyes, all tears are wiped away, 
 And death and pain and crying are no more, 
 With Him to live forever, and the Lamb. 
 — All who shall come — the old and young — to be 
 Chastened and cheered, — made quicker to find out 
 And soothe life's sorrows, and made strong to do 
 Its rugged service valiantly and well ; — 
 So serving always, as to leave the world 
 Better and happier, in some poor degree. 
 Than they had found it, — and themselves to reap 
 The ripened harvest of life's true delights, — 
 To taste its cup of pleasantness, and share 
 The various feast its fruitful bounty spreads. 
 With grateful praise to Him who gives us all. 
 
76 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 My pleasant task is ended. Many an hour 
 Has it beguiled of weariness and pain, 
 And cheered with its still presence. Often while 
 My idle-busy fingers, thread by thread, 
 The various web were weaving, did my thoughts 
 Go back, dear friend, to that fair spring-time, when 
 The orbits of our individual lives 
 Circled together for a bright, brief space. 
 Red-lettered in my calendar of days ; — 
 When down that silver river, and against 
 His turbid tide — Father of Waters^ called — 
 Lounging along the bulwarks of the boat. 
 Day after day, through many a various theme 
 Of men and their affairs, we ranged at will. 
 And talked, from noon till night, the hours away ; 
 And when we stood together, silent, where 
 The voice of the great Cataract ascends — 
 Perpetual hymn and anthem — to His name 
 Who pours it from the hollow of His hand, — 
 Fit boundary, we thought, to stand between. 
 
AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 With its embracing bow of hope and peace, 
 The mighty reahns it separates and unites. 
 
 My heart runs over, when I think of all 
 The happy days made happier, and the dark. 
 Lit up and brightened by your welcome words ; 
 The genial laughter and the gentle tears. 
 And better thoughts your coming ever brings. 
 
 Take, then, the Season's simple gift I send, 
 In grateful memory of those golden hours. 
 I know full well, that what poor worth it has. 
 Is in the giving, more than in the gift, — 
 The love, and not the cunning, of the work,— 
 The meaning, not the music, of the song. 
 
 77 
 
79 
 
 RESTITUTION OF SUNDRY CONVEYANCES. 
 
 ' Convey^ the wise it call.' — Shakspeare. 
 
 Note 1. Page 4. 
 
 At his approach complaint grew mild, 
 And when his hand i^nbaired the shutter, 
 
 The clammy lips of fever smiled 
 
 The welcome that they could not utter. 
 
 Praed. 
 
 Note 2. Page 46. 
 
 Domestic awe, night rest, and neighborhood. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Note 3. Page 56. 
 
 Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit. 
 
 Johnson's Epitaph on GoldsmUK's 
 
 Monument in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Note 4. Page 68. 
 
 By that square buttress, see where Louis stands, — 
 The stone yet warm from his uplifted hands. 
 
 0. W. Holmes. 
 
 Note 5. Page 72. 
 
 A rare old plant is the ivy green. 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
80 
 
 Note A. Page 60. 
 
 There are lines in some recent poems which have been widely 
 circulated and warmly praised, that no right-minded man or 
 woman should be able to read with any other feelings than those 
 of utter loathing and abhorrence. There are no terms that 
 can adequately express the enormity of these outrages against 
 purity and decency, except those which are themselves more or 
 less coarse and repulsive; and this is my apology, if any apolo- 
 gy is necessary, for having made use of such terms. The offence, 
 in the instances to which I refer, smells all the more rankly to 
 Heaven, in that the very pages which are defiled by these gross- 
 nesses, are at the same time crowded with the most sacred and 
 hallowed words in our language. 
 
 It can hardly be considered a very grateful or gratifying re- 
 flection, that any portion of the gentle young maidenhood of 
 New England should have managed, not only to step so daintily 
 over the turbid and stagnant cisterns in these new gardens of 
 Parnassus, but that they should have wandered with so much 
 complacency and affectionate admiration through the wildernesses 
 of their flowers, — exhaling, as even these do, for the most part, 
 an odor, certainly unlike that which is breathed from the chalice 
 of the lily, or the bosom of the rose. 
 
 Note B. Page 61. 
 
 Some of my friends, not familiar with the circumstances, may 
 think that in these lines I have fallen into some extravagances ; 
 but I wish to state that I have in no way exaggerated or misrep- 
 resented the rather singular and somewhat audacious exploits, 
 which some of the young heroes of the new literature have given 
 out that they would like to undertake. 
 
Boston, 135 Washington Strbjbt. 
 December, 1854. 
 
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