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THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 ENDOWED BY THE 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 SOCIETIES 
 
THE auaslrky 
 
 1-19-94 
 
 4 b eet 
 
 COMING DAY, 
 oer dorms, 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY JOHN DOOGOOD. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CASSELL, PETTER, AND GALPIN, 
 
 LA BELLE SAUVAGE YARD, LUDGATE HILL. 
 
LONDON: 
 PFTTER AND GALPIN, BELLE SAUVAGE PRINTING WORKS, 
 LUDGATE HILL, E.C. 
 
TO A DISTINGUISHED LADY, 
 
 WHOSE BENEVOLENCE, AND OTHER: CHRISTIAN VIRTUES, HAVE MADE 
 HER NAME GENERALLY REVERED, 
 
 THESE POEMS ARE, WITH GREAT RESPECT, INSCRIBED. 
 
 A grateful tribute let me pay, 
 
 N or, gentle lady, turn away— 
 
 G racious and good—accept my lay. 
 
 E ver some Christian object kind, 
 
 L ike the Great Master, thou dost find, 
 A nd thus employ thy generous mind. 
 
 G reat names may honest praise engage, 
 Ei mblazoned clear on history’s page, 
 
 O f statesman, warrior, and sage. 
 
 BR est they upon their well-earned fame: 
 G reater by far will be the name 
 
 I nscribed on Mercy’s tablet white— 
 
 N o sound so sweet, no word so bright ; 
 A nd, long as memory shall endure, 
 
 B lessings will rest, for ever sure, 
 
 U pon the hand the poor that fed, 
 
 R evived the fainting heart with bread; 
 
 D istricts adorned with temples, where 
 
 K ternal truth and holy prayer 
 
 T ill then had not been known to raise 
 
 T heir solemn voice, with hymns of praise. 
 
 C alled on by God a trust to fill, 
 
 O h, still perform His loving will, 
 
 U ntil thy mission here be done ; 
 
 T hen He will bid thee upward come : 
 T’ here will thy recompence be given, 
 
 S upremely blessed with joy in Heaven. 
 
Tse) My i | . 
 
 ee ay ¥ Oa) Lie Bm, 
 
 wie 443 ry ‘sty fie . , ie Sih 
 
 Mi ie Vi x Licloide 
 
 a eye tee Listy T i ‘ 
 it tah ‘ik ieaen 
 aka eet ig 
 
 Para 7 
 
 ah : : a : iL i 
 aid Me Ane ane 
 em Bi hes seer’ he, ‘ ta = i eh 
 
 pate 
 
 arp, fe Leos h ne Pha Ira 
 aan oat TONE | sae 
 en 4 ‘ats hina (8 
 
 iF 
 
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TO THE READER. 
 
 Most of the following Poems were written in hours 
 of darkness and affliction. The Author, who was 
 for twenty years engaged in literary pursuits in 
 connection with the public press, was suddenly 
 struck down by an accident eight years ago, in 
 the meridian of life, with the fairest prospects 
 before him, and which resulted in the loss of sight 
 and the power of walking. | % 
 | An ardent lover of science and literature, he 
 was for many years a Fellow of the Royal 
 _ Astronomical Society, and endeavoured to promote 
 knowledge by gratuitous Lectures at Literary In- 
 stitutions, some of which he initiated, and was 
 mainly instrumental in forming. 
 
 He has sought to alleviate his heavy calamity by 
 cultivating a taste for poetic composition ; and has 
 
 heen induced, at the solicitation of friends, to pub- 
 
vl TO THE READER. 
 
 lish his productions in the present Volume, many of 
 which have appeared, from time to time, in the 
 periodical press. He has felt great diffidence in 
 taking this step, and trusts to the kind considera- 
 tion of the critic. 
 
 To those friends who have so readily responded 
 to the appeal which has been made to them, to 
 assist him in publishing his effusions, he begs to 
 express his warm gratitude for the generous proof 
 of their sympathy. 
 
 The chief Poem embraces views on a subject of 
 much controversy in the Christian world ; but they 
 have been adopted after a very careful examination 
 of the Prophetic writings, both in the Old and New 
 Testaments, and the Author believes them to be 
 borne out by the most overwhelming evidence of 
 Scripture. He is one of those who think that the 
 Second Advent is much nearer than professors of the 
 religion of the Saviour in general consider it to be ; 
 that it is a mistake to imagine that the Earth will 
 be converted before that solemn event, and that the 
 
 whole tenor of Biblical evidence proves the con- 
 
TO THE READER. Vil 
 
 trary. The approaching fulfilment of the period of 
 six thousand years, in 1866, from the six days’ 
 Creation recorded by Moses, and the consequent 
 commencement, about that time, of the Sabbatical 
 Millennary ; together with the termination of all 
 the great dates of prophecy, within the five years 
 inclusive, from 1864 to 1868, are significant facts, 
 upon which the most eminent Chronologists have 
 agreed ; and, taken in connection with the proofs of 
 Holy Writ, in Isaiah, Daniel, Ezekiel, and John, 
 lead to most probable and important conclusions. 
 The Author is of opinion that the next few years 
 are pregnant with great events, and that the blessed 
 period is rapidly approaching when the light of the 
 Millennial Reign will dawn upon this groaning and 
 distracted World. “ Nevertheless, when the Son of 
 
 Man cometh, shall he find faith on the earth ?” 
 
 NortH Hiti, HIGHGATE, 
 
ib. 
 
 WELCOME, FAIR ROSE OF DENMARK. 
 
 WE LcomE, fair Rose of Denmark, 
 To England’s happy shore, 
 Where every voice and pen-mark 
 Proclaim it o’er and o’er! 
 Blessings descend upon thee 
 From Heaven’s pure fount above ; 
 And on our Prince, who won thee 
 
 To be our Queen of Love! 
 
 May naught the union sever, 
 Till life itself shall cease, 
 
 Of hearts so linked together | 
 In bonds of love and peace. 
 
 All Britain’s sons salute thee, 
 And all her daughters sing, 
 
 Welcome, the Queen of Beauty 
 
 To wed our coming King. 
 
 Old Neptune o’er the water, 
 With trident in his hand, 
 
 Albion’s adopted daughter 
 Brought from her fatherland. 
 
But now that we possess her 
 Our future Queen to be, 
 Britannia, guard and bless her ; 
 
 Keep her from evil free ! 
 
 Father of mercy, shield her, 
 Encompass her with bliss ! 
 
 Let every season yield her 
 Increasing happiness ! 
 
 And if a cloud of sorrow 
 Should ever give her pain, 
 
 Bright sunshine on the morrow 
 
 Re-gild her way again. ¢ 
 
 NATIONAL ANTHEM 
 
 ON THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCE OF WALES. 
 Bricut Star of Brunswick’s line, 
 Whose rising beam doth shine 
 
 With hopeful ray ; 
 May God thy union bless 
 With Denmark’s chaste princess, 
 By love and happiness ; | 
 
 The People pray. 
 
Xl 
 
 Sweet lady,—in our Isle, | 
 
 May Heaven’s propitious smile 
 
 Illume thy way 
 
 With pure and holy light ; 
 
 Whilst on thy foot-path bright 
 
 Flowerets enchant thy sight, 
 And sunbeams play. 
 
 Our future King to be, 
 
 Virtue and truth on thee 
 Real glory shed ; 
 
 Wisdom exalt thy mind ; 
 
 Religion favour find ; 
 
 And blessings, ever kind, 
 Rest on thy head. 
 
 Far distant be the day 
 
 When we may know thy sway— 
 God save the Queen ! 
 
 With loyal sympathy, 
 
 Her people all agree, 
 
 Still long her reign may be, 
 
 As it hath been : 
 
 A. model to the State 
 Of all that’s good and great— 
 
 Praise to her name! 
 
Xil 
 
 Progress hath marked her time, 
 In peaceful arts benign, 
 With onward march sublime ; 
 
 Lasting her fame. 
 
 But when, in after years, 
 
 Thy Sovereign rule appears, 
 So vast and wide ; 
 
 May it the region be 
 
 Of all that’s wise and free ; 
 
 Thy Father live in thee ; 
 
 His precepts guide. 
 
 Let all the Nation sing, 
 
 God save our coming King, 
 From day to day. 
 
 Lord, bless the Royal pair : 
 
 Britain’s Imperial heir, 
 
 And Denmark’s daughter fair, 
 
 Now and for aye! 
 
Xl 
 
 BRITAIN’S GREETING TO THE PRINCESS 
 ALEXANDRA. 
 
 To greet the Sea-king’s daughter, 
 From Scandinavian coast, 
 When landing from the water, 
 A countless, swelling host, 
 Such hearty welcome gave her 
 As Britons only can ; 
 A prayer that God would save her 
 Through every bosom ran. 
 
 But now they see her beauty, 
 Her radiant smile so sweet ; 
 Love makes applause a duty, 
 Cheers thunder through the street. 
 Sure such ovations never 
 More rapturous and free 
 To mortal given ever— 
 
 A Queen she ought to be ! 
 
 Thousands of voices tell it ; 
 Exultant cannons roar ; 
 
 Bells, ringing merry, swell it : 
 She treads proud Albion’s shore. 
 
X1V 
 
 The spring-tide hastes to meet her, 
 And gild the sunny hours ; 
 
 Song-birds with music greet her, 
 Bright buds and early flowers. 
 
 Peaceful was great Canute’s reign, 
 His actions wise and good ; 
 May his virtues live again, 
 And blend with Saxon blood ! 
 Then will Britons yet to come, 
 With those who saw it, say, 
 When she made this land her home, 
 It was a joyful day. 
 
 One thought alone gave anguish, 
 And shadow’d o’er the scene : 
 That still the heart should languish 
 Of England’s widow’d Queen. 
 The father, too, was missing 
 
 Of that right princely son ; 
 But still his early blessing 
 Will rest their life upon. 
 
 And may this feeling cheer her— 
 Soothe her sad grief away ; 
 
 Both Prince and Princess near her 
 Be ever prone to stay! 
 
XV 
 
 May fairer days await her, 
 And joy again renew ; 
 
 May future hopes elate her, 
 And make her happy too ! 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 —+— 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THe Cominc Day - = = - - - - 1 
 WRITTEN UNDER THE AFFLICTION OF BLINDNESS - - 19 
 ON THE PROCLAMATION OF PEACE, 1856 - ~ - 20 
 THE WRECK OF THE RoyaL CHARTER - - - 22 
 Tue Dato oF Sir Henry HAVELOCK - - - 29 
 FAREWELL TO THE PRINCESS ROYAL - - - - 30 
 THe Late Ducuess oF KENT - - - - - 31 
 THE NATIONAL SORROW - - - - - - 33 
 Tus CREATOR SEEN IN HIS WORKS - - - - 36 
 A TRIBUTE TO THE Memory OF JOHN LANDER - - 38 
 Martyrs For TRUTH - - - - - - 40 
 SIGNS OF THE TIMES - - - - = = 44 
 SONG FOR THE VOLUNTEERS - - “ - - 47 
 THe Parrior’s SONG - - - - - - 49 
 To an Harty Primmose IN HIGHGATE CEMETERY = - 50 
 SPRING - - ~ - - - - - ~ 53 
 Sone To May - - ~ - - - - 55 
 SumMMER FLOWERS - - - - - - - 56 
 AvTUMNAL THOUGHTS” - - - - - - 58 
 WINTER - - - - - - - - - 60 
 CHRISTMAS CaROL - - - * - - - 61 
 THe EVER-GREEN OLD Hotty TREE - - ~ 63 
 INVOCATION TO SLEEP - - - = - - 65 
 WHo Is my FRIEND ? - - = = - - 66 
 
 QUADRANT GROVE, Haverstock Park - - ~ 68 
 
x CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 MEMORIES OF THE PAST - - - - - - 69 
 THe Dawn oF Morn—a GLEE - - - - 70 
 A FRAGMENT - - - - - = - - id 
 To A DEPARTED WIFE - - - - - - 72 
 To ANNE, IN HEAVEN - - - = - - 73 
 To THE Spirit oF A CHILD - - - - - 74 
 To a Lapy Gorne To INDIA - - - - - 78 
 In Memory oF A MOTHER - - - - - 76 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A GOLDFINCH - - - 78 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FavouriTE Dog - - 79 
 Passing AWAY - - - S - - - 81 
 Hymn - ~ = “ - - - - - 82 
 ‘‘ THERE REMAINETH THEREFORE A ReEsT”- - - 83 
 THE Joy TO COME - sey = 3 = 85 
 On THE DEATH OF THE REV. JOHN ANGELL JAMES - 86 
 To A YOUTH GOING TO SEA - - - - - 88 
 THe SEA = - as a i Bs ~ 5 89 
 To CHARLIN, IN AUSTRALIA - - - - - 90 
 
 Tue Passing YEAR - - = es 3 - 92 
 
THE COMING DAY. 
 
 AWAKE, my muse, and strike thy trembling lyre ; 
 Oh, for seraphic power thy flight to wing ! 
 
 In angel strains to sing of that Great Day, 
 
 The promised blessed day of jubilee, 
 
 When He shall come in Majesty Divine, 
 
 To reign triumphant o’er a ransomed race, 
 
 Who was despised, rejected, and condemned : 
 Come now with power, in clouds of radiant light, 
 And diadem of glory on that brow 
 
 Which once was tortured by a-crown of thorns. 
 The hand which held the mocking reed shall wield 
 A sceptre now of universal sway, 
 
 And peace and concord fill the world with joy. 
 
 O happy era dawning on mankind ! 
 
 Its tints are gilding now the mountain tops, 
 And soon will fill with light the raptured Earth ! 
 
 B 
 
2 THE COMING DAY. 
 
 Man will no longer tyrannise o’er man, 
 
 The mighty trample on and crush the weak ; 
 
 But holy right, and truth, and love prevail, 
 
 And shed their blessings on the golden age. 
 
 The Lord will come, lift up your drooping heads ; 
 
 Christians, rejoice, the time is near at hand! 
 Time’s rapid current ever surges on, 
 
 To reach the ocean of Kternity, 
 
 Bearing away the pomp and pride of men. 
 
 Hieroes may triumph for a short-lived day ; 
 
 Time is a never-ceasing conqueror : 
 
 All human strength and state must own his sway, 
 
 And prostrate lie beneath his crumbling hand. 
 
 Cities and thrones, kingdoms and empires fall ; 
 
 The sturdy battlements and buttress’d towers ; 
 
 Aye, e’en the giant pyramid is but 
 
 A monument of his destructive power. 
 
 And man—the statesman and the warrior, 
 
 The boldest patriot and the wisest sage— 
 
 Have left their glorious deeds behind, to tell 
 
 That once they were, but now have passed away ; 
 
 And the faint records of their transient fame, 
 
 Through every age, become less legible. 
 
 Time measures out our earthly pilgrimage, 
 
 And every moment brings us nearer Death. 
 
 ” 
 
THE COMING DAY. 
 
 Onward he speeds ; his hoary pinions wing 
 Their way through years and ages ceaselessly. 
 But we heed not his silent, rapid flight ; 
 
 As if there were no life beyond the grave ; 
 
 No realms of bliss, no region of despair, 
 
 No retribution for our crimes on earth. 
 
 So says the sceptic—blind in reason’s pride 
 To all the proofs of power omnipotent, 
 
 The evidences of Divinity 
 
 Which Nature gives in every blade of grass, 
 In every flower that beautifies the earth, 
 
 In all the forms of life ; but most of all 
 
 In man supreme, the likeness of his God! 
 
 A wonderful machine of heavenly skill, 
 Whose limbs obey, by some great secret power, 
 The motions of his will ; a power so strange, 
 That human wisdom never can explain. 
 
 And yet man dares to doubt, and look beyond 
 The brief duration of his mortal life 
 
 To blank oblivion, dark forgetfulness ! 
 Impiety would make the angels frown, 
 
 And look indignant on the daring fool. 
 
 Thus, too, the mystery of incarnate love, 
 Which gave to sinful man a Saviour God, 
 
 Is made the subject of his unbelief ; 
 
A. THE COMING DAY. 
 
 A work too vast for his poor intellect 
 
 To take within its grasp. He would restrict 
 The Sovereign of the mighty universe, 
 
 And in his folly bring the Infinite 
 
 Down to the standard of his finite sense. 
 Vain, impious mortal! See the heavens above ; 
 Look en the regions of unbounded space, 
 Studded with myriads of celestial orbs, 
 
 Of which this globe is but a particle. 
 
 Could not a being, who can thus create, 
 
 Do all things else it was his will to do ? 
 
 O mercy boundless! wisdom inscrutable, 
 That wrought so great, so wonderful a plan : 
 The law fulfilled ; thy justice satisfied ; 
 
 And man redeemed. Love infinite! 
 
 A thousand victims every moment fall 
 Beneath the all-destroying stroke of Time ; 
 And yet we labour on from day to day, 
 
 To lay up store for never-ending years. 
 
 Man onward steers his prosperous course, nor thinks, 
 Till oft too late, upon the life to come ; 
 
 Unmindful that he stands upon the brink, 
 
 The yawning gulf of vast eternity ; 
 
 And the next wave that flows may launch him m. 
 
 So the poor mariner upon the sea, 
 
THE COMING DAY. 
 
 Wafted along by the soft, balmy breeze, 
 
 Dreams not of storms and desolating blasts— 
 
 When the rude tempest, from its hidden cave, 
 
 Bursts forth with fury on the troubled main, 
 
 And hurls the bark, with all her frighted crew, 
 
 Into the deep, beneath the angry wave. » 
 
 Lhe Christian looks to fairer scenes beyond, 
 
 When, putting on her holiday attire, 
 
 This orb shall be arrayed in Sabbath robe, 
 
 Throughout a bright millennial reign of joy ; 
 
 And he shall triumph in immortal bliss, 
 
 When the archangel with the trump proclaims 
 
 Man’s final doom, and time shall be no more. 
 But ere that consummation be fulfill’d, 
 
 A. day will dawn upon this Earth as fair 
 
 As e’er on Eden’s bowers its splendour shed. 
 
 Ages to come of peace, and love, and joy, 
 
 Will fill the world with boundless happiness. 
 
 That great Arch-fiend, the tempter of mankind, 
 
 Father of lies and every other sin, 
 
 No longer left the nations to deceive, 
 
 Will be bound down by adamantine chain, 
 
 And mercy, truth, and righteousness prevail. 
 
 O blessed day for this distracted globe, 
 
 When all the passions of the human heart 
 
6 THE COMING DAY. 
 
 Shall be subdued, to reign and rage no more. 
 No cruel tyrant will oppress the slave, 
 Outrage the laws of God, and trample on 
 The common rights bestowed on every man. 
 Sprung from one sire, and gifted with a soul ; 
 Redeemed alike by one great Sacrifice, 
 
 To live immortal in the realms of light ; 
 Why should men dare proscribe and isolate 
 A human race not coloured like their own ? 
 Oh, sinful traffic, for the greed of gain, 
 
 By those who Christianity profess, 
 
 But violate its holy principles. 
 
 The helpless victims of such wicked power 
 Degraded to the level of the brute ; 
 
 In savage darkness kept by force of law ; 
 Hearts reft asunder, severed dearest ties ; 
 And all the feelings of humanity 
 
 Harshly disdained, insulted, and ignored. 
 Domestic institutions, servitude— 
 
 Soft names, forsooth, for wretched slavery ; 
 The thraldom of the body and the soul, 
 
 In bondage worse than Egypt’s heavy yoke ; 
 Dissolving unions which were made by God, 
 To satisfy man’s base cupidity. 
 
 The hapless mother from her offspring torn, 
 
THE COMING DAY. a 
 
 With bleeding heart and supplication vain. 
 Children, bereft of all parental care, 
 
 Must look their last on those they dearly love ; 
 And, severed from ‘their grasp by ruthless hands, 
 Be sold, like cattle, for the highest price ; 
 Then trained—regardless of immortal life, 
 
 The mighty interests of a future state— 
 
 As if they had no mind or human heart. 
 
 So immaterial and material too, 
 
 Body and soul, are bartered both away. 
 Freedom, thus outraged, loud on Justice calls, 
 And claims the sovereign liberty of Man. 
 
 Oh, dwellers in another hemisphere, 
 
 Vaunting your love of freedom to the world, 
 Yet holding with a firm, tenacious grasp 
 
 Your coloured brother sighing to be free— 
 
 Do you not see the flaming sword of Heaven 
 Suspended over your devoted land ? 
 
 Wipe out the blot so foul that curses it, 
 
 And peace and progress will again return. 
 Torrents of blood have flowed to expiate 
 
 The sin you long have cherished ; though mankind, 
 In other regions, have renounced the crime. 
 The world beholds your fearful tragedy 
 
 As the just judgment of a righteous God, 
 
8 THE COMING DAY. 
 
 And thus withholds from you its sympathy, 
 
 In the fierce conflict of your citizens. 
 
 O civil strife, most hideous form of war ! 
 Where friends and kindred meet as deadly foes, 
 Alike unyielding in their mutual hate, 
 
 And strew the field with heaps of weltering slain. 
 Poor mangled, bleeding, agonising men, 
 
 Mercy in deep emotion bends o’er them, 
 
 And Pity weeps to see such bitter woe. 
 
 Forced from their homes in an unholy strife, 
 The victims of Oppression’s cruel power, 
 Which claims the monstrous right to shackle men, 
 And flog them to their labour like a beast. 
 
 Ah, evil day, when a dark stain was left 
 
 Upon the charter of a people’s rights, | 
 
 Which else was noble, virtuous, and free. 
 
 An oligarchy, proud and insolent, 
 
 Rose with the new acquired liberty, 
 
 And ruled the state, in spirit dominant 
 
 As that which crushed and manacled the slave. 
 And now they call upon the Lord of Hosts, 
 Whose sacred justice rules this nether sphere, 
 To bless and prosper their unrighteous cause, 
 And let their harsh injustice triumph still. 
 May Heaven forgive such daring blasphemy ! 
 
THE COMING DAY. 9 
 
 The crimes of nations are avenged in Time. 
 Man will be judged each for himself alone, 
 But peoples suffer for their country’s guilt. 
 Witness the Jews, scattered and driven wide, 
 Without a land to dwell in of their own. 
 Then see the terror, carnage, and revolt ; 
 The retribution for that demon plot, 
 The cruel outrage of Bartholomew ; 
 The pestilence and fire which quickly came 
 To desolate our city profligate, 
 Punish a tyrant and licentious court, 
 Denying men the right to worship free ; 
 Steeped, too, in luxury and wickedness. 
 And in this judgment are we free from blame ? 
 Have we not made a product, raised by force, 
 One of the staples of our industry ; 
 When Britain’s vast domains, by labour free, 
 Could give our mills what men are starving for ? 
 Brave, suffermg men, whose honest love of right 
 Makes them with moral fortitude endure, 
 Whilst pining Want stalks through their dreary homes. 
 Come to the rescue, friends of Freedom, come ! 
 And drive gaunt Famine from the northern hearths, 
 Till other regions can the need supply, 
 
 Where no slave produce will a curse entail. 
 
10 THE COMING DAY. 
 
 War, hateful theme! the task shall ne’er be 
 mine 
 To chant the triumphs and exalt the fame 
 Won on the battle field by striving hosts 
 Of madmen thirsting for each other’s blood. 
 I sing the glories of the reign of Peace, 
 When rivalries of amity and love 
 Alone shall win the honest meed of praise. 
 Oh, happy age, when wars shall terminate, 
 And bonds of peace and virtue hold mankind 
 In one great union, lasting and secure. 
 Where thorns and briars desolate the ground, 
 The pine, the myrtle, and the box shall grow ; 
 And flowers perennial spring in fadeless bloom ; 
 Whilst arts of peace will everywhere convert 
 Swords into ploughshares, spears to pruninghooks. 
 Man’s ingenuity is taxed to find 
 Some weapon more destructive than before, 
 To sweep down legions at a single blow, 
 And fill the world with carnage and with death. 
 Satan his forces thus will concentrate, 
 Until the advent of that dreadful day, _ 
 When the great battle of the Lord shall come, 
 And sure destruction overwhelm His foes. 
 
 What moral force can cure this giant sin— 
 
THE COMING DAY. ll 
 
 This rage for wholesale murder in our time ? 
 
 All men unite—regenerate the world ? 
 
 Commerce or Art, Reason, Philosophy ? 
 
 Vain, empty dream—a sad delusion this. 
 
 _ Go, preach the Gospel to unhappy man ; 
 
 Its peaceful balm alone can heal the wounds 
 
 Of poor humanity, and still the storm 
 
 Of thundering cannon and of clashing arms, 
 
 Which make the widow weep, the orphan wail, 
 
 And bring rebellious mortals back to God. 
 
 England! thy mission is to spread its truths, 
 
 And, as a witness, tell it to the world. 
 
 Oh, blessed truth! Oh, heaven-restoring power ! 
 
 Proclaim its mercy where the curse is felt, 
 
 Through the dark places of this fallen star,— 
 
 Oh, spread its glorious soul-renewing light ! 
 Signs of the Coming Day are gathering fast, 
 
 But the Great Father of the universe 
 
 The solemn moment can alone reveal. 
 
 Stupendous secret! Angels long to know, 
 
 And, with their golden harps, to celebrate ! 
 
 The hour will strike, and, through the vault of 
 
 heaven 
 Resounding, wake again the holy dead, 
 
 Who sleep in Christ until the rising morn. 
 
1 THE COMING DAY. 
 
 Two waning powers fulfil the great decree, 
 And prove the inspiration of that Book 
 Whose page alone reveals our destiny. 
 
 At the same time they rose to curse mankind— 
 Moslem deception and apostate Rome. 
 
 So as they came, together will they fall. 
 Twelve centuries of tyranny and crime 
 
 Have traced their history in lines of blood. 
 The day of retribution is at hand, 
 
 When they shall sink to rise no more at all! 
 Great Babylon, with all her sorceries, 
 
 Her lying wonders, pomp, and hate of truth, 
 Allowed no more her victims to delude, 
 
 Will meet her just, irrevocable doom. 
 
 And when the Crescent shall have passed away, 
 With all its savage lust and blasphemy, 
 
 The land of promise will again recall 
 
 Her wandering tribes from every region home, 
 To tread the verdant plains of Palestine, 
 
 And sing with joy upon her mountain slopes. 
 Another Moses, fired with holy zeal, 
 
 May lead his brethren to their heritage, 
 
 With all their treasure, to enrich the land ; 
 Rebuild her cities, and,on Zion’s hill 
 
 A temple raise more glorious than before. 
 
THE COMING DAY. 3 
 
 Placed on the summit of the ancient world, 
 The central point for three great continents, 
 What site so fit for universal rule ? 
 
 From rocky Sinai to the distant sea, 
 
 From the Orontes to Mount Lebanon, 
 Crowned with the cedars of three thousand years, 
 What land so fertile and so beautiful /— 
 
 The seat of empire for the Prince of Peace, 
 Whose vast dominion Earth alone will bound. 
 Let but the promised influence be given ; 
 
 The Holy Spirit, ighting up the mind— 
 
 A mighty, soul-reviving Pentecost— 
 
 Hebrew and Gentile would alike believe, 
 
 And a whole nation in a day be born. | 
 
 In things material how great the change ! 
 
 A silent revolution now impels. 
 
 No longer moving on by slow degrees, 
 Progress, impatient, strides with hasty step, 
 And does the work of ages in a year. 
 Knowledge, unfettered, hastens to and fro, 
 And sheds her radiant light on all around. 
 Man’s genius boldly dares the adverse gale ; 
 Steers through the storm, right onward. to his port ; 
 Flies like the wind upon the solid land ; 
 
 __ Pencils his pictures with the solar ray, 
 
14 THE COMING DAY. 
 
 And makes the lightning be his messenger ! 
 
 Far spent the night, all things portend the day : 
 
 Six thousand years of sin, and woe, and death, 
 
 Will soon fulfil their course of toil and guilt. 
 
 Scoffers may sneer, and all things look the same 
 
 As in the days that were before the flood ; 
 
 The busy haunts of commerce teem with men ; 
 
 Statesmen will scheme, and play their party game, 
 
 And all the gay frivolities of life 
 
 Riot unchecked. The bridegroom and the bride, 
 
 As erst, go forth to plight the marriage vow ; 
 
 Events the same diurnal round will take, 
 
 But yet the promise is eternal truth, 
 
 That He will come whose right it is to reign, 
 
 And sudden glory burst upon the world !— 
 
 Come with awakening blast of trumpet sound, 
 
 Of power omnipotent, and dazzling light. 
 
 Legions of angels will surround His throne, 
 
 And all the saints who passed from earth to heaven. 
 The morning opens lovely and serene, 
 
 And wakes to busy life a sleeping world. 
 
 The day advances ; all is calm and clear ; 
 
 When, lo, a sudden darkness veils the sun! 
 
 The birds fly low and sharp, the cattle start— 
 
 All Nature indicates a coming storm. 
 
THE COMING DAY. 15 
 
 The lonely traveller stops upon his way ; 
 
 Groups in the village gather with alarm ; 
 
 Crowds in the city stand with strange dismay, 
 Transfixed with wonder, and immovable. 
 
 See yonder brilliant ray which shines afar! 
 
 The bright and morning Star illumes the sky. 
 
 The Day Spring from on high resplendent beams 
 From east to west, and floods the world with light. 
 In growing magnitude it onward comes ! 
 
 Angels roll back the azure curtain spread 
 
 Between this sphere and all the blaze of heaven— 
 The wonders which surround the eternal throne, 
 The great white throne of purity and love; 
 
 Where Truth and Mercy, Righteousness and Peace, 
 With holy Justice, and with Judgment blend. 
 
 But, hark! a rising swell of harmony! 
 
 Angelic music breaks upon the ear ! 7 
 
 The high supernal throne appears in view, 
 
 In splendour greater than a sevenfold sun! 
 
 A living cloud of countless witnesses 
 
 Surround the glorious Prince of Righteousness. 
 And, lo! the trumpet’s thrilling, awful voice 
 Awakes the dead! In multitudes they rise 
 
 From land and sea, and join the heavenly throng ; 
 
 And, putting off the garb of mortal clay, 
 
16 THE COMING DAY. 
 
 Saints leave the trembling earth to meet their Lord ; 
 
 Changed in a moment—incorruptible ! 
 
 But who can paint the scene of black dismay, 
 
 Unutterable woe and agony, 
 
 Which in that day will overwhelm the lost, 
 
 When the great rolling sea of molten heat 
 
 Bursts forth from its internal caverns deep, 
 
 And all the igneous air is liquid flame ? 
 
 In the great conflict of that dreadful day, 
 
 Earthquake, devouring fire, and crushing hail ; 
 
 In the fierce tempest of Jehovah’s wrath, 
 
 Who shall be able in that storm to stand ? 
 
 O awful doom of all ungodly men. 
 
 No refuge near, where will the sinner fly 
 
 To hide from the avenging hand of God 
 
 The wrath of Him who sitteth on the Throne ? 
 
 ee must await him then ; 
 
 »Darkness, despair, and bitter penitence ; 
 
 No ray of mercy reach the outer gloom ! 
 Another Eden, garden of the Lord, 
 
 Where all is pure and holy, will arise ; 
 
 No stormy wind, no desolating sea ; 
 
 But calm and lovely Paradise restored ; 
 
 Where that perennial tree of life will grow, 
 
 Whose varied fruits and healing leaves bloom on 
 
 ee ee 
 
THE COMING DAY. 17 
 
 Unceasingly, fed by the vital stream 
 
 Which ever flows from its primeval spring. 
 
 _ Awake, O Zion, for thy light is come ! 
 Eternal city of the mighty King! 
 
 The glory of the Lord on thee shall rise. 
 
 Thy walls salvation shall be called ; thy gates 
 Be praise, thy banners love and righteousness. 
 O blissful day! the Christian’s hopes fulfilled ; 
 Faith shall be turned to sight, and prayer to praise ; 
 And all his tears for ever wiped away. 
 
 Rivers of pleasure from the imperial fount, 
 Hye hath not seen, nor ear hath ever heard, 
 And mortal intellect can never know, 
 
 Will fill his soul with boundless pure delight. 
 A handful then will as a forest grow ; 
 
 The little one a thousand will become ; 
 
 And a strong city shall the small one nell 
 The mountains shall rejoice ; sing together 
 All the waste places of Jerusalem. 
 
 A righteous Prince in equity will reign, 
 Subduing all things to His peaceful sway. 
 
 The earth renewed and beautified will be 
 With never-dying plants, and trees, and flowers ; 
 And a new heaven of light upon it shine, 
 Whose brightness will eclipse the fading sun, 
 
 Cc 
 
18 THE COMING DAY. 
 
 And night be lost in bright enduring day ! 
 
 Oh, haste thy reign—great Prince of glory, come! 
 Pause, fellow-pilgrim, ere we say adieu ; 
 
 We fain would meet thee in the better land. 
 
 Dost thou rejoice in hope of the Great Day, 
 
 And feel exultant at its near approach ? 
 
 If so, it will indeed be well with thee : 
 
 The storms of life may beat upon thy head, 
 
 The cup of earthly joy be dashed away ; 
 
 Fear not—the time of recompense is nigh, 
 
 When thou shalt bless the loving Father’s hand 
 
 Which led thee through the thorny wilderness, 
 
 And brought thee safely to eternal rest, 
 
 Where pain and sorrow will no more be known. 
 
 If on thy journey to an endless life, 
 
 Thou artgpursuing Error’s fatal road ; 
 
 Oh, m2 think before you further go! 
 
 Stay, while the day of grace is yet unspent, 
 
 While mercy waits—the Saviour intercedes. 
 
 He left His crown of glory—suffered, died, 
 
 That you might have immortal life and joy. 
 
 His blood alone can cleanse you from your guilt ; 
 
 He will receive you—to the refuge fly ! 
 
 Then when you see Him in the clouds of Heaven, 
 
 And every eye on that grand scene will look, 
 
 You will rejoice, and hail the Coming Day. 
 
£9 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER THE AFFLICTION OF 
 BLINDNESS. 
 Ou, for a ray from Heaven again, 
 To light my darkened eye ; 
 The power once more to gaze upon 
 
 The blue and radiant sky. 
 
 The faces, too, of truthful friends 
 I fain again would see ; 
 Who, though in cold adversity, 
 
 Have not forsaken me. 
 
 And as the rolling year comes on, 
 "Twould be a joyous thing 
 To ramble o’er the verdant mead, 
 
 And cull the flowers of Spring. ’ | 
 
 Alas! I cannot see them now, 
 All dressed in robes so bright— 
 Their pencilled forms and rainbow hues 
 Of soft and coloured light. 
 
 But still their fragrance may arise, 
 With sweetness more intense ; 
 
 And, wafted on AXolian wing, 
 Enchant my grateful sense. 
 
20 ON THE PROCLAMATION OF PEACE. 
 
 And fancy’s eye is never dimmed ; 
 Up-springing from the sod, 
 
 E’en now I trace their beauties o’er, 
 And praise the love of God, 
 
 Who gemmed the earth with things so fair, 
 And who has given to me 
 Imagination’s power to soothe, 
 
 Although I cannot see. 
 
 Pll rest upon His mercy still, 
 However dark my doom ; 
 
 Some beams of hope may yet light up 
 The very deepest gloom. 
 
 ON THE PROCLAMATION OF PEACE, 
 ¥ 1856. 
 Peace! let the heaven-born word resound, 
 Throughout the length and breadth of earth, 
 Wherever discord may be found, 
 
 Or mortal passions can have birth. 
 
 Peace! let the welcome echo fly 
 O’er every mountain, every plain ; 
 Ascend from earth the vaulted sky, 
 
 And come in zephyrs back again. 
 
ON THE PROCLAMATION OF PEACE. 
 
 Peace reigns among the spheres above, 
 And swells the rapt angelic song ; 
 Peace is a theme which seraphs love, 
 
 And strike their golden harps upon. 
 
 No more let human strife prevail, 
 
 To fill the world with woe and pain ; 
 No more let history’s dismal tale 
 
 Of battle-field be heard again. 
 
 May Christian rulers all unite 
 To civilise and bless the world ; 
 And shed Religion’s genial light 
 
 Where er their banners are unfurled ! 
 
 Peace, like an angel, through the globe 
 Her happy jubilee proclaim ; 
 And clothe the nations with her robe 
 
 Of love, without one angry stain. 
 
 Peace to the earth ! henceforth may all 
 The families of man agree, 
 And freedom soon the day instal 
 
 Of universal liberty. 
 
 21 
 
ips THE WRECK. 
 
 May Western tyrants loose the slave, 
 And Eastern ones the mind set free ; 
 May slaves at home that mercy have, 
 
 Dictated by humanity ! | 
 
 May all the world such progress make 
 As God intended for mankind ; 
 Till despots everywhere shall quake, 
 
 And bow before the march of mind ! 
 
 Then will commence the sway of Peace, 
 To spread her influence benign ; 
 Till wide as roll the boundless seas, 
 
 The Prince of Peace Himself shall reign. 
 
 7 EL WE TO 
 
 A NARRATIVE OF THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL CHARTER, ON HER 
 VOYAGE FROM MELBOURNE TO LIVERPOOL, OCTOBER 26TH, 
 1859. COMMANDED BY CAPTAIN TAYLOR. 
 
 A STATELY ship came o’er the sea, 
 From a far distant land, 
 
 Freighted with full five hundred. souls, 
 A gay and happy band. 
 
THE WRECK. 
 
 Across the South Pacific wave, 
 And oer the Atlantic main, 
 They safely steered, and joyous reached 
 
 Their native isle again. 
 
 Through many years of anxious care, 
 Five thousand leagues away, 
 
 They laboured on with cheerful hearts, 
 And worked from day to day. 
 
 Bright visions of their fatherland, 
 And childhood’s happy home, 
 Lightened their toil ;—again returned, 
 
 Their feet no more should roam. 
 
 And now with bosoms beating high, 
 They saw old England’s shore, 
 And felt that all their hopes were crowned, 
 
 And all their sorrows o'er. 
 
 The lightning flash had sent the news 
 To friends and kindred dear ; 
 And earnest groups were gathering round, 
 
 To meet the loved ones near. 
 
THE WRECK. 
 
 Ah! here my faltering tongue would stay— 
 What on that day befell, 
 
 Of prospects blighted, ruined hopes, 
 The tale how can I tell ? 
 
 A sudden tempest drove the bark 
 On Cambria’s iron coast, 
 And there ’mid darkness, storm, and wreck, 
 
 Her living freight was lost ! 
 
 No rescue came, no hope was near ; 
 Confusion and dismay 
 
 Reigned ’mid the shrieks of piercing woe, 
 On that ill-fated day. 
 
 A servant of the mighty God 
 Who rules the raging sea, 
 Gathered around him trembling souls, 
 
 In low humility. 
 
 Thus as they prayed with solemn awe, 
 Upon the bended knee, 
 The crisis came,—and all were launched 
 
 Into eternity ! 
 
bS 
 Or 
 
 THE WRECK. 
 
 A cry of dreadful agony, 
 
 Which rent the quivering air, 
 Ascended to the vault above 
 
 In all its wild despair ! 
 
 There fathers, mothers, children all, 
 No mortal power could save ; 
 Locked in each other’s arms, went down, 
 
 And found so deep a grave ! 
 
 And lovers, in their last embrace, 
 "Whelmed by that awful tide, 
 
 Together linked, are peacefully 
 Reposing side by side. 
 
 There gentle forms of beauty sunk 
 Amid that awful gloom ; 
 And manly hearts, that never quailed, 
 
 But bravely met their doom. 
 
 One hero of a coloured race, 
 In Christian land enslaved, 
 Won for himself a deathless fame, 
 So nobly he behaved. 
 
26 
 
 THE WRECK. 
 
 Through foaming surf he bravely strove, 
 With hawser in his hand ;. 
 A. few, more daring than the rest, 
 
 Thus struggled to the land. ~ 
 
 To fireside groups, in time to come, 
 The aged sire will say, 
 
 How Redgeurs boldly dared that night 
 His life in Molfra Bay. 
 
 But last upon the shattered hulk 
 The gallant skipper stood, 
 
 And cheered his crew with dying breath 
 Till lost beneath the flood. 
 
 That fated ship had borne from far 
 Treasure almost untold ; 
 But one immortal soul was worth 
 
 Far more than all the gold. 
 
 And bleeding hearts were left behind, 
 In many a British home, 
 Where mourners sadly weep for those 
 
 Who never more will come! 
 
THE WRECK. 
 
 When day revealed the fearful wreck, 
 ' And the sad tale was known, 
 It filled the land with sympathy, 
 From cottage to the throne. 
 
 Ah! many tears were shed that day, 
 Salt as the briny sea ; 
 And bosoms heaved like stormy waves, 
 
 In helpless misery. 
 
 Fast by, in village church was laid, 
 How many a lifeless form, 
 Which pious hands had carried there, 
 
 Away from wave and storm. 
 
 And so they ranged them side by side 
 Within that sacred place ; 
 Whilst broken-hearted kindred came 
 
 To see each pallid face ; 
 
 Then, borne away with solemn rite, 
 Consigned them to the earth, 
 Consoled to know they slept beneath 
 The soil that gave them birth. 
 
 27 
 
28 
 
 THE WRECK. 
 
 Now, underneath the green-sward, dight 
 With daisies bright and fair, 
 Those who in vain had sighed for home, 
 
 Are sleeping calmly there. 
 
 But many more remain entombed 
 Low in their watery bed, 
 And there will rest in peace until 
 
 The sea gives up her dead. 
 
 No priest with prayer their relics blessed, 
 No funeral knell was rung ; 
 But winds and billows o’er their grave 
 
 A mournful requiem sung. 
 
 Alas! how fleeting and how frail 
 All human plans appear ; 
 The fairest hopes elude the grasp, 
 
 All things are transient here. 
 
 The only port of peace and joy, 
 To life’s rough voyagers given,— 
 The haven we may surely reach, 
 
 The only rest, is heaven. 
 
THE DEATH OF SIR HENRY HAVELOCK. 
 
 His triumphs are over—the warrior is gone ! 
 Brave Havelock, the veteran, is dead ; 
 
 So the bright sun goes down, when his duty is done, 
 *Mid the radiance and splendour he shed. 
 
 He has passed to his rest—we deeply deplore him ; 
 The whole nation mourns over his fate: 
 Enshrined in the hearts of her sons who adore him, 
 
 He will ever be ranked with the great. 
 
 Ah, little we thought, when his battles were o’er, 
 And his prowess recorded in story, 
 He would come to the land of his fathers no more, 
 
 To receive the reward of his glory ! 
 
 The heart of full many a Briton will wail 
 At the loss of a soldier so brave, 
 
 And bright eyes will weep at the saddening tale 
 That the hero is laid in his grave. 
 
 He fought, and he vanquished the merciless foe, 
 And conquered wherever he went ; 
 He was armed with the weapon of Justice, to show 
 
 The sure vengeance that Heaven had sent. 
 
30 FAREWELL TO THE PRINCESS ROYAL. 
 
 Though his body repose in a land far away, 
 "Neath the rays of a tropical sun, 
 
 His spirit for ever in Britain will stay, 
 And incite to the deeds he has done. 
 
 And wherever the pages of history are read, 
 lts lines will emblazon his name ; 
 And the fields he has won, and the victories led, 
 
 Be inscribed in the temple of Fame. 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE PRINCESS ROYAL. 
 
 FAREWELL to thee, Princess ; the pride of our land! 
 The fair daughter of Albion’s Queen ; 
 
 The nation is moved at the gift of thy hand, 
 With the memory of what thou hast been. 
 
 Eldest born of the Monarch, and nurtured with care, 
 The first joy, and the hope of her heart ; 
 
 Thou’lt be followed by many a true, ardent prayer, 
 When thou dost from our island depart. | 
 
 May the radiance of Heaven illumine thy way, 
 And the virtues instilled in thy mind 
 
 Be thy strength and thy solace through every day, 
 As pure thoughts to thy heart thou dost bind. 
 
THE LATE DUCHESS OF KENT. 31 
 
 The hopes of thy country will go with thee, where 
 Thou hast chosen thy future to be ; 
 
 May the love and the blessing be felt by thee there, 
 Which in Britain will rest upon thee. 
 
 May the chaplet which graces her Majesty’s brow, 
 As a Sovereign, a mother, a wife— 
 And which sheds such bright lustre upon thy path 
 now— 
 
 Be the light and the guide of thy life. 
 
 And long mayest thou live to reflect back its beauty, 
 From the throne of a neighbouring State ; 
 
 And excite, by thy brilliant example to duty, 
 All the wealthy, the noble, the great. 
 
 THE LATE DUCHESS OF KENT. 
 Tntustrious Lady! passed away 
 To where the blessed go, 
 The nation o’er thy memory mourns 
 With no vain, pompous show ; 
 But silent grief is deeply felt, 
 Tears of true sorrow fall ; 
 A gloom throughout the land is spread, 
 A sad, funereal pall. 
 
THE LATE DUCHESS OF KENT. 
 
 The mother of our model Queen 
 Rests with the sleeping dead ; 
 
 Her earthly pilgrimage is done, 
 Her heavenly spirit fled. 
 
 The people share their Sovereign’s woe, 
 With true and loyal hearts ; 
 
 And would the balm and solace yield, 
 Which sympathy imparts. 
 
 Her wisdom trained the Princess born 
 To reign in every zone ; 
 
 And fitted her so well to grace 
 Britain’s Imperial Throne. 
 
 A debt of gratitude they owe, 
 Which words can never tell, 
 
 To one who gave to Englishmen 
 
 A Queen they love so well. f 
 
 Long may she reign, endeared to all 
 Who own her righteous sway, 
 In Eastern and in Western world, 
 Through bright, unending day. 
 And when at last, in time remote, 
 She leaves this transient sphere, 
 May she put off her diadem, 
 
 Immortal gems to wear. 
 
33 
 
 THE NATIONAL SORROW. 
 
 “That they may rest from their labours; and their works 
 do follow them.”—Rev. xiv. 13. 
 
 HEarp you the booming of that solemn bell, 
 At midnight borne upon the wailing wind ? 
 Twice hath its tongue proclaimed the country’s loss 
 Within the compass of a single year, 
 And filled our homes with sorrow and with gloom. 
 The spectre pale, whose mandate all obey, 
 Has passed through palace gates, and called away 
 Two victims, dear alike to Queen and State : 
 One who instilled into her youthful mind 
 The virtues which have since adorned a throne, 
 And swayed the sceptre o’er a nation’s heart ; 
 And he, the Royal Prince, beloved by all 
 Who heard the mention of his honoured name. 
 As some famed oak, the glory of the land, 
 In all its beauty and its towering strength, 
 By sudden flaming sword of Heaven struck down, 
 And prostrate laid—a spectacle more sad 
 Ne’er drew the tear from gentle Pity’s eye. 
 High-minded, gifted, most illustrious Prince, 
 Master alike of pencil and the lyre! 
 Who sought by social arts our country’s good, 
 
 D 
 
34 THE NATIONAL SORROW. 
 
 And saw in science the Almighty hand 
 Unveiling Nature’s hidden laws to man. 
 Friend of the poor ;—ah ! many tears were shed 
 In cottage, as in mansion, at his fate. 
 The sons of toil, at many a humble hearth, 
 Long time to come, will oft recite his deeds. 
 The world laments Albert’s untimely loss, 
 And fondly looks to that vast, wondrous hall 
 His wisdom raised to foster skill and art, 
 Unite each race in one great family— 
 One common bond of human brotherhood— 
 And fill the earth with concord and with peace. 
 Glory far higher than the honour won, 
 ’Mid clash of arms and groans of agony, 
 Where banners wave o’er fields of gore and death. 
 His pathway here, a pure and radiant light, 
 Throws back its beams upon our darkened land, 
 And thus with mournful ray illumes our night. 
 So wise, so unobtrusive, and so just, 
 His worth, reflected from a virtuous life, 
 Was but half seen before he passed away, 
 Like a bright meteor, from this nether world, 
 To shine, as do the stars, for evermore. 
 
 He did not live a life of useless ease, 
 But well fulfilled a noble destiny, 
 
THE NATIONAL SORROW. 35 
 
 And reared a monument of lofty fame, 
 That will outlive the sculptor’s highest art, 
 And give his name to long posterity. 
 
 Ah! could we heal the royal mourner’s wound, 
 Give consolation to her aching heart, 
 How would it mitigate the general woe ! 
 The people shed a sympathising tear, 
 And claim a share of all her bitter grief. 
 May princely sons still guard and counsel her, 
 And daughters fair surround her with their love. 
 Long may she live—God bless our widowed Queen ! 
 Beneath His sheltering wing o’ershadow her ; 
 Comfort her soul in this her dark distress ; 
 And when her glorious reign shall be complete, 
 -Waft her to those who wait to meet her, where 
 Adieus and partings never will be known, 
 
 And crown unfading light her seraph brow ! 
 
 pd 2 
 
36 
 
 THE CREATOR SEEN IN HIS WORKS. 
 
 ‘‘Q Lord, how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast thou 
 made them all.” —Psa. civ. 24. 
 
 How great the wisdom of our God, 
 Who formed the vaulted sky, 
 
 And all things into being called 
 Beneath its canopy. 
 
 His power is seen around, above, 
 Far as the realm of light ; 
 
 His love beams out in Nature’s charms, 
 So beautiful and bright. 
 
 Forth from His mighty hand He rolled 
 The blazing Orb of Day ; 
 
 And He enthroned the Queen of Night, 
 With silver streaming ray. 
 
 He lighted up the radiant stars, 
 Tn all their dazzling train, 
 
 That spangle o’er, with diamond eyes, 
 
 The vast ethereal plain. 
 
 He reared the giant forest trees ; 
 He decked the earth with flowers, 
 And painted all the lovely hues 
 
 In this fair world of ours. 
 
THE CREATOR SEEN IN HIS WORKS. 37 
 
 His thunder peals athwart the heaven ; 
 His tempest sweeps the sky ; 
 
 And His the still small voice that breathes 
 When Zephyr whispers by. 
 
 The rolling waves intone His name, 
 In music deep and strong ; 
 
 The rippling rills their tribute raise, 
 The mountain slopes among. 
 
 The song of bird—the hum of bee, 
 In every sylvan dell, 
 
 Increase the fulness of His praise, 
 
 The lofty anthem swell. 
 
 He gave to man the winged thoughts 
 
 That from this region rise, 
 And find no rest until they reach 
 
 | His home beyond the skies. 
 
 And He will lead with gentle hand, 
 And with a Father’s care, 
 
 The footsteps of His wayward child, 
 And bring the wanderer there. 
 
38 
 
 A TRIBUTE - - 
 TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN LANDER, 
 WHO (WITH HIS BROTHER RICHARD) DISCOVERED THE 
 COURSE AND TERMINATION OF THE NIGER. 
 How strange the void left by the hand of.Death ! 
 The ties of friendship and of love he breaks, 
 And crushes all our best and fondest hopes ; 
 Nor rank, nor age, nor virtue can escape 
 His fatal and inevitable stroke. 
 The old, the young, the coward, and the brave, 
 The man of letters, and the untutored clown, 
 Alike must yield when the stern spoiler comes— 
 Merit claims nothing from his ruthless hand. 
 And thou, my valued and my faithful friend, 
 Whose kind and gentle nature all men loved, 
 In manhood’s prime and vigour called away, 
 With all thy prospects fair, and brightening hopes! 
 My lyre upon the willow long has hung, 
 But deeper strains of woe its chords inspire, 
 To chant, in solemn verse, thy requiem, 
 Than e’er were struck upon its mournful strings. 
 ’ What though the trump of fame has sounded not, 
 To tell the world thy hapless destiny, 
 As when the great and noble of the earth 
 
TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN LANDER. 39 
 
 Sink ’midst their glory, to an early grave: 
 Thow'lt live in hearts that reverence thy name, 
 Thy private virtues, and thy public worth, 
 Though pompous marble may record them not. 
 No more thy daring spirit will explore 
 
 The unknown regions of the wilderness, 
 Where Denham, Parke, and Clapperton had failed 
 To find what better fortune gave to thee, 
 
 And thy brave brother, on that sultry shore ; 
 As when, o’er Afric’s pestilential wastes 
 
 A bold and noble enterprise was led, 
 
 And the majestic stream of Niger traced, 
 Through savage tribes, to the Atlantic wave. 
 Thus was the problem solved of centuries ; 
 And lasting honour will enshrine thy name. 
 Son of the Muses! ah, no more thow'lt sing ! 
 Mute are thy notes of minstrelsy and song : 
 Ay, ne’er again below thou 'lt strike the string, 
 Whose swelling tones were all so sweet and strong ; 
 But thou art gone into a brighter sphere, 
 Where loftier themes, in high seraphic strain, 
 Engage thy powers, so little heeded here, 
 
 And wake the music of thy soul again ! 
 
40) 
 
 MARTYRS FOR TRUTH. 
 
 DEspotic power would fain enslave 
 
 The free, immortal mind ; 
 And struggles made for liberty 
 
 Give heroes to mankind. 
 Truth is enduring as the hills ; 
 
 And, through the cloudy past, 
 Like mountain peaks that point to Heaven, 
 
 Its sacred pillars last. 
 
 A line of true and holy men, 
 In early bygone age, 
 Who were the witnesses for truth, 
 Light up the inspired page ; 
 Whilst later, Wycliffe, Jerome, Huss, 
 With Luther, Cranmer, Knox, 
 Stand forth, and all the martyr list 
 In the bead roll of Fox. 
 
 The names of champions known to fame, 
 By feats of arms and gore, 
 
 Are fading, like their dust, away, 
 And will be known no more. 
 
 But those who stood, for conscience sake, 
 The foremost in the strife, 
 
 And fearless strove for Gospel truth, 
 Regardless of their life, 
 
MARTYRS FOR TRUTH. 
 
 Have passed along the stream of Time, 
 As age to age succeeds ; | 
 
 And generations yet to come 
 Will triumph in their deeds. 
 
 A noble host of warriors they, 
 Who won the martyr’s crown ; 
 
 A halo round their memory beams 
 
 Of glory and renown. 
 
 Two hundred years have passed away 
 Since a devoted band 
 
 Braved persecution and distress, 
 And made a righteous stand : 
 
 The names of Alleine, Baxter, Howe, 
 And hundreds, rise to view ; | 
 
 More than two thousand victims marked 
 That\dark Bartholomew. 
 
 A day well chosen for the act, 
 Stained crimson evermore, 
 
 Since Rome embrued her hands in blood 
 A century before. 
 
 That fiendish crime will always stand 
 Unrivalled and alone, 
 
 And future execrations swell 
 
 An ever deeper groan. 
 
MARTYRS FOR TRUTH. 
 
 A dauntless spirit nerved the men 
 Who left a cherished home, 
 
 And all they had of worldly gain, 
 Houseless and poor to roam ; 
 
 The orchard, glebe, and garden fair, 
 With all the social bliss 
 
 Of rural ease— conjugal love, 
 
 Parental happiness : 
 
 Abandoned every earthly good, 
 To walk upright with God ; 
 Though rugged was the road they took, 
 The way was boldly trod. 
 In secret now they still proclaimed 
 The truths they taught before, 
 Within those venerated fanes 
 
 Where they could speak no more. 
 
 In forests deep and caverns wild, 
 Where men would seldom go, 
 
 They gathered—hunted from the towns— 
 In winter’s frost and snow ; 
 
 And oft upon the midnight air, 
 Beneath the starry sky, 
 
 Voices of praise sent up their song, 
 
 When none but God was nigh. 
 
MARTYRS FOR TRUTH, 43 
 
 Fined and imprisoned—cruel hate 
 Pursued them everywhere ; 
 Freedom of worship all they craved— 
 And Heaven has heard their prayer. 
 Hternal truth no tyrant king 
 Can fetter or destroy : 
 Repressive acts ere long brought forth 
 
 The rights we now en} oy. 
 
 Like angel-wings our sails have borne 
 Christ’s light to every shore ; 
 
 And it is free through Britain’s realm, 
 To be restrained no more. 
 
 Still onward may the Gospel go, 
 Till all the human race 
 
 Have heard its happy tidings told, 
 
 And felt its saving grace. 
 
 Oh, haste the time when every sect 
 Will mingle into one, 
 
 And rivalries of love shall prove 
 The Peaceful Reign begun. 
 
 Come, glorious Saviour of the world— — 
 The Life, the Truth, the Way ; 
 Rise, Sun of Righteousness, and shine 
 
 Upon that blessed day. 
 
44 
 
 SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 
 
 “* And their cry came up unto God by reason of the bondage. 
 Exodus ii. 238, 
 
 STILL darker grows the raging storm 
 Which clouds the Western sphere ; 
 God’s judgments vibrate through the world, 
 
 His angry frowns appear. 
 Millions of men, by bondage crushed, 
 Look up with tearful eye, 
 And pray for justice from above ; 
 
 In vain to man they cry. 
 
 Land where the Pilgrim Fathers went, 
 Across the mighty sea ; 
 
 From kindred and from native soil— 
 Determined to be free ; 
 
 Where Gospel truths of peace and love 
 Are taught on every hand, 
 
 And civil rights were boldly won 
 
 By an undaunted band ; 
 
 Star-spangled though your banner be, 
 The stripes symbol your shame, 
 And all the vaunt of liberty 
 Will but profane the name, 
 
SIGNS OF THE TIMEs. 45 
 
 Whilst toiling wretches groan and bleed 
 Beneath the cruel thong, 
 And weary, sleep, each day to wake 
 
 To misery and wrong. 
 
 Genius of Freedom! over-rule 
 This devastating fight ; 
 Drive from the earth her deepest curse, 
 And now exalt the right 3 
 Of men to common brotherhood, 
 Whate’er their colour be ; 
 Triumph in this unholy strife, 
 O sacred Liberty ! 
 
 Though dark the race in fetters bound, 
 Blacker by far the guilt 
 
 Of those who put the shackles on, 
 And flog till blood be spilt. 
 
 But He, who under Egypt’s yoke, 
 Heard Israel’s mournful sigh, 
 
 Is still the Sovereign over all, 
 
 And heeds the captive’s cry. 
 
 Jehovah reigns! man’s puny arm 
 But works His righteous will ! 
 “Vengeance is Mine, [I will repay” — 
 
 His word He will fulfil. 
 
46 
 
 SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 
 
 The sword, the fire, the mutual hate, 
 Are all Divinely sent ; 
 And thus the tyrants’ hands inflict 
 
 Their own just punishment. 
 
 Oppression will not last for aye, 
 And stain the earth with gore ; 
 
 Nor will the suffering victim’s voice, 
 Unheard on High, implore ; 
 
 Bright gleams of clear and heavenly light 
 Fortell the coming day ; 
 
 Six thousand years of sin and woe 
 
 Have nearly passed away. 
 
 The time will come—'tis drawing nigh— 
 When, mind and body free, 
 
 The families of Man will form 
 But one fraternity. 
 
 No despot shall enslave the will, 
 No tyrant lash the limb ; 
 
 But He shall reign Whose right it is, 
 And all will bow to Him. 
 
 Islam imposture—Papal Rome, 
 In one dark era rose ; 
 Their course of falsehood and of fraud 
 
 Will soon together close. 
 
SONG FOR THE VOLUNTEERS. 47 
 
 Nations will learn to war no more, 
 Peace will all regions bless ; 
 Soon may Thy sceptre rule the world, 
 
 Great Prince of Righteousness ! 
 
 SONG FOR THE VOLUNTEERS. 
 (WRITTEN AT THE TIME OF THE THREATENED INVASION.) 
 
 WHEN sturdy yeomen drew the bow, 
 And every man could fight, 
 They made their rash assailants know 
 Their prowess and their might. 
 That spirit glows as warmly now 
 In every Briton’s son ; 
 Let foemen come, we'll show them how 
 Our victories are won. 
 They'll find their welcome rather hot, 
 
 If once within our rifle shot. 
 
 We foster every peaceful aim 
 That can exalt a state, 
 
 And care not for the gory fame, 
 The fury and the hate 
 
48 
 
 SONG FOR THE VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 Of conscript hordes across the sea, 
 Who strut, and fret, and fume ; 
 Who envy us our liberty, 
 Our commerce, and our loom. 
 They’ll find their welcome rather hot, 
 
 If once within our rifle shot. 
 
 But let them on our sacred shore 
 Dare plant the hostile foot, 
 Our rugged cliffs we'll drive them o’er, 
 And every miscreant shoot. 
 The valour which at Cressy won— 
 Prevailed at Agincourt, 
 In Britons’ veins will ever run, 
 The British name support. 
 They'll find their welcome vather hot, 
 
 If once within our rifle shot. 
 
 A million hearts with ardour burn 
 To raise the stalwart arm, 
 To front the foe, and never turn, 
 Or shrink at war’s alarm. 
 Weill fight for England’s Queen and laws 
 While life and strength remain, 
 And Heaven will bless our noble cause 
 On every battle plain. 
 They'll find their welcome rather hot, 
 
 If once within our rifle shot. 
 
49 
 
 THE PATRIOTS SONG. 
 
 How dearly I love thee, fair isle of the sea ; 
 
 My heart ever throbs with emotion for thee! 
 
 Thy fields and thy forests, thy brooks and thy 
 bowers, 
 
 Were the joy of my youth, in those bright sunny 
 
 hours. 
 
 Hurrah! for the land I love dearest on earth ; 
 
 The region of valour, of beauty, and worth. 
 
 No manacle fastens the limbs of a slave, 
 Wherever the banner of Britain may wave ; 
 No despot can fetter or darken the mind, 
 
 But thought is as open and free as the wind. 
 Hurrah! &e. 
 
 ” 
 
 "Tis the land of my sires, where they struggled and 
 bled, 
 To enfranchise their sons by the blood which they 
 shed ; 
 And as long as the name of Britannia is known, 
 She will jealously guard the freedom they won. 
 Hurrah ! &e. 
 
 e 
 
50 TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 
 
 Her daughters are chaste, and surpassingly fair; 
 
 There’s no peril or foe her sons will not dare. 
 
 Wherever my wandering footsteps may roam, 
 
 There’s no land like my country, no spot like my 
 home. 
 
 Hurrah! &e. 
 
 And long may her navy, by victory crowned, 
 Be the Queen of the Ocean the wide world around, 
 And the flag that floats o’er it, so proudly and free, 
 The terror of tyrants for ever shall be. 
 
 Hurrah! for the land I love dearest on earth ; 
 
 The region of valour, of beauty and worth. 
 
 TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE IN HIGHGATE 
 CEMETERY. 
 
 Pag, modest flower, thy early bloom 
 Gives promise of a sunny day, 
 When Nature, now enwrapt in gloom, 
 
 Shall clothe herself in bright array ; 
 
 And once again, with generous hand, 
 O’er smiling plains her mantle fling, 
 
 To cheer and bless the teeming land 
 With all the vernal joys of Spring. 
 
TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE, 51 
 
 When flowers of deeper, brighter hue, 
 
 _ On mountain top, in lowly dell, 
 
 Through the wide earth their beauties strew, 
 Of their Creator’s love to tell, 
 
 Thy gentle form in meekness dies— 
 Thy task is done: to mortals given 
 To whisper hope ’neath lowering skies, 
 
 And point the doubting soul to Heaven. 
 
 Alas! like thee—ah, evil hour! 
 With life as frail and pure as thine, 
 Torn from my breast—how sweet a flower, 
 
 Which once I fondly felt was mine, 
 
 Lies withered there—beneath that mound ; 
 Transplanted from the wilds below, 
 To bloom on high in heavenly ground, 
 
 Where brightest flowers perennial grow. 
 
 Ah! little thought I time would come 
 When, ’reft of one so dear to me, 
 
 My heart should ponder here, alone, 
 The record of her memory. 
 
Or 
 SS) 
 
 TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 
 
 I'll plant a primrose on her grave— 
 Blest flower of hope, and learn to feel 
 The Hand the fearful stroke that gave, 
 
 The broken spirit, too, can heal. 
 
 He giveth His beloved rest, 
 Immortal joys her spirit fill ; 
 And though she mingles with the blest, 
 
 We feel her loving presence still. 
 
 A few more rolling years, at most, 
 Will land us safely by her side, 
 And give us back again the lost, 
 
 For ever with us to abide. 
 
 A transient, fleeting life is this, 
 Where all that’s lovely must decay ; 
 But there’s a land of endless bliss, 
 A bright and everlasting day,— » 
 
 Where winter-storms can never come, 
 Nor scorching heat, nor with’ring blight, 
 In yon celestial spirit-home 
 
 Of love, and purity, and light. 
 
53 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Comg, let us touch again the lyre, 
 
 Which all the joys of Spring inspire ; 
 Winter is gone, the chilling blast 
 
 And devastating storms are past. 
 
 The snow-crowned hill, the ice-bound plain, 
 Put forth their teeming life again. 
 
 Gay Flora now, with gentle hand, 
 Bestrews her beauties through the land ; 
 The blossoms spangle o’er the trees, 
 And music floats:on every breeze. 
 Fearless of low’ring wintry skies, 
 
 Yon little warbler upward flies, 
 
 "Mid Heaven’s own spheres, to sing his praise 
 In something more than earthly lays ; 
 Whilst here below, on every tree, 
 Thousands pour forth their ecstasy. 
 
 The running brooks take up the song, 
 And bleating flocks the note prolong. 
 Then let the minstrel’s heart rejoice, 
 And Poesy lift up her voice, 
 
 To swell the universal hymn 
 
 Of praise and gratitude to Him 
 
 Who formed the glowing sapphire sky, 
 And all that gladdens mortal eye. 
 
SPRING. 
 
 What perfume floats upon the air, 
 
 From opening petals everywhere ! 
 
 The pallid primrose, pure and sweet, 
 And daisies crushed beneath the feet, 
 Which stud the sward with sparkling light, 
 Like stars of earth, so fair and bright,— 
 The drooping lilies, early sent, 
 
 As though to mourn with man in Lent. 
 The pensive violet in the glade, 
 
 Like modest beauty, loves the shade ; 
 Whilst blue bells fringe the limpid brook, 
 As if upon themselves to look. 
 Forget-me-not, with soft, blue eye, 
 Bright pimpernel of scarlet dye ; 
 
 Sweet hawthorn, dressed in virgin white, 
 On every hedgerow greet the sight ; 
 
 But most of all the beauty seen 
 
 Is Nature’s robe of living green ; 
 
 So fresh, so verdant, and so fair, 
 
 A hand Supreme evoked it there, 
 
 From life’s deep spring of secret power, 
 Is wisdom placed in tree and flower. 
 Ah! were not sin abiding here, 
 
 How blest this region would appear ; 
 
 No angry strife, no jealous hate, 
 
 No war to blast and desolate ; 
 
SONG TO MAY. 
 
 No cankering care, no aching heart, 
 And friends who only meet to part. 
 E’en now, so lovely is the scene, 
 Methinks the difference between 
 
 This state and that which is to come, 
 The Christian’s hope, his blessed home,— 
 The Paradise of joy above, 
 
 Where angels dwell in peace and love— 
 Is but the undying beauty there, 
 
 Of all that’s holy, all that’s fair, 
 
 And Spring eternal holds her sway 
 Through one bright, endless, happy day. 
 
 SONG TO MAY. 
 
 A sone to the Spring! ’tis a joyous thing 
 
 To welcome again, on her vernal wing, 
 The blooming month of May! 
 
 We'll hie again to the leafy bowers, 
 
 And cull once more the sun-lit flowers 
 
 Along the grassy way. 1 
 
 Old Winter has fled—his frosty bed 
 
 No longer lies cold, and sere, and dead, 
 
 In the glowing month of May ; , - 
 
56 
 
 SUMMER FLOWERS. 
 
 But the teeming bosom of mother Earth, 
 To the bright, the gay, the fair gives birth 
 
 To the blossom-scented spray. » 
 
 By the crystal streams and shady trees, 
 
 Fanned by the fragrant, balmy breeze, 
 We'll saunter far away: 
 
 We'll leave the cares of the world behind, 
 
 And seek relief for the weary mind 
 
 In. Nature’s roundelay! ! 
 
 Oh, touch the string to the welcome Spring, 
 And let the heart of the minstrel sing, 
 In the jocund month of May. 
 We'll gaily tread on the green sward bright, 
 And wander forth in the starry night, 
 When softly fades the day. } 
 
 SUMMER FLOWERS. 
 
 Wuy were they formed, all gracefully 
 Arrayed in hues so fair ; 
 O’erspreading earth with peerless charms, 
 
 And perfuming the air ? 
 
SUMMER FLOWERS. 5? 
 
 Springing on every mountain side, 
 In every shady dell, 
 In desert wild, and forest gloom, 
 
 Where man may never dwell. 
 
 Why were they formed? His wants would be 
 Supplied without their aid ; | 
 His life sustained, his strength renewed, 
 
 If flowers were never made. 
 
 To tell us of that region fair 
 Where our first parents dwelt, 
 Ere sin or sorrow blighted it, 
 Or touch of Death was felt ! 
 
 To cheer the mortal pilgrim on, 
 Weary with care and strife, 
 
 And show us by their radiant light 
 There is a better life ! 
 
 A Sabbath of eternal rest, 
 Beyond the bright blue sky, 
 Where bowers of bliss for ever bloom, 
 
 And flowers will never die! 
 
 To fill the heart with tenderness, 
 Such lovely things were given ; 
 
 And lead the soul to contemplate 
 The endless joys of Heaven ! 
 
58 
 
 AUTUMNAL THOUGHTS. 
 
 PenstvE Autumn, on thy brow 
 Floral chaplets fade away ; 
 Weave we russet garlands now, 
 
 Anxious to prolong thy stay. 
 
 All things bid thee sad farewell : 
 Mournful tones are in the breeze ; 
 Falling leaves their moral tell ; 
 
 Voices sigh among the trees. 
 
 Swallows, gathering on the wing, 
 Pilgrim strangers, flee away ; 
 Birds of song have ceased to sing, 
 
 On the green and blithesome spray ; 
 
 Save the robin, minstrel sweet, 
 Warbling purest notes of love ; 
 Which the ear with music greet, 
 
 Een though sadness wraps the grove. 
 
 Tints of brown and crimson warm, 
 Clothing every woodland height, 
 Swept by coming Winter storm, 
 
 Will not long enchant the sight. 
 
AUTUMNAL THOUGHTS. 
 
 Flowers of beauty, too, have fled— 
 Modest lily, tulip proud ; 
 In her drear and icy bed 
 
 Nature soon will all enshroud. 
 
 What a lesson this should teach, 
 Lovely fading things around ; 
 More than human tongue can preach, 
 
 Warning, as with solemn sound. 
 
 "Tis the Autumn of the world, 
 Earth herself is waning fast ; 
 
 And that bolt may soon be hurled, 
 Which will be the dread—the last ! 
 
 Brighter visions fill the soul, 
 Mortal eye can never see ; 
 
 Change no longer will control— 
 All immortal there will be. 
 
 When this state has passed away, 
 Paradise will be restored ; 
 Angel lips alone can say 
 All the bliss it will afford. 
 
 Death will then no longer reign ; 
 Beauty will not know decay ; 
 Lost ones we shall meet again, 
 
 In that bright perennial day. 
 
 59 
 
60 
 
 WINTER. 
 WINTER is coming, Winter is near ; 
 List to the sounds we fitfully hear, 
 In hoarse, deep moans, of the gusty breeze, 
 As it whirls aloft in the leafless trees. 
 Where now are the charming songsters gone ? 
 To a region fair, a warmer zone— 
 Where Summer has fled, to greet her there, 
 With the joyous notes they warbled here ? 
 Where are the bright, the beautiful flowers, 
 The cowslip fields, and the shady bowers ? 
 Old Winter, wrapt in his mantle drear, 
 With a wrinkled brow, and a look austere, 
 Has driven all from the land away, 
 To reign and rule with his iron sway ; 
 To pinch the poor with his fingers cold, 
 And try the strength of the weak and old ; 
 To bind the soil with his icy seal ; 
 The running river and pond congeal ; 
 To hurry the tread of tardy feet, 
 Till the cheek looks red with health and heat ; 
 To drive the skater, in line and curve, 
 On the frozen way ; to brace the nerve ; 
 And clothe the earth with a garment white, 
 
 Like a sinless orb in robes of light. 
 
CHRISTMAS CAROL. 61 
 
 There’s joy round the hearth where the loved ones 
 meet, | 
 
 By the fireside, safe from hail and sleet ; 
 
 Where the winter nights are passed away, 
 
 With the useful book, and the pleasing lay ; 
 
 And hearts are warm, as the glowing light, 
 
 Reflected back from the faces bright. 
 
 If the grateful mind would now bestow 
 
 On the sick and poor, in their pain and woe, 
 
 The comfort and care their wants require, 
 
 All would be glad by the winter fire. 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 GATHER round the glowing hearth 
 With a gladsome, sunny face ; 
 Swell the ringing sounds of mirth 
 
 In the old familiar place. 
 
 Once again, at close of year, 
 Let the kindred group be found, 
 Where the smiles of joy appear, 
 And the kiss of love goes round. 
 
62 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 Struggling on our weary way, 
 Through the din of mortal strife ; 
 Fighting hard from day to day, 
 In the battle field of life— 
 
 Oh! what pleasure now to come, 
 From all regions near and wide, 
 To our cherished, early home, 
 At this festive Christmas-tide ; 
 
 And the friends once more to meet, 
 Seated round the cheering blaze, 
 Whom we used of yore to greet 
 
 In our childhood’s blithesome days ! 
 
 Vacant seats, alas! appear 
 
 Where some loved ones, bright and gay, 
 Joined the happy circle here 
 
 On that well-remembered day. 
 
 Closer union let us show 
 Till life’s pilgrimage is o’er, 
 Hoping then again to know 
 All the lost ones gone before. 
 
THE EVER-GREEN OLD HOLLY TREE. 
 
 In this time of love and joy, 
 _ Don’t forget the suffering poor ; 
 But your talent well employ— 
 
 Feed the hungry at your door— 
 
 Clothe the naked, soothe the sad, 
 Scatter blessings everywhere— 
 Make the mourning spirit glad, 
 
 Every child of sorrow cheer. 
 
 Now “ goodwill and peace to men” 
 Be the burden of our song ; 
 And the anthem o’er again 
 
 Through the coming year prolong. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS SONG. 
 
 I Love the green old Holly Tree, 
 With its berries red and bright ; 
 
 For it brings the memory back to me 
 
 Of many a festive night. 
 Again we'll cluster round the hearth, 
 
 And songs of welcome sing, , 
 
 63 
 
 THE EVER-GREEN OLD HOLLY TREE. 
 
64 
 
 THE EVER-GREEN OLD HOLLY TREE. 
 
 With jest, and tale, and loud wassail, 
 Till we make the welkin ring ; 
 And the burden of our song shall be 
 The ever-green old Holly Tree! # 
 
 Its branches shining on the wall, 
 With mistletoe entwined, 
 Our happy youthful days recall, 
 Like visions of the mind ; 
 And as we sit the Yule log round, 
 And pass the flowing bow], 
 So fresh and green our hearts will seem, 
 While friendship fills the soul. 
 The ever verdant Holly Tree, 
 
 With its berries red and bright for me / 
 
 Our fathers, in the days of yore— 
 The good old times gone by— 
 Made Christmas joyous to the poor, 
 And cheered the weeping eye. 
 
 We'll seek to emulate their fame 
 
 Through all the country round, 
 
 And misery’s cry to satisfy 
 
 Wherever want is found. , 
 The ever-green old Holly Tree 
 A sign of joy to all shall be! { 
 
INVOCATION TO SLEEP. 65 
 
 Still closer let our hearts be bound 
 Throughout the coming year ; 
 And when that, too, has passed around, 
 Our greater love appear, 
 As then again we gladly meet, 
 With gaiety and mirth, 
 To take our place, with warm embrace, 
 Beside the cheerful hearth ; 
 inging once more right merrily, 
 “Hurrah ! for the green old Holly Tree!’ 
 
 INVOCATION TO SLEEP. 
 Come, gentle sleep, I woo thee now ; 
 Oh, spread thy mantle o’er my brow, 
 And close my eyes in peaceful rest, 
 
 Like infant on its mother’s breast. 
 
 Pve watched through many a weary hour, 
 Waiting to feel thy soothing power ; 
 Oh, come once more, and with me stay, 
 
 To pass the gloomy night away. 
 
 Now softly o’er my senses steal, 
 Let me thy genial influence feel, 
 To bear my thoughts, on downy wings, 
 
 From this dull state to brighter things. 
 F 
 
66 
 
 WHO IS MY FRIEND? 
 
 Oh, let my fancy rove on high, 
 And reach the palace of the sky ! 
 Its bowers perennial blooming fair, 
 
 And all the radiant glories there. 
 
 In mystic vision let me stray 
 Far from this mortal life away, 
 To where the happy spirits dwell 
 
 Of those we loved on earth so well. 
 
 On yonder shore, in converse sweet, 
 The cherished lost ones I would meet, 
 Whose memory with me will remain 
 
 Until I reach them there again. 
 
 Dreams, happy dreams! I fain would keep 
 Thy spell upon me, balmy sleep ; 
 Nor let the morning light restore 
 
 This world of turmoil evermore. 
 
 WHO IS MY FRIEND? 
 
 Who is my friend? who may deserve 
 
 A name so prized and dear, 
 
WHO IS MY FRIEND? 67 
 
 Of all the troop who joyously 
 Partook my welcome cheer, 
 In days when warmly shone on me 
 
 ‘The sun of bright prosperity ! 
 
 Who is my friend? Alas! how few 
 Would answer to the call 
 
 When gathering clouds are hovering near, 
 And showers of sorrow fall— 
 
 When all around is cold and drear, 
 
 And nought the fainting heart can cheer. 
 
 Who is my friend? It is not he, 
 With sad and rueful face, 
 
 Who looks upon my misery, 
 And then forsakes the place, 
 
 Leaving behind his sympathy 
 
 To show how much he pities me ! 
 
 He is my friend who bravely comes 
 Close by my side to stay ; 
 
 To guide me oer the stormy sea, 
 And chase my grief away. 
 
 He is my friend who stands by me 
 
 In time of dark adversity. 
 
68 
 
 QUADRANT GROVE, 
 HAVERSTOCK PARK. 
 Tus spot was chosen by the builder, 
 The heads of strangers to bewilder ; 
 So said my friend ; and I agree 
 
 With him, in its perplexity. 
 
 A quadrant ’tis, without a curve, 
 So any other name will serve 
 The case as well. ’Tis said to be 
 
 A grove, forsooth, without a tree. 
 
 And then, again, a “park” ’tis called ; 
 Just such a park as Punch extolled 
 
 Old Smithfield, when, with wicked glee, 
 He spoke of its salubrity ; 
 
 And showed, in pictures quaint and rare, 
 How much the cits enjoyed its air, 
 
 And took their children out to stray 
 About, upon a market-day. 
 
 With that old haunt of dirt and mire, 
 This place will rank perhaps somewhat higher ; 
 You stick in mud where’er you go, 
 
 Till plastered well from top to toe. 
 
69 
 
 MEMORIES OF THE PAST. 
 
 How sweet, at close of summer day, 
 Beneath the shade of whispering leaves, 
 To muse the evening hour away 
 
 In dreams of happy memories ! 
 
 To meditate on days gone by, 
 When those we fondly loved were near ; 
 And thought not then that they could die, 
 
 And leave us lone and weeping here! 
 
 How fair the visions of our youth— 
 A. blue, unclouded, sun-lit sky— 
 Before we knew the future truth 
 
 Which made our hopes all prostrate lie ! 
 
 Life then was like a glittering sea, 
 Without a wave to break its rest ; 
 And we voyaged on, so buoyantly, 
 
 Upon its clear and placid breast. 
 
 Ah, haleyon days, for ever flown ! 
 Mere fleeting phantoms of the past, 
 Ye’ve left the bleeding heart alone, 
 
 To mourn o’er joys too bright to last. 
 
70 THE DAWN OF MORN—A GLEE. 
 
 Tis thus our human hopes decay, 
 And tenderest ties are often riven, 
 To lead the mind from earth away, 
 
 To look for lasting bliss in Heaven. 
 
 THE DAWN OF MORN—A GLEE. 
 
 -(WRITTEN FOR THE MUSIC OF HERR KERBUCH.) 
 
 O’rR eastern hills the rosy light 
 Breaks softly through the gloom of night ; 
 And, shining on to radiant day, 
 Makes all the joyful world look gay. 
 Sweet maiden, from thy peaceful rest, 
 Where beauty sleeps with spotless breast, 
 The warbling minstrels of the grove 
 Bid thee awake with songs of love. 
 
 Arise, Arise! 
 Come forth, and hail the glowing morn ! 
 
 A day to life again is born. 
 
 All Nature smiles when night is gone, 
 ' And music greets the welcome dawn : 
 List to the echoes of her voice— 
 
 The woods, the hills, the brooks rejoice ; 
 
A FRAGMENT. rial 
 
 The bleating flocks, from vales below, 
 _ Up to the breezy mountains go ; 
 The lowing herds spread o’er the plain, 
 And all is life and joy again. 
 Arise, Arise ! 
 Come forth, and hail the glowing morn ! 
 
 A day to life again is born. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Tver wandered far away from thee, 
 
 And, reckless, joined “the giddy throng,” 
 In the mad hour of revelry, 
 
 Of boist’rous mirth and jocund song ; 
 Where Pleasure’s votaries have been, 
 
 At Passion’s shrine, or Beauty’s throne. 
 I’ve mingled, too, ’mid festive scene, 
 
 And glittering pomp have gazed upon ; 
 But o'er my spirit there’s a spell, 
 
 Which darkens all that’s bright and fair ; 
 Ah, none save those who feel can tell 
 
 The cankering worm that settles there, 
 When heartfelt love of all is refit, 
 
 That made the pulse of life beat high ; 
 When years have passed, and, withering, left 
 
 The early hope of youth to die. 
 
72 
 
 TO A DEPARTED WIFE. 
 
 Wuere art thou gone? I look in vain for thee, 
 And I am left alone, to wander on 
 Through this drear world, which now is dark to me 
 
 Oh, could’st thou answer—whither art thou gone?! 
 
 I cannot view thy calm, thy heavenly brow, 
 Which told of hopes that rest above the sky ; 
 I cannot gaze with silent rapture now 
 
 Upon thy darkly bright and speaking eye. 
 
 Where art thou gone? Methinks I hear thee tell 
 That thou hast landed safe on that bright shore 
 Where the rude tempest howls not, and the swell 
 
 Of life’s rough surge shall beat thy bark no more. 
 
 Too pure for earth—just like a lovely flower 
 Removed to some more genial, sunny clime ; 
 Ay, thou’rt transplanted to yon heavenly bower, 
 
 Beyond the chilling, withering blasts of time. 
 
 To fairer realms and brighter skies thou’rt fled, 
 Where care nor sorrow, pain nor death, can come ; 
 
 And though we mourn thy lovely relics dead, 
 We hail thy spirit in its happy home! 
 
TO ANNE, IN HEAVEN. To 
 
 Oh, by thy side my longing soul would be, 
 To breathe the same inspiring, holy air ; 
 
 But the blest thought, thou’st not forgotten me, 
 Shall soothe my anguish till I reach thee there. 
 
 TO ANNE, IN HEAVEN. 
 
 ‘Tov art gone to the land of the blest, 
 Oh, let us not vainly weep o’er thee ! 
 
 For thine heavenly spirit’s at rest, 
 Then why should we sadly deplore thee ? 
 
 Thou wert fair, thou wert beautiful here—_ 
 Thou wert formed to be loved and to love ; 
 But oh, how beatified there, 
 
 In the glorified mansions above! 
 
 Far too chaste and too fragile for earth, 
 For so stormy a desert as this ; 
 
 Thy purity, beauty, and worth, 
 Were fit only for regions of bliss. 
 
 The cold blasts of life have passed o’er thee, 
 But its wintery tempests are gone ; 
 And a summer of joy is before thee, 
 
 Which through ages will ever shine on. 
 
74. TO THE SPIRIT OF A CHILD. 
 
 Oh, who would not sigh to be near thee, 
 In a realm so surpassingly fair ? 
 The prospect will solace and cheer me, 
 
 While my spirit is lingering here. 
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF A CHILD. 
 
 O GENTLE spirit! wing thy way 
 To the glorious realms of bliss ; 
 We would scarce prolong thy stay 
 
 In a world so cold as this. 
 
 No longer can a mother’s care 
 Guide thy feet in wisdom’s way, 
 And hear thee lisp the simple prayer 
 Which thy infant tongue could say. 
 
 Called, alas! so soon to leave thee— 
 In the better land above 
 She is waiting to receive thee, 
 
 With her angel-arms of love. 
 
 Child and mother now united, 
 On yon peaceful, happy shore, 
 With the consciousness delighted 
 
 That ye meet to part no more— 
 
lad 
 
 TO A LADY GOING TO INDIA. 10 
 
 Join the loud chorus of the sky— 
 “Glory to the Father's love ; 
 
 And to the Son,” the ransomed cry, 
 “ With the Spirit, heavenly Dove !” 
 
 There walk the shining paths along— 
 All the wondrous glories see ; 
 And tune your harps to swell the song 
 
 Of seraphic minstrelsy ! 
 
 When life’s rough pilgrimage is oer, 
 Crossed the troubled stormy main, 
 Then shall I mourn thy loss no more, 
 
 Clasp thee in my arms again. 
 
 TO A LADY GOING TO INDIA. 
 WRITTEN FOR A SWISS FRIEND. 
 ApI«Eu, dear lady ; o’er the sea 
 My fervent prayer will follow thee ; 
 And though we ne’er again may meet, 
 
 Thy memory will be ever sweet. 
 
 Ill ne’er forget thy gentle mind, 
 So good, so placid, and so kind ; 
 May halcyon billows bear thee on, 
 
 And favouring breezes waft along, 
 
76 IN MEMORY OF A MOTHER. 
 
 Till thou shalt reach that distant land, 
 And anchor safely on its strand, 
 Where one to whom thy vows were given 
 
 Shall meet thee in the wished-for haven. 
 
 When I have sought my mountain home, 
 And future years have come and gone, 
 My thoughts will often turn to thee, 
 
 And thou, perchance, wilt think of me. 
 
 And if on earth we meet no more, 
 Tl hope upon a happier shore, 
 Where parting cannot give us pain, 
 
 To welcome thee with joy again. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF A MOTHER. 
 
 WueEn those whose friendship in the vale of life 
 Illumed the darksome way with sunny beams, 
 Have gone from Earth, and left the mourner here 
 To weep alone, the heart is desolate : 
 
 Life loses half the charm worth living for, 
 
 And clouds obscure all that was bright before. 
 
 But who can tell the hapless orphan’s loss /— 
 
IN MEMORY OF A MOTHER. ra 
 
 Early bereft of a fond mother’s care, 
 
 Whose watchful eye protected childhood’s days ; 
 Who, when the nightly couch was spread, would bow 
 The infant knee, and teach the falt’ring tongue 
 To lisp its Maker’s praise ; who oft would weep 
 At thought of the ensnaring, devious road 
 
 Her child must tread throughout his pilgrimage ; 
 And when the shadows of eternity 
 
 Were present to her view, with holy zeal 
 Besought protection from on High to guard 
 Her orphan boy, when nobler themes employed 
 Her tongue amid the seraphs that surround 
 
 The throne, and chant the praises of their God. 
 And He did hear her faint, but fervent prayer ; 
 Oh, yes, in all the chequered walks of life, 
 
 Amid the numerous ills that haunt the way, 
 
 His everlasting arms have borne him up ! 
 
 Years have flown on, and dire vicissitudes 
 
 Have impressed care upon his thoughtful brow, 
 And he has mingled with the young and gay, 
 Drank draughts of pleasure at her fountain head ; 
 But can he ere forget that mother’s prayer ? 
 
 Ah, no, he hears it still! time ne’er can dim 
 The echo of her voice ; e’en now her tear 
 
 Bedews his cheek ; her word admonishes ; 
 
78 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A GOLDFINCH. 
 
 Her finger points to the celestial home, 
 
 And shows the narrow path that leads to it. 
 And till he, too, has passed the final hour, 
 While time shall last, her precepts will remain 
 Impressed upon his memory—pilot him 
 
 O’er the rough billows of life’s troubled sea, = 
 
 And be his guide, his comfort, and his hope. 
 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A GOLD- 
 FINCH. 
 
 CoMPANION of a dozen years, 
 Through many a changing scene— 
 Of hopes and fears, of smiles and tears, 
 Thy little life has been. 
 
 The hand that gently tended thee 
 Lies “neath a grassy mound ; 
 
 The voice that cheered thee into song 
 Has hushed its dulcet sound. 
 
 Companion of my lonely hours, 
 Who warbled of the past ; 
 Thy simple music, too, must end, 
 
 As if too sweet to last. 
 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE DOG. 
 
 How frail, how fleeting, yet how fair, 
 The beauteous things of Earth ; 
 All that we love and cherish here, 
 
 How great soe’er their worth. 
 
 The forms of beauty, love, and truth, 
 Are but to mortals given, 
 
 To elevate the mind of man 
 And fit the soul for heaven ; 
 
 Where strains of music ever flow, 
 On yonder sun-lit shore ; 
 And those we loved and lost below 
 
 Shall never leave us more. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A 
 
 FAVOURITE DOG. 
 
 “* But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 
 The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 
 Whose honest heart is still his master’s own, 
 
 Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 
 
 Unhonour’d falls, unnoticed all his worth, 
 
 79 
 
 Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth.”— BYRON. 
 
 FAREWELL, my fond and faithful friend ; 
 
 If ever mortal knew 
 An honest, true, unselfish heart, 
 
 It surely throbbed in you. 
 
80 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE DOG. 
 
 ‘The first to welcome my return 
 At close of weary day, 
 And last to linger in the morn, 
 
 And watch me far away. 
 
 Thy well-known voice oft greeted me 
 With joyous, wild salute, 
 
 And showed what deep affection could 
 Be cherished by a brute. 
 
 Companion of my country walk, 
 To breathe the purer air, 
 T never felt its loneliness 
 
 When thou went bounding there. 
 
 And when affliction’s stern command 
 Forbade my feet to rove, 
 ’Twas thy chief care to watch o’er me, 
 
 And show thy changeless love. 
 
 I’ve lost, in days of dark distress, 
 How many a faithless friend ! 
 
 But thou wert ever by my side, 
 And loved me to the end. 
 
PASSING AWAY, 
 
 ‘Tis sad to think thou’rt in thy grave, 
 For ever gone from me ; 
 And that so much intelligence 
 
 Can ever cease to be. 
 
 But when I take my daily ride, 
 Alone in wheeling chair, 
 
 Pll think of all thy faithfulness, 
 And fancy still thou’rt there. 
 
 And while my memory holds her seat, 
 Ill ne’er forget thy name, 
 My steadfast, firm, and trusty friend, 
 
 Who ever wert the same. 
 
 PASSING AWAY. 
 
 FapineG, as the evening light, 
 Into dark and silent night, 
 All things mortal seem to say, 
 
 We are passing fast away. 
 
 Flowers that deck the gay parterre, 
 Forms of beauty everywhere, 
 Bloom, alas! but to decay, 
 
 As they pass from us away. 
 
 G 
 
 81 
 
HYMN. 
 
 Minstrels, who pour forth their song 
 All the forest trees among, 
 Soon will cease their tuneful lay, 
 
 And in sadness pass away. 
 
 Angel faces, beaming love, 
 As if seraphs from above, 
 Like the blossoms born in May, 
 
 All are passing fast away. 
 
 But in fairer realms on high, 
 Those we loved will never die ; 
 Nothing beautiful decay, 
 
 Never, never pass away. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 WueEn shall I reach my home above, 
 And cease from earthly toil and care, 
 To see my Saviour God, and love, 
 
 And praise, and serve Him ever there ? 
 
 My weary soul would take her way 
 To realms of peace and heavenly light, 
 Where there is one eternal day— 
 
 No lowering cloud, no gloomy night. 
 
“THERE REMAINETH THEREFORE A REST.” 8 
 
 All that is fair must fade away, — 
 All we love here must early die ; 
 But flowers that, never know decay 
 
 Bloom ever sweet in yonder sky. 
 
 And friends, whose loss we weep for here, 
 Will meet us at the pearly gate, 
 And lead us to the fountains where 
 
 The purest joys for pilgrims wait. 
 
 Through paths of glory, bowers of bliss, 
 Bright angels’ feet have only trod ; 
 What new and boundless happiness 
 Must fill the soul that dwells with God! 
 
 O thrilling thought! O wondrous hour! 
 When I shall gain that lovely shore, 
 And join, with full seraphic power, 
 
 Celestial anthems evermore! 
 
 “THERE REMAINETH THEREFORE A 
 REST.” 
 Ox could I rest in calm repose, 
 As some sweet flowers at evening close, 
 And sleep, withdrawn from glaring light, 
 Throughout the calm and holy night! 
 G 2 
 
 o 
 
84 
 
 “THERE REMAINETH THEREFORE A REST.” 
 
 I long for rest ; my throbbing heart 
 Would from these earthly cares depart ; 
 My soul put off her robe of clay, 
 
 And upward wing her heavenly way. 
 
 I long for rest ; it soon will come, 
 When I shall reach my blessed home, 
 Where weary mortals peace will find 
 
 For every sorrow of the mind. 
 
 I long for rest ; no tears are there, 
 No aching heart, no sad despair ; 
 No mortal pain, no hateful sin, 
 
 In that bright world can enter in. 
 
 I long for rest ; my soul doth faint ° 
 For that which language cannot paint— 
 A. state of pure and holy bliss, 
 
 Of perfect love and righteousness. 
 
 Oh, come, sweet rest! I long for thee, 
 When I my Saviour’s face shall see ; 
 And loud hosannahs to Him raise 
 
 Who well deserves immortal praise. 
 
8) 
 
 THE JOY TO COME. 
 
 THERE'S sadness in the peal of mirth ; 
 It echoes from the song, 
 And mingles with the joys of earth, 
 
 The gayest scenes among. 
 
 Who has not felt, when all around 
 Looks bright, and pure, and fair, 
 That sorrow tills the teeming ground, 
 
 And lingers everywhere ? 
 
 All forms of beauty fade and die— 
 For ever pass away ; 
 Clouds may obscure the clearest sky, 
 
 And mar the fairest day. 
 
 And in a lone, mysterious voice — 
 Of wailing to the mind, 
 When oft the spirit would rejoice, 
 
 We hear the moaning wind. 
 
 If happy strains salute the noon, 
 And greet the waking day, 
 Sweet Philomel, beneath the moon, 
 
 Pours. forth her plaintive lay. 
 
86 ON THE DEATH OF REV. JOHN ANGELL JAMES. 
 
 What mournful sounds oft steal along 
 Through all the forest trees, 
 When, echoing with choral song, 
 
 They whisper to the breeze ! 
 
 The Summer beauties wither all, 
 And, from their parents’ arms, 
 The lovely leaves of Autumn fall, 
 
 At Winter’s stern alarms. 
 
 Ah! whither can the soul find rest ? 
 This cannot be our home ; 
 Tis in the regions of the blest— 
 
 Our joys are yet to come. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. JOHN 
 ANGELL JAMES. 
 Gone from this world—his hallowed work ail done; 
 His ministry, with all its triumphs, o’er ; 
 His song of praise in glory now begun, 
 
 To swell with rapture ever more and more. 
 
 Many a tear of sadness will be shed, _ 
 Many a bosom heave the mournful sigh ; 
 But though his spirit from this earth hath fled, 
 
 His labours live in grateful memory. 
 
lord 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF REV. JOHN ANGELL JAMES. 87 
 
 Illustrious champion of the sacred cross ! 
 ‘His fame is known throughout the Christian 
 world ; 
 Thousands will grieve at his untimely loss, 
 
 Where’er the Saviour’s banner is unfurled. 
 
 No more his Heaven-born thoughts enchant the ear, 
 And fill the mind with holy love and joy ; 
 The music of his voice is silent here, 
 
 But higher themes its thrilling tones employ. 
 
 Soon may we join with him the happy throng, 
 On yonder peaceful and seraphic shore ; 
 Celestial anthems, too, engage our tongue, 
 
 Nor death nor sorrow ever touch us more. 
 
 Servant of God, thy crown of victory won, 
 How could we wish thee back with us again ? 
 No more cold wintry blast, or heat of sun, 
 
 Or sin, or woe, will ever give thee pain. 
 
 Beyond the reach of every mortal ill, 
 Safe in the regions of eternal bliss, 
 What wondrous scenes thine ardent soul must fill! 
 
 What lofty strains! what boundless happiness ! 
 
88 
 
 TO A YOUTH GOING TO SEA. 
 
 FAREWELL, my son ; a sad farewell ! 
 The time has come when we must part, 
 And I should vainly strive to tell 
 
 The pain that wrings my aching heart. 
 
 Far from the home and scenes of youth, 
 A voyager on the boundless sea, 
 
 Oh, let thy guiding star, be Truth, 
 And all will still be well with thee. 
 
 A Father reigns in heaven above, 
 Whose children are His constant care ; 
 Seek Him, my boy, with filial love, 
 
 In frequent and in earnest prayer ; 
 
 And He will keep thee on thy way, 
 And bring thee to thy home again ; 
 His guardian angel, day by day, 
 
 Will watch thee on the treacherous main. 
 
 Whate’er may be thy future lot, 
 On land, or sea, where’er thou art, 
 Oh, let this truth be ne’er forgot, 
 But closely bind it to thy heart, 
 
THE SEA. 
 
 That God will bless and prosper all 
 Who seek His holy will to do, 
 Who night and morn upon Him call, 
 
 And virtue’s sacred path pursue. 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 THE Sea, the grand, majestic Sea ! 
 Upon its lonely shore 
 
 I love to wander thoughtfully, 
 And hear the billows roar : 
 
 Their solemn music sounds to me 
 
 Like voices from Hternity. 
 
 An emblem of that boundless state, 
 Unfathomable Sea ! 
 
 No mortal power can relate 
 The awful mystery ; 
 
 But tones of vast Infinity, 
 
 In thy strange murmurs come to me. 
 
 O mighty Sea! what treasures lie 
 
 Down in thy caverns deep ; 
 
 What myriads breathed their latest sigh, 
 
 Upon thy bed to sleep, 
 
90 
 
 TO CHARLIE, IN AUSTRALIA. 
 
 Till the awakening Angel stand 
 
 One foot on thee, and one on land ! 
 
 Lite’s fragile bark, on billows tossed, 
 Which threaten to o’erwhelm, 
 
 In storm and darkness would be lost— 
 No pilot at the helm— 
 
 If a sure chart had not been given, 
 
 And guiding star that lights to Heaven. 
 
 Borne by Time’s rapid stream away, 
 To the Great Ocean driven, 
 We onward sail, from day to day, 
 As strength and faith are given, 
 To reach that bright and tranquil shore, 
 
 Where waves will dash and surge no more. 
 
 TO CHARLIE, IN AUSTRALIA. 
 
 WE thought of thee, my dearest boy, 
 Upon thy natal day ; 
 
 And with emotion sighed to know 
 Thou wert so far away. 
 
 We talked of thee, and wondered what 
 Thy thoughts of home might be ; 
 
TO CHARLIE, IN AUSTRALIA. 91 
 
 And how thy fleeting hours are spent, 
 So far beyond the sea. 
 
 We pledged thee with a loving heart, 
 And:hoped the time would come 
 
 When we should have thee back again, 
 Once more within thy home. 
 
 We prayed for thee, that God might bless 
 And keep thee day by day ; 
 
 Might lead thee with His gracious hand, 
 In Wisdom’s perfect way ; 
 
 Might guide thee all the journey through ; 
 And when this life has passed, 
 
 The circle might be formed again, 
 To meet in heaven at last. 
 
 I often see thee in my sleep— 
 Blest visions of the night, | 
 
 And weep to find it but a dream, 
 Dispelled by morning light. 
 
 And that sad eve comes back again, 
 When thrice you came to say 
 
 The bitter word “Farewell” to me, 
 And tear yourself away. 
 
 I pressed thee to my breaking heart, 
 With all a father’s love ; 
 
THE PASSING YEAR. 
 
 And prayed a blessing might descend 
 
 Upon thee from above. 
 
 Pursue, my son, the heavenly path ; 
 Then God will smile on thee : 
 
 No matter where thy lot be cast, 
 My prayer will answered be. 
 
 And I will look for that bright day, 
 When, o’er the mighty main, 
 
 Some trusty ship will bring thee back, 
 
 And we shall meet again. 
 
 THE PASSING YEAR. 
 
 THe Old Year now is dying! 
 Softly whisper, lightly tread ; 
 Low, plaintive winds are sighing 
 Dirges round his drooping head. 
 Fare thee well, departing year ; 
 Sound the passing bell of Time ; 
 Bow the knee in humble prayer, 
 As we hear the midnight chime. 
 Hark ! it strikes—the year has fled ! 
 Gathered to the ages gone ; 
 Numbered now amongst the dead, 
 
 Which we sadly look upon. 
 
THE PASSING YEAR. 93 
 
 Winter, weave your winding-sheet, 
 Pure and holy, snowy white ; 
 Shroud him, we no more shall meet— 
 
 Gone for ever from our sight. 
 
 Some we loved have left our coast, 
 And have crossed the swelling tide ; 
 
 One who was the nation’s boast— 
 
 England wept when ALBERT died! 
 
 Virtues such as few men have 
 Gemmed his royal coronet ; 
 And, with lustre on his grave, 
 
 Shine, although his sun has set. 
 
 Bright, yet mournful, as the moon 
 Gleams on ruined tower and tree, 
 Lighting up Night’s solemn noon, 
 
 Will his hallowed memory be. 
 
 May the stricken widow know 
 Solace Heaven alone can give ; 
 To assuage her poignant woe, 
 
 And her gentle heart relieve. 
 
94 
 
 THE PASSING YEAR. 
 
 Ah! how many friends have past 
 Evermore from Earth away ; 
 Since we met together last, 
 
 On the eve of New-year’s Day. 
 
 Promises we made are broken, 
 Opportunities are lost ; 
 Angry words, in haste though spoken, 
 
 Bitter anguish, too, have cost. 
 
 Let the past a moral teach us, 
 Years are speeding swiftly on ; 
 And before another reach us, 
 
 Life and hope may both be gone. 
 
 Earnest men, be up and doing ! 
 Seize the moments as they fly ; 
 And the end of life pursuing, 
 
 Fill its purpose ere you die! 
 
 PETTER AND GALPIN, BELLE SAUVAGE PRINTING WORKS, LUDGATE HILL. 
 
Second Edition, Revised, with Additions, Cloth Gilt, price 3s. 6d., 
 
 THE COMING DAY, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 HENRY JOHN DOOGOOD. 
 
 ee Author, who was for upwards of twenty years engaged 
 in literary pursuits, in connection with the public press, and 
 active in enterprises for the promotion of knowledge, was 
 suddenly struck down by an accident, in May, 1854, in the 
 meridian of life, and with the fairest hopes in_prospect; which 
 calamity cut off his resources, and resulted in the loss of sight 
 and paralysis. He has sought to beguile the hours of darkness 
 by yielding to the promptings of the Muse, and now offers this 
 volume, as the fruit of his efforts, to a generous public. 
 
 CassELL, Perrer, & Garin, Ludgate Hill, London, E.C. 
 To be had of all Booksellers; and of the Author, North 
 Hill, Highgate, London. Sent free by post to all parts of the 
 kingdom, on receipt of forty-four stamps. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 *“It is not from the feeling that motives of charity should, owing to 
 the peculiar surroundings of the author of the volume before us, prevent 
 legitimate critical remarks, but rather that its merits, combined with an 
 appeal of an urgency seldom exceeded, give an irresistible claim to our 
 Sympathy, that we postpone other publications to give it such notice and 
 commendation as it deserves. The first poem, ‘The Coming Day,’ is a bold 
 prophetic assertion of the immediate approach of the Second Advent. The 
 author fixes the fulfilment of the period of 6,000 years in 1866, from the six 
 days’ creation recorded by Moses, and the consequent commencement of the 
 Sabbatical millennary in accordance with numerous interpreters of Revelation. 
 More to our purpose are the occasional poems, ‘The Wreck of the Royal 
 
 _Charter;’ ‘Death of Sir Henry Havelock;’ ‘The National Sorrow,’ a 
 
 raceful tribute to the memory of Prince Albert; ‘To the Memory of John 
 Seder’ the African traveller; and the like. Several of these have much 
 
2 
 
 merit. The pieces of a domestic nature naturally, from the situation of the 
 writer, are tinged with sombre tenderness; yet are there not wanting cheerful 
 and glowing lines, such as ‘The Christmas Carol,’ ‘The Evergreen Old Holly — 
 Tree,’ ‘ The Song of the Volunteers,’ ‘ The Patriot’s Song,’ and other spirited 
 lyrics.” — Morning Advertiser. 
 
 ‘‘The poems are in many cases of a very superior order, and all seem 
 above the average of modern fugitive poetry. The iongest is ‘The Coming 
 Day,’ a subject by no means easy of handling, and which has been unsuccess- 
 fully chosen by poets of greater pretension. The poem is well written, and 
 proves that the author possesses powers of no mean order. The rest of this 
 volume consists of short pieces—some of a sombre cast, as might be expected ; 
 but there are others, as ‘The Volunteers,’ ‘The Patriot’s Song,’ and ‘The 
 Evergreen Old Holly Tree,’ which are full of spirit and fire. Under any 
 circumstances, we should accord praise to most of these efforts ; but when 
 we consider the writer has been suddenly arrested in what promised a 
 successful career, we cannot do less than warmly recommend his volume to 
 the notice of book purchasers.” —Morning Post. 
 
 ‘<< These poems are offered to the public under circumstances which strongly 
 appeal to the benevolent sympathies. They embrace a great variety of 
 subjects, including religious meditation, reflections on contemporary events, 
 and occasions of public or domestic interest. The prevailing strain of feeling” 
 is pensive, and the expression graceful and musical. We hope that if the 
 work of composing them has lightened the loneliness of dark hours, their sale 
 will contribute to mitigate the severe affliction which has befallen the pget.”— 
 Daily News. 
 
 ‘Mr. Doogood isan accomplished man, and he wields a practised pen. He 
 is, moreover, a devout man, and his sorrow has given to his devoutness a touch 
 of deep pathos. Our readers will find these poems far above the composition 
 of the minor minstrels. There is thoughtfulness, good taste, and poetic skill 
 inthem. They will be read with pleasure by the cultured, and with profit by 
 the devout. Mr. Doogood is one of the poets 
 
 ‘Who learn in suffering 
 What they teach in song.’”’ 
 — Patriot. 
 
 “* Mr. Dovogood’s poetry contains, besides many good passages, some entire 
 pieces that are very pleasing.” — Baptist Magazine. 
 
 “‘Some of these poems are of considerable merit. We earnestly appeal, 
 on behalf of an able brother (vttérateur in sore affliction, to all our kind 
 readers, to assist in promoting the sale of his volume of poems.”— Christian 
 Spectator. 
 
 < Mr. Doogood need not to have thus apologised for his volume. It will 
 speak to many a heart, as it has spoken to ours.” —Freeman. 
 
 ‘Many of the poems evince decided poetic talent, and all of them an 
 enlightened and devout mind.” —Chrestean World. | 
 
 “¢ The author has proved once more that the blind and lame can see and : 
 follow high and heavenly things. All the pieces breathe an excellent spirit. 
 ‘The Coming Day’ is in blank verse, and is written with decided ability. 
 [ts thoughts are diversified, and its language is, for the most part, correct, 
 easy, and flowing. The second piece, ‘ Written under the Afiliction of Blind-. 
 ness,’ is simple, touching, and natural. Most of the pieces are of a serious 
 mood: a few are of a lighter character; but all of them will be read with 
 interest. We have much pleasure in warmly recommending these attempts 
 of Mr. Doogood’s muse.” —Quiver. 
 
 | 
 | 
 
3 
 
 ‘They are full of fine feeling, of true thoughts, and of pious aspirations, 
 They are generally musical, and always have cultivated expression. ‘ The 
 Coming Day’ has for its subject the Second Advent. It has some passages 
 of a really poetical complexion. Those simple effusions in which the writer’s 
 heart-experience is uttered—as the hymn, ‘There Remaineth a Rest,’ and 
 ‘The Primrose in the Cemetery ’—seem to us the truest and best things in 
 the volume. Were there no special circumstances to attract attention to this 
 book, it would have our kindly word; but, as a voice of cheerful, hopeful 
 song, coming out of the darkness of severe affliction, it commands our respect 
 and awakens our liveliest sympathy.” —Wonconformist. 
 
 “This is a pretty book, containing poems on many subjects that are 
 as familiar to us as household words, reminding us of days that are past, and 
 days that are to come. It cannot fail to interest thereader. We recommend 
 it most heartily.” —Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 “¢ We can speak of the pieces contained in it as of an interesting character, 
 ‘and likely to be perused with pleasure; while the purchaser of this volume 
 will also have the satisfaction of knowing that he is contributing to mitigate 
 the condition of a deserving man, overtaken by a terrible and not-to-be-fore- 
 seen calamity. As a fair specimen of Mr. Doogood’s verses, we may quote 
 the opening stanzas of a poem entitled ‘ Martyrs for Truth,’ and which, it 
 will be allowed, are marked by considerable sonorousness and spirit.” — Bristol 
 Mercury. 
 
 *¢Some of these poems are tinged with sadness; others are brilliant and 
 sparkling to a degree, and exhibit the true spirit of genial poetry. ‘The 
 Coming Day’ is the most important work in the book ; and in it the author, in 
 powerful terms, hints his belief that the Second Advent is close at hand. He 
 has evidently expended much time and thought upon it; and whether the 
 reader differs from Mr. Doogood or not, he will be compelled to admit that 
 there is great merit in the lines. ‘The Song of the Volunteers’ is an exceed= 
 ingly spirited effort ; and there are other pieces in the book of a very superior 
 description.” —G'lo’ster Journal. 
 
 ‘* Many of the pieces express, in simple, unaffected language, those gentle 
 and elevated feelings which a loving contemplation of nature generally inspires ; 
 and the volume throughout is pervaded by a vein of peculiarly tender and 
 pious sentiment. The lines, ‘ Written under the Affliction of Blindness,’ may 
 serve as aspecimen of the quality of Mr. Doogood’s poetic gift. The cheerful 
 courage and faith expressed in the last stanzas strike us as being remarkably 
 touching. Mr. Doogood’s former connection with the West Briton, and the fact 
 of his being generally known in this county, will, to many of his friends, give 
 an additional interest to his book. The volume is beautifully got up, and, in 
 addition to its intrinsic merit, it will form a very graceful ornament either to 
 the book-shelf or the drawing-room table. Few things could be more sad 
 than the calamity which has befallen Mr. Doogood, and we cordially hope 
 that his honest, affectionate heart may be cheered by the success of a pro- 
 duction so entirely creditable both to his intellect and to his feelings.”— West 
 Briton. 
 
 ‘** A high tone of piety pervades the book, and the compositions it contains 
 are of a very pleasing character.”— Western Trmes. 
 
 “<The Coming Day’ is written with great power and earnestness, and 
 proves that the author has caught the true spirit of poetry. The other pieces 
 are short and diverse in character ; some of them are sprightly and sparkling. 
 ‘The Song of the Volunteers’ is worth a hundred of the compositions that 
 have been set to music, and exhibited with gaily illustrated title-pages in the 
 music shops; ‘The Evergreen Old Holly Tree’ is a genial, hearty song, quite 
 equal to Charles Dickens’s one poetical effort, ‘The Ivy Green ;’ and there 
 are other pieces equally worthy of commendation.”— Bucks Herald. 
 
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