THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA AT CHAPEL HILL ENDOWED BY THE DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETIES PR4453 .C64 A6 1877 DEMCO' DATE DUE _ -i MAY 1 b W 1 GAYLORD PRINTED IN U.S.A. m ft, „ jtpy^f^ 'g~e# THOUGHTS VERSES AND SONGS MURRAY AND OIBB, EDINBURGH, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY'S STATIONERY OFFICE. .C&4- THOUGHTS r ■ VERSES AND SONGS BY CLARIBEL -jccofnoh^ • A ; - \ i • \ LONDON JAMES NISBET & CO., 21 BERNERS STREET 1877 AU rights reserved OUT OF THE RANKS, TILL ALL RISE UP FOR THE MUSTER-ROLL OF THAT FAR-OFF SHORE ; WHERE EACH SHALL BE KNOWN, AS EACH SHALL BE JUDGED, BY THE STANDARD OF TRUTH, FOR EVERMORE. GRATEFULLY MINDFUL OF MANY YEARS OF HIS LOVE, I DEDICATE THESE TRIFLES TO MY HUSBAND. MANY PIECES HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED APE NOW ADDED, BUT WITH AS FEW ALTERATIONS AS POSSIBLE ; NOT MORE THAN WERE NEEDFUL FROM THE OBVIOUSLY UNFINISHED STATE IN WHICH SOME OF THEM WERE FOUND. A Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012 with funding from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hil http://archive.org/details/thoughtsversessoOOclar CONTENTS Guide Posts, The Bells' Whisper, The Late Swallow, Cheerfulness, Lowland Mary, Dreaming, . "Waiting, Blind Alice, . The Early Primrose, Blackbirds, . The Blackbird's Song, Corks, False and Fair, Frost, Christmas, . The Ideal, . Dreamland, . Wild Gardens, The Celandine, Spring Time, Huffiness, The Eobin, . Reticence, Passing, Under the Yew Trees, Do you Remember ? PAGE 9 11 13 15 17 19 21 22 24 26 27 29 30 31 33 34 36 38 40 41 43 45 46 48 50 51 CONTENTS. Detraction, . The Opal, . Susan's Story, Flowers, April Days, . Blue, Forget-me-nots, Nests, Morning, Afternoon, . Hope, A Fable, Hope to the End, . Sympathy, . ' Imperatrice,' Through the Jessamine, ' Gene,' A Home, Lucille, Contentment, My Star (translation from the Swedish), The May Bose, A Chat, Fun, . Under the "Willows, Colours, The Last Flower, . The Post, . The Blue Bibbons, . Drawing-room Plants, ' I am Content,' Exercise, Harvest Time, Plans, When the Quiet Moon, CONTENTS. Music, The Maiden and the Bird Primroses and Violets, The Myosotis, ' You and I, ' New Year's Eve, Day Dreams, The Wild Bird, Eventide, Weighted, . Roses and Thorns The Sea, Mablethorpe, A Nosegay, . The Silver Moon shone brilliantly Alma, Have I not loved Thee ? To the Crown Princess of Prussia, 'Twas many a Year ago, Lavender Fields (near Hitchin), The Blackbird, Spring Time, Serenade, The Sea-Bird, The Sun is Shining, One Evening, The Old Yew Tree, The Bells and the Waves, . On the Death of Prince Albert, Tide Time, . The Two Nests, The Sea Garden, One Afternoon, At a Gate, . The Nest in the Woodbine, 6 CONTENTS. PAGE A Walk, . 170 Too Late, 172 A Storm, 176 Marsh Mist, . 178 Contrast, 180 The Stray Lamb, 181 Triple Growth, 183 To my Dog, . 185 Grief, 187 Sunset, 189 Eventide, 190 The Iris, 192 Wedding Song, 193 Firelight, 195 Alexandra, . 196 The Summer Wind was Sighing, . 198 One Night by the Sea, 201 The River, ..... 202 Oh, look not back ! . 205 I sat by the Window, 206 There is an Hour, .... 207 My Flowers, .... 209 The Midsummer Roses, 210 In Memory of , 211 However we Try, .... 212 'I trust Thee,' .... 213 Filey Rocks (with a Sketch copied from Yarsa), 214 Come back ! . 215 Sea ! (with Copy of a Sketch by Varsa), 216 Unspoken Love, .... 218 After Long Days, .... 219 Peace Hovers, ..... 220 The Last Night in the Old Home (a Fragment), 221 Sonnet — A Christmas Rose, 222 While Sitting all Ah me, . . . . 223 CONTENTS. 'Twas Easter Eve, . We lingered by the Little Church, Come back, .... There is Honey in every Rosebud, Bruges, .... Song, .... Christmas Chimes, . Hallowe'en, .... Kyrie Eleison, The Christmas Angel, The Swallow's Message, The Silent Night is falling (a Fragment), The Postern Gate, . Lisbeth's Life (a Fragment), Serenade (a Fragment), Have you forgotten quite ? The Mountaineer's "Wife, . The Eose of Erin, . Azure "Wings (a Fragment), I will listen, Love, for Thee, The Early Violets, . A Lincolnshire Marsh Stream, There's a Silver Lining to every Cloud, White Lilacs, What shall I See if ever I Go ? (a Fragment), Die Hertz Blume, . The Hazel Dell (a Fragment), I do not Dream of telling Thee, You'll come back, . Out on the Rocks, . Lilith Abei, .... Ah, could such Joy be Mine ! Merry May, .... Farewell to Mablethorpe (a Fragment), The Wild White Flower, . CONTENTS. Once a Child, The White "Waves are Breaking, Constance's Song, . Kedcar, The Blue "Waves broke, A Spring Carol, There is a Song, Oh, Mary, I must Sail to-night, By the Blue Alsatian Mountains, The Morning Bide, . Oh, were I the Bain ! The Old Bink Thorn, Farewell to Mary Stuart, Throw wide the Lattice "Window, The "Willow Tree, Bute House, Kensington, In Bort at last, The Lily of St. Goar. I Bemember it, Half-mast High, Down the Stream, . The Old Water Mill, The Day of Best, . If Joy be Mine, When Weary-hearted, Where He would Lead, PAGE 277 278 279 280 282 284 285 286 287 289 291 292 295 296 297 299 301 303 305 307 309 310 311 312 314 EBBATA. Page 47, last line, for " "Which is denied," read " Which are denied." Page 110, line 9, for "All still was," read "All still were." Page 222, date, etc., for " Bneklesbury Rectory," read " Brocklesby Bectory." Page 253, foot note, for " Sir T. Benedict," read " Sir J. Benedict." Page 274, line 6 of Third Stanza, for " Ev'ry joy twice told," read " Ev'ry joy, twice told." Page 305, line 5 of Second Stanza, for " His voyage is done," read " His voyage done." THOUGHTS, VERSES, AND SONGS. I am looking at one this moment from my window, and, as I see it in the distance, I am reading what it says in imagination, for I know it so well, — ' To Limber.' There it stands always. I cannot explain what peculiar attraction it has for me, but it undeniably has an attraction ; and the first thing I fix my eyes upon when I look out, is seldom the garden or the field, but the far-off guide post. I am certain that, if it were blown down, I should be the first to dis- cover its loss. I have often begun by looking at it mechanically, and ended by finding myself in a train of fantastic thought. To-day especially it has led me into thinking of animated guide posts. I know io GUIDE POSTS. of one or two in this world who are as firm and unvarying and disinterested in pointing out the way to me as my gaunt friend on the Limber Eoad. Single-hearted and simple themselves, they ever point forward and onward by their bright example; and never, in the course of my knowledge and love of them, have they pointed to any but the one way. THE BELLS' WHISPER. Wtyt Bells' OTOfjfeper* The roses were twining as once in old times, The birds singing still in the larches and limes, — The same, yet how sad and how silent the spells ! No need for the whispers we heard in the bells, As, tenderly floating o'er upland and hill, Their chimes broke the silence and echoed at will, As, wafted across o'er the hedges of may, ' Remember, remember ! ' the bells seemed to say. No need, for our hearts were too full of the past, Of earth and earth's visions too lovely to last ; The dreams and enjoyments of merry lang syne Were once more before us ; we dared not repine ; Though earth's brightest roses had withered and fled, And tears fell in silence for days that were dead, As, wafted across o'er the hedges of may, ' Remember, remember ! ' the bells seemed to say. 12 THE BELLS WHISPER. But while on earth's visions too fondly we dwell, Methought that the whisper that came from the bell Should not be for days that are long left behind,- — And a far deeper meaning came home to my mind ; Eor surely they chime in the voice of a friend, ' Beyond all earth's troubles remember the end ; ' As, wafted across o'er the hedges of may, ' Bemember, remember ! ' the bells seemed to say. THE LATE SWALLOW. Eije 3Late Stoailoto. Spking is passing, wand'ring swallow ; We can see thy last year's nest, Hidden by the climbing rose tree, 'Neath the eaves thon lovest best. Soon the roses will be budding, April days are on the wane, And we miss thy cheerful twitter : Swallow, swallow, come again ! Blackthorn hedges are in blossom, Orchards flushed with rosy bloom, All the sallows silver tinted, And the latest cuckoo come ; All the woods with songs are ringing, Larks are warbling o'er the plain, 1 the little streamlets singing : Swallow, swallow, come again ! 1 4 THE LATE SWALLOW. Dost thou know the lime is budding, Welcomed by the merry bees, And a thousand voices calling, ' Come across the summer seas ' ? Swiftly speed thee, fair winds lead thee, O'er the blue waves of the main, To the eaves behind the roses : Swallow, swallow, come again ! CHEERFULNESS. I think we have all a great deal to answer for in the way we use our influence. How few of us, when we are inclined to be mopy and dreary, realize the fact that we are thus becoming intense bores to those around us ! Yet so it is. For the mopes, like the measles, are catching ; and when in these moods we inflict ourselves upon our friends, we only make their burdens the heavier by attracting special attention to our own. We all have our burdens. 'To each his suffering,' says one observant writer; while another assures us that in every house there is a skeleton in the cupboard. And yet, if we acknowledge this fact cheerfully, we make it all the easier to be endured. Oh, the blessing of a ' cheerful countenance ' ! To some persons it is constitutional to moan and groan ; and to others to laugh and sing. Happy they who are so blessed as to carry sunshine with them 1 6 CHEERFULNESS. wherever they go ! I know of one or two such natures, and they do me more good in half an hour than the best being in the world with a melancholy mind can do me in half a year. 1 A merry heart doeth good like a medicine, but a broken spirit drieth the bones.' LOWLAND MARY. 17 Hofolarto JHarg* The sun was setting o'er the hill, And gilding all the fern, When lowland Mary from the mill Came wandering by the burn. And ' sun-down's fair/ say I to her ; ' Ay, sun-down's fair,' saith she ; And dancing down the mountain-side The burn ran merrily. The mavis sang her evening song, The moorland blooms were sweet, The west wind shook the hawthorn buds And laid them at our feet. 1 I'm lonely oft,' I say to her ; ' I'm lonely oft,' saith she ; And dancing down the mountain-side 2, ) The burn ran merrily. B 1 8 LOWLAND MARY. ' 1 have a heart to give to thee ;' 1 And I to thee/ saith she ; 1 Then take my troth/ say I to her; 1 And take my troth/ saith she. And when the may-buds flowered again, To kirk sae blithe went we, And lowland Mary's all my own ; The burn sings merrily. DREAMING. l 9 ©reaming. This is a most dangerous delight, and one to be avoided resolutely. I do not mean dreams during sleep, which we cannot help, but dreams of the day-time, in which some of us too freely indulge, and which do not leave us where they found us, but farther away from hope and happiness, — farther away from rest and peace, — and farther away from contentment and thankfulness for the many blessings with which we are surrounded. Day-dreams are a fatal enjoyment, and should be avoided as a deadly poison. You are sitting alone by the fire ; your book has dropped upon your knee ; your eye is fixed on vacancy, while your thoughts have gone careering away thoroughly out of your own control, conjuring up gorgeous visions of happiness that are not of this world, and only filling your fancy with vague yearnings for the unattainable which can DREAMING. never be satisfied. No ! believe me, this is not the mode by which your powers of endurance will be strengthened to bear the buffets of fortune, or your mental qualities invigorated to grapple with the realities of life. WAITING. Waiting* I dreamed, when I was yet a child, Of girlhood's grand estate ; In ecstasy of hope and joy, I waited at the gate. I dreamed, when I was yet a girl, Of woman's happier fate ; With eager hope and yearning heart, I waited at the gate. The woman woke with saddened heart, For, dreams of earlier date Had proved but dreams, and happiness Was still within the gate. But now I know — I know at last, A lesson learned of late ; For heaven I yearned unconsciously, In waiting at the gate. 22 BLIND ALICE. Bihar Witt. They tell me that the skies are blue, And flowers are all in bloom ; Fresh cowslips they have brought to-day, To deck my little room. I cannot see them as they grow Amid the meadow grass, But I can feel them at my feet, And pluck them as I pass. The winter days were long and drear, And very sad to me ; No blackbirds warbled in the thorn, No thrush from o'er the lea. I thought how once my heart rejoiced To hear their cheering strain ; I longed for summer-time to bring Those friendly birds again. BLIND ALICE. n And yet I had my pleasant hours, For Ellie was so kind ; She read to me until I half Forgot that I was blind. To dry my tears, she bade me think That I one day should see ; Where in eternal summer-time The angels wait for me. 24 THE EARLY PRIMROSE. Kty Carlg primrose. I SAT alone, my spinning done, The yellow leaves danced in the sun, And plaintively the western breeze Made mournful music in the trees. It woo'd me out into the wood, For I was in a restless mood ; ' And there,' methought, ' I shall be free, Where none will care to follow me.' With many a branch the path was strewn, By moss and lichen overgrown, And rime-frost silvered every blade That grew beneath the sullen shade. I felt it sad, I knew not why, That all these leaves should fall and die, When suddenly in this retreat A primrose star shone at my feet. THE EARLY PRIMROSE. 25 It smiled so freshly in my way, It chased all gloomy thoughts away ; For e'en in nature's darkest hour She boasts, perchance, some little flower ; And sure, when saddest hours do fall, There is a primrose for us all, To make our hearts rejoice and sing With promise of eternal spring. 26 BLACKBIRDS. I shall doubtless be set down as a person sadly deficient in taste, when I assert that I prefer the blackbird's song to that of the nightingale. The one delights, soothes, and calms me; the other astonishes, excites, and finally rather wearies me. The strain of the nightingale has so little repose. The melody is in such a hurry. There is so much of jerkiness, of question and answer, of cheer- fulness and bustle about it all. The blackbird's song, on the contrary, always strikes me as a sad, sweet, spiritual warble, which is either a lament or a love song, as the hearer's fancy may make it. So mellow, so rich and melodious are the tones, I am quite incapable of praising them in the way in which I feel them. But perhaps, after all, my peculiar love of the blackbird's note is due not so much to its intrinsic excellence, as to a mental association by which I connect it with April days that can never return. THE BLA CKBIRD'S SONG. 2 7 &fje Blacftfiirti's Song* When wind-flowers hang their simple heads, And daffodils are gay, When primrose buds begin to peep, To greet the genial day ; Low warbling notes, at eventide, Forgotten visions bring : Who has not felt a vague regret When first the blackbirds sing ? The old times, rosy in love's light, We see in dreams again, And many a day long passed away Has memory in her train. The hopes and fears of other years, Long fled on weary wing, Come crowding o'er the mind once more, When first the blackbirds sing. 2 8 THE BLA CKBIRD'S SONG. And yet, we would not know again, Or seek to own once more, The wayward hearts, the wayward wills, We knew so well of yore ; For life to us has grown to be A higher, holier tiling, And now we hear the promise clear When first the blackbirds sing. CORKS. 29 Corits* I once heard a most amusing description given of character, namely, that so and so l was born a cork.' I have often thought since what an excellent idea it was. The cork may be swamped, but it will rise over and over again and be none the worse. Such is cer- tainly the case with some natures: they were born ' corks.' We are not all of us corks. In the current of life we cannot all rise again in a hurry if we are once thrust well under water; and the things done and said to the individual who has had the fortune to be f born a cork/ would afflict some of us to our. heart's core. To be sure, the cork may be put down by a strong hand, but in an incredibly short space of time it is afloat again. I think we might, perhaps, by cultivation, become cork-like, but it is very hard work; and I doubt whether any one could entirely acquire the cool self-possession and indifference to rebuffs that characterize the ' born cork.' 3° FALSE AND FAIR. tfalse anti Jatr* I cast my rose on the waters clear, A rose I have treasured full many a year ; I find her false, and I thought her true, She gave me the rose as she bid me adieu ; 'Twas torn from the braids of her amber hair Oh, how so false and yet so fair ! Dry and withered its leaflets now, 'Tis an emblem meet of my love, I trow : 'Tis dead, and I scatter its relics away, The river can take it wherever it may, And bury it deep in its waters bright, — I have plucked it out of my heart to-night. FROST. 3 ! tfrost Theee is something wonderfully exhilarating in a sharp frost. An old-fashioned winter's morning is very enjoyable. Lately the seasons seem to have got a hitch. Our springs are apt to be winters, our summers springs, and our autumns summers, etc., etc. I do enjoy a good fall of snow at the old-fashioned time of the year. I should like to walk to church on Christ- mas Day in snow boots, and to break the ice in the ruts as I went along. I could no more resist breaking that ice than I can withstand the temptation of pluck- ing the first snowdrop, — both are so tempting. How beautifully the sun lights up the holly berries that decorate the Christmas tree ! the ' out-door ' Christ- mas tree — not the dwarf fir-tree, my little darlings, that you are so busy ornamenting with gilded walnuts and dolls : — I mean the holly tree, which I am per- suaded is the genuine Christmas tree ; for not only is 3 2 FROST. it full of gifts for the little birds, who come, half- starved, for a meal on its brilliant berries, but, as the old legend tells us, its very prickles were made to remind us of the crown of thorns, in our Christmas mirth ; so that even in the midst of our most innocent and seasonable enjoyments we should never wholly ignore all serious thought, CHRISTMAS. 33 Christmas- Bring me ivy, bring me holly, Let the mistletoe entwine, Let the scarlet berries sparkle In this Christmas wreath of mine ; Eing on, merry bells, in gladness, Eing on gaily as ye may, Eing away all thoughts of sadness, Tell the world 'tis Christmas Day. Let us love the joyful season, Let us hail the blessed morn, Let each fireside, howe'er lowly, Love the day when Christ was born Happy Christmas, joyful Christmas, Blessed season, once divine, Let the scarlet berries sparkle In this Christmas wreath of mine. 34 THE IDEAL. Alexander Smith, in his Essay on Men of Letters, remarks that literary compositions tend to destroy simple living and all hearty enjoyment in life. I wonder whether this be so, and whether a dispro- portionate love of the ideal must necessarily make the real seem tame and commonplace. No doubt it exposes us to that danger ; still, to many imaginative and earnest thinkers, the giving expression to their thoughts in writing is a useful safety-valve. In the same essay we are told that if we are happy, every effort to express our happiness only mars its com- pleteness. ' When the tide is full, there is silence in channel and creek.' This is a beautiful and possibly a true idea ; at all events, the great bard of nature has put the same sentiment into the mouth of an accepted lover : ' Silence is the perfect est herald of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.' In both THE IDEAL. 35 these passages, however, the happiness alluded to is not a permanent state of enjoyment, but an exceptional and temporary bliss. They furnish, therefore, no authority on the general question whether the habit of word painting is prejudicial or otherwise to our mental powers; and if it be urged, on the one hand, that such a habit is indicative of a restless and self-tormenting spirit, it must be admitted, on the other, that a limited indulgence in it is often productive of exquisite enjoyment. 3 6 DREAMLAND. ©reamlantr. I see my home in the twilight dim, In the shadowy evening light, And many a thought of bygone years Comes over my mind to-night ; I hear the voices of other days, And the tears fall one by one, While thoughts come and go, as they will to-night, As I dream by my fire alone. I hear the linnet from out the elm, And the bees from the mignonette, And the sights and sounds of the old spring-time, Seem to hover and haunt me yet ; Dear voices that I never hear, To all but memory gone, In thought come and go, as they will to-night, As I dream by my fire alone. DREAMLAND. 37 I dream of the spring-time long ago, Its birds and its flowers I see, And fairy showers of rose and white Come down from the apple tree ; I hear the sound of the distant bells Hinging in silver tone, And thoughts come and go, as they will to-night, As I dream by my fire alone. 38 WILD GARDENS. I do not agree with Buskin in his assertion that few people care about flowers, though I am quite ready to admit that wild flowers are not loved or culti- vated as they deserve to be. Euskin says, 'I have never heard of parks kept for wild hyacinths, though often of their being kept for wild beasts.' I have thought, sometimes, if I had a park I would make it a home for all our English wild-flowers. I would have a dingle for primroses and violets, a copse for bluebells and foxgloves, a glade for cowslips and orchisses and daffodils, and a chosen spot for lilies of the valley. I would have every shade of thorn, — scarlet, pink, and white, and double pink, which of all thorns is the loveliest. Then I would have flower- ing bushes, such as gorse and broom, rhododendrons ; and flowering trees, such as laburnums, acacias, tulip trees, crabs, and wild cherries ; nor would I forget WILD GARDENS. 39 a knoll of purple heather and ferns, while the blue forget-me-not should fringe the banks of the stream. It does not occur to the happy proprietors of parks that a very few pounds a year, judiciously laid out in sowing seeds of well-selected wild-flowers, and in planting flowering shrubs and trees, would in an incredibly short space of time do wonders, and give intense pleasure to lovers of nature and of beauty. 4o THE CELANDINE. Eijt Celan&itte* When February snows are past, And warmer sunshine comes at last, Half hidden 'neath the ivy-twine, You find the little celandine ; A star of hope it seems to be, And doubly dear it is to me, Because it has a charm, above All other weeds, to one I love. SPRING TIME. 41 Spring Sftm I think of them in spring-time, When the early violets bloom, When first the wood-birds warble, And the apple is in bloom ; When gentle April showers Leave the roses full of tears, Oh, I think of those who left ns In the spring of other years ! When primroses are peeping, And when first the cuckoo calls, When budding cluster roses Creep along the terrace walls ; When the vine about the lattice In its freshest tint appears, Oh, I think of those who left us In the spring of other years ! 42 SPRING TIME. We number soon the seasons Since those dear ones passed away, Their memory is cherished Fondly in our hearts for aye. Who can tell how few the spring-times Ere that messenger shall come, Who shall hid us go and join them In our everlasting home ! HUFFWESS. 43 I do not know what would become of me if I had to live with a huffy person ; for where is the friend- ship that could long withstand the miserable little annoyances that arise from hufnness ? The most genial nature must succumb to it in time. Eesist- ance is of no use ; you become thoroughly disheart- ened at last, and of necessity give in. The causes of hufnness are various. Sometimes it originates in peevishness and irritability ; sometimes it arises from vanity. In these cases it only deserves to be utterly despised. Occasionally, however, it may be traced to an over-sensitive temperament, ever on the watch for slights. In this form the complaint deserves our pity. But then comes the question, How is it to be dealt with ? I venture to suggest that the most effective mode of treatment is to ignore it altogether. 44 HUFFINESS. I have known that plan succeed when every other has signally failed. Once attempt consolation, or explanation, or apology, and you will inevitably find yourself in a false position ; so there is nothing for it but time and patience. THE ROBIN. 45 When all the band of birds is still, One little voice is heard, Amid the winter snow there pipes One grateful little bird ; He sits upon the rustic stile, The crimson hips among, And o'er the dreary moorland rolls The echo of his song. And when the crimson hips are done, And all the berries dead, He perches on the window-sill, And waits for crumbs of bread. We greet the little household bird, And bid him feast at will, Because he sings in winter-time, When other birds are still. 46 RETICENCE. foettonce* In early life, how many of us ' wear our hearts in our sleeves for daws to peck at ' ! This is an inconvenient arrangement, wmich too often leads to sad humiliation. It is the effect of mistrust in self. Every child should be brought up to hold its own opinions, and to have a certain degree of self-reliance. Without these qualities its whole life will be a failure. Nothing is more certain than that those whose plastic natures can be moulded into any form, and who, ever seeking the guidance and sympathy of others, allow themselves to be controlled by every changing influence, will only realize a succession of disappoint- ments, where they have hoped to meet with varieties of happiness. Then comes reticence to their aid ; and at last they wake up, to wonder how they could have trusted others so much, and themselves so little. This is the time when their characters will either shut RETICENCE. 47 themselves up and harden for life, or, by God's mercy, they will recognise Him as their Guide and Friend for all future trials ; and they will no longer crave for human support and sympathy, which is denied them on earth. 48 PASSING. passing. Hast ever had a cage of callow birds to pet and rear, And nourished them and cherished them and held them strangely dear ; And, after all thy love 'and care for many a summer's day, They've spread their wings in ecstasy and flitted far away? Hast ever found a woodland flower uprooted by the storm, And in thy garden planted it, and kept it safe and warm; And just when leaves and flowers were bursting freshly after rain, A child at play has trampled it and laid it low again ? PASSING. 49 'Tis ever so : we must not crave for happiness below, For if we love on earth too much, our Idolized must go ; Not here the sympathy we crave, its depths no tongue can tell, But, were we with the angels, we should know the secret well. 5 o UNDER THE YEW TREES. Underneath the spreading yew trees, Where I have not stood for years, I am thinking of my boyhood With a heart too full for tears ; And my memory sadly wanders To the happy days of yore, And I see her in the sunshine, Spinning by her cottage door, As of yore. But the seas have rolled between us, And long years have passed away, And I stand beneath the yew trees With a heavy heart to-day. Daisies on her grave are growing, I shall never see her more, As I saw her in the sunshine, Spinning by her cottage door ; Never more ! DO YOU REMEMBER? 5* 3@o gou Eemem&er? The heather still is purpling all the moorland, The path still winds through fern and underwood, The waves still break upon the hardy foreland, Where once we two in dreamy silence stood ; That day the sea was sleeping in the sunbeams, And fairy wavelets whispered to the sand, And rocks and cliffs were reddened by the sun-gleams, And purple shades swept o'er the level land. Do you remember ? do you remember ? Ah, no ! you too, you too forget ! And later still, when on that friendly foreland We built bright castles by the silver foam, Why did no warning voice sweep o'er the moorland, To whisper, ' Those bright days will never come ' ? But Hope's own colour steeped the things around us, — The sea, the sky, the very flowers were blue ; 52 DO YOU REMEMBER? What wonder, then, that fairy vision bound us, And that our hearts wore Hope's own colour too ! Do you remember ? do you remember ? Ah, no ! you too, you too forget ! And now I stand alone, the night is coming, I hear the murmur of the lonely sea, And, looking down, I see the blue flower blooming,— Forget-me-nots are pleading still for thee. The years have softened all that weary sorrow, A brighter hope is dawning o'er my soul ; Though yesterday be dark, a fair to-morrow Shines through the clouds that o'er my spirit roll. But I remember — as you remember — Those golden days will haunt us: yet ! DETRACTION, 5 3- JMractton* In the social intercourse of domestic life, the habit of detraction is the very worst of all damping elements. It is a thorough wet blanket. You start a subject cheerfully, with a view to conversation, but in a moment it is wrested from you and torn into shreds by the detractor, who of course disagrees with you, and ascribes to some bad motive the innocent acts you are discussing. Quiet conversation is very diffi- cult under such circumstances; for the knowledge that their thoughts will be misinterpreted, their sen- timents turned inside out, and their idols thrown down from their pedestals, and broken into fragments, make sensitive persons shrink from the encounter. They prefer giving in, sooner than having to struggle against that bar to all chit-chat and sociable enjoy- ment — detraction. 54 THE OPAL. SEfje ©pal ' Clioose not the opal, it will tease thee. ' — Anon. She sat there in the sunlight, and she twirled her opal ring, And flashed the ruby radiance from out the fairy thing. Oh, well my love he loves me, and proud am I to see The sparkling, lovely colours that my opal shows to me ! But all at once the colour fadeth suddenly away, As the sun his glory hideth on a changing April day : The lady's cheek is paler, and fair hope hath taken wing, With all the fleeting colours that have left the opal THE OPAL. 5S In vain the gem renushes, for, that one dark hour of fear Has saddened all her smiling, and has left a truant tear ; She cannot help the fancy, for she knows the poets sing If love dies, light dies instantly from out the opal 56 SUSAN'S STORY. Susan's Storg. Oh, mother, take the wheel away, and put it out of sight, For I am heavy-hearted, and I cannot spin to-night ; Come nearer, nearer yet, I have a story for your ear, So come and sit beside me, come and listen, mother dear. You heard the village bells to-day, his wedding bells they were, And Mabel is his happy wife, and I am lonely here. A year ago to-night, I mind, he woo'd me for his bride, And who so glad at heart as I that happy Easter-tide ! But Mabel came among us, and her face was fair to see, What wonder was it, mother, that he thought no more of me ! When first he said fair words to her, I know she would not hear, But in the end she listened, — could she help it, mother dear? SUSAN'S STORY. ' 57 And afterwards we met, and we were friendly all the same, For ne'er a word I said to them of anger or of blame ; Till both believed I did not care, and may be they were right, But, mother, put the wheel away, I cannot spin to- night. 58 FLOWERS. jflfofoer& There are very few of us who do not love flowers, though I have met one or two unobservant beings who scarcely know the difference between a rose and a peony. Flowers produce an effect on me which can only be produced in an equal degree by music. The associations are so vivid with certain scents as well as sounds, that I scarcely know which to class first in my ideal world. The scent of a honeysuckle will take me back years and years, just as the melody of an old air will recall the play-time of my childhood. Nay, in this particular case, there is almost more reality in the flower than in the strain. Why is this ? Is it that the former appeals to two senses, while the latter appeals to only one ? or is it because the flower is so fresh, and so exactly what it used to be, while the music has lost its youth, and has become the old song? APRIL DAYS. 59 Spril Bags, The air is soft and warm to-night, The birds are warbling late, A fragrant odour steals from out The woodbine at the gate ; A thousand mem'ries come to me, With all the sounds of spring : Then ask me not for songs to-night, I have no heart to sing. The wind is whispering low to-night, The jessamine is stirred, The cedar and the ivy seem To woo the weary bird ; The clouds of evening o'er my heart Their silent shadow fling : Then ask me not for songs to-night, I have no heart to sing. 6o APRIL DA YS. The sun is setting red to-night, The fields are bathed in gold, The linnet sings from out the thorn ; As in the days of old ; But oh ! I miss the voices that Were once so glad in spring : Then ask me not for songs to-night, I have no heart to sins. BLUE. Blue. This, to my taste, is one of the prettiest words, and one- of the prettiest colours. There is a softness in the sound as well as in the sight. As scarlet has been said to bear a fantastic resemblance to the blast of a trumpet, so I have heard blue recalls to mind the dulcet tones of a flute. I have a great love for the colour in nature, and a liking for it in art, though there it is much abused. It has undergone more changes of shade than perhaps any other hue; and of all our novel tinctures, the 'new blues' are the most varied. But none of the last constitute my idea of blue. The 'true blue' I mean, is the sweet, clear colour of a cloudless sky on a lustrous morn- ing in June. Yet, lovely as this cerulean tint un- questionably is, it is curiously rare in nature. You will seek for it in vain in the iris. It will not flash forth from the prism. In our flora it is almost 62 BLUE. unknown. The peacock cannot boast of it, nor the pheasant, whether British or Himalayan or golden. Mr. Gould cannot point to it on the plumage of his humming-birds. Mr. Spence never admired it on the wing of a butterfly. In our choicest conserva- tories it will not be found. The large forget-me-not which grows on the margin of the brook has it ; so has the small dragon-fly which flutters over the stream. On the jay's wing you may see it; and I am told it is visible on the scales of one or two beetles. The turquoise has it, but no other gem. I have often thought how exquisite a blue diamond would be, — not such a stone as now passes by that name, but a real transparent, flashing turquoise — an azure diamond. Well has blue been called the colour of hope ; for, being the colour of the sky in its serenest aspect, it affords to mortals the only earthly glimpse of an ideal heaven. FORGET-ME-NOTS. 63 Blue as the sky were the simple flowers We gathered together that day ; Though dead and dry, they recall the hours Of a happiness passed away. They grew 'mid the rushes so tall and green, Low down in the sedges cool ; We drew them out of their home unseen In a fortunate fairy pool. And you gave me some, and I took them home, And treasured those blossoms blue, Though never a flower was needed less To be given to me by you. With music. 64 .?; NESTS. Amongst the beautiful objects in nature, birds' nests hold a very prominent place. I have always de- lighted in them, and wondered at their marvellous construction. Some birds don,'t seem to care much about neatness. I rather sympathize with these ; and I would any day sooner attempt to draw a wood- pigeon's nest than a chaffinch's, — one is so charm- ingly untidy, the other so curiously neat. I often wonder how the wood-pigeon's eggs keep in their places at all, for the nest contains so many large holes that they can scarcely avoid falling through, and it always seems as if a gust of wind would blow the whole fabric away. I do not care for a marten's nest, it is so hard and brick-like outside ; but a linnet's is almost as exquisite as the chaffinch's. Perhaps, however, the most charming of all nests is the little soft bottle which contains the tiny eggs of NESTS. 65 the golden-crested wren. On the other hand, the rook's is a clumsy collection of sticks, which displays neither taste nor science. The cuckoo, as we all know, makes no nest at all; and the magpie's nest is a comfortless curiosity ; while blackbirds and thrushes are very different artificers ; the thrush being the neatest builder, the blackbird the boldest. 66 MORNING. JHornmjj* Buried in the apple blossom Hangs a lovely little nest, For the unwary bird betrayed it, Darting through the boughs to rest ; And her eyes peer through the blossoms, Though so still for hours she sits, Till the gard'ner leaves the garden; Then from out the tree she flits ; While her mate from yonder elm tree Watches o'er the little nest, In and out the branches hopping, Warbling all the while his best. AFTERNOON. 67 Afternoon. Later, through the fragrant meadow By the apple tree we pass, Broken egg-shells, rosy-tinted, Lie about the summer grass ; And the little nest is hanging, Torn in shreds from out the bough ; Still the bird is in the elm tree, But his song is silent now. 68 HOPE. How provoking it is to meet with people who will look at everything on the dark side ! This, to a great extent, is a constitutional failing, and cannot be helped. If any unfortunate and unforeseen event happens, such persons are at home at once, and ' were quite sure it would occur.' They are ever on the look-out for trouble, — standing, as it were, on tiptoe to catch at a disaster, — and they can only half enjoy the present pleasures of life because of certain dark anti- cipations which will cloud their horizon for the future. How grateful, then, should those persons be who are gifted with 'hope'! Like charity, it is 'thrice blessed;' for when it takes up its abode with us, it becomes a blessing to all around us as well as to ourselves. Towards influencing others for their good, a hopeful person will often do more in five minutes than the most earnest — but desponding — nature could accom- plish after months of remonstrance. A FABLE. 69 Eeigned a stillness in the woodland one sunny sum- mer's day, I marked the flowers withering beneath the sun's bright ray, They seemed so sad and sorrowful, I fancied as I stood That I heard their plaintive voices ringing through the little wood ; 'Twas a strange and simple fancy, but it pleased me, as I dreamed Among the ferns and flowers as the noonday sunlight gleamed. I listened and I listened, till methought upon mine ear Came the voices of the flow'rets, like sweet music soft and clear. The purple foxglove first I heard in dreamy tones bewail The scorching beams of sunshine, to the lily of the vale; 7 o A FABLE. I heard the snow-white lily softly murmur back again, Oh, wait with patience, sister, for the gentle summer rain ! I heard the sundew sighing, Ah, sad it is to die Beneath the golden sunlight and the broad unclouded sky! I saw the fair wood-sorrel fold her triple leaflets frail, As she breathed a sad farewell to all her sisters in the vale ; And yet the silver lily whispered softly, Never fear ! Be patient, fairest sister, for the rain will soon be here ! The lady-fern uncurled her fronds to catch the pass- ing breeze, The bindweed drooped, too weak to clasp her tendrils o'er the trees, Her bells were closing softly, and her leaves were stiff with pain, But still the lily whispered, Wait in patience for the rain ! A FABLE. 71 The happy blue forget-me-not could hear the flowers sigh; The brooklet bore the echo as it babbled freely by ; It bathed the fair forget-me-not, and told the mourn- ful tale Of all her woodland sisters dying in the distant vale; And yet the bending lily, though with faltering voice, again Implores, Have faith, sweet sisters, in the gentle summer rain ! But the lily's voice grew weaker, and her bells were stiff and dry, Although she tried to raise them to the blue un- clouded sky; She tried to cheer the others with her hopeful words of love, And bade them wait and hope for help from out the clouds above. 7 2 A FABLE. There was silence in the woodland, and a lull among the trees, And then there came a murmuring as of a waking breeze ; The sky was changed and cloudy, and the breeze was still again, And down upon the flowers came the gentle summer rain. The lily thrilled and trembled, and the sundew raised her head, The bindweed clasped her tendrils round an arching bough o'erhead ; The lady-fern stood upright, and the sorrel smiled again; And methought I heard a chorus, Welcome, welcome, summer rain ! And the rain fell softly, softly, and caressed each drooping flower ; Oh, welcome to the woodland was the long-expected shower ! A FABLE. 73 And the -happy lily whispered, See, my faith was not in vain, When I bade you hope, my sisters, in the gentle summer rain ! My fairy dream was over, but I half believed it true, As I saw the happy flowers raise their heads and bloom anew. But the lily looked most radiant, her fragrance filled the air : Of all the woodland flowers, none to me seemed half so fair. And I learned a wholesome lesson, — yes, I learned no little good, — By my fairy dream of faith amidst the flow'rets of the wood. 74 HOPE TO THE END. gope to tfje (Eito* Hope, when in thy youth's glad morning All thy heart is filled with praise, Every flower thy path adorning, — Hope ye for the golden days. Hope ye when the heart's best roses Wither for the lack of rain, And thy thirsty soul is empty, — Hope ye for the shower again. And when, on thy mid-day journey, White-winged Peace has flown afar, Still, though all the night be cloudy, Hope ye for the morning star. Hope, when all thy days be numbered, And thy weary journey past; By the world's hopes unencumbered, Hope ye, hope for heaven at last. SYMPATHY. 75 Sgmpatfjg* What a precious gift is the power of expressing sympathy ! Precious, because utterly apart from all other gifts. Though actuated by the kindest inten- tions, many persons are lamentably deficient in this power of expression. They may wish to be all, to say all, to do all for others ; but their nature rebels, their tongues are tied, and timidity checks their actions. Some few people, however, find their principal pleasure in showing sympathy towards the afflicted. They know that in this lies their work, and that this is the one thing in which they can be of use. Power- less to command, or to lead, or to stand alone as an example, they can yet mourn with those who mourn, they can alleviate suffering, they can cheer the bed of sickness, they can comfort 'the sad in heart, — in one word, they can sympathize. They can share in sorrow, and by sharing halve it. 7 6 ' IMP&RA TRICE. ' * Impfoatrtce/ "When first we met, long years ago, I deemed thee kind and calm, But soon that sympathy of thine Fell o'er my life like balm. I guarded well this heart of mine, Thou wert so high above me ; With all those winning ways of thine, I did not, dared not love thee. And yet each day without thy smile Was blank to me and drear ; I counted but the hours, and said, ' To-morrow brings her here.' Yet, when thou cam'st, no word of thine Was ever meant to move me ; Thou wert above this dream of mine, I did not dare to love thee. imperatrice: 77 I did not know the subtle charm That held me like a spell, But yet I knew I only loved Thy presence much too well. The happy hours slid swiftly by, Bright as the skies above me, And yet so safe and sure was I, I did not dare to love thee ! 78 THROUGH THE JESSAMINE. JEljrougfj tfje Jessamine* Eight earnestly I sued my love For one kind look or smile, She turned her face away from me, And answered not the while ; Yet as I crossed the little porch, Perplexed by many a doubt, I saw her through the jessamine : Why was she looking out ? I pleaded for a ruby rose That nestled in her hair, She turned away in seeming scorn, And left me lonely there ; Yet as beneath her window-sill I passed in dull despair, I saw the rosebud in the grass : How had it fallen there ? THROUGH THE JESSAMINE. 79 'Tis years ago ; her sunny hair Is still as brown and bright, And on her hand two little rings Are flashing in the light ; She is my own for evermore, And I was wrong to doubt, Since first behind the jessamine I saw her looking out. 8o ' gene: ' mm: This is an indescribable feeling. I do not think it could be dissected. Many never experience it at all. I know of some persons who cordd not even tell what the word means. Outward things do not seem to affect them. They remain the same always, and do not feel the secret antagonism and constraint with which alien natures afflict others who are differently constituted. I think it is one of life's hardest tasks trying to ignore gene, endeavouring to believe you are 'getting on better' with so and so. The very next half-hour, subjects are broached that swamp you. You do not wish to contradict; you cannot agree; and a mental torpor sets in, and you begin to wonder if you are growing idiotic. It is simply gene. You will rise again when alone. Xever fear; your own nature will assert itself, and you will be bright and happy once more, when free from that gine, which you must bear sometimes in your journey through a world where no two natures are constituted alike. A HOME. a Some. Where the lime trees throw their shadow On the daisy-loving grass, Where the cowslips in the meadow Scent the footpath as you pass ; Where the hyacinths are blooming In a cloud of brilliant blue, Where the nightingales are warbling All the balmy evening through : There to-night my thoughts are roaming, And I let them go and come, In the purple twilight dreaming, Of that quiet, happy home. There are some places and some people that one likes to think about in the calm of a summer twilight. They have some influence, some association that har- monizes best with the ' still hours.' 82 LUCILLE. 3Luctlle* Wakeful and thoughtful, she knew not why, From the lattice she leaned alone, Besting her cheek on her fair white hand, While the moonlit sea made moan. Wide and bright it lay in the light Of a tender violet sky, And softly pale was each fairy sail That glided silently by. A child in years, with a guileless heart, She gazed long over the sea, And vaguely dreamed of a coming dream That might or might not be. She leaned out under the clematis flowers, So fair, so calm and still, 'Neath the violet skies, with a prayer in her eyes For a strong and stedfast will. CONTENTMENT. %l Contentment. I wish I was always contented ; but I am not, nor, I fear, are any of us. We have all seasons of discon- tent; and the more blessings we enjoy, the more we want to have. However, in these moods, if we will only look them boldly in the face, we shall be ashamed of ourselves, and come to our senses far sooner than if we hypocritically make either ourselves or others believe that we are the most contented beings in the world. There are times when a tire- some spirit of antagonism seems to possess us. We become fishes out of water, — birds in a net. We may be thrown amongst uncongenial natures, which depress us. This is doubtless a very trying position ; but still, if we determine to see it in its true light, it will rather amuse us than otherwise, and we shall be comforted by the reflection that we were born to 84 CONTENTMENT. be mortified. The shutting of our eyes to the crosses in our lot will never make us contented; but if we meet them honestly, boldly, and in a Christian spirit, I believe we shall end by bearing them with cheerful resignation. MY STAR. 85 JKg Star. TRANSLATION FROM THE SWEDISH. Lonely I go on my desolate way, Night shadows hasten the death of the day, Ah, how the twilight is fading away ! Every wood-bird is safe in its nest, Every lily is folded to rest, Every sun-ray has died in the west. But I have a star in this heart of mine, All through the darkness its light doth shine Love is the name of this star of mine. Trouble may come and be hard to bear, Life may be burdened with many a care, Yet in my heart will the light be there. 86 MY STAR. All through the gloom of the winter night, While the snow falleth so pure and white, Yet will I cherish my lovely light. For I have a star in this heart of mine, All through the darkness its light will £ Love is the name of this star of mine. THE MAY ROSE. 87 'Tis spring, and many a brilliant rose is blooming on the wall, But there's a rose, a little rose, I love above them all ; I know not what its colour is, — a faint, pale shade of gold, It borrows from the noonday sun ere many hours old. No brilliant beauty is my flower, but delicately fair ; 'Tis like the last late lingering star seen through the morning air. Ah, little rose, each spring a thousand thoughts come back with thee ! When I was but a little child, thou wast a little tree ; And every year I've seen thee bloom, and loved thee more and more, Because thou seem'st a part of those ' not lost but gone before.' 88 A CHAT. a Cfjat. How delightful is a good chat, when you can exchange ideas freely and without constraint! Some matter- of-fact people may wonder what you can have to say, if no particular event has happened which requires to be discussed. My idea of chat, however, has no dependence on time, place, or incident; for, bereft of all outward materials, the pleasure of interchanging thought is in itself a great delight. When in a chatty frame of mind, you and your friend may talk together for an hour, and yet, if a practical person were to ask you what you had been talking about, you might find it difficult to answer in an intelligible manner. You have had no news to pass on, but you have simply been enjoying an extremely pleasant hour in a sociable, easy chit-chat, fluttering playfully from one topic to another, as a butterfly floats from flower to flower. FUN. What different kinds of fun exist ! I do not imagine that many of us enjoy the same sort. Amid many varieties of merriment, it is no easy matter to discover three or four friends who thoroughly understand your style of fun ; but when you are fortunate enough to meet with them, the effect is highly exhilarating. What good it does one to have a hearty, uncontrollable fit of laughter ! It does not happen often. I am afraid I could soon count up the real laughs I have enjoyed during the last twelve months. And even on those occasions nine people out of ten would possibly not have found much to laugh at ; for my fun to them would not have been funny. How I pity from my heart the person who never enjoys a hearty laugh! being persuaded, with Laurence Sterne, ' that every time a person smiles — but much more when he laughs — it adds some- thing to this fragment of life.' 9 o FUN. There is one style of fun in which I have no sympathy, that which is displayed in practical jokes, — a taste shared, I think, by man in common with the monkey. UNDER THE WILLOWS. 91 ©ntar tfje BHilfofo& Under the willows, adown the brook, How often I love to dream, And watch the birds in their airy flight, And the leaping fish in the stream ! While children are gathering ladysmocks, And cropping the cowslips near, I watch the tiny waves as they fall In water-breaks crystal clear. The stream runs on through the meadow land, Leaving the trout behind ; The chieftain bulrush stately stands, And waterflags wave in the wind. Oh, merry the children's voices ring ! And all things seem to say That life is a glad and glorious thing Under the willows to-day. 9 2 UNDER THE WILLOWS. The bird sings loud on the alder bough, Perched on a leafy spray ; The sound of his music lingers long, Ee-echoes, and dies away. What does he sing to the ripples to-day ? Is he glad as he flies away ? — He has taught my heart to rejoice and sing, Under the willows to-day. COLOURS. 93 Colours. How wonderfully some few people enjoy colours ! while many simply admire them; and others, who apparently have no defective vision, are quite incap- able of discriminating between their hues. But the enjoyment I speak of is a peculiar love and appre- ciation of the beauty of bright tints in nature and in art, and the actually feeling them. It is impossible to describe the sensation. I have often amused my- self by looking at a field of wheat, and wondering which combination of colour was the most lovely, — whether the ripe grain blended best with the dark blue corn-flower or the scarlet poppy or the purple corn-cockle. The wheat assumes a more delicate tint when compared with the lilac, and is yellower again when contrasted with the red. Of all lovely com- binations of colour in nature, I am inclined to give 94 COLOURS. the preference to green and violet. Look at the next cluster of purple violets you see nestling amongst the freshest of green leaves, and confess that no harmony of tints can be more charming to the eye. THE LAST FLOWER. 95 W&z Hast jflfofoer* The autumn days were on the wane, And winter waited nigh, The last leaves dropped from off the trees, And fluttered down to die ; J ISTo more the little wood-birds sing, No more the streamlets play, And in the fierceness of the frost The last flower died away. All day the sunbeams lingered nigh, That floweret frail to cheer'; The robins sang, e Ah, leave us not, Last blossom of the year ! ' And all night long the friendly stars Were watching from the sky, And glimmered on those petals wan — They knew the flower must die. 96 THE LAST FLOWER. And, drooping low its weary head, It heard a spirit sing, 1 Fear not to die, sweet sister mine, Thon'lt bloom again in spring. Kind nature bids a gentle sleep Beneath the wintry skies ; When April rain comes back again, All radiant thou wilt rise.' And lower bent the floweret's bell, Its petals paler grew, But peacefully the promise fell, That it should bloom anew. And when the robins came again, Its fragile life was past, And stars and sunshine mourned the flower, Because it was the last. THE POST. 97 Wfyz post What a welcome arrival is the letter-bag ! In the country it is the want of the day. What a change it gives to the current of ideas to open the friendly letter, and for a few minutes to be taken completely out of self ! What a great pleasure it is in life, and yet how little do we realize it as regards others I We know what it is to ourselves, but how often do we neglect to give others the same enjoyment ! A press of more important occupations may occasionally furnish a real justification for our silence; but, too frequently, our indolence is content to rely on the hackneyed excuse of having ' nothing to say.' Surely we are not so utterly bereft of ideas as to make this a sensible excuse ! Surely we are doing some- thing, hearing something, seeing something, or, at all events, reading something which deserves mention in a letter, and which is sufficiently interesting to any G 9 8 THE POST. one who loves us I What a delight it is to correspond freely and openly ! but this, of course, can only be the case in very intimate friendships. Still, the kind letter of a mere acquaintance is always welcome ; and I suspect we very much underrate the power we all possess of giving pleasure to others through the medium of the post. THE BLUE RIBBONS. 99 STfje Blue ftfiftotwL I AM looking for the ribbon that I gave you long ago, You told me you would cherish it wherever you might go; I have kept the broken sixpence which you gave that day to me, — That happy day when last we met beneath the linden tree. It may be you forget it, but it surely cannot be, While lovingly I've thought of you, you had no thought for me. The summer has come back again, the roses are in bloom, The roses that you trained around the window of my room. I've tended them so carefully and watched them all the year, And thought when next the roses bloomed, perchance you might be here ; THE BLUE RIBBONS. The summer sun is tinting every bud a rosy red, But winter-time is in my heart, and all its flowers are dead. You do not like to speak to me, you have no word to say, And yet you said you loved me so the year you went away. I give you back your plighted troth ; perchance I may forget All you told me to remember, in the days when first we met. DRA WING-ROOM PLANTS. j 1 JBrafoing^room pants* I have tried many flowers in my room, and by ex- perience I give the preference to the pink begonia, as the very best flowerer. I have had one in bloom for nearly four months. I put it into the basket in December, and it was full of blossom till the end of March. The cyclamen is also a very useful clrawing-room plant, and will last in bloom two months. I do not think a prettier group can be made than a circle of white cyclamen, with a pink hyacinth in the centre of a round basket well covered with moss. t o 2 ' I AM CONTENT. ! 'I am content/ I am content to be dwelling in shadow, If only the sunlight may sweep over thee ; I am content though the thorns be around me, If only the roses be showered on thee. I am content though the north wind be cruel, If sweet southern breezes be comforting thee ; I am content with the dark night around me, If only the stars may be shining for thee. I am content though the storm break above me, If rainbows of promise shine brighter for thee ; I am content though the casket be empty, If only the jewel have fallen to thee. EXERCISE. 103 (Exercise. Very few worries can stand against the influence of a good long walk. There is nothing so exhilarating to the spirits ; — only try it ; — and it certainly affords the simplest remedy for all the little grievances of life. Some persons I know have a great dislike to a walk 'without an object.' They prefer pottering about the garden, or dawdling backwards and for- wards on a terrace like a quarter-deck. Delightful enough after your walk, but without that I some- times think I could scarcely live. How many petty annoyances have I thus walked away ! and how often have I come home in a state of joyous exhila- ration, wondering that I could have allowed such trifles to affect me for an instant ! io4 HARVEST TIME. f£?ar&est Kimz. Foe the harvest gathered now Our most heartfelt thanks we owe ; So let all, by praise and prayer, Thank our Father for His care. From the moonlight to the morn, Nought has harmed our standing corn ; So let all, by praise and prayer, Thank our Father for His care. Golden sunshine every day Chased the rainy clouds away ; So let all, by praise and prayer, Thank our Father for His care. If our field containeth more, Let us leave it for the poor ; And let all, by praise and prayer, Thank our Father for His care. PLANS. 105 Pans. Have you a dislike to plans ? I cannot endure them, and I will never make any, if I can help it, beyond the week. It is astonishing how some people can look forward with apparent confidence from winter to summer, and from summer to winter, arranging their schemes for months to come, as if they were really free agents, with absolute power to act as they liked. For myself, I always feel so doubtful about any plans coming off in the manner intended; and then, if it be an agreeable plan, half the pleasure is anticipated by long expectation. How I delight in impromptu visits and unexpected enjoyments ! their value is doubled by the surprise ; and many a simple occurrence, which would be quite tame if methodically arranged beforehand, becomes a positive treat when it Hakes us unawares.' io6 WHEN THE QUIET MOON. ffltfjm tije quiet JHoon. When the quiet moon is rising By the ever-sounding sea, While the golden stars are shining, Mary, I will wait for thee. When the folded flowers are sleeping, Silent every bird and bee, While the evening dews are weeping, Mary, I will wait for thee. When the light shines from the lattice. Then I know thou'lt come to me ; And my heart beats high and gladly, Mary, as I wait for thee. Wherefore tarry, wherefore linger, While I sigh so wearily ? Is not this our trysting hour ? Mary, come, I wait for thee ! WHEN THE QUIET MOON. 107 Silence reigns o'er vale and woodland ; But the murmur of the sea Breaks upon my ear so calmly, Mary, as I wait for thee. Who is this so lightly tripping O'er the moonlit grassy lea ? 'Tis my loved one ! 'tis my darling ! Mary, thou art come to me ! io8 • MUSIC. Music affects minds differently, according to cha- racter. I must confess that some sort of music gives me very little pleasure, while another kind can afford me most exquisite enjoyment. The possession of an ear is a great delight; but at the same time I believe it to be rather an enemy than otherwise to music as an art or science. If you have an ear, you prefer amusing yourself with it in your own way. You prefer playing things as you please; and how fatal is this to anything like perfection, professionally speaking ! Acquiring a cer- tain degree of excellence with facility, you cannot bear making music, work. Melody is your great delight : Harmony comes second. This is, I fancy, theoretically speaking, wrong, and you will only be- come a superficial musician after all. Never mind, MUSIC. I09 you will be capable of enjoying a great deal; and if yon learn to avoid consecutive fifths and octaves, you may write away, and possibly give pleasure to many who are not deeper in the study of music than yourself. no THE MAIDEN AND THE BIRD. K\}t JHafom antr tfje Birti* The stars were all shining, trie moon giving light, A hush o'er the hills and the valleys that night ; The soft wind of summer kissed lily and rose, Yet the maiden's blue eyes sought nor rest nor repose. She leaned from her lattice with tear-troubled eyes, More clouded and sad than those violet skies ; All nature was silent, no lily awake, That rocked on the silvery breast of the lake. All still was the star-lighted dingle and dell, Till the voice of the nightingale banished the spell. The notes echoed wildly, so sweetly and clear, The pink and white roses woke gladly to hear, And down fell their dewdrops like tears in the dell, At the voice of the singer each loveth so well. The heart of the maiden was softened at last, The dark desolation of spirit was past, THE MAIDEN' AND THE BIRD. The song of thanksgiving the nightingale trilled Swept back all the shadows that saddened and chilled. Sweet bird, she gives thanks, and she sheddeth no tear For the thorn of last May or the rose of last year ! H2 PRIMROSES AND VIOLETS. Primroses antr Uiofcte* I trust we shall never outlive our love of these essentially English flowers. It is winter-time now, and the snow lies deep upon the ground ; but I, in my mind's eye, can realize what I shall see if I live two or three months longer, — banks all yellow with primrose stars, and purple with sweet violets. Surely this is a sight to long for, and to love ! Who that has leisure for idlesse can resist the happy in- fluence of a warm, sunny April morning ? I do not know, at such a season, a greater luxury than to saunter along the woodpaths in a musing mood, hearing rather than listening to the thrushes and the blackbirds, the wood-pigeons and the cuckoo, while the sound of running water affords a soft accompani- ment to the varied melodies of the woodland choir. Browning writes, 'Oh, to be in England now that PRIMROSES AND VIOLETS. "3 April's here ! ' and, depend upon it, lie had a mental picture of all the charms I have been attempting to sketch. How grateful these charms make us, and how they lead our hearts to worship and to praise ! ii 4 THE MYOSOTIS. 'Tis the holy midnight hour, And glow-worms vigil keep, A crescent moon is faintly shining O'er the flowers asleep. Sleeps the sundew, sleeps the orchis, Sleeps the lily pale ; Nothing waketh save the brooklet, Eippling down the vale. Insects folded in the flowers, Sleeping soundly too ; Others on their leaves are resting, Almost drowned in dew. Suddenly the Myosotis, Waking from a dream, 1 The first two stanzas are repeated from 'I will Listen, Love, for thee.' THE MYOSOTIS. "5 Sees a blossom in the moonlight, Floating down the stream. l s 'Tis a snow-white water-lily, Guided by a Fay, Spirit of the little streamlet, Sailing fast away. And she sees the Myosotis, Watching from her cot, Waves her fairy hand, and whispers, ' Flower, forget me not.' Other blossoms woke and heard her, Ne'er those words forgot, Often called their blue-eyed sister, Fair — Forget-me-not. Whether true this fairy legend, Know nor care I not ; But they call the Myosotis Still Forget-me-not. ii6 * YOU AND V 'gou atflr L* We sat by the river, you and I, In the sweet summer time long ago, So smoothly the river glided by, Making music in its tranquil flow ; We threw two leaflets, you and I, To the river, as it wandered on, And one was rent and left to die, And the other floated onward all alone. And oh ! we were saddened, you and I, For we felt that our youth's golden dream Might fade, and our lives be severed soon, As the two leaves were parted in the stream. I look on the grass and bending reeds, And I listen to their soothing song, And I envy the calm and happy life Of that river as it sings and flows along ; YOU AND I. 1 117 For oh ! how its song brings back to me The shade of our youth's golden dream, In the days ere we parted, you and I, As the two leaves were parted in the stream. 1 1 8 NEW YEAR'S E VE. $efo gear's Q&bt. I have always liked tlie idea of hearing the clock strike twelve on the last night of the old year. Apart from the solemn thoughts which crowd upon the mind at this time, — apart from the earnestness which the fleeting hours of an old year must always give to prayer, — I have a fancy, an idea, which haunts me, of the departure of the old year's angel who has guarded us so faithfully during the many past months, and I cannot bear losing the last hours of his ideal company. The same fancy makes me wakeful to welcome the new year's angel when the old one has winged his flight from us, bearing with him the re- cord of our inner year, its sins and sorrows. It is but a fancy ; but as long as I live I shall be wakeful to regret the going, and to welcome the coming, of my imaginary angels of the old and the new year. I met with some lines of Miss Procter's the other NE W YEAR'S EVE. lig day, which give me courage to bring my fancy to light : ' I am fading from you, But one draweth near, Called the angel-guardian Of the coming year. If my gifts and graces Coldly you forget, Let the new year's angel Bless and crown them yet,' 120 DAYDREAMS. iSag ©ream Deep down in my heart was a dream long ago, And it tinted all earth with a rosy glow ; 'Twas too happy to last, and too deep to tell, But the birds and the flowers they knew it well And the young heart cried that its life was glad, And that nought on this glorious earth was sad. Alas ! for the visions that come and go, And only the birds and the flowers may know ! Deep down in the valley I whispered it all To the flowers that wept at the even fall, And wept the longer that dreams so dear, « They knew could never be earnest here. The brook I told as it passed me by, And the lark I told as he sung in the sky ; But they faded and left me long ago, And only the birds and the flowers may know. DAYDREAMS. I2 i But I think some day, if I watch and wait, I may find them again at the golden gate, Up higher than ever the skies are blue, And at last my visions may all be true, — When life and its shadows have passed away, And dawning will break into perfect day ; While the earthly hopes that were lost below, Will be found in a rest that the angels know. THE WILD BIRD. Translation from the Swedish. A wild bird sang merrily one fair summer's day, Eejoice and be grateful ! its song seemed to say, But it left me and flew to the forest away. Come, sing once again to me ! I cried, Come again ! But I watched and I waited for the bird all in vain, It never returned again, never returned again, To cheer me. A wild hope came fluttering one fair summer's day, Be true and be constant ! its voice seemed to say, But it faded and left me to live as I may. hope, come again to me ! I cried, Come again ! But I watched and I waited for the voice all in vain, It never returned again, never returned again, To cheer me. THE WILD BIRD. 123 A sweet peace came glimmering one fair summer's day, Be patient and trusting ! its voice seemed to say, And it whispered, I'll bide with thee ever and aye. Sweet peace, art thou come to me, I cried, — come at last? Are the days of my misery behind me and past, Ne'er to return again, ne'er to return again, To grieve me ? 124 EVENTIDE. When the rosy clouds of evening Sail across the summer sky, When the woods are hushed in slumber By the west wind's parting sigh ; Ere it leaves the sleeping woodland, Ere it whispers to the sea, O'er my heart it seems to linger, Bringing quiet thoughts to me. Thoughts of sorrow, thoughts of gladness, Thoughts of unforgotten years, Thoughts of mingled joy and sadness, Strangely blended smiles and tears. As it lingers o'er the fir trees, Sounding like a distant sea, Calmly, calmly comes the memory Of those other days to me. EVENTIDE. Morning breezes blow more freshly, Blow more bravely o'er the sea, But there seems a kindly greeting In the evening air, to me ; Telling softly, telling sweetly, Of a hope beyond the sea : Oh, it speaks of love and heaven In the eventime to me ! 125 120 WEIGHTED. Most of us are weighted in some particulars. I can- not think there is any one who is free from every oppression. I never dream of saying to a person, ' How happy you ought to be, with all the advantages you possess !' for what means have I of knowing how heavily weighted that very person may be ? Outward circumstances do not make happiness. Perhaps there is one bitter drop in the cup which poisons the sweet- est waters. I have known persons shrink from the thoughtless probing of friends who would tell them they were the most fortunate creatures in the world. Till I knew a person's inner life, I should never venture on such an assertion. At the same time, I do not exactly agree with a censorious friend of mine, who declares that ' no woman is happy unless she can make herself out to be a martyr ; ' I do not imagine there would be any very great charm in assuming that character. ROSES AND THORNS. 127 Who has not in his life a trouble keen, A morbid longing for what might have been, A thankless scorning of the good that is, A yearning for a fond delusive bliss Which still eludes us ? — In this world of ours We must content us to find thorns with flowers ! What are we, that we cavil at our cup, And doubt its sweetness ere we drink it up ? Nay, rather let us stretch a trusting hand, And drink it bitter at our Lord's command, Believing that its bitterness may be A passport to a sweet eternity. Oh, dreamers, dream no more of what is past I Accept the thorns upon the flowers at last : Take ye your Bibles, hush those dreams to rest, For God has led you, and His ways are best. 128 THE SEA. &%z Sea. All persons have their own pet sea-side. I never feel really at the sea but at one desolate spot on the east coast of Lincolnshire. This place I have visited almost every autumn since I was a ' wee ' child, and that is the whole secret of my liking it so much. After the manner of a cat, I attach myself almost painfully to old associations ; and so long as I live I shall love that ' most miserable apology for a watering-place,' as an unsympathizing friend of mine once had the hardihood to designate the dear old village of Mablethorpe. How vividly does memory recall my earliest visits to this lone hamlet! — The strange awe felt in crossing the plank which led over the rough sandbank to the shore, where the grand lonely sea first burst upon our view ! And then the quaint old jetties, with their rich brown seaweeds, and their green, slimy, and worm-eaten timbers, against which the breakers used to dash with THE SEA. I2 g such hearty good- will, drenching our faces with the salt spray ! And then, again, the mysterious expeditions after dark to see the ' waves on fire,' and our very un- comfortable sensations when we did see them ! All these early recollections endear the place to me. I have long since argued myself into the firm belief that it is charming ; and I ask now, almost triumphantly, ' What more can any one in reason require than miles of firm untrodden sand, and as fine a sea as ever broke on shore ? ' 130 MABLETHORPE. 'Tis a fine October morning, by the broad blue German sea, A strangely lone and dreary place to many this may be; No promenades, no band to hear, no shops ; but what care I, While lovingly I watch the long sea line against the sky? For miles and miles the golden sands are stretching far away, And fainter in the distance grows the silver fringe of spray ; No rocks or headlands, cliffs or downs, — nought but a wavy line Of ribbon-grass-grown sandbanks mark this favourite place of mine. MABLETHORPE. 131 A drearier coast, a sadder shore, there may not truly be, Yet, 'tis full of boundless beauty with its broad exult- ing sea. You do not go for gaiety, no fashion takes you there, You go to revel in the sea, and breathe the fresh, fresh air. You love the free unbroken waste of sand, and sea, and sky, You feel it leads your heart to all things good, and pure, and high ; A majesty there seems in all, appealing to the soul To worship Him who reigns above, who bade those waters roll. 132 A NOSEGAY. Peehaps I had better have said a bouquet ; but there is an old-fashioned English look about the original word which I like. I do not care for a brilliant or artistic nosegay. Those bought for half-a-guinea at Covent Garden are highly unsatisfactory presents ; for, first, they have no scent, and a scentless nosegay is a mere contradiction in terms ; next, they are seldom fresh ; and, lastly, they are always formal : Nature is overlaid with art, and there is an unmistakeable air of insincerity and hollowness about them. Hothouse flowers are lovely enough in their places ; but what I mean by a real English nosegay is something quite different. The cottager's garden will furnish nearly all the materials which I deem necessary for one that you will love and enjoy, and keep near you all day. There is a particular honeysuckle, the flexuosa, without which I consider the nosegay imperfect ; still, A NOSEGAY. I33 a judicious combination of heliotrope, mignonette, jes- samine, sweetbriar, the oak-leaf geranium, the sweet leaf of the verbena, and two or three roses of different dyes, will be nearly perfect. Sweet-peas and lavender I could also admit, and a scarlet geranium might possibly be added, just for the sake of effect. '34 THE SILVER MOON SHONE BRILLIANTLY. ®lje Stlber JMoon sfjone ftrilliantls. The silver moon shone brilliantly In the clear blue winter sky ; The air was cold, the hoar-frost clung To the aged oak hard by. The distant bells of the village church Were musically ringing, Sweeping across the heathery plain, Like angels' voices singing. But all is still and quiet now, No sound distracts the ear, — The village bells have ceased to ring Their farewell to the year. Yet, hark ! again a joyful peal Comes o'er the dead leaves sear : A murmuring wind the tidings brings, And we welcome a glad New Year. 1854. ALMA. 135 VERSES AND SONGS, CHIEFLY UNPUBLISHED DURING THE AUTHOR'S LIFE TIME. Slma« Brave and noble, brave and noble, There they lie so strangely still, — There they lie, in death's deep slumber, Silently, on Alma's hill. Those who yesterday were planning Gallant actions, glorious deeds, — Those who fought so boldly, bravely, Charging on their matchless steeds. Those who feared no foe, no danger, Those who foremost rode that day, And whose fearless hearts beat highly As they dashed into the fray. 136 ALMA. Those who, leaving home and kindred, Severing every holy tie, Came to fight for England's glory, Came on Alma's heights to die ; Came to gain a glorious victory, Came amongst the true and brave, Came to earn the warrior's laurels, Came to share the warrior's grave. Nobly, nobly have they fallen ; Long will live each hero's name ; England's gratitude records them In the undying scrolls of fame. Pity but those poor bereaved ones, Who in England moaning say, ' He we loved so fondly, dearly, Sleeps at Alma, far away ! ' 1854. / HA VE I NOT LO VED THEE ? 137 Haire E not lofaetr Wqzz ? x Tell me not, dearest, that we must part ; Have I not loved thee ? ask of thy heart. And now in anger thou bid'st me depart ; Have I not loved thee ? ask of thy heart. And though no longer that heart be mine, Bid me not leave thee lonely to pine. Can I forget thee, so dear as thou art ! Have I not loved thee ? ask of thy heart. 1857. i With music. 138 TO THE CROWN PRINCESS OF PRUSSIA. 2Co tlje Croton princess of Prussia* When we lately gazed upon thee In thy simple bridal dress, From our hearts we warmly blessed thee In thy youth and loveliness. Pure white rose, thy fittest emblem, Lily pale and jasmine spray, All the fairest flowers of England, Graced thee on thy wedding day. Every heart will long regret thee, Every heart thy goodness knows ; Farewell, England's eldest daughter, Fare thee well, our English Eose ! May thy life be glad and happy, May no shadow cross thy brow, May thy heart keep all its gladness, And be free from care, as now ! TO THE CROWN PRINCESS OF PRUSSIA. 139 England's prayers have all gone with thee ; Heaven protect thee from all woes ! May the German hearts be faithful, May they guard thee from all foes ! Farewell, England's eldest daughter, Fare thee well, our English Rose ! 1858. i 4 o 'TWAS MANY A YEAR AGO. 'STixras mang a gear ago. 'Twas many a year ago, on a balmy summer's morn, When the rose and the lily were steeped in dew, And trembled the bells of harebell blue, Which burst into bloom at dawn. A fair young child was there, alone in that little wood, Making a wreath of the woodbine sweet, Whose fairy-like blossoms wound over her feet, Where daintily she stood. The golden floating curls were kissed by the sunbeam there, Her blue eyes glanced and gleamed around, On the £em-like flowers which studded the ground Around and everywhere. 'TWAS MANY A YEAR AGO. 141 Till, weary at length with play, on a mossy bank she lay, Soothed by the scent of the woodbine flowers, And lulled by the calm of the midday hours, She slept by those flowerets gay. And the sprites of the little wood all gathered around the child, And each of them stole from her sunny hair A golden thread so dainty and fair, And chanted a lullaby wild. The child awoke at eve. The sun was sinking fast, The shadows were deep and broad and long, And faint were the birds in their evening song, Tor the life of the day was past. The child was not afraid: she tried to find her way Through the tangled brake and the curling fern ; But no path or track could her eyes discern, As farther she strayed away. 1 42 'TWAS MANY A YEAR AGO. Till, tired and weary at last, the little one sat down Near a bed of wild hyacinths blooming and gay, While the sunlight faded and fainted away, Till the last broad beam was gone. Her eyelids closed again, and long she slumbered on, Chilled and weary, and all alone, With feverish limb and aching bone, Her senses almost gone. She lay till morning came ; and drooped the little head, And the waxen face was pale and wan, The colour from lip and cheek was gone ; For the little one was dead. And the sprites all flocked around, and their tender farewell given, They plaited the threads of her golden hair, And watched her there till an angel fair Came down for the babe from heaven. LA VENDER FIELDS. 143 5La&entrer JFiel&& NEAR HITCHIN. A sight most beautiful to view, Those brilliant fields of waving blue ! — And o'er the flowers I saw arise A cloud of pure white butterflies. They hovered in the perfumed air, — A thousand white wings fluttering fair, — And danced and waved the flowerets blue, As if they tried to flutter too. I could have watched the field for hours — That living cloud above the flowers ; 'Twas such a pleasant, sweet surprise, The lavender and butterflies ! August 1858. 144 THE BLACKBIRD. E3je BlacftbirtJ. 1 I heard a blackbird gaily singing One November day, He warbled as in summer-time, Upon a leafless spray. He sat alone — lie sang alone — Upon that dreary tree ; A joyous sound of summer-time His music seemed to me. Blithe blackbird, singing thus alone Upon that dreary day, Thy carol hath reproved my heart, And cast my care away ; I think of thee when winter frosts Seem of my life a part, And try to keep the summer feeling Ever in my heart. 1858. » With music. SPRING TIME. 145 Spring Kimz. 1 Oh, I remember the spring-time, The spring-time long ago, The brightest, warmest spring-time That ever the heart can know ! I remember the ivy arches In the wood we loved the best, Where, low down in the larches, We found the thrush's nest ! You remember, when we were children. How hand in hand we'd go, To gather the purple violets That under the elm tree grow ? I saw them but yesterday morning, — The very same roots are they ; And back to the days of my childhood, My fancy roamed away. Probably 1859.. 2 With music. K t 4 6 SERENADE. Serenade. 1 Sleep, dearest, sleep — Thy slumber soft and deep, — A slumber full of pleasant dreams, Which shed o'er thee their golden beams ! Sleep, dearest, sleep — Sleep, dearest, sleep — Sleep, dearest, sleep ! Eest, loved one, rest ! — May peace dwell in thy breast, — Such peace as day can never bring ! Night comes on her silver wing. Eest, loved one, rest — Eest, loved one, rest — Eest, loved one, rest ! January lQth, 1860. 1 "With music. THE SEA-BIRD. 147 W§t