am 

 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 TWE POET'g WPyE?\T>i.
 
 Tp POET'S Wi^W^^h 
 
 BEING 
 
 K gEI^ECTIOJ^ OF POEM 
 
 BY 
 
 /iDatilDa 1F?arri50u. 
 
 [COpihi'.lhl.] 
 
 The Poet's soul on wings of light 
 
 Can soar teyond tlioso shailes fif night. 
 
 Br.AOKr.VRN : 
 "Express and Stanuahd" (Jknkkai, I'rintinc; Wouks. 
 
 1890.
 
 475"^ 
 
 M-4I4- 
 
 f 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 TO 'I'HE MEMORY OF THE I.ATE 
 
 Benjamin Ibarorcavccs lEcni., 
 
 OF AUDEX TIATJ., ACCRIXOTOX. 
 
 AROUNO THE UKVKH I) .MKMOKV OK THAT <;0()l) MAX 
 
 I TWTNK MV Hl•^rIiLE WliEATH OF I'OESY, 
 
 IN l-'ONI) REMEMIillANCE OF HIS BEAITIFUI, AND CONSISTENT LIFE, 
 
 AND IN 
 
 HONOURABLE ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THOSE RAKE CHRISTIAN VIRTUES, 
 
 THE DAILY PRACTICE OF WHICH 
 
 THREW AROUND THAT LIFE A SINGULARLY SWEET AND MYSTICAL CHARM, 
 
 AND WON FOR HIM THE RESPECT AND ADMIRATION 
 
 OK ALL WHO CAME WITHIN 
 
 THE RADIANT SPHERE OF HIS TRULY CHRISTIAN NATURE. 
 
 MV EARLY RECOLLECTIONS OF A TRULY fiOOD MAN 
 
 ARE CONNECTED WITH HIM ; 
 
 AND MUCH OF THE INSPIRATION OF MY EARLIEST POEMS 
 
 I CAN TRACE TO THE CONTEMPLATION OF HIS CRAND AND NOHLE 
 
 CHARACTER, WHICH HAS WREATH'D HIS NAME 
 
 WITH A HALO OF UNDYING SPLENDOUR AND REAUTY, 
 
 WHICH NOT ONLY ON EARTH BUT IN THE ARCHIVES OK HEAVEN 
 
 SHINES WITH EVER ENHANCING RADIANCE, 
 
 TO THE HONOIK AND rU.ORV OK HIS GOD FOR EVER. 
 
 MATILDA HARRISON. 
 
 868796
 
 3n nDcinoriani-^JSenjaniin Ibarorcaves. 
 
 " They rest from their laboui'S." 
 
 Repose, noble soul ! thou art wortli}' of rest ; 
 
 Thy much-honour'd name shall the working man bless ; 
 
 Thy deeds of benevolence, mercy, and love 
 
 Shall add to thv iov in the kino'dom above. 
 
 The last of a noble house, bounteous and free. 
 
 The virtues of one and all centred in thee ; 
 
 Thy well-spent existence that lovM name has wreath'd 
 
 In a halo most sacred bv grateful hearts breath'd. 
 
 If prayers were still needed thy bliss to augment. 
 Many lives thou hast cheer'd in that work would be spent ; 
 Many hearts thou hast gladden'd, and homes thou hast blest. 
 Will blend thy dear name in their visions of rest. 
 
 Ease tem])ted thee not — it might well have been thine ; 
 Wealth held not for thee the charms most divine : 
 Thy unselfish life to His honour was spent, 
 Who in infinite goodness thy talents had lent. 
 
 And well hast thou render'd thy Maker His due. 
 In a life of strict rectitude, faithful and true ; 
 In a glorious endeavour life's ills to assuage, 
 Thy name stands recorded on heaven's vast page. 
 
 Poor hungry ones often thy bounteous hand fed ; 
 The sinful and erring thy counsel oft led ; 
 The fatlierless found thee a friend in their need — 
 The widow rejoiced in a jmtron indeed. 
 
 No trum])et voice sounded thy ])r;uses around ; 
 On the flag of ambition thy name was not found : 
 In silence and secret thy goodness was shown. 
 Sufficient for thee that to (lod it was known. 
 
 And now with life's journey most valiantly run. 
 The work He had given thee most faithfully done. 
 Well pleased is thy Saviour such service to own. 
 And rewards thee at last with a kingdom and crown.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 T the earnest entreaty and through the kind assistance 
 of many friends, I submit this, my first book, to the 
 critical eye of the public ; and in doing so I beg the 
 kind indulgence of those who have happily had 
 the advantages of education, for 1 have not ; and I only state the 
 fact here because I think the knowledge of it will help them to excuse 
 any error of composition which their superior training may enable 
 them to detect. 
 
 In answer to the oft repeated question as to how I write these 
 Poems, I may lionestly say I cannot tell ; I only know that at curtain 
 times, and under certain influences, there is tlie unfolding of a higher 
 nature — the rolling away of the mists and shadows of earth, and the 
 conscious and exquisite delight of a more congenial existence in tlie 
 higher and sublimer realms of thought — then, and then only, can I 
 write. There is then no difficulty ; nay, the ditKculty would be in 
 suppressing the natural desire and tendency to speak my thoughts in 
 
 poetry. 
 
 MATILDA HARRISON.
 
 THE POET'S WREATH. 
 
 THE ax(;el'8 wreath. 
 
 I sat me in twilight's poetical hour, 
 
 To await the poetical tide ; 
 
 But a mass of confusion pervaded my mind, 
 
 And a subject I could not decide. 
 
 Impatient, I laid down the pen to withdraw 
 
 From a task that so fruitless would seem, 
 
 When a voice whispered near me, " Stay, mortal, oh, stay ; 
 
 I'll weave thee a beautiful dream." 
 
 With the words came a feeling of excpiisite ))liss. 
 
 And the mortal sight closed to the world ; 
 
 But, instead of confusion or chaos, indeed, 
 
 A most wonderful vision unfurled. 
 
 Before me, transcendantly radiant, there stood 
 
 A being of holier moidd. 
 
 Entwining a wreath of magnificence rare. 
 
 Of irrandcur and bcautv untold. 
 
 Each floweret sent forth a most brilliant ray, 
 
 Never borrow'd from rainbow or sun ; 
 
 Each petal outshone the earth's costliest gems. 
 
 Or a thousand such merged into one. 
 
 Each leaf seem'd a mirror of radiant light, 
 
 Iicvealing frcsli wonders to view ; 
 
 Whilst traced 'mid its delicate blossoms so fair 
 
 Shone the words, " Ever faithful and true."
 
 10 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 I asked the bright being for whose honour'd head 
 
 He had twined such a coronet rare. 
 
 He smiled as he answer'd, for one who is not 
 
 To the world either wealthy or fair ; 
 
 But one who has wept 'ncath its cold bitter scorn, 
 
 And borne her full share of its sorrow ; 
 
 But ever remember'd earth's dreariest night 
 
 Would be lost in a glorious moiTOw. 
 
 For one who has wrought out a beautifxil life 
 
 By a thousand and one noble deeds, 
 
 Whose name never shone in the records which boast 
 
 Of empty profession or creeds. 
 
 Enshrined in the hearts of earth's suffering ones, 
 
 Entwin'd in the sinner's last prayer. 
 
 Inscribed in celestial annals of fame 
 
 Is the name that my garland must bear. 
 
 I have watch'd through the years of her mortal career 
 
 With a joy ye on earth cannot know, 
 
 And the light of her faith has shone clearest and best 
 
 'Mid the darkness of earth's bitter woe. 
 
 Unselfish and true, with a heart that can feel 
 
 For a weak, erring sister or brother. 
 
 Whose highest ambition is only to spend 
 
 And be spent for the good of another. 
 
 Though humble her birth, she has liv'd to adorn 
 
 The ranks of the poor and the lowly. 
 
 And honour'd the name of our Father and God 
 
 By a life most devoted and holy. 
 
 The world knows her not, for she joins not the throng 
 
 Who worship ambition and fame. 
 
 But trac'd by immoi'tal hands, fadeless and bright, 
 
 Shines for ever that poor toiler's name.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 11 
 
 These beautiful flowerets are truly her own, 
 
 And spring from her beavitiful life, 
 
 They are sown in the thousand and one loving acts 
 
 That lighten the earth's bitter strife. 
 
 Dream not that your lives are a secret untold, 
 
 For sure as the sun follows rain, 
 
 So sure shall ye reap what on earth ye have sown, 
 
 Be the fruit either pleasure or pain. 
 
 Mark well the rich gems of my garland so fair. 
 Watch carefully through the bright range. 
 And know that some scene of a life is reveal'd 
 In each varied and wonderful change ; 
 'Tis thus we can judge of your spiritual life. 
 No matter your form or your creed. 
 The laws that obtain in these realms of the soul 
 Are unerring and faithful indeed. 
 
 But my crown is complete, and awaits but tlie time 
 
 When its beautiful wearer shall cease 
 
 From trials so nobly endur'd on the earth 
 
 And enter her haven of peace ; 
 
 Rouse now to thy work, bid the earth-toilers learn 
 
 To weave out life's purposes well. 
 
 And the wliereforc of luiich that s(j puzzles them now, 
 
 The unveiling of spirits shall tell. 
 
 With a smile that still lingers he Avav'd an adieu, 
 
 And away to some happier sphere, 
 
 And tlie sad dreary hum of this discordant world 
 
 Broke mournfully over my ear ; 
 
 Yet oft as fond memory brings back the scene 
 
 Of that Angel-wreath'd coronet rare, 
 
 I ask if in all the wide world there can be 
 
 One fitted those jewels to wear.
 
 12 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 A WASTED LIFE. 
 
 Nay, ask me not to leave this grave, 
 
 Kind sexton, let me stay ; 
 'Tis all of earth I ask or crave, 
 
 Beside this mound to pray. 
 
 I've wander'd many a dreary mile. 
 To reach this hallow'd spot ; 
 
 To rest my weary soul awhile, 
 Kind sir, forbid it not. 
 
 Here lie the dreams of happier years. 
 Here richest treasures sleep ; 
 
 Oh, could I win them back with tears, 
 I would for ever weep. 
 
 I was not always what I seem, 
 
 A poor besotted slave ; 
 Life once was like a poet's dream, 
 
 With scarce one ruffled wave. 
 
 A father's joy, a mother's pride, 
 I passed my eai'liest years. 
 
 With scarce one childish wish denied, 
 Or cause for childish tears. 
 
 But in the giddy whirl of youth, 
 'Neath foi'tuue's golden spell, 
 
 I turn'd aside from paths of truth, 
 I gambled, drank, and fell. 
 
 I broke my gentle mother's heart, 
 
 I bow'd my father's head ; 
 I play'd a cruel, treacherous part. 
 
 Would God I'd died instead.
 
 THE POET'S WREATH. 13 
 
 Once more an angel to my side, 
 In tenderest pity came ; 
 
 Man never won a lovelier bride, 
 Or wreck'd one fairer name. 
 
 This cliurch records my marriaoe vow, 
 Those bells rang out my bliss ; 
 
 Great God, that mortal man should bow, 
 And sink so low as this. 
 
 That stately hall across the way 
 Was once my father's pride ; 
 
 'Twas there he spent his lifelong day, 
 'Twas there he droop'd and died. 
 
 There, too, I made my wife hei- liome, 
 And vow'd no earthly power 
 
 Should tempt me from her side to roam, 
 Or caiise one sorrow's hour. 
 
 A few brief years I answer'd well 
 Xo home could ha)j[)ier be, 
 
 No tongue my Ada's love could tell, 
 None knew how dear to me. 
 
 Oh, Memory, cease thy backward roll, 
 Mar not those years so fair ; 
 
 In mercy to my tortur'd soul, 
 Thy last dread torture spai'c. 
 
 But no, the faithful tide rolls on, 
 Earth's fairest scenes are past, 
 
 The last fond smile of love is gone, 
 I stand alone at last.
 
 14 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 Yes, lone and penniless I stood, 
 One bitter winter's morrow, 
 
 My household angel \mvQ and good, 
 Was left alone in sorrow. 
 
 Her only child, her little Fred, 
 The flower of three short years, 
 
 Lay tossing on his little bed. 
 Unconscious of her tears. 
 
 With breaking heart, all night alone, 
 She watched the waning life ; 
 
 And just before the morning's dawn, 
 He pass'd from earthly strife. 
 
 That self-same night with madden'd brain, 
 
 On drink's wild tempest tost, 
 I shook the God-curs'd dice again, 
 
 I stak'd my all and lost. 
 
 Yes, all was lost, the little bed, 
 Where darling Fred had died ; 
 
 Where lay in death his ciirly head, 
 All wreck'd on drink's dark tide. 
 
 Stung with remorse, o'ercome with shame. 
 And wild with poisoned breath, 
 
 I thought my darken'd ruin'd fame 
 Had better end in death. 
 
 I could not meet my homeless wife, 
 Nor look on Fred's last slee}) ; 
 
 Better to end \\\\ useless life 
 In Linden's (piiut deep.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 15 
 
 On Linden's bank at last I knelt, 
 
 To breathe one broken prayer, 
 When fingers soft and light I felt 
 
 Pass gently through my hair. 
 
 That fond caress, I knew it well, 
 
 It soothed my burning brain. 
 And like some wondrous mystic spell, 
 
 Check'd every inward pain. 
 
 And as those tender fingers swept 
 
 Across my fever'd brow, 
 Some angel surely nnist have wept, 
 
 I feel that teai'-drop now. 
 
 Then came in tones L knew so well. 
 
 To but one mortal given, 
 " My poor misguided one farewell, 
 
 I'll wait for thee in heaven." 
 
 It needed none to tell me now 
 
 That voice was hushed for ever. 
 That gentle hand my throbbing brow, 
 
 Would ])ress again, no never. 
 
 Yes, she was dead, tliat last cold whirl 
 
 Of drink's dark seething sorrow. 
 Had brought my faithful angel girl, 
 
 The dawn of heaven's morrow. 
 
 Ill dreamless shnul)er, side by side. 
 
 Lay wife and child at rest ; 
 She, lovely as when first a bride, 
 
 Her boy upon her l)reast.
 
 16 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 One last fond lingering look I gave, 
 One last wild frenzied kiss, 
 
 Then laid them in this lowly grave 
 With all my dreams of bliss. 
 
 Ten years have pass'd, yet not one day 
 
 Has fancy failed to bring- 
 That last sad scene of life's dai'k way, 
 On memoi'y's faithful wing. 
 
 And ever o'er life's busy swell, 
 That angel whisper's given, 
 
 " My poor misguided one farewell, 
 I'll wait for thee in heaven." 
 
 Yes, Ada waits, and if, e'en now, 
 
 I may but be forgiven, 
 Here, at her humble grave I vow. 
 
 To live for God and lieaven. 
 
 And should it be as some would say. 
 
 Unerring wisdom's will, 
 T pray that her ])ure sj)i)-it may 
 
 Yet love and <>'uide me still. 
 
 Dear, gentle Ada, teach m}' soul 
 
 Thy own p\ire noble life. 
 Till far beyond death's ceaseless roll, 
 
 I clasp my angel wife.
 
 THE POET'S WREATH. 17 
 
 A SAD STORY. 
 
 She was tired and hungry and sad, 
 
 And had Avalked weary miles through the day, 
 And her poor aching heart had been glad 
 
 To have met but a friend by the way. 
 
 But of all she had passed was not one 
 
 She could claim by this most common tie, 
 
 And with courage and strength almost gone, 
 She had scarcely a wish but to die 
 
 And yet she was young, she was fair, 
 Only twenty-three !-ummers had fled. 
 
 Since the child of a fond mother's care, 
 Life's brightness around her had spread. 
 
 But life's changes had tauglit her young heart 
 
 That all is not sunshine below. 
 That the lov'd and the loving nuist part, 
 
 And the best of us sorrow must know. 
 
 That mother had languished and died. 
 And the orphan had sorrow'd alone, 
 
 For in all this cold, bleak world beside, 
 
 Were but few that her young heart had known. 
 
 One maiden aunt only was left, 
 
 Who had offered, though much against will. 
 To the lonely young creature })ereft. 
 
 The place of the lost one to fill. 
 
 She was one of that class who believe 
 
 'Tis a sin to love mortals below. 
 And that all who such notions conceive, 
 
 Ai'e in justice condemned to nnich woe.
 
 18 THE POET'S WREATH. 
 
 A strict and a constant regard 
 
 For the Church the old lady profess'd, 
 
 Bnt the rest of the world she debarred 
 From a share in lier glorified rest. 
 
 With her, the poor orphan returned, 
 When her final farewell she had said, 
 
 And her heart, which for sympathy yearned, 
 Only met with much coldness instead. 
 
 Time pass'd, and in passing restored 
 The smiles and the bloom of her youth. 
 
 And her soul ever sought and adored 
 The God of all wisdom and truth. 
 
 And yet she would not have profess'd 
 That her life was all blameless and true, 
 
 Or that Heaven had specially blessed 
 And chosen her one of its few. 
 
 She thought it no sin to be kind, 
 
 Obliging and free unto all, 
 And the love which no mortal can bind 
 
 Had answered her lonely heart's call. 
 
 One lov'd her whose life like her own, 
 Unlov'd and uncared for had l)een, 
 
 Who much bitter sorrow had known, 
 And little of comfort had seen. 
 
 He was no hypocritical saint, 
 
 Nor worshipped a creed for its name. 
 
 And yet not a blemish or taint 
 
 Ever sullied his pure honest fame.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 19 
 
 They lov'd, and as lovers before, 
 
 Have fancied their joys would abound, 
 So they, from that bright dreamy shore. 
 
 Discerned not the breakers around. 
 
 Two years on the bright sunny stream 
 
 They had floated in happy content ; 
 Two years of a married life's dream 
 
 Tn blissful repose they had spent. 
 
 Then sorrow had broken the spell, 
 
 And darkened their life's sunny sky, 
 And as wave after wave rose and fell. 
 
 They re-echoed their hearts' bitter cry. 
 
 One sweet little gem they had seen 
 
 I'ass away at its brightest and best, 
 Like the beautiful dream that had been 
 
 Ere sorrow had entered their rest. 
 
 And now the young early-tried wife 
 
 Had a sorrow nuich greater in store. 
 For he whom she loved as her life, 
 
 Would soon in the world be no more. 
 
 Consumption, that blight of our land, 
 
 That robs us of earth's fairest flowers, 
 Had weakened the heart and the hand, 
 
 And numbered his days and his hours. 
 
 Long and earnestly, too, had he prayed, 
 
 And struggled to live for her sake. 
 Till even proiul death had delayed, 
 
 As thouji-h it were cruel to take.
 
 20 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 They had long ago spent their last cent, 
 
 And strangers and fi-iends had been kind, 
 But of all who had come or had sent, 
 
 The creed-loving aunt was behind. 
 
 ■^j 
 
 '» 
 
 Their lettei's unanswered remained, 
 Their pleadings for help were in vain, 
 
 Till the heart-broken girl had attained 
 A state of distraction and pain. 
 
 She threw herself wildly beside 
 The one she was powerless to save, 
 
 And murmured, " Would (iod we had died 
 With the darling now laid in her grave." 
 
 Then rousing herself with a start. 
 And clasjiing the dearly loved form, 
 
 She whispered, " Take courage, dear heart. 
 We shall meet beyond reach of the storm. 
 
 Then calling a friend to her side, 
 She calmh' informed licr that now. 
 
 No matter how wild ran the tide, 
 
 To the course of events she would bow. 
 
 She would start for her aunt's in that liour, 
 
 If she but consented to stay, 
 And surely some unforeseen power 
 
 Would move all her sternness awav. 
 
 But when her "good-bye" she would say 
 To the one for whose sake she had striven, 
 
 Her newly-fovuid courage gave way, 
 
 'Twas so hard from his side to be driven.
 
 THE POETS WREA TIL 21 
 
 One moment she wavered and felt 
 
 That nothing could tempt her to leave ; 
 
 The next she instinctively knelt, 
 
 Entreating he would not thus grieve. 
 
 " I will not be long from yoiir side, 
 
 But something, you know, must be done ; 
 
 All other fair means have I tried, 
 And nothing remains but this one. 
 
 I mean to get something for you. 
 
 For I know that you suffer from want, 
 
 Besides, dear, the rent is quite due, 
 And your covering sadly too scant. 
 
 My aunt has enough and to spare, 
 
 Her income no little one is. 
 Then why should I want for a share 1 
 
 Or whv siiould I suffer like tliis 1 
 
 1 think when she looks upon me, 
 
 How weary, how worn, and how spent. 
 
 She cannot a Christian be, 
 
 Tf her heart docs not softiv relent." 
 
 He tried in his weak feeble way, 
 Her purpose to change, and replied, 
 
 "Don't leave me, my darling, I pray. 
 For I fear that some ill might betide. 
 
 'Tis six weary miles by the way, 
 
 "^['oo much for your strength I am sure, 
 
 Then, deai'cst one, stay with me, stay, 
 For your absence 1 could not endure."
 
 22 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 Again, did she linger and wait, 
 And soothe hi in by kindly caress, 
 
 And agcxin, while her coni-age seemed great, 
 Did she nmrniur a loving "God bless." 
 
 And tearing herself from his side 
 
 Reluctantly h.istened away. 
 And the cold bitter winds she defied. 
 
 They were jjowerless her footsteps to stay. 
 
 On, on, through the streets and the lanes, 
 Impell'd by a love strong as death, 
 
 Still on, till she wearily gains 
 
 The home where she drew her first breath. 
 
 She would gladly have rested awhile, 
 Within sight of her once happy home, 
 
 But there yet remained two weary mile 
 That her poor aching feet must yet roam. 
 
 'Twas there we had seen her pass by. 
 
 So tired and hxmgry and sad. 
 With scarcely a wish but to die. 
 
 For her heart nevermore could be glad. 
 
 She entered at length through the gate 
 Of the home where so lately she dwelt, 
 
 And stern and unflinching as fate, 
 
 She checked the wild fear that she felt. 
 
 Her timid and scarcely heard knock 
 Was answered by one she Avell knew. 
 
 Whose heart seemed encased in a rock, 
 
 While her look pierced her tender heart through
 
 THE POET'S WREA TH. 23 
 
 The cold cruel words that then fell 
 
 From this meek hypocritical saint, 
 'Twould serve no good purpose to tell, 
 
 Neither care I her virtues to paint. 
 
 'Tis enough that I know she refused 
 
 To receive the poor girl for a night. 
 Then to church she went airing her views. 
 
 Proud to think she had done what was right. 
 
 'O* 
 
 In the meantime her neice had been found, 
 Overcome by fatigue and distress. 
 
 On the hard and unpityiug ground, 
 In a state which demanded redress. 
 
 .She had fainted from weakness and pain. 
 From over-exertion and cold. 
 
 And 'twas doubtful if ever again 
 
 Those lips would her sorrows unfold. 
 
 Kind hearts bore her buck to the home 
 From which she had lately been driven 
 
 Nevermore from its threshold to roam 
 
 Till she passed to the thrcsliold of heaven. 
 
 When from church the old lady returned, 
 And understood all that had j^assed. 
 
 Her creed-loving conscience was turned 
 To its long-despised duty at last. 
 
 She saw what a liollow pretence 
 
 Her boasted religion had been, 
 And vowed tliat for ever fi-oiii hence, 
 
 The fruit of her life should be seen.
 
 24 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 She left not the side of hei* niece, 
 
 ■') 
 
 As she lay through the long weary night, 
 Unconsciously dreaming of peace 
 And talking with angels of light. 
 
 Unce only her memory came 
 
 Like a gleam from some far sunny land, 
 And softly she murmured the name 
 
 For which she had pledged heart and hand. 
 
 Once only a beaiitiful smile, 
 
 Which the watchers will neyer forget, 
 Played o'er her fair features awhile. 
 
 And chased every shade of regret. 
 
 Once only her gentle yoice broke 
 
 On the ears of the friends who had met, 
 
 But the few loving words that she spoke 
 Are echoes of memory yet. 
 
 She spoke not of ills that were past. 
 Nor troubles that soon would be o'er. 
 
 But of pleasures that ever shall last, 
 Beyond this, our earth's dreai-y shore. 
 
 Of the poor, weeping aunt she implored 
 That she would not herself so distress. 
 
 For that God, whom the angels adored, 
 Her earth-wearied spirit would bless. 
 
 Then breathing a prayer for the one 
 AVho soon w'ould rejoin her again, 
 
 'Ere fell the last word, she was gone. 
 And free from all sorrow and jjain.
 
 THE POET'S WREATH. 25 
 
 Tlicj brought the poor husband with care, 
 
 And tenderly told him the truth, 
 AVhile he murmured but one simple prayer. 
 
 To rejoin the lovd friend of his youth. 
 
 Once only he looked on the face 
 
 Of his once h.ippy blooming young wife, 
 
 And a smile which no sorrow could chase 
 Revealed a new dawning of life. 
 
 He uttered no needless farewell, 
 
 But cjuietly passed from her side, 
 And ere the next morning rays fell. 
 
 He, too, had rejoicingly died. 
 
 Together they laid them to rest. 
 
 With the darling who passed from their sight, 
 And who shall deny they are blest 
 
 fii tlie realms of celestial lijrht ? 
 
 •o" 
 
 And now my sad story is told. 
 
 And this lesson to me it would teach. 
 
 If the name of a ("hristian we hold. 
 
 We must practice the virtues we preach. 
 
 THE SLIUIDES GRAVE. 
 
 Judge liiiii not, mortal mau. 
 Leave him witli the God who can. 
 Dare not, righteous though ye be, 
 Judgment pass on such as he.
 
 26 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 Judge him not, ye ne'er can know, 
 E'er he struck the fatal blow. 
 E'er he took his life away. 
 How far reason held her sway. 
 
 Judge hira not, he once was free, 
 Once could boast as well as ye, 
 Once respected was by all, 
 Friend, beware, ye too might fall. 
 
 Judge him not, ye ne'er can tell 
 How he struggl'd ere he fell. 
 How that heart, now cold and still, 
 Wrestl'd with impending ill. 
 
 True he sinn'd, and deeply too, 
 So have I, pray, have not you 1 
 Guilty all. Oh then who can 
 Dare to judge his fellow man. 
 
 Have ye not a thought to spare 
 For an aged father's care ? 
 One whose heart is bow'd with grief. 
 Would ye tender no relief ? 
 
 Could ye not at least restrain 
 Cruel words, that only pain 1 
 If ye can no comfort give. 
 Let at least his memory live. 
 
 Think of what he was at best. 
 In his grave inter the rest ; 
 Let his funeral shadow fall 
 O'er his faults and failina;s all.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 27 
 
 MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME. 
 (on seeixg it demolished.) 
 
 Ye might have spared my childhood's home, 
 
 That long remember'd spot 
 That wheresoe'er on earth I roam, 
 
 Will never be forgot. 
 Smile not because those walls are dear, 
 
 More dear than words can tell. 
 Nor deem me weak if, with a tear, 
 
 I bid them now farewell. 
 
 'Twas only there I knew the love, 
 
 That comes but once in life, 
 Which streams from purer realms above, 
 
 Beyond earth's weary strife. 
 There only for a few short years 
 
 That gentle mother led ; 
 And there I wept my first sad tears 
 
 For that lov'd mother dead. 
 
 To me those walls re-echo yet 
 
 The songs of eventide, 
 When father, sisters, brothers met 
 
 There by our ain fireside ; 
 Each well-loved form I watch again 
 
 As one by one they sever. 
 Oh ! memory, 'tis a bitter pain. 
 
 To know they're gone for ever. 
 
 'Twas there the muse first taught my soul 
 
 To try her feeble strings, 
 And soar beyond earth's busy roll 
 • On bright poetic wings ;
 
 28 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 To gather from celestial bowers 
 Those richer gems of thought, 
 
 Which often in life's darkest hours 
 Have sweetest comfort brought. 
 
 Though fairer scenes may charm awhile 
 
 As through the world I roam, 
 I'd pledge them all with but a smile 
 
 For thee my childhood's home ; 
 But tears are vain, and I miist bow 
 
 With feelings none may tell, 
 I bid thee, and for ever now, 
 
 A final sad farewell. 
 
 LEOPOLD, DUKE OF ALBANY. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 He is not dead ! oh ! no, not dead. 
 
 Though pass'd beyond our mortal sight ; 
 
 That well-trained" spirit has but fled 
 Back to its home in realms of light. 
 
 He is not dead ; oh ! no, not dead ; 
 
 'Tis but the mortal scene is o'er ; 
 That life shall still its lustre shed. 
 
 And reach us from the brighter shore. 
 
 He is not dead ; oh ! no, not dead, 
 But only dropped the worn-out clay ; 
 
 While he, by angel guardians led. 
 
 Has reached the home for which we pray.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 29 
 
 He is not dead ; oh I no, not dead ; 
 
 Such heaven-born goodness cannot die ; 
 The path in which he lov'd to tread 
 
 Leads on to life beyond the sky. 
 
 He is not gone ; oh ! no, not gone, 
 
 For ever from the lov'd one's side ; 
 Affection's flower shall still bloom on 
 
 In richer soil, beyond the tide. 
 
 And though the mortal eye may fail 
 
 To trace the loving presence ne;ir. 
 We know that those beyond the veil 
 
 Can oft oui' drooping spirits cheer. 
 
 That life of promise bright and fair 
 
 Can not in funeral gloom have set ; 
 Intelligence so rich and rare, 
 
 Can lend its ray to mortals yet. 
 
 That loving soul that sought to bless 
 The homes of this his honoured land. 
 
 Still loves and labours none the less 
 
 That England's sons yet free may stand. 
 
 That soul of music's richest vein, 
 That now can join the angels' song. 
 
 Shall echo back some loftier strain, 
 
 To cheer earth's restless wearv throng. 
 
 Then dream not that his life is o'er. 
 While but the mortal stage is run ; 
 
 For on the bright celestial shore. 
 His X'eal life is but begun.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 And voices on the silent air 
 
 Float o'er us by sweet echoes led, 
 
 And whisper to the mourner's prayer, 
 " He is not dead ! oli no, not dead ! " 
 
 PITY ME NOT. 
 
 In a recent discussion on the merits and demerits of eternal torment, 
 I was asked why I could not believe in the doctrine. I replied that 
 the eternal duration of punishment seemed to me very unjust, and that 
 a righteous, holy, and wise God could never have so ordained it. I 
 was very much pitied, one friend observing that he was very sorry for 
 me. To that friend I dedicate these few lines. 
 
 Pity me not ! It were pity indeed, 
 Did I preach to the world such a merciless creed ; 
 Did I own that a God whom I love and adore. 
 Would assim anv soul such a fate evermore. 
 
 Pity me not ! That I dare to rebel 
 'Gainst the terrible creed of your favourite hell ; 
 That I dare to renounce such a cruel decree, 
 As unworthy that mercy, so Ijoundless and free. 
 
 Pity me not ! That I cannot consent 
 To join in the dirge of your hopeless lament ; 
 To that doctrine, as yet, this most obstinate pen, 
 Refuses to sign an eternal Amen. 
 
 That sin must be punished, I freely admit. 
 But in judgment on others, are you iit to sit 1 
 Have your lives been so holy, so spotless and true, 
 That the fate of a Avorld must be ordered by you ?
 
 THE POETS WREA TH. 31 
 
 Oh ! if it were thus, I might tremble indeed, 
 What a doom would be mine for denouncing your creed ! 
 For teacliing the power of the publican's prayer. 
 Instead of the wail of eternal despair. 
 
 But conscious am I that the One whom I trust. 
 Whose laws are mi changeable, perfect and just, 
 In His infinite wisdom, could never decree. 
 That a soul's retribution eternal should be. 
 
 And if, as you intimate, some time I may 
 Find out that in this I've mistaken my way ; 
 If, for preaching of mercy to weak erring men, 
 I am sent to perdition, oh I pity me then ! 
 
 SONG— THE DRUNKARD'S DYING CHILD. 
 
 Dear father, come stay with your darling. 
 
 Poor mother is weary and sad. 
 All day she has wept as she nursed me. 
 
 And call'd me her poor dying lad. 
 Yes, father, 'tis true I am dying. 
 
 And something I'm wishful to say, 
 'Tis only this night I'll be with you. 
 
 To-morrow I'll be far away. 
 
 Chorus : 
 
 Yes, father, I'm going away. 
 
 Oh, promise your poor dying lad. 
 
 That always at liome you will stay. 
 When mother is lonely and sad.
 
 •32 THE POET'S WREATH. 
 
 My father, I would not distress you, 
 
 Or cai;se you one moment of pain, 
 But, oh, 'tis a joy to behold you, 
 
 My own sober father again. 
 Just lay my poor head on your bosom, 
 
 And call me your darling once more. 
 And again I will pray that I meet you 
 
 On <i brighter and happier shore. 
 
 Chorus : Yes, father, itc. 
 
 Nay, weep not so bitterly, father. 
 
 Nor call the (iood Saviour unkind, 
 This seeming unkindness will bi-ing you 
 
 A blessing some day you will find. 
 And oh, if it be but permitted. 
 
 And teacher says surely it will, 
 I'll ask the good angels to bring me 
 
 To show you I'm loving you still. 
 
 Chorus : Yes, father, &.c. 
 
 And now I am just a bit tired, 
 
 I'll lay on my pillow and rest. 
 And mother will sit close beside me, 
 
 And sing of the realms of the blest. 
 How soothing, how sweet, and how cheering. 
 
 What beauties bewilder my sight — 
 Dear father, dear mother, I'm going. 
 
 Come, kiss me a loving " Good night." 
 
 Chorus : "^'es, father, &c.
 
 THE POETS WREA TIL 33 
 
 SONG— THE FATHER'S VOW. 
 
 No, they can never tempt me now ; 
 
 The wild mad dream is o'er ; 
 Here, at this little grave, I vow 
 
 To be a man once more. 
 Oh could I call the Litter j)ast 
 
 Back from oblivion's deep ; 
 Life's closing shades might wrap me then 
 
 In death's cold dreamless sleep. 
 
 Life's wasted hours I would recall. 
 But no, they're gone for ever ; 
 
 Their golden promises will bloom 
 For me again, no, never. 
 
 What bitter meiiK^ries throng my brain, 
 
 As fancy wakes the past ; 
 What loving forms I see again, 
 
 Too bright, too fair, to last. 
 What blissful hours of holy joy. 
 
 What richest trciisurcs lost ; 
 Oh drink ! tliy gaudy gilded toy, 
 
 Has been a bitter cost. 
 
 Life's wasted hours, itc. 
 
 But tears arc vain, the ])ast is tied. 
 
 With all its triH'd hours : 
 The present but remains instead 
 
 To test my waning powers. 
 But He, who heard my Willie jtray 
 
 That I might sober Ijc, 
 Will surely send some angel friend. 
 
 To teach and comfort me. 
 Life's wasted hours, A-c.
 
 34 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 Dear Willie, is tliy spirit near, 
 
 And can'st thou hear me now 1 
 It must thy loving spirit cheer, 
 
 To know my sacred vow. 
 Yes, darling one, thy prayer is heard. 
 
 Henceforth I will be free, 
 And live a life that's sure to bring, 
 
 My spirit home to thee. 
 
 Life's wasted hours, tfec. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE LIFEBOAT CREW. 
 
 HONOUR THE BRAVE. 
 
 Honour the brave-hearted heroic band. 
 
 Who dashed through the waves at stern duty's command, 
 
 Nobly they died in their efforts to save. 
 
 Then honour, pi-oud England, thy martyrs so brave. 
 
 Honour the brave, 'mid your festival cheer. 
 
 Check the wild mirth with true sympathy's tear, 
 
 Hark ! o'er the dark cruel merciless wave 
 
 Comes the echo of thousands: "We honour your brave." 
 
 Honour the brave in your annals of fame. 
 With loving remembrance encircle their name, 
 Bring nature's rich tributes to deck the lone grave, 
 And with all that is beautiful honour the brave. 
 
 Honour the brave who have dared to be true. 
 
 Who have honoured their country so gloriously too ; 
 
 Let Englishmen ever on land or on wave. 
 
 Be true to their manhood and honour the brave.
 
 THE POET'S WREATH. 35 
 
 For oh ! not alone are they honour'd on earth, 
 But surely by those of a happier birth, 
 For we hear from beyond the cold pitiless grave 
 Some angel voice wliisper. We honour the brave. 
 
 A PLEA FOR THE UNEMPLOYED. 
 
 Work, Avork, work, 
 
 Is the cry throughout England to-day, 
 From thousands of eartlTs nolde sons 
 
 AVho are wearily plodding life's way ; 
 Morn, noon, and at niglit they are found, 
 
 .Still pleading for work and for bread, 
 But often still heavier bound. 
 
 By scorn or cold pity instead. 
 
 Poor toilers, they ever are willing 
 
 To live by the sweat of their brow. 
 So proud of a dearly earn'd shilling, 
 
 E'en that is forbidden tliem now. 
 Homes once the fond jjride of a mother. 
 
 And joy of a lov'd father's heart, 
 Now pass to the care of another. 
 
 And lov'd ones are drifting apart. 
 
 Strong hearts are now bending with sorrow 
 
 For dear ones around them unfed, 
 As every succeeding to-mon-ow, 
 
 Still echoes, "No wtn-k and no bread." 
 Poor mothers look on in their anguish, 
 
 T'nnervcd l)y the dark cruel tide, 
 And bright little inncjcents languish. 
 
 And some have e'en famished and died.
 
 36 THE POETS WREA TH 
 
 Brave hearts have encountered much danger, 
 
 And buried the liopes of bright years, 
 And soiight in the land of the stranger, 
 
 Relief from their torturing fears. 
 How many who cross'd the wide ocean, 
 
 From ruin some lov'd one to save. 
 Have found for their noble devotion 
 
 A home in the strangers' cold grave. 
 
 Oh ! who shall foretell the dark sorrows. 
 
 Fast shading our own belov'd land, 
 Dark days, but still darker to-morrows. 
 
 Seem threatening on evei'y hand. 
 Oh! England, the home of my fathers. 
 
 The land of the brave and the fi'ee, 
 What dark desolation now gathers. 
 
 My once happy country, o'er thee. 
 
 Rouse 1 Englishmen, rouse to your duty. 
 
 Arrest the mad pitiless wave. 
 Save England's proud genius and beauty, 
 
 From want and a premature grave. 
 Oh ! hear ye of might and of ])Owcr, 
 
 The prayer of this desolate band, 
 And save in their bitterest hour 
 
 The hard-toiling sons of your land. 
 
 In the name of the heavens above you. 
 
 In tlie name of the mercy ye ])lead, 
 In the name of the angels wlio love you. 
 
 They ask you to jjity their need. 
 In the name of the blessings that greet you, 
 
 By which you are sheltered and fed. 
 In the name of the God who must meet you, 
 
 Thev ask vou for work and for bread.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 37 
 
 ONE BY ONE 
 
 One by one they are passing away, 
 Leaving fond hearts fill'd with grief and dismay, 
 Teaching a lesson we loathe yet to learn ; 
 Back to onr Mother Earth all must return. 
 
 One by one little graves may be seen, 
 
 Hiding the form of some bright faiiy (piccn, 
 
 Lovingly tended and planted with care ; 
 
 Ah, Death ! who shall tell us what treasures lie there ? 
 
 One by one see the empty wee chairs. 
 Where lately they whispered their innocent prayers. 
 While borne on the breeze with the evening's soft light. 
 Comes the last whispered sound of our darling's " Good 
 Night." 
 
 "O' 
 
 One by one from our schools they are gone, 
 With lessons unfinished or scarce yet begun, 
 Wlule the jjlaymates assemble 'mid silence ^Ji'ofound, 
 And the death of the lov'd one is whispered around. 
 
 One by one they are joining the ranks 
 
 Of the thousands assembled on Jordan's fair banks ; 
 
 While the angels so lovingly, tenderly true, 
 
 Are training, oh, Mothers ! those children for you. 
 
 Then leave them in care of those beings so kind ; 
 Not one shall be lost — no, not one left behind. 
 But when earth-life with you shall be over and gone, 
 They'll give back your jewels they took one by one.
 
 38 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 NO CREED. 
 
 What a noise in our day about teaching the way 
 
 To a better and holier Hfe ; 
 What bitter dissent among preachers to-day, 
 
 What jealousy, anger, and strife. 
 What pride, and unholy contention for creed, 
 
 W^hat a craze for distinction and fame ; 
 'Twould astound the whole realm of perdition indeed, 
 
 This great theological shame. 
 
 What wonder the poor, scatter'd sheep should be lost. 
 
 While the shepherds dispute by the way ; 
 On a sea of religious upheavings they're toss't. 
 
 And thousands are drifting astray, 
 While they who profess to be chosen to lead, 
 
 And teach us life's duties as well. 
 Are warmly contending on dogmas and creed. 
 
 And whether or no there's a hell. 
 
 They stand on their trial, grave charges are laid, 
 
 And the world is alive to the fact — 
 That the proof of religion for which they are paid. 
 
 Their lives have most shamefully lack'd. 
 They have rous'd opposition, dissension, and strife, 
 
 By a love of pounds, shillings, and pence ; 
 W^ould God they would show us more practical life, 
 
 And less of self-righteous pretence. 
 
 Had they faithfully taught a free Gospel of love ; 
 
 Had their lives been as pure as they might ; 
 Had their thoughts and afltections but centr'd above ; 
 
 Had their minds been receptive of light ;
 
 THE POET'S WREATH. 39 
 
 Had they taught only Christ and His beautiful life, 
 
 Irrespective of party or creed, 
 Instead of a world of injustice and strife, 
 
 His Name had been honour'd indeed. 
 
 That Name they have slighted, dishonoured, and laid 
 
 In the scale of self-interest and pride ; 
 Expecting all wrong to be cancell'd and paid 
 
 By simply believing He died. 
 Forgetting He liv'd an example to all, 
 
 Of equity, justice, and right ; 
 Forgetting, alas ! His entreaty and call, 
 
 To walk as the children of lio-ht. 
 
 •»' 
 
 That life of undying, illustrious fame 
 
 Sheds a halo o'er earth's dreary way, 
 Which still through the sin-clouds of darkness and shame 
 
 Leads on to a hapjjier day. 
 Teach this, and religion shall gain her lost power ; 
 
 Teach this, and the world shall be free ; 
 Teach this, and poor mortals shall dread not the hour 
 
 That sets the earth-wearied one free. 
 
 Talk less about hell and a terrible God, 
 
 Tell us more of His glories above ; 
 All nature declares Him from cloudlet to sod 
 
 A Being of wonderful love. 
 The beauty, the grace, the harmonious blend 
 
 Of systems and forces that gather 
 Around and above us, all gloriously tend 
 
 '^I'o unite us in one common Father. 
 
 Then cease your dissension and take a survey 
 
 Of nature's grand volume aroiuid ; 
 In her wonders by night, or her glories by day, 
 
 No jarring or discord is found.
 
 40 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 No threat on her unsullied page can we read, 
 
 No anger or hatred whatever, 
 But proof most abundant, yea, more than we need, 
 
 Of a God that will love ns for ever. 
 
 ItEYERIE WRITTEN IN OAK HILL GROUNDS. 
 
 'Tis sweet at the hour of twilight to roam 
 
 Through the grounds of this loved and once beautiful home : 
 
 To gaze on the glories of nature around. 
 
 And rest in the stillness so deep and profound. 
 
 'Tis sweet to reflect 'mid the solitude here, 
 AVith no one to check me or chide the fond tear ; 
 With none to condenm me as foolish and weak. 
 Because I woidd rather such loneliness seek. 
 
 Here, all undisturbed, I may linger awhile, 
 Secure from the world's cruel censure or smile ; 
 Away from its cold, bitter, treachei'ous scorn, 
 I can dream of a brighter and happier morn. 
 
 Yes, dream of a fairer and holier day. 
 When this life and its cares shall be all pass'd away ; 
 Where names of distinction no longer are shown. 
 But the soul by its harvest of fruits shall be known. 
 
 Then cease, weary heart, let thy murmui'ings rest, 
 Remember none here are exclusively blest ; 
 All things that surroiuid me are doom'd to decay, 
 And the sorrows that press me are passing away.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 41 
 
 This mansion before nae now silent and drear, 
 
 To some hearts I have known was once sacredly dear : 
 
 'Twas the home of a Christian lady who trod 
 
 If mortal e'er could, in the paths of her God. 
 
 These walls have re-echoed a fond Mother's prayer, 
 And witness'd a father's devotion and care ; 
 While the innocent gambols of childhood liave lent 
 A mystical charm to its air of content. 
 
 These beautiful walks have been press'd by the tread 
 Of fairydike forms which now rank with the dead, 
 And the dying leaves falling around at my feet, 
 Make the wild desolation more sad and complete. 
 
 'I'll is willow so gracefully drooping would seem 
 To be faithfully guarding some beautiful dream ; 
 Perhaps, if a voice in its leaves could be found. 
 They would echo some lover's fond whisper around. 
 
 Here's the gi'ave of poor Floe, w Ikj has long pass'd away, 
 But whose true canine nature is honoured to-day ; 
 And a beautiful thought his lone grave might suggest, 
 So to live, that another might honour our rest. 
 
 This Rosary once was a favourite spot, 
 Which some who yet live can have never forgot, 
 W'ith its wealth of the I'arest and costliest kind. 
 That the eye of a critical florist might find. 
 
 Now little remains of its grandeur and pride. 
 And that little l)ut waits the return of the tide ; 
 Soon all will have pass'd on times hurrying strsam, 
 And nothing remain but fond Memory's dream.
 
 42 THE POETti WREATH. 
 
 Once, noble and beautiful home, I would pray 
 Tluit some one would save thee from further decay, 
 Would ))riug back thy glory and pride as of old, 
 I would, if my wishes could furnish the gold. 
 
 But then, if thou still must pass on to decay. 
 If none will yet care for thee, surely, I may, 
 Tliou shalt teach me in mute silent eloquence still. 
 For 1 love thee, though fallen, once Noble Oak Hill. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 MRS. SMITH, Spring Hill. 
 
 My best adviser mid life's perplexing cares, niy sympathising friend 
 and counsellor in sorrow's hour, to whom I owe what only the light of 
 eternity can reveal, when we shall understand more clearly the force 
 and beauty of those oft forgotten words — " As ye sow ye shall also 
 reap." 
 
 One Angel less on earth, 
 But one more gem in heaven. 
 Another soul at rest — 
 Long toss'd and tempest driven ; 
 Another barque has aiichor'd 
 Safe in the port of bliss, 
 Another saint has enter'd 
 A better life than this. 
 
 Another light has left us, 
 To deck some fairer sky. 
 Another long-tried Christian 
 Has taught us how to die ;
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 43 
 
 Another noble spirit 
 Has laid life's burden down, 
 And over death triumphant 
 Now wears the victor's crown. 
 
 And, oh ! let no one chide me, 
 If here I dare to say, 
 A better, purer spirit 
 Has seldom pass'd away. 
 Earth holds but few so fitted 
 Youths faltering steps to guide, 
 Or in life's darkest sorrow 
 To find some brighter side. 
 
 With tenderest acts of mercy. 
 With brightest gems of thought, 
 With saintlike true devotion, 
 Her mortal life was fraught. 
 And now in calm submission. 
 We, who have known her best. 
 Can praise the (jlod who gives her 
 A well-eani'd heaven of rest. 
 
 Thou dear enfranchised spirit. 
 My counsellor and friend. 
 To emulate thy goodness 
 Shall be my aim and end. 
 The seeds of Christian duty 
 I'll guard with zealous care, 
 Till, in that world of l)eauty, 
 I I'eap an harvest fair.
 
 44 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 SONG OF THE WP:ARY. 
 
 Yes. T am weary of waiting, 
 
 Waiting for sunnier days ; 
 Weary, yes, weary of sorrow, 
 
 Of life and its dark giddy maze. 
 Weary of watchiiii'' for sunslunc, 
 
 And grasping but shadows instead, 
 And weary, oh, weary of hoping 
 
 For joys that for ever are fled. 
 
 Chorus — Oh life, weary life. 
 No rest is in thee. 
 Far away from thy strife 
 I would I were free. 
 
 Weary of trusting to friendship, 
 
 'I'lie friendship of ha]j])ier days. 
 In all tlio dark sorrows that press nie, 
 
 I see no familiar face. 
 Weary of empty profession, 
 
 Of gilded position and name. 
 Life seems but a race and a struggle 
 
 For honour, distinction, and fame. 
 
 Chorus — "Oh life, weary life," kc. 
 
 Oh, is there no happier region 1 
 
 No world of probation but this? 
 No life where we take up the footsteps 
 
 Which here by the way we may miss? 
 No home of the poor oppress'd spirit. 
 
 Where justice, unerring, may dwell? 
 Oh, surely some angel of mercy 
 
 Of such a sweet refuge can tell. 
 
 Chorus — "Oh life, weary life," itc,
 
 THE POET'S WREATH. 45. 
 
 They speak of a rest for the weary, 
 
 Somewhere in God's niaiisions above, 
 They sing of His wonderful mercy. 
 
 And call Him a Father of love. 
 A Father, then sure I may trust Him, 
 
 He'll do Avhat is kindest and best, 
 ril wait till this life shall be over. 
 
 And then I shall joyously rest. 
 
 Chorus — "Oh life, weary life," &c. 
 
 SONG OF HOPE. 
 
 Poor earth- wearied mourner, despair not. 
 
 Though dreary and dark be the way. 
 Above the deep sorrows that bind thee 
 
 Tlicre lingers one comforting ray ; 
 One star which no gloom can o'ershadow, 
 
 One gem of celestial light. 
 One beam from the sunnier regions, 
 
 Wliere skies are unclouded and briglit. 
 
 Cnoiius — Pest, weary (jue, rest, 
 
 Hope's comforting ray 
 Leads faithfully on 
 T<j H hap] tier day. 
 
 Tliough frieudsliip once clierished forsake thee. 
 
 And dearer ones learn to forget, 
 And in the dense darkness ai'ound thee. 
 
 The sun of tliy life seems to set ; 
 liemember the dawn ever chaseth 
 
 The longest and dreariest night. 
 And the shadows \\v,\t darken thv ])athway 
 
 Must yield to the dawning of Ught. 
 
 (Chorus — "Rest, weary one, rest," ik.x:.
 
 46 THE POErS WREATH. 
 
 Oh, yes, there are worlds of probation. 
 
 And ha]jpier regions of bhss, 
 And a beautiful rest for the pilgrim, 
 
 Whose footsteps are weary in this ; 
 A home of repose for the S]jirit 
 
 Borne down by oppressions of earth, 
 Where justice knows not the distinction 
 
 Of honour, ]K)sition, or birth. 
 
 Chorus — " Rest, weary one, rest," «fec. 
 
 Then look from the trials around thee, 
 
 Beyond and above the dark swell, 
 And know that a Father who loves thee 
 
 Hath ordered all wisely and well. 
 Yes, trust such a Parent of Mercy 
 
 To do what is kindest and best, 
 And when this eartli life shall be over 
 
 Thy soul shall rejoice in His rest. 
 
 Chorus — " Rest, weary one, rest," &c. 
 
 CAN THIS BE TRUE. 
 
 "There are two hundred million Christians on the earth." — Dr.Talmage. 
 
 Two hundred million Christians ! 
 
 Can any one believe it ? 
 Would all the fallen sons of men 
 
 As gospel truth receive it? 
 Will listening saints and angels hear 
 
 Unmov'd this declaration ? 
 No, Doctor, no, for once you clear 
 
 All bounds of moderation.
 
 THE POETH WREATH. 47 
 
 If this were true, our world would not 
 
 Be steep'd in sin and sorrow ; 
 Nor thousand suffering toilers dread 
 
 The dawn of each to-morrow. 
 Xo proud oppressor then would stand 
 
 With foot upon his brother ; 
 And boast of adding land to land, 
 
 By trampling on another. 
 
 If this were true, no hungry bands 
 
 OF uncmploy'd would meet us ; 
 Nor mute appealing stricken looks 
 
 Of starving children greet us. 
 The river would not hide so much 
 
 Proud intellect and beauty ; 
 If half your Christians lived as such, 
 
 And nobly did their duty. 
 
 If this were true, this fearful swell 
 
 Of impure life around us. 
 Had never reached this awful pass 
 
 To utterly confound us. 
 Life had not been to thousand hearts 
 
 One scene of toil and sori'ow ; 
 While scarce one ray of hope imparts 
 
 A light o'er death's dark morrow. 
 
 Two hundred million I most I fear 
 
 Are only such in name ; 
 And bitterly denounced by One 
 
 Of everlasting fame. 
 He wreath'd the Christian's holy brow 
 
 With loving acts of duty ; 
 And woe to those who dare to now 
 
 Disgrace its heavenly beauty.
 
 iS THE POET'S WREA TH. 
 
 Professing Cliristians stand to-day 
 
 Condemii'd by earth and heaven ; 
 The saving of a beauteons world 
 
 Into their charge was given. 
 And how have they betray'd the trust ? 
 
 For answer look around you ; 
 x\nd sin's wild deluge surely must 
 
 Most utterly astound you. 
 
 Supposing Jesus came to-day, 
 
 Just to inspect your mission ; 
 How few who proudly boast His Name 
 
 Could stand His supervision. 
 While few indeed could bring the sheaves 
 
 From Chi'istian lives of Ijeauty ; 
 Thousands would brino- but faded leaves, 
 
 Types of neglected duty. 
 
 Would He believe this ruin'd world 
 
 Did credit to the teaching 
 Of all those million souls who prate 
 
 Of saving Gospel preaching ? 
 Would He believe this fearful blight, 
 
 'J'his tide of sorrow's tears 
 Could follow on the Gospel light 
 
 Of eighteen hundred years ? 
 
 No, Doctor, no, your boast I fear 
 
 Sounds nmch like idle ranting ; 
 The proof of what you boldly state. 
 
 The world is sadly wanting. 
 We jndge the trees by what we see, 
 
 And prove from nature's teaching. 
 They onlv honest Christians be 
 
 Who practice what they're preaching.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 49 
 
 Then turn your Christians out to work 
 
 In God's wide field of labour ; 
 Bid evei'y man and woman too, 
 
 Be honest to their neighbour. 
 Bid every poor down-trodden slave 
 
 Whose lives are sear'd and blighted ; 
 No longer kneel to man and crave 
 
 For justice scorn'd and slighted. 
 
 Bid every tyrant snap the chain 
 
 He's furg'd aroiuid his Ijrother ; 
 And cease to reap ungodly gain 
 
 By crushing down another. 
 Bid him restore while yet he may 
 
 The spoils of base oppression ; 
 Or dare not on his soul to i)ray 
 
 Or boast a saint's profession. 
 
 Go bid your Christian tyrants learn 
 
 From Matthew twentv-tliird, 
 The woes denounced by Christ on such, 
 
 Most bitter then were heard. 
 And would He find less cause to-day 
 
 'Mid all earth's desolation ; 
 Though million Christians daily pray 
 
 To see the world's salvation ? 
 
 Go tui-n your ( 'lu-istians in tlie slums 
 
 Those dens of sin and soi'i'ow ; 
 And bid them cheer some hopeless ones 
 
 And brighten some dark morrow. 
 V>'i(\ them raise up some little one 
 
 To childhood's life and beauty : 
 And win some ciTing fallen one 
 
 Back 1o their (iod and dutv.
 
 50 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 Go send them to the toiler's home, 
 
 AVhere children cry for bread ; 
 And bid them cheer the fainting heart 
 
 And raise the drooping head. 
 Go draft them to the suiferer's side, 
 
 Though poison'd streams may roll ; 
 'Tis their's, whatever may betide, 
 
 To stand beside the soul. 
 
 In short, go tell your Christians all 
 
 To live Christ's beauteous life ; 
 To open earth's sweet springs of joy, 
 
 And stem her fearful strife. 
 Do this, and stay the angel hand. 
 
 Now writing Ichabod, 
 Do this, and save your native land 
 
 And glorify your God. 
 
 IMPROMPTU ON PKIMROSE DAY. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF LORD 13EAC0NSFIELD, 
 
 Honour your Statesman ! ye friends of the blue. 
 To his long rever'd memory be faithful and true ; 
 Heed not, though the battle rage fiercely and long, 
 Stand firm and unflinching, your Union is strong. 
 
 Honour your Statesman ! by all that is pure, 
 Whose life no political shade can obscure ; 
 Whose life like some radiant beacon of light, 
 Gleams brightest and best through the darkness of night.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 51 
 
 Honour your Statesman ! though passed from your view — 
 He lives, but a life more transcendently true; 
 Death does not the bond of true sympathy sever, 
 'Tis the link that shall bind us in union for ever. 
 
 Honour your Statesman ! by honest endeavour, 
 All strife and dissension to banish for ever; 
 Lost peace and contentment with justice restore. 
 Till the cry of oppression is heard of no more. 
 
 Honour your Statesman ! by noble ambition, 
 
 To stem the wild torrent of proud o])[)()sition : 
 
 By the spirit in whicli he once manfully stood, 
 
 And calmly assured them that hear him they should. 
 
 Honour your Statesman ! and take up' the strain, 
 Bonie back by the wavelets of time once again ; 
 And the propiietic force of his sentiments spoken. 
 The future shall tell by a Union unbroken. 
 
 Honour your Statesman ! your freedom demands it, 
 Rouse to your duty, your Maker connnands it ; 
 Peace to your country, your Queen, and your God, 
 Is the cry that resoundeth from cloudlet to sod. 
 
 Honour your Statesman ! whom none could excel, 
 Whose loss to his country no Angel can tell ; 
 Though dead he shall live in our annals of fame, 
 And England for ever be proud of his name.
 
 52 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 THE RIGHT HON. W. E. GLADSTONE, 
 
 ON HIS SEVENTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY, DECEMBER 29tH, 1888. 
 
 " Hail, Gladstone I" all hail to the time-honour'd day 
 That saw thy barque launch'd upon life's stormy way, 
 That witnessed thy star, lit by wisdom divine. 
 Burst forth 'mid the gems of creation to shine. 
 
 Though storms of wild fury thy barque have assail'd, 
 Heaven-born is thy courage, that never yet fail'd. 
 Though clouds of thick darkness have swept o'er thy sky, 
 " Still on," was thy watchword, to conquer or die. 
 
 Many wrecks have passed by thee on life's cruel tide, 
 Which well might deter one less tempted and tried : 
 But wrecks, nor yet breakers, nor rocks could appal, 
 Tlioii hast mann'd the boat well, thou hast breasted them all. 
 
 And fain woidd we wish in the sunset of life 
 Thy soul might have rest from the conflict and strife, 
 That crown'd with the laurels so gloriously won, 
 Thy future days migiit have been ])eacefully run. 
 
 But no ; the world needs thee, rest cometh not now. 
 Though silver'd thy locks and care-furrow'd thy brow 
 Once more the storm gathers, fierce, thickly, and fast 
 Once more thou luust fight, but we i)ray 'tis the last 
 
 On, then, noble champion, true-hearted and brave. 
 To the rescue of those who have ])ray'd thee to save, 
 Trust God for all counsel and wisdom to guide. 
 Nor dread for the issue, Heaven's court shall decide.
 
 THE POET'S WREATH. 53 
 
 Thy footprints are telling on life's busy way, 
 And roiisinir to action the vouth of our dav , 
 The life then hast lived so devotedly well, 
 Years hence in the world shall its influence tell. 
 
 And oh, what a joy must be thine at the last, 
 When earth with its trials of state shall be past ; 
 With the harvest before thee most gloriously won. 
 And the Master's proud welcome, Most Faithfully done. 
 
 Then hail to our statesman, so valiant and true. 
 Of such noble England can boast but a few ; 
 A friend to his country, his Queen, and his God, 
 Let Gladstone re-echo from cloudlet to sod. 
 
 MOTHER'S BOY. 
 
 A mother deprived of her heart's dearest joy, 
 Laiucntiuii' the loss of her idolized bov : 
 Alone in her chamber, alone with her God, 
 Her heai't almost broke bv tliis stroke of His rod. 
 
 She weeps as she thinks of the joys that are fled. 
 Fond hopes rudely blighted — the hopeful one dead ; 
 Poor heart now so lonely, how welcome were death. 
 Thrice welcome to one of such comfort bereft. 
 
 Night's shades gather round her, but still she sits tliere. 
 Nor yet can her soul find its solace in prayer ; 
 In heart-broken anguish witli lowly bent head, 
 She uuu'nnirs the name of her beautiful dead,
 
 54 THE POET'S WREA TH. 
 
 Why say we of those whom God takes to His rest — 
 Why say we they're dead, when with life they are blest 1 
 Immortal and sinless, transcendently pnre, 
 A deathless existence, eternal and sure. 
 
 When the tempest of grief o'er that lone heart had passed, 
 And the soul bursts the bonds that had bound her at last, 
 When the trembling heart whispered, " 0, Father, I pray, 
 Teach me to submit to Thy all righteous sway." 
 
 A calm like the lulling of nature to sleep 
 
 Soothes the mother's worn heart, and'she ceases to weep ; 
 
 A voice lov'd and loving breathes tenderly sw^eet, 
 
 " Mourn not, dearest mother, ere long we shall meet. 
 
 You taught my young heart its first lessons of love. 
 You told me of angels and mansions above ; 
 The Bible you taught me to love and to read, 
 And, mother, your labour is blessed indeed. 
 
 In my home with the angels now safely at rest, 
 'Neath their care and protection most tenderly blest ; 
 Your heart need not fear for me, dangers are o'er. 
 Temptation and sin can beset me no moi'e. 
 
 Then rejoice, dearest mother, and cease to repine, 
 Your lot might be wept o'er, but, surely, not mine ; 
 You're still in a world of temptation and care. 
 But fear not, press onward, you'll conquer by prayer. 
 
 And, mother, I'll watch you ; think not I forget. 
 Though an angel in heaven, I'm mother's boy yet ; 
 I'll guide you, and guard you, and whisper of rest. 
 Till you join me again in the realms of the blest,"
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 55 
 
 The mother was comforted, darkness was gone, 
 Hope's star o'er her patliway shone cheeringly on ; 
 She saw that her Saviour in mercy had smiled, 
 As He took to His bosom her beautiful child. 
 
 OUR CEMETERY. 
 
 What memories awake as we gaze on this scene ; 
 What ff)nd recHjllections of those that have been ; 
 What mingl'd emotions of pleasure and pain — 
 As fancy recalls us our lov'd ones again. 
 
 We sec them once more as in life's sunny day, 
 And fondly we linger o'er scenes passed away ; 
 We hear the lov'd voices, remember'd so well, 
 And listen again to their dying farewell. 
 
 Ah ! yes we remember, we ne'er can forget, 
 When our aching hearts murmur'd " O Father, n(jt yet." 
 When we pray'd death to spare us our joy and our pride, 
 He tum'd coldly from us and smil'd, as they died. 
 
 Proud monarch, pale tyrant, we own thy vast sway ; 
 We know that nought earthly thy arrows can stay ; 
 Our fairest and loveliest, brightest and best, 
 Pass away from the homes they have gladden'd and blest. 
 
 Thou hast robb'd us of fathers most sacredly dear — 
 Of mothers whose presence could comfort and cheer ; 
 While the deai'ly lov'd sister so joyous and bright, 
 With the brave-hearted brother have pass'd from our sight.
 
 56 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 Thou hast call'd the young husl)and, in manhood's full glow: 
 Tlie blooming young l)vide at thy l)idding must go ; 
 E'en the habes we have cherish'd and nurtured with care — 
 No tears, no entreaties, could move thee to spare. 
 
 Their lu-ight little heads are laid low at our feet ; 
 We linger and wait almost hoping to meet — 
 Nay, longing to snatch from the cold cheerless grave 
 The darling young forms we had pray'd thee to save. 
 
 We pray'd thee, but ah I did we know what we ask, 
 Should we plead that their winning smiles longer might last? 
 Did we see all their trials, temptations, and care, 
 Methinks we should never entreat tliee to spare. 
 
 Could we gaze on the home where our little ones dwell, 
 More joyous than poets or sages can tell. 
 Most tenderly guarded by angels' fond care, 
 Our hearts woidd i"e-eclio 'tis well tliev are there. 
 
 'Tis well they are there, then, mothers, prepare. 
 He'll give back vour treasui'es more bloominy' and fair : 
 If faithful to Him who has call'd them away, 
 Your joy will be greater at some future day. 
 
 Earth is not our home : Heaven may be at last, 
 When trials and troubles and dangers are past. 
 Oh ! then we shall know, and in knowing be blest, 
 That these farewells of earth have been all for the best.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 57 
 
 SHIPWRECK'D, 
 
 " In the midst of life we are in death." 
 
 Words full of meaning and painfully true, 
 Dying without even love's fond adieu ; 
 Smiling one moment in beauty and life, 
 Pluno-'d the next instant in death's cruel strife. 
 
 Fathers of little ones left to bewail, 
 
 Mothers whose cries make the stoutest heart fail. 
 
 Brothers and sisters in life's early morn, 
 
 From hearts that would shield them are ruthlessly torn. 
 
 No pity has death on the newly-made bride, 
 Or the darling young cherub, some fond mother's pride ; 
 The heart's dearest treasures she cares not to save, 
 But lays the lov'd forms in a watery grave. 
 
 Oh, ye who have wept at the grave of the fair. 
 
 And thought it a cruel affliction to bear ; 
 
 Reflect for one moment on scenes such as this. 
 
 Then your case will most surely seem temper'd with bliss. 
 
 Your lov'd ones have died 'ueath your own tender care, 
 (Jonsol'd and u]jheld by your own loving prayer ; 
 While their last hajtpy words have rejoiced your fond heart, 
 "In heaven we'll meet where no sorrows can part." 
 
 But here no fond look or a token of love. 
 Not even the welcome, " We'll lueet you above ; " 
 The heart that so late with affection had thrill'd, 
 'Neath the cold cruel waters for ever is still'd.
 
 58 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 Ah, death ! Thovi art mighty ; thy conquests are great ; 
 No ofters can tempt thee one moment to wait ; 
 Though breaking hearts pray tliee their lov'd ones to spare, 
 In vain — all in vain — is their agoniz'd prayer. 
 
 ^^'hat homes thou hast robb'd of their joy and their light. 
 What beautiful forms thou hast hid from our sight ; 
 What fond hopes lay wither'd, what bright joys are fled, 
 What treasures lay buried — what lov'd ones are dead ! 
 
 Sweet guardian spirits ! oh, say, can ye tell, 
 With our beautiful dead may we hope it is well ? 
 'Neath your kind loving care do they happily roam 1 
 Do they bask in the bliss of your beautiful home ? 
 
 Oh, yes, there be surely some happier sphere, 
 Where all shall be plain that so puzzles us here ; 
 Where the lost shall be found, be it land or Ijy sea, 
 For all shall be gathered, kind Father, with Thee. 
 
 AN APPEAL. 
 
 [On the Moorfield Explosion.] 
 
 Once again we must turn to our annals of sorrow, 
 But where shall we seek fitting language to borrow, 
 To add yet another sad link to the chain 'i 
 Sure none but an angel could bend to the strain,
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 59 
 
 And yet eveu he, had he gazed on the sight, 
 And were asked to record it in mansions of light, 
 Had he heard the loud wailing so painfully deep, 
 At the sad recollection that angel would weep. 
 
 Then how shall a mortal presume to unfold 
 The tale that could never by angels be told 1 
 How breathe the sad notes of the mournful refrain 1 
 We must pass o'er the scene of such terrible pain. 
 
 With a fervent heart-prayer that tlie God of all love, 
 May send consolation and strength from above, 
 With blessings that none but a God can impart. 
 To soothe and to comfort the poor stricken heart. 
 
 May the widow trust always His power to defend. 
 May she prove Him her truest, her tenderest friend ; 
 May the fatherless little ones yield to His care. 
 He'll guide and ])rotcct them tliough fathei''s not thei'e. 
 
 We pray that our wounded ones, Father, may share. 
 Thy ministering angel's attendance and care. 
 That soon from their pain they may hope to be free. 
 And render their rescued lives back unto Thee. 
 
 We pray Thee to guard and most graciously save 
 Our gallant explorers, so daring and brave. 
 Such hearts, we are sure, must have honoured the name 
 Of England's ])roud heroes we boast of in fame. 
 
 We thank Thee, kind Father of earth and of heaven, 
 For aid to the suffering, so readily given ; 
 May the blessing of those who were ready to fall, 
 Like a halo of glory encircle them all.
 
 60 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 Ye wealthy, on whom the fair goddess has smiled, 
 Who know not the struggles of poverty's child, 
 In pity res]3ond to humanity's call, 
 That we soon may rejoice in provision for all. 
 
 If ye give to the poor, ye but lend to the Lord, 
 'Tis the safest investment, He well can aitbrd 
 To give gO(jd })er cent, in a prosperous store, 
 With a kingdom of glory and life evermore. 
 
 Then give in the Name of the One we adore, 
 
 Who commended the widow, though small was her store 
 
 Remember the cup of cold water was blest, 
 
 Then tlirow in vour gift, ve shall fail not the rest. 
 
 Such deeds of benevolence, kindness, and love. 
 Though sown on this earth, shall be garnered above ; 
 Shall shine to your honour and glory at last, 
 \\ lion these painful bereavements for ever are past. 
 
 IN ME MORI AM. 
 
 [Lines suggested by the Sunderland Catastrophe, by which nearly 200 
 
 Children were killed.] 
 
 Poor, innocent darlings, whose pen shall portray 
 The heartrending scenes of that ill-fated day '? 
 Whose hand but an angel's their sufferings can trace 1 
 Whose love but a God's nieet the sorrowful case 1
 
 THE POET'S WREATH. 6l 
 
 Poor, heartstricken niourners, your grief must be deep, 
 And well may your country in sympathy weep ; 
 Though carefully chosen, our words must be vain, 
 Our efforts must fail in this terrible strain. 
 
 Not yet could we ask you your tears to restrain, 
 For the overcharged heart must find vent for its pain ; 
 From those silent, but eloquent, tokens of sorrow. 
 The grief-burdened spirit much comfort can borrow. 
 
 But, oh I while you weep for your innocent dead. 
 Dream not that for ever life's pleasures are fled ; 
 Forget not that yet through this dense cloud of sorrow, 
 Ye shall hail the grand dawn of a glorious morrow. 
 
 This sorrow, remember, belongs but to earth, 
 
 We are all of us heirs to a nobler birth ; 
 
 This wave on life's ocean, this loud-breaking swell, 
 
 Has but wafted vour loved ones with angels to dwell. 
 
 Scarce closed were the bright little eyes in this death, 
 Scai'ce gone from the lov'd little frame the last breath, 
 Scai'ce fell the first tear in this wild burst of grief. 
 Ere the bright little spirits had found sweet relief. 
 
 Think not, weeping mothers, yoiii- little ones lay 
 Unnoticed }jy all as they thus jjassed away ; 
 Dream not that no hjving hand smootiied tlie pale brow, 
 Or those lips were unkissed that can tell you not now. 
 
 Oh I no, not alone did your little ones die. 
 
 Let the thought ever cheer you, God's angels were nigh, 
 
 Ever bent on scjnie mission of mercy and love. 
 
 They bore them from earth to (iod's mansions above.
 
 6-2 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 Reflect that your loss is your child's richest gain, 
 Freed once and for ever from sorrow and pain ; 
 No sin shall e'er tenij)t them, no blight can destroy 
 Your sweet cherub girl, or your bright angel boy. 
 
 No less are they yours because gQne from your sight, 
 No less do they love in those realms of delight, 
 No dream of forgetfulness ever can chase 
 The fond recollection of mother's sweet face. 
 
 Thus nurtured and ti'ained in that Ijright summer land, 
 Oh ! say will they not form a noble young band, 
 Is the prize they have gained, and the home they have found. 
 Not a bright cheering s|)ot 'mid the darkness around 1 
 
 Then live, mothers, live, for your little ones' home, 
 Whei'e away from your side never more shall they roam ; 
 Where the lovely young flowers ye thought faded and gone. 
 Ye shall find in rich beautv have ever bloomed on. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF LORD FREDERICK 
 CAVENDISH. 
 
 Where the weary heart for ever 
 Evermore in peace may rest — 
 
 Where the wicked enter never — 
 Frederick lives, supremely blest.
 
 THE POET'S WJiEA TH. 63 
 
 Where no farewell words are spoken, 
 
 Where no tear-drop dims the eye, 
 Where no loving hearts are broken, 
 
 Frederick lives, no more to die. 
 
 Where no bold assassin meets him. 
 
 Where no fear his heart can chill, 
 Where a loving mother greets him, 
 
 Frederick there is happy still. 
 
 Where no storm clouds ever darken, 
 
 Where no sickness taints the air, 
 Where to cherubs' songs he'll hearken, 
 
 Frederick fiiids a home more fair. 
 
 Where the sunny skies are brightest. 
 Where the flowers forget to fade, 
 
 Wlierc once aching hearts are liglitest, 
 Frederick finds a welcome shade. 
 
 Where heaven's kind and holy Father, 
 Smiles approval on him now, 
 
 While tlie angels round him gather, 
 I'lacc the crown u[ion Ids brow. 
 
 Yes, the victor's crown adorns him. 
 Richly gemm'd by Christian ])rayer ; 
 
 Fngland as a nation mourns him. 
 Angels shout him welcome there. 
 
 There while seraph bands snrround him, 
 Wliile their anthems louder swell. 
 
 Let us, 'iiud the grand resounding, 
 Bid our martvr'd one farewell.
 
 64 THE POETS WREA2H. 
 
 LILLY MAY, OH THE BACHELOR'S STOKY. 
 
 I saw her in her youthful pride, 
 
 So beautiful and fair, 
 Nor drearn't that aught could e'er betide, 
 
 To cloud that brow with care. 
 
 I heard the music of her voice. 
 
 Like evening's soothing chime, 
 That well-known song, " Fond lieart rejoice," 
 
 She sang in strains sublime. 
 
 1 knew her gentle winning smile 
 
 Was sought by not a few. 
 And even T, tliough firm a wliilc. 
 
 At last had yielded too. 
 
 And if it be to mortals given, 
 
 Amid life's busy whii-1, 
 I think, as Angels love in heaven, 
 
 I lov'd that gentle girl. 
 
 xlnd if not wisely, far too well, 
 
 I lov'd, yet lov'd in vain, 
 Would heaven that few like me might tell 
 
 Of slighted love's deep pain ! 
 
 I was not fortune's favoured child. 
 
 And could not offer gold, 
 And she, alas ! so good and mild. 
 
 To one of wealth was sold.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 65 
 
 A mother's pride had led the way, 
 
 By prayer and tear and sigh ; 
 And she, accustomed to obey, 
 
 Bade me a fond " Good bye ! " 
 
 Yet once again I saw her stand, 
 
 A fair and lovely bride ; 
 I saw another take the hand. 
 
 For which I would have died, 
 
 Not caring then whcie'cr 1 went. 
 
 Or what fate had in store. 
 From home and friends my steps I bent, 
 
 And sought a distant shore. 
 
 And there in time as though to shame. 
 
 Or recompense the past, 
 Proud fortune smiled, and 1 could chiirii, 
 
 A wealthy name at last. 
 
 But ah ! too late ! the golden tide 
 For me had dcign'd to flow ; 
 
 It coidd not now my sorrow hide, 
 Or soothe my heart's deep woe. 
 
 Twelve years I wandered sad, and lone, 
 
 Along life's cheerless way, 
 Hoping that time nnght yet atone, 
 
 And chase my grief away. 
 
 But rest came not, it could not be, 
 Too long I'd worn the chain ; 
 
 There never came the day for me, 
 When 1 could love again.
 
 66 THE POET'S WREA TH. 
 
 At length, once more I trod the soil 
 
 Of this my native land, 
 Whei'e England's sons for honest toil. 
 
 May proudly foremost stand. 
 
 I reached my childhood's home at last, 
 
 A waiting mother wept ! 
 But father from her side had passed, 
 
 And in the graveyard slept. 
 
 Too late I came, his life was o'er. 
 
 Too late I came to save ; 
 Death, cruel death, had been before. 
 
 And claimed him for the grave. 
 
 Why comes not death to those who pray, 
 To those wlio wish to die ? 
 
 The poet's muse declines to say. 
 And echo answers " Why 1 " 
 
 Time passed, and I had ceased to roam, 
 
 T could no longer strav ; 
 My gold had cheei'ed the dear old home, 
 
 And brought a brighter day. 
 
 'Twas long before I breathed the name 
 That yet had power to thrill ; 
 
 I felt like inspiration's flame, 
 A secret dread of ill. 
 
 And when at last I dared to ask 
 
 If all with her was well, 
 I saw it was a bitter task, 
 
 The mournful truth to tell.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 67 
 
 The one I shall not call a man, 
 
 Who lured her from mv side, 
 Had changed, as only such men can. 
 
 And turned life's ti'eacherous tide 
 
 Wave after wave, in rapid whirl, 
 Drew o'er her darkened life ; 
 
 And soon they knew my once fond girl, 
 A sad, neglected wife. 
 
 He squaudcavd all his wealth away. 
 
 In reckless sin and shame, 
 And left the once bright Lillv May, 
 
 With nothini:- but his name. 
 
 He crossed the ocean's foaming tide, 
 
 Fresh fields of sin to find ; 
 She sought a home her grief to hide, 
 
 Witli strangers, poor, but kind. 
 
 Her mother long before had passed 
 
 From earthh' scenes away, 
 And deeply mourned the pride at last, 
 
 That led her heart astray. 
 
 And would you know, if e'er again 
 
 In life we ever meet, 
 I fain would answer " Spare that j^ain. 
 
 And teach mo to forget?" 
 
 But no, too long I've borne the i>ain, 
 
 Fond memory lingers yet ; 
 Too long, I've loved, though lov'd in vain, 
 
 This heart can ne'er forget.
 
 68 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 We met, but ali ! it was the last, 
 And fraught with bitter pain ; 
 
 That sorrow's hour of withering bhist 
 I could not live again. 
 
 One lovely night, with feelings strange, 
 
 I wandered out to stroll. 
 For thoughts of some impending change 
 
 Disturbed my weary soul. 
 
 I lingered near the church-yard scene, 
 And thought of those who slept ; 
 
 To father's grave Id often been, 
 And o'er those ashes wept. 
 
 Again I sought that sacred spot, 
 To ease my tln*obl)ing breast ; 
 
 And wondered if the dead forgot 
 Those who still sigh for rest. 
 
 I there in sad and pensive state 
 Reviewed life's dreary way, 
 
 And wondered why such bitter fate 
 For me and Lilly May. 
 
 I rose at last, o'ercome with care, 
 And turned with noiseless tread. 
 
 When on my ear a murmured prayer 
 Seem'd echoed from the dead I 
 
 I could not then have told you why 
 That murmur thrill'd me through, 
 
 'Twas but a feeblv uttered cry, 
 "Oh ! Fathei', take me too."
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 69 
 
 But something in the voice awoke 
 
 Deep echoes of the past, 
 And had I not kind Heaven invoked, 
 
 That houi' had been my hist. 
 
 For reason trembled on her throne. 
 
 And life seem'd ebbing fast. 
 But darkest hours sometimes atone, 
 
 And blessings prove at last. 
 
 'Twas thus with me, the crisis o'ei'. 
 
 There dawn'd a clearer light ; 
 I vow'd, whatever lay before, 
 
 To live and do the right 
 
 Strong in this new resolve T turned 
 
 In seai'ch of her who prayed ; 
 The moon in brilliant beauty burned, 
 
 As o'er the dead I strayed. 
 
 Soon by her friendly light 1 saw 
 
 A form I knew too well ; 
 I stood transfixed in silent awe, 
 
 With feelings none may tell. 
 
 There by a little well trinuned grave, 
 
 Which spoke of nuich fond care, 
 Knelt her 1 would have died to save. 
 
 Weeping in wild despair. 
 
 An aged female lingering near, 
 
 Most gcntlv raised her head ; 
 Again she murmur'd " Leave me here ! 
 
 I'll stay with little Fred,"
 
 70 THE POET'S WREATH. 
 
 Quick as the lightning's swiftest gleam, 
 
 I hastened to her side, 
 Forgetting all life's weary dream. 
 
 And years of sorrow's tide. 
 
 Gently, her wasted hand I took, 
 And whispered " Come with me ! " 
 
 She started, gave one long fond look. 
 And murmured " Yes, 'tis he ! " 
 
 The old familiar happy smile 
 I knew in 3'outh's bright day. 
 
 Played o'er her lovely face awhile, 
 Then slowly passed away. 
 
 And in its stead a look of pain. 
 Those marble features swept ; 
 
 Oh ! in that hour of nature's strain. 
 An angel might have wept. 
 
 But words must fail, none e'er can know 
 
 All that I suffered then, 
 I could not write that scene of woe, 
 
 'Twould task an angel's pen. 
 
 I passed that long, sad, dreary night. 
 With friends around her bed. 
 
 And knew when dawned the early light 
 That Lilly May was dead. 
 
 She spoke but once, we saw, with jniin. 
 
 That life was ebbing fast, 
 And whispered " We shall meet again ! " 
 
 Then sank in peace at last.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 71 
 
 We laid her with her little Fred, 
 
 Where long she'd pray'd to be, 
 And though they speak of her as dead, 
 
 She is not dead to me. 
 
 I know that on a brighter shore. 
 
 Where beams eternal day, 
 Where pride or death shall part no more, 
 
 I'll meet dear Lilly May. 
 
 HOMELESS. 
 
 The old man tm-n'd at his cottage door, 
 
 And wejit a fond farewell. 
 As scenes from happier days of yore 
 
 Came o'er him like a spell. 
 Since first lie brought his fair young bride, 
 
 Just fifty years had passed ; 
 Twas there she lived, 'twas there she died, 
 
 Her only home and last. 
 
 There, through this weary world of strife. 
 
 They'd borne, with many a sorrow ; 
 And there the sunnier shades of life 
 
 Had brightened many a morrow. 
 There, too, had blossoin'd one by one, 
 
 A family of seven, 
 Who since had gather'd one by one 
 
 'Neath fairer skies in heaven.
 
 72 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 And yesterday had borne away 
 
 His wife, so tried and true ; 
 Well might he weep, well might he pray, 
 
 That he might die there too. 
 Too feeble now to work for bread, 
 
 His last-earn'd shilling spent ; 
 The workhouse but I'emain'd instead, 
 
 And tliithcr he was bent. 
 
 Slowly he raised his drooping head, 
 
 And gave one last sad look, 
 And then with feeble, faltering tread, 
 
 His weary way he took. 
 Yet once again he paused ; 'twas when 
 
 He reach'd the churchyard gate ; 
 One fond good-bye to them, and then 
 
 He'd welcome cruel fate. 
 
 They saw him slowly wend his way 
 
 Across the sacred ground, 
 And there when pass'd the light of day. 
 
 The poor old man was found. 
 Tlie summer's gentle breezes play'd 
 
 Aromid his snow-white head. 
 Oh ! not in vain that soul had pray'd> 
 
 The homeless one was dead. 
 
 And there they laid him down to rest. 
 
 With all he'd lov'd on earth, 
 And now with them for ever blest 
 
 He finds a nobler birth ; 
 While they who might have foinid liim liread. 
 
 And cheer'd his latest hours, 
 Now raise a monument instead, 
 
 And deck his grave with flowers.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 73 
 
 Oh ! when will these things cease to be, 
 
 When shall we learn to know, 
 The heart's rich tribute, pure and free, 
 
 Is not in flimsy show 1 
 When shall we to the living prove 
 
 As sister, or as brother 1 
 The truest hearts are those that move 
 
 In kindness to another. 
 
 A SATIRE. 
 
 Whether I please or whether I tease, 
 
 I"ll ijive you my own honest mind, 
 If the cap should fit you may wear it a bit, 
 
 If not, you ma}' leave it behind, —./o/i/i Plowjhman. 
 
 Wliat has he done'? Are you really quite sane 
 That you ask with such scorn and contempt ? 
 
 I certainly thought your most excellent brain 
 From freaks of such nature exempt. 
 
 I credited you with a little more sense, 
 
 A little more charity, too, 
 Than to rail at a name witli sucli sorry pretence 
 
 Because it belongs to a Blue. 
 
 You have liv'd in our midst ever bent on your gain, 
 
 Full forty long yeai's if all told, 
 And now you are asking, with righteous disdain, 
 
 What others have done with their gold.
 
 74 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 And well may you ask, if by asking you mean 
 To remind me you've done quite as well ; 
 
 But keep yourself cool, it can easily be seen. 
 For the })ast will most faithfully tell. 
 
 Just put to one side all this anger, I pi'ay, 
 Let reason, not passion, control ; 
 
 T heard you one Simday decidedly say 
 That anger would ruin the soul. 
 
 You spoke to the young of the beautiful life, 
 
 < )f the lowly, despised Nazai'ene, 
 And warn'd them to cease from dissension and strife, 
 
 Which a curse to their country had been. 
 
 I think, too, you said that you loved to look back 
 
 ( )n your life's busy wonderful day. 
 'Twas pleasant to I'oam o'er the old beaten track. 
 
 And see what you'd done by the way. 
 
 Then wander with me through that mystical shade, 
 That has yielded such pleasure to you, 
 
 Perhaps a few scenes of a different grade 
 I may find in a careful review. 
 
 You must wake up your memory, else I shall fail. 
 
 Without her most wonderful light ; 
 Put passion to sleep and let reason prevail. 
 
 Give conscience her i^lace for to-night. 
 
 Go back over years that have passed like a dream. 
 O'er bright sunny hours that are fled ; 
 
 Still backward. Oh ! memory, bear on thy stream. 
 Till we stand with the beautiful dead.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 75 
 
 Yes, there is the scene I have sought to unveil, 
 
 There one of the laurels you've won, 
 Now tell me if pleasant reflections prevail 
 
 As you gaze on the form of your son? 
 
 A prodigal truly, but driven from home 
 
 By stern hypocritical sway. 
 Compelled a poor desolate outcast to roam 
 
 Till he fall on life's pitiless way. 
 
 Strange hands close the eyes that once smiled in your own, 
 
 Strange lips kiss the cold marble brow. 
 Had your own selfish heart the same tenderness shown, 
 
 That son might have lionoured you now. 
 
 Another scene rises, a poor widow-'s child 
 
 Lies tossing in fever and pain. 
 And the poor mother, almost distracted and wild, 
 
 Appeals to your conscience in vain. 
 
 Her rent is quite due, but her boy must be fed, 
 
 Or soon he'll be under the sod. 
 But you sternly demand what woidd furnisli liiin bread, 
 
 Then tell her to trust in her Ciod. 
 
 Yet another scene comes from the shades of the past 
 
 Where you rob a poor man of his place ; 
 And tlie dark dreary sorrows that round him were cast, 
 
 Yet tell to your shame and disgrace. 
 
 He pleads with a pitying sense of despair 
 
 That justice from you may be given. 
 You coolly refuse, but presumptiously dare 
 
 To hojje for the mercy of heaven.
 
 76 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 One more, 'tis the home of your true-hearted brother 
 
 Now shatter'd in spirits and health, 
 Too noble to live by oppressing another, 
 
 He owns neither title nor wealth. 
 
 In happier years he had saved your poor life. 
 
 By a terrible risk of his own, 
 And now after years of stern poverty's strife. 
 
 To you lie is almost unknown. 
 
 Tliauk ({od, he yet lives and the power is with you 
 
 To save from a heavier sorrow ; 
 His lie:i!tli and his prospects in kindness renew. 
 
 And brigliten his future to-morrow. 
 
 Talk less about Jesus and practice His life, 
 
 Seek not for a false gilded fame, 
 (Jhecr [)0verty's pathway and lessen its strife. 
 
 And then you will honour His name. 
 
 (io comfort the widow and fatherless child, 
 
 Go dry the poor sufferer's tear. 
 Go save a lov'd son from the world's dreaxy wild, 
 
 And a mother's fond breaking heart cheer. 
 
 Do this, and the future shall blot out the past. 
 
 And thy spirit with joy shall yet see 
 That the beautiful deeds in this life thou hads't cast 
 
 Have borne a rich harvest for thee.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. -77 
 
 SONG— THE WANDERING BOY. 
 
 Wearily, drearily, lonely and sad, 
 
 I have wandered the long, cheerless day ; 
 One smile would have made me feel hopeful and glad, 
 
 And brightened my life's darkened way. 
 But none seemed to pity me, none seemed to care, 
 
 All pass'd me contemptuously by ; 
 Would God I could breathe a poor sinnei''s last prayer, 
 
 Then calmly and peacefully die. 
 
 Chorus. 
 Oh, would that my mather were with me to-night, 
 
 No hunger or cold should I fear, 
 Her love would make life again })eaceful and l)right, 
 
 Oh, would that my mother were here. 
 
 Oil, why did I leave her? What demon could tem])t ? 
 
 AVhat power imi)elled me to roam ? 
 If the ills wliich have followed my soul could have dreamt, 
 
 I had never thus wandered from home. 
 I cannot forget how my poor mother wept. 
 
 As I tore from her loving embrace. 
 Though storms of deep darkness my pathway have swept, 
 
 That scene they could never efface. 
 
 Chorus — Oh, would that, &c. 
 
 This Bible she gave nie, is all I have left, 
 
 She whispered, "You'll read it, 1 know ; 
 And when of all comf(n-t thy soul is bereft, 
 
 Remcmljei', I l)ray for thee, Joe." 
 Oh, surely, those prayers have not been in vain. 
 
 And, perhaps, all this sorrow were best ; 
 If I only could reach the old home once again, 
 
 I shoidd prize such an haven of rest. 
 
 Chorus — Oh, would tliat, Ac.
 
 78 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 Some shelter I'll find from the cold bitter blast, 
 
 And wait for the dawning of day ; 
 And surely, some heart will feel pity at last, 
 
 And grant me some help by the way. 
 Already this darkness seems passing away, 
 
 Already I feel a new joy ; 
 Heaven spare my dear mother to welcome the day 
 
 Which brings back her wandering boy. 
 
 Chorus — Oh, would that, &c. 
 
 SONG.— THE AVANDERING BOY'S RETURN. 
 
 Again the loved shores of my dear native land 
 
 Resound to my now joyous tread ; 
 And visions that gi-eet me on every hand. 
 
 Seem gifted with life from the dead. 
 'Tis well that the darkness befriends my return 
 
 To the scene of my earliest years, 
 For ill could I brook that a stranger should spurn, 
 
 'Twould awake but my bitterest tears. 
 
 Oh ! England, my fatherland. 
 
 Home of the free ; 
 Back from a stranger land. 
 
 Welcome to thee. 
 
 Not many will know me, how changed I must seem ; 
 
 How meanly and poorly I'm clad ; 
 But the mother of many a beautiful dream, 
 
 Will know her poor wandering lad.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 79 
 
 Ob, yes, she will know and will love none the less, 
 
 But call me her darling once more ; 
 And I, if but spared, will her future life bless, 
 
 And her long weeping days shall be o'er. 
 
 Oh ! England, &c. 
 
 How calm is the night, what a sense of repose, 
 
 E'en the moon seems a holier light ; 
 And a rapturous joy my poor heart overflows. 
 
 For my boyhood's loved home is in sight. 
 Yes, there is my home, just the same as of old. 
 
 The home of my earliest prayer ; 
 And dearer than all the world's treasures of gold, 
 
 Is the peace that awaiteth me there. 
 
 Oh ! England, &c. 
 
 Softly, and almost with reverent tread, 
 
 1 enter the low narrow gate ; 
 One moment and all the past seasons of dread 
 
 "Will be lost in a happier fate. 
 But listen 'tis surely no freak of the brain 
 
 For I hear a soft murmuring prayer, 
 'Tis the voice I have longed but to hear once again, 
 
 I will enter and kneel with her there. 
 
 Oh ! England, »fec. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS EVE'S VISION. 
 
 'Twas Christmas Eve, I had wandered alone 
 
 To a quiet and beautiful spot. 
 Where many Ijricf hours of rejiosc 1 had known, 
 
 As the cares of the world were forgot.
 
 80 TME POET'S WREATH, 
 
 The time, and the place, with the silence around, 
 
 Woke memories joyous and sad ; 
 One moment a feeling of sorrow profound, 
 
 The next I was wondrously glad. 
 
 For wave after wave, at fond memory's bid, 
 liolled back o'er the sands of old time ; 
 
 lievealing lost treasures, long buried and hid, 
 With a faithfulness truly sublime. 
 
 Scenes varied as life's ever varying sky, 
 
 Swept past on that hurrying stream ; 
 And familiar echoes there floated me by — 
 
 Like a far away beautiful dream. 
 
 On s})ed the mysterious current, until 
 
 All the present seemed merged in the past, 
 
 Till every vestige of life's bitter ill 
 Had pass'd from my spirit at last. 
 
 Then a lull and a calm, and a conscious repose, 
 AVith a joj' that was born not of earth ; 
 
 Till 1 thought I had left this cold region of woes, 
 And pass'd to a happier birth. 
 
 No longer alone ; many forms that I knew, 
 Who had gone fi'om this life's weary care. 
 
 Who had been to their Ood ever faithful and true, 
 Most joyously welcom'd me there. 
 
 A strain of soft melody, borne on the breeze, 
 Seem'd to breathe of a yet fairer land ; 
 
 And softly I murnuu'M, " Sure, strains such as these, 
 Must belong to some holier band ! "
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 81 
 
 " Most truly, my friend," whispered one who was near, 
 
 " They are those of superior birth ; 
 But the words are familiar, couldst thou but hear. 
 
 For their song is <in echo from earth." 
 
 "But come, thou shalt sec,'' and he led me away, 
 
 Past scenes most entrancingly fair ; 
 Till I found, with a feeling of grief and dismay, 
 
 I was nearing this cold world of care. 
 
 Still swept (ju tlie beautiful cadence : as yet 
 
 Still around me were beings most bright. 
 And the cold dreary cliill of cartivs darkness had set 
 
 In a flood of celestial light. 
 
 By some wonderful power I coidd see at a glance, 
 .Many thousands of earth's weary throng ; 
 
 Some keeping the night with a feast and a dance, 
 And some witli the drink and a sony. 
 
 The beautiful maiden — some fund umther's pride, 
 
 And joy of her life here below ; 
 •' Would God," I exclaimed, " thou hadst haj)pily died, 
 
 Ere thy beauty had fallen so low." 
 
 Many maidy young forms, 1 iiad tliought would adorn 
 An Englislmian's longdionoiu'ed name ; 
 
 Of niaidnjod's true glory and dignity shorn 
 1 beheld, in those regions of shame. 
 
 As I gazed on the scene with a feeling of pain, 
 And a sigh for such wreck of life's treasure, 
 
 r listened in vain for the beautiful strain 
 That had yielded my soul such a pleasure.
 
 82 THE POETS WREAIH. 
 
 But the being who led me, in sadness explained 
 
 This nnholy and sin-loving throng ; 
 Their souls not attuned, nor their hearts ever trained, 
 
 Had no part in that beautiful song. 
 
 But another scene rose, of a beauty most rare. 
 
 Of a higher and nobler blend ; — 
 Would heaven such proofs of Samaritan's care 
 
 To the ends of the world might extend. 
 
 A few noble souls, whose delight is to bless 
 
 And rescue earth's perishing poor ; 
 Whose giving makes not their abiuidance seem less, 
 
 But eternity's treasures more sure. 
 
 From the garrets and cellars and streets of our land. 
 
 From the depths of much folly and sin — 
 A sadly neglected and desolate band — 
 
 Those angels have gathered them in. 
 
 In their beautiful homes, so amazingly bright, 
 They have spread them a plenteous repast ; 
 
 Till they dream they have left the cold earth's dreary night. 
 And entered God's heaven at last. 
 
 Fairy forms move amongst them, like beings of light, 
 To their untutor'd natures they seem. 
 
 And beauties unnumbered bewilder their sight — 
 Enhancing the beautiful dream. 
 
 Skill'd fingers sweep softly the musical keys ; 
 
 Trained voices re-echo the song ; 
 Till a mystical wave of celestial breeze, 
 
 Breaks over that mystified throng.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 83 
 
 Chords silent for years, are awaken'd at last, 
 
 By the touch of true sympathy's wand ; 
 And the veil that had shrouded life's beautiful past, 
 
 Is withdrawn by some fair Angel's hand. 
 
 Scenes dear to the heai't of some wanderer there. 
 
 Rise clear and distinct on the tide ; 
 With the words of a dear and fond mother's last prayer, 
 
 And her blessing, as calmly she died. 
 
 Then slowly arose a tall form in that crowd, 
 'Twas that fond mother's noble-brow'd son : 
 
 Who spoke with deep sorrow and head meekly bow'd, 
 Of the sinful career he had run. 
 
 But the sympathy shown and the songs lie had heard, 
 
 Woke memories painful, yet sweet ; 
 And the deepest recess of his nature was stirr'd. 
 
 So to live he that mother miglit meet. 
 
 From every heart rose a tribute of praise, 
 
 Which resounded throughout the A'ast throng, 
 
 And the beinQ:s around me, of heavenlv grace. 
 Took up tiie glad strains of the song. 
 
 And again rose the melody, wondrously clear, 
 
 Which at first so bewildered my soid ; 
 Now richei*, and sweeter, through heaven's high sphei'e 
 
 The Vjeautiful symphonies roll. 
 
 And the hearts of the few, who .so faithful and true, 
 Struck the chord of that glorious strain, 
 
 From Him ti) whom all the world's homage is due, 
 Hear a whisper, " Your work is not vain.
 
 "84 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 Ye are bless'd indeed, who delight to obey ; 
 
 Wliose fruits of devotion I see ; 
 In all ye have done unto these by the way, 
 
 Ye have done even more unto Me." 
 
 Oh, ye who can waken such chords by the way, 
 And brio'hten such lives' drcarv niorn, 
 
 Remember their blessing shall cheer on life's way, 
 And your crown of rejoicing adorn. 
 
 But beyond, and above, and exceeding all this. 
 What joy when this earth-life is run. 
 
 To behold in tlie homes of celestial bliss, 
 Manv such, whom to (Jod ye have won. 
 
 AN IMPKOMPTU FAREWELL. 
 
 These farewells will soon be over, 
 All these sorrows soon be past. 
 
 We shall then at last discover 
 Purer friendship that shall last. 
 
 Here we part, and know not whether 
 Time permits again to meet. 
 
 But the fond hearts there together 
 Find their hap])iness complete. 
 
 Here the waters may divide us, 
 
 Dearest ties some chance may sever, 
 
 Never there such fates betide us 
 
 Farewell words arc hushed for ever.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 85 
 
 Here our peaceful homes are entered, 
 
 Borne away our fairest flowers, 
 There we find 'mid pleasures centred, 
 
 All we mourned in grief's dark hours. 
 
 Not for ever, not for ever, 
 
 Shall these tears bedim our eyes, 
 Death or parting ne'er can sever, 
 
 Once we meet beyond the skies. 
 
 Brighter homes ai"e there awaiting, 
 
 Fairer scenes and healthier clime, 
 Through eternal ages dating 
 
 Far beyond the reach of time. 
 
 There the soul progresseth ever, 
 
 Wliile those ceaseless ages roll 
 Onward ever, backward never, 
 
 Is the motto of the soul. 
 
 Then let farewell words be sjjokeu. 
 
 Linger not o'er pathways trod ; 
 Hearts may yet, though sad and broken, 
 
 Find sweet rest, — then trust vour God. 
 
 WOMAN'S MISSION. 
 
 When the earth in her beauty stood forth at the call 
 
 Of nature's great Architect Founder of all. 
 
 When angels admiringly gaz'd on the scene, 
 
 How gloriously fair the young world nnist have been.
 
 86 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 How the sun in his newlj-lit splendour would gleam 
 ( )n the flower-bedeck'd earth and the smooth gliding stream, 
 While the feather'd young choristers, loudly and long, 
 Must have thrilled the whole earth as they sang their first 
 
 Ai'ound and above, all was wondrously fair, 
 No dark looming shadow, no tempest was there ; 
 One exquisite grandeur from cloudlet to sod, 
 Proclaim'd the undoubted existence of God. 
 
 But fairer than all mnst have been the retreat, 
 Where man, the first man, in his glorj^ we meet ; 
 Sole heir to tlie world, indisputably his. 
 And yet, even yet, incomplete was his bliss. 
 
 Alone, tlie 3'oung Adam might oft have been found 
 In some favourite seat, gazing pensively round ; 
 Wliile fancy would picture, as fancy will dare, 
 A scene more entrancing, a vision more fair. 
 
 And musing enwrapt, how his soul must have thi'ill'd, 
 As he fancied the void in his lonely heart fiil'd ; 
 For he knew his indulgent Creator would not 
 Leave a want nnsnpplied, oi* a blessing forgot. 
 
 Thns calmh' and peacefnlly resting on this, 
 He quietly slumbers, nor dreams of his bliss, 
 Till waking, refresh'd he discovers with pride. 
 He's no longer alone, but is blest with a bride. 
 
 Presented by heaven's great Author of good. 
 Before him resplendent in beanty she stood. 
 While He who had form'd her so perfect and free. 
 His comfort and helpmeet design'd her to be.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 87 
 
 This, then, is your mission, ve daughters of earth, 
 Seek well to fulfil it, disgrace not your birth ; 
 Oh ! fritter not idly the power that is given. 
 Ye may drive to perdition, or raise them to heaven. 
 
 Plead not that our mother Eve fail'd in her trust, 
 Though painful the thought, let her daughters be just, 
 That one sin reduced her in sorrow to roam. 
 And robb'd her of Eden, her beautiful home. 
 
 Then think of her kindly, no doubt from that hour 
 She wisely exerted her womanly power ; 
 Her life must have prov'd not in vain was she given, 
 If she robb'd him of earth, she restored him to heaven. 
 
 And sure 'tis a glorious mission of bliss, 
 To Vjrighten his path through a world such as this : 
 To aid him when wearied of eartli and its cares. 
 Restore him with hope, and restrain him witli prayers. 
 
 To bear with his weaknesses, follies and sin, 
 And patiently try from those follies to win ; 
 To render his home what at first it was meant, 
 His haven of rest, his throne of content. 
 
 Oh ! woman, remember your God-given trust. 
 Be patient and tender, be faith fid and just ; 
 Be all that is lovely, and prove, while you can, 
 God's noblest and best is the helpmeet to man.
 
 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. LANG BRIDGE. 
 
 [My friend of early years, whose beautiful and blameless life throws 
 one more ray of light across the shadow'd path of mortal strife, and 
 whose lov'd and hotiour'd memory adds one more link to the mysterious 
 chain of love which ever setks to draw the aspiring soul onward 
 and heavenward.] 
 
 Some lives in their day, 
 
 Over earth's dreary way, 
 Like stars the wild luirht shades adornins:, 
 
 Seem heralds of light, 
 
 Ever radiant and bright 
 From the ravs of celestial ninrnina'. 
 
 Of such was the one 
 
 Who her earth-course lias run, 
 Rut whose memory never shall perish ; 
 
 Hearts many and true, 
 
 That her excellence knew, 
 Many fond recollections will cherisli. 
 
 No clarion tongue 
 
 Sang her praises among 
 Those whom the world hasteth to honour. 
 
 But we who can tell 
 
 She hath lived her life well 
 Know that lieaven's own signet is on her. 
 
 All the graces that l)lcnd, 
 
 And unitedly lend 
 A charm to their humble possessoi', 
 
 Mark'd her beautiful life, 
 
 As a maiden or wife. 
 And long shall our grateful hearts bless her.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 In the archives of heaven 
 
 Her name is engraven 
 In undying splendour and beauty ; 
 
 And ever shall tell 
 
 How most faithfully well 
 She acquitted herself of her duty. 
 
 And though she has pass'd 
 
 From the earth-side at last 
 To her 'tis a glorious transition ; 
 
 For the work of her love 
 
 Will develop above, 
 To a higher and holier mission. 
 
 And they are still blest, 
 " Who so long have possess'd, 
 
 Such a gem in tlieir household adorning : 
 Would they follow her light, 
 She would lead through earth's night 
 
 To heaven's own l)oautiful moruing. 
 
 Dear friend uf my youtii. 
 
 May the Father of "^Truth 
 Ever grant it my earnest ambition, 
 
 To live out earth's day 
 
 In the same noble wav, 
 Till I make the same glorious transition.
 
 THE POETS WREAIH 
 
 MAN'S INHUMANITY TO MAN. 
 
 I knew him in life ere a sorrow had cast 
 
 Its shade over earth's sunny sky ; 
 Ei'e sickness had bound him, or death's cruel blast, 
 
 Had warned him that he, too, must die. 
 
 His beautiful home every comfort could boast 
 This world's sordid wealth can obtain ; 
 
 And they who could flatter and honour him most, 
 Sometimes his cold favour might gain. 
 
 A sacred position of honour and trust, 
 
 In proof of religion, he held ; 
 And woe to tlie poor erring creature of dust 
 
 Whom he fancied had slightly rebelled. 
 
 No mercy, no pity, no thought, would he show ; 
 
 No tale of distress would he hear ; 
 He was jtroud and self-righteous, and gloried to know 
 
 He liad never been moved by a tear. 
 
 With a few he could pass as a great and good man. 
 For they measured his heart by his gold ; 
 
 But the poor honest toilers, the hard working clan, 
 Could his real secret nature unfold. 
 
 They could tell you of hearts that had languished and bled ; 
 
 Of noble souls plunged in deep sorrow ; 
 Because he withheld what would furnish them bread, 
 
 And brighten their darkened to-morrow.
 
 THE POET a WREATH. 91 
 
 They could tell you of those who had prayed him to save, 
 
 From a life of starvation and dread ; 
 Who, in accents more touching than words from the grave, 
 
 Had pleaded for work and for bread. 
 
 But, no ! this inhuman professor indeed 
 
 Had never been known to relent ; 
 They wei'e told he had nothing to do with their need, 
 
 And empty away had been sent. 
 
 My poor brother Burns ! I would cry thus with thee : 
 
 Oh, why such contemptible scorn '^ 
 Oh, why should such cold cruel tyrants as he 
 
 Compel us to suffer and mourn 1 
 
 But dying-time came, and he left his proud name 
 
 With his titled estates all behind him ; 
 And a beautiful monument, reared to his fame. 
 
 Will show, if yon wish, where to find him. 
 
 The minister prayed — as all ministers do — 
 That the life of our friend might be blest ; 
 
 And urged us to live out our lives (juite as true, 
 And earn the same glorious rest. 
 
 &^ 
 
 Now, I having doubts, as to whether or no, 
 
 This man of profession and creeds 
 To the l)rightest and best of all lieavens should go 
 
 To slug of his noble earth deeds ; — 
 
 And knowing a way to that wonderful land — 
 Though a jtrivate one only, 'tis true — 
 
 Yet this I would have you at once understand, 
 It leads to the grand final view.
 
 92 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 The key is in nature's own keeping, I know, 
 And sometimes I wait for her long ; 
 
 But yet I can tempt her her secrets to show 
 I f I breathe her a poet's sweet song ; 
 
 AvaiHug myself of this wonderful tide 
 I launched from the shores of old time, 
 
 And soon I was far from these regions of pride 
 And tilled with a rapture sublime. 
 
 Away, still away, over worlds fair and bright. 
 
 Still higher I soared on my way ; 
 I left far behind me the shadows of night. 
 
 And found a more glorious day. 
 
 I entered a world of most exquisite bliss — 
 
 A region of holier birth, 
 Outvieing a thousand fair worlds such as this, — 
 
 Eclipsing thy grandeur, oh earth. 
 
 I gazed on its cloudless and beautiful sky, 
 
 Illum'd by celestial light ; 
 \Miile sweet little choristers flitted me by. 
 
 Of plumage transcendently bright. 
 
 Its rivers like rippling silver and gold 
 
 In musical waves swept along ; 
 While thousands of wondrous delights, never told, 
 
 Enlivened its murmuring song. 
 
 Trees fairer than any this earth ever knew, 
 And laden with fruits of the clime ; 
 
 And flowerets still fairer than Eden e'er grew, 
 All bow'd to the wonderful chime,
 
 THE POET'S WREATH. 93 
 
 And sounding afar, and yet near, came the swell 
 
 Of voices so happy and free ; 
 So wondrously sweet I was puzzled to tell 
 
 Whether angels or mortals they'd be. 
 
 I turned my bewildering gaze all around, 
 
 In search of some angel, or friend ; 
 But met only grandeur more vast and profound. 
 
 Which seemed of an infinite end. 
 
 Transfixed by some wonderful mystical spell ; 
 
 O'ercomc by a sense of such bliss, 
 I mui-mured, "Oh, is there no being to tell 
 
 Who dwells in a woi'ld such as this?" 
 
 My murmur was heard, for before me one stood 
 
 In a halo of beauty sublime. 
 Whose life on the earth had been wondrously good, 
 
 Ere he passed U\)\u the i-egions of time. 
 
 He was known in our midst as the working man's friend, 
 
 Many sorrows to him have been told. 
 And to all would his jn-actical j)ity extend, 
 
 For he worshipped no idol of gold. 
 
 He was full of that mercy which comes from above, 
 
 He would bend to a brother in need, 
 He could win a fond heart by his j)ityiug love, 
 
 He was Benjamin truly indeed. 
 
 He liv'd out this life unassuming and free. 
 
 Nor cared for tlie world's l)itter scorn. 
 Would heaven that many moi'e gems such as he 
 
 This life's darkened skies might adorn.
 
 94 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 He smiled as of old while he kindly replied, 
 
 " To thy nuirmiir I gladly respond ; 
 They dwell o'er that silvery, rippling tide. 
 
 Who have earned its bright glories beyond." 
 
 " By their life on the earth, by their mission of love, 
 By the help on the wa}^ they have given ; 
 
 By the honour they brought to the Father above. 
 They have entered those regions of heaven." 
 
 " Not by the distinction of name on the earth. 
 
 Nor the weight of their silver and gold. 
 Have they gained their position of holier birth, 
 
 But by deeds that have never been told." 
 
 " Not because they have given their wealth to adorn 
 
 8o)ne proud architectural plan, 
 But because they have brightened some life's dreary morn. 
 
 And rescued some poor fellow-man." 
 
 " Not those who have crushed the poor hard toiling slave, 
 
 Till he pine for a rest 'neath the sod ; 
 Not those who gain wealth through oppression's dark wave, 
 
 Can enter these realms of our God." 
 
 " See there," and the bright one directed my sight 
 
 To a fleecy-like cloud by the way. 
 Which slowly, but surely, grew clearer and bright. 
 
 Then passed like a beam from the day. 
 
 Disclosing a scene of most exquisite joy. 
 
 Of holy and rapturoiis bliss ; 
 Oh ! earth, thy enchantments are surely a toy, 
 
 Compared to the glories of this.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 95 
 
 The lovely inhabitants, blooming- and fair, 
 
 Seemed gems of ethereal light, 
 No brow bore a shadow of sorrow or care, 
 
 But glistened transcendently bright. 
 
 Their beautiful homes were a marvel to see, 
 
 Though built not of silver or gold, 
 Each wonderful structure seemed clearly to me 
 
 The page of their life to unfold. 
 
 Their work of great love on the earth they had left, 
 
 The kind little deeds they had done, 
 From the child they had sheltered whom death had bereft, 
 
 To the hearts they had lovingly won. 
 
 The thousand and one little seeds they had sown, 
 
 The joy and the sympathy given, 
 With the smile of the Father, around them had grown, 
 
 xVnd built them this beautiful heaven. 
 
 " And now," said my gnide, for by this you nnxst know 
 
 He had somehow detected my tliought, 
 " To the regions still higher you could not well go. 
 
 And he is not here whom you sought." 
 
 " From your mind 1 perceive he lias built on the sand, 
 
 And trusted in dogmas and creed, 
 J^elieve me, my friend, that such lives cannot stand, 
 
 They are shallow pretences indeed." 
 
 " When sucli leave the eartli, they awake but to find 
 They have passed through its school but in vain ; 
 
 That all they have trusted is left far behind, 
 And life must be worked out again."
 
 96 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 " The one whom you seek is not far from the earth, 
 
 For he trained not his spirit to rise, 
 And ere he can hope for a holier birth. 
 
 He must work for the coveted prize." 
 
 " Thank God, lie can rise from his fallen estate 
 
 To a brighter and happier land, 
 For the wisdom of heaven decrees no such fate 
 
 For the work of His own noble hand." 
 
 " Keturn to your world, but remember to teach 
 
 It is life on the earth that shall tell 
 The crown of success, or the failure of each, 
 
 And warn them to weave it out W'ell." 
 
 He turned with me kind]}' towards this cold sphere, 
 
 And waved a most tender adieu, 
 And a sweet farewell song lingers yet in my ear, 
 
 As the happy scene fades from my view. 
 
 To me here's a lesson I tremble to learn, 
 Though rendered so plain to my view. 
 
 If a home in those regions of bliss 1 would earn, 
 My life must be holy and true. 
 
 Not yet dare I claim the Christian's fair name, 
 
 Nor boast that to me it was given. 
 Not yet dare I trust to these laurels of fame. 
 
 To wan me a passport to heaven. 
 
 But, oh ! I dare trust the kind Father above. 
 
 To bless but my little earth grain. 
 And hope, yes I hope, through His goodness and love, 
 
 A suitable harvest to gain.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 97 
 
 BITTEK MEMORIES: OR, THE BALLET (ilRL'S 
 
 REMORSE. 
 
 Oh ! Memory, why brinj; back to-night 
 The happy scenes of early years ? 
 
 Why reproduce my youth's sad blight ? 
 Wliv wake again these bitter tears ? 
 
 Why bi'iug back faces far away. 
 And forms 1 buried long ago ? 
 
 Why bid the lovely vision stay ? 
 
 Why give thy waves tliis backward flow? 
 
 Is it because some guiding hand, 
 By rays of inspiration given. 
 
 Would point me to a better land, 
 
 And teach my weary soul of Heaven ? 
 
 Or can it be, as some would say, 
 
 That from their Vn'ight and blest abode 
 
 Some lov'd ones yet can wing their way, 
 To save us from destruction's x'oad ? 
 
 Oh I could I hear but once again 
 A mother's sweet foi'giviug voice, 
 
 'Twould calm this fever in my brain. 
 Ami make this aching heart rejoice. 
 
 But no, I dare not hope for this, 
 For well I know mine was the ]jart 
 
 That dashed her hopes of eai"thly bliss, 
 And Ijroke her gentle loving heart.
 
 98 THE POET'S WREATH. 
 
 Poor widow'd mother, how she wept, 
 Those bitter tears I still can sec, 
 
 As from the room I proudly swept 
 And vow'd a ballet girl I'd be. 
 
 And well do I remember yet, 
 My only brother's manly grief : 
 
 Oh ! Memory, could'st thou not forget. 
 And give this tortured heart relief. 
 
 Forget I Ah, never ! waves roll on, 
 And visions throng my restless brain. 
 
 Till every hope of life seems gone. 
 
 And tears and prayers are all in vain. 
 
 Again T see that noble youth 
 
 Who won my once pure girlish heart. 
 And as I meet his eyes of truth 
 
 I feel how cruel 'twas to part. 
 
 The words he spoke when last we met, 
 This breaking heart would fail to tell, 
 
 And as the sun in splendour set 
 We spoke our final sad farewell. 
 
 And on a cold and foreign shore 
 He wandered long in search of rest. 
 
 But now his toils and cares are o'er; 
 In Heaven my slighted one is blest. 
 
 Yes, he is gone, and ere he died. 
 His trembling fingers wrote to say : 
 
 Though parted long, and severed wide, 
 For me he'd never ceased to pray.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 99 
 
 His only hope, his one last cave, 
 
 Was that some future day might bring 
 
 The darhng of his fondest prayer 
 Beneath a God's protecting wing. 
 
 This little ring that once was mine, 
 That could such happy scenes unfold, 
 
 He asked that once again might shine 
 Upon the hand he lov'd to hold. 
 
 Enclosed within his letter came 
 
 The little shining gem of gold, 
 Too well I know 'tis just the same 
 
 As when I gave it back so cold. 
 
 o" 
 
 And as I gaze upon it now, 
 
 'Mid blinding tears and vain regret, 
 I feel across my fevered brow. 
 
 Those loving fingers even yet. 
 
 Thy dying wish, dear sainted one, 
 Shall sacred prove to mc at last, 
 
 All ialse allurements now are gone, 
 For me all sinful joys are past. 
 
 I'll wear again thy little ring- 
 In memory of tliy constant love, 
 
 xind live the life that yet shall bring 
 Reunion in those realms above.
 
 100 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 Dedicated to the Rev. Thomas Waugh. 
 
 "Go ye forth into all the world and preach the Gospel to every 
 
 creature." 
 
 Onward, brave soldier, thy Master commands, 
 
 Oo ])reach the glad tidings to earth's darken'd lands. 
 
 Undaunted and fearless respond to the call. 
 
 Go tell the world's millions there's mercy for all. 
 
 Go forth in the Name that hath ever prevail'd, 
 Go trust in the strength that hath never yet fail'd. 
 Pause not, though oft weary, be strong in His might, 
 Who has brought thee in mercy from darkness to light. 
 
 In the darkest, the vilest recesses of sin. 
 There are brothers and sisters, oh, gather them in ; 
 Point the hopeless and ei'ring ones sunk in despair, 
 To tlie (liod wlio despis'd not the ])ublican's prayer. 
 
 Oh, teach not the poor oppress'd child of the sod, 
 Of a dark yawning hell and a terrible God ; 
 But a father of tenderest pitying love. 
 And a possible home with the angels above. 
 
 There are God-given intellects, jewels most rare, 
 There are talents that angels might wish but to share, 
 There are souls that would shine witli a lustre most bright, 
 Could they wake from the slumber of sin's dreary night.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 101 
 
 Be it thine to arouse them with tenderest care, 
 Go win them to God by example and prayer ; 
 Go plead that the talents so graciously lent 
 Henceforth to His honour and glory be spent. 
 
 Go tell the poor heart-broken mourners in sorrow, 
 The tears of to-day shall be gems of to-morrow ; 
 The stream of affection proud death cannot sever. 
 Its rippling wavelets roll onward for ever. 
 
 Go comfort the poor oppress'd toiler and slave, 
 Who longs for the quitit and rest of the grave, 
 "Whose pleadings for justice in scorn have been pass'd. 
 Go tell him his God will deal justly at last. 
 
 Go warn the o|)pressor, tliough great he may be, 
 Go tell him of One who is mightier tliun he, 
 Who hath made of one blood all the children of men ; 
 And ask could he meet Him unblushingly then. 
 
 Oh, thine is a glorious mission indeed. 
 
 And for many such workers the world hath great need ; 
 
 The harvest is waiting, enough and to spare. 
 
 But where are the workers 1 say, echo, oh where ! 
 
 May be there are many, too many I fear. 
 
 Who are handsomely paid by some hundreds a year. 
 
 For reading a sermon or trying to speak. 
 
 And resting their brains all the rest of the week. 
 
 Toil on, noble soldier, thy labour shall tell. 
 
 When death shall demand of thy soul " Is it well ?" 
 
 When the conflict is ended and victory won. 
 
 Heaven's vault shall resound, "Well and faithfully done."
 
 102 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 A MODERN DANIEL. 
 
 [Impromptu after hearing the Rev. R. Catterall.] 
 
 Onward, brave Daniel, true scion of Heaven, 
 Glorious the work that to thee has been given ; 
 Work that shall tell when life's changes are past, 
 And the harvest of souls has been gather'd at last. 
 
 'Tis thine, 'mid the chaos and gloom of the day, 
 To cheer the sin-wearied ones over life's way ; 
 From the darkest and di'eariest regions of sin. 
 Thy mission of love nuist undoubtedly win. 
 
 'Tis thine to unlock the seal'd fountain of tears, 
 And water the grave of some life's wasted years , 
 'Tis thine, when the hopeless one yields to despair. 
 To whisper of solace and comfort in prayer. 
 
 'Tis thine, Avhen the waves of affliction roll nigh. 
 
 And clouds of wild fury sw^ep over life's sky ; 
 
 When the heart, oh ! so weary, would rest 'neath the sod, 
 
 Even then thou canst prove but a mercifiil God. 
 
 When the cold, cruel grave hides the dearest and best, 
 And the breaking heart longs for the same tjuiet rest ; 
 'Tis thine to uplift the dark curtain of time. 
 And show us them still in a happier clime. 
 
 To arouse from its slumbers the guilt-stricken soul. 
 To arrest the mad torrent of sin's feai-fiil roll ; 
 To make the bleak wilderness blossom for heaven. 
 Is tlie grand noble work which thy Father hath given.
 
 THE POETS WBEA TIL 103 
 
 Then on, though the terrors of darkness assail, 
 
 Their forces combined cannot o'er thee prevail ; 
 
 A convoy of angels thy footsteps attend. 
 
 And the God of all worlds is thy Guardian and Friend. 
 
 Then on, though the battle rage fiercely and long. 
 Still on, though thy foes may wax valiant and strong ; 
 Ever on, till heaven's laurels are laid at thy feet. 
 And the angels have ci'owned thee a victor complete. 
 
 HONOUR TO CHllIST. 
 
 "Woe unto you rich for ye have your consohition." — Words of Jesus. 
 
 Oh ! had this good Jesus but lived in our day, 
 "Mid the strife and contention f)f tyranny's sway. 
 Did He know but the struggles of poverty's child, 
 Would He warn the oppressors in language so mild 1 
 
 Would He visit the wealthy in comfort and ease, 
 Surrounded by all that could dazzle and please ? 
 Would He list to their mean and self-righteous protest, 
 That they honoured His Name and were seeking His rest 1 
 
 Would He join in their worship and hark to their prayers, 
 While they thanked the kind Father that heaven was theirs; 
 That of all He had given them, all He had lent, 
 They had rendered Him back a most honest per cent. ?
 
 104 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 Would He gaze on their beautiful mansions so grand, 
 And count up the cost of their well-chosen land 1 
 Would He measure their love by the strength of their gold, 
 And assign them a kingdom of riches untold 1 
 
 Oh, no ! He would gather aroimd Him the mass, 
 Of the poor oppi*essed toilers, the hard working class, 
 Whose pleadings for justice unheeded have passed, 
 To the Great Arbitrator of Heaven at last. 
 
 And gazing around Him in pitying love, 
 At a sight which has moved e'en the angels above, 
 While His tender heart swelled with affection and pain, 
 Those words from His lips would re-echo again. 
 
 And pointing to those who would lal)our for bread, 
 (Jompelled to accept a mere ])ittance instead. 
 He wo\ild ask if an honour to Him it was meant, 
 All this terrible strife and this bitter lament. 
 
 He would ask if His teachings were followed by those 
 Who might have prevented such heartrending woes ; 
 Had they lov'd but their Maker instead of their gold. 
 These tales of privation had never been told. 
 
 No doubt they would answer as many before 
 Have answered, '' Dear Jesus, Thy name we adore ; 
 We give of owe substance Thy cause to uphold. 
 These walls to 'V\\x honom* were built with our gold. 
 
 "We enter Thy temple each Sabbath to pray ; 
 We warn wicked sinners that come in our way ; 
 We thought we had served Thee most faithful and true, 
 And hoped the 'Well done !' had been justly our due."
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 105 
 
 We think we can see, as with righteous disdain, 
 He points to the poor oppressed workers again, 
 And replies with a sadness most touching to see : 
 "Had ye done it to these, ye had done it to Me. 
 
 " 'Tis not the cold glitter of tinsel and dust. 
 That sometime must pass to oblivion's rust. 
 Nor yet the proud meaningless forms that I see, 
 These cannot, and will not, bring glory to Me. 
 
 " 'Tis not in the gift of your gold I delight, 
 More precious by far is the poor widow's mite ; 
 'Tis the soul's true affection unfettered and free. 
 Alone can bring glory and honour to Me. 
 
 "My Father's grand temple fills earth, air, and skies. 
 And nature's rich tributes incessantly rise. 
 While angels re-echo the strains as they roll. 
 Through the beautiful realms of the glorified soul. 
 
 "Yet hei'o among men I had thought to be trvie. 
 From whom i had hoped a rich harvest was due, 
 I find only discord, contention, and stiife. 
 For the gold that shall fade with this uncertain life. 
 
 "Look round on the homes of your toilers and see 
 What painful distress in sonic cases there be. 
 And ask if it answers the Name ye profess. 
 And if tnitli be your motto, that truth ye'll confess. 
 
 "These poor honest workers would willingly toil 
 For that whicli xMy Father sends free to your soil ; 
 So free that for all there is much and to spare ; 
 Then honour your God by accepting their prayer.
 
 106 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 "Let work but be given and labour be paid ; 
 Let honesty's stamp be the mark of your trade ; 
 Let justice and mercy triumphantly reign, 
 And peace and contentment shall bless you again. 
 
 "Oh ! list to their pleadings, and do what is right. 
 And chase from your country this dark weary night ; 
 Do this, and ere long your lov'd England shall see. 
 Ye have honoured your nation and glorified Me. 
 
 "And ye, honest toilers, I here would implore. 
 
 Bear patiently on till the contlict is o'er ; 
 
 Let peace like a halo, encircle your fame, 
 
 And the world shall confess ye have honoured My Name." 
 
 SPIRIT LOVE. 
 
 The day had been one of June's l)rightest and best, 
 And the sun's parting rays yet ilhunined the west. 
 All Nature was hushed in a quiet profound, ' 
 And exquisite grandeur was gathering around. 
 
 'Twas fair as an Eden, yet lovelier still 
 Grew the scene, as ye gazed over valley and hill, 
 'Twas beauty entrancing from cloudlet to stream. 
 As the painter might wish, or the poet might dream. 
 
 Yes, Nature spoke volumes in proof of her God, 
 From the golden tipp'd hills to the daisy deck'd sod. 
 No sceptic would dare have profaned such a scene. 
 By denying the Hand that so lavish had been.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 107 
 
 Yet bright as the scene and surpassingly fair, 
 
 'Twas greatly enhanced by a vision more rare ; 
 
 A picture of innocence, beauty and love. 
 
 Which well might have ranked with the angels above. 
 
 In a secret recess of this beautiful spot, 
 Where the cares of the world might have well been forgot. 
 Or the over-charged heart might have hoped to endure. 
 Its own bitter grief undisturbed and secure. 
 
 Close sheltered and liid from the gaze of the rude. 
 With a sorrow too sacred for such to intrude. 
 Knelt a beautiful maiden, imploring of Heaven, 
 That strength in this hour of her grief might be given. 
 
 'Tis the old bitter tale of a broken young heart, 
 
 Compell'd from earth's fondest and dearest to part, 
 
 A proud father's love for his gold had decreed, 
 
 That her fond trusting heart should thus languish and bleed. 
 
 She had lov'd in her early days wisely and well, 
 With a depth of affection no language can tell, 
 And the now sainted mother had blessed ere she died, 
 The worthy young swain as he knelt by her side. 
 
 But evil days came, and her Edwin was poor. 
 And the proiul father could not such evil endure. 
 So boasting that filial care was his pride, 
 Her prayers and her tears he most firmly denied. 
 
 While one far advanced both in years and in sin. 
 With his gold and his title fain ho})ed he might win 
 ' Her fond loving heart, with her form so divine : 
 Proud dreamer, dream on ; she can never be thine.
 
 108 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 She had asked but for once to meet Edwin again, 
 Tliat meeting was fraught witli much sorrow and pain ; 
 No mortal e'er knew what had passed in that hour, 
 But angels could whisper of love's binding power. 
 
 With his fond widowed mother poor Edwin had gone. 
 From his home and his country to try and live on, 
 But had faded and died on a cold foreign shore, 
 And the poor mother wrote that her son was no more. 
 
 This moi-ning had brought her the tidings of death. 
 And also the words of his last whispered breath ; 
 Tell Laui-a I go to the realms of the fair 
 To watch for her coming and wait for her there. 
 
 She had read these last words till lier eyes had grown dim, 
 Till she felt that her soul was but waiting for him ; 
 She had felt her grejit sorrow too deeply to pray, 
 Till she found her way here at the close of the day. 
 
 Long and earnestly prayed she that God would forgive, 
 Even those who had made it so dreary to live ; 
 While a loving voice whispered tho' faintly yet near, 
 " We shall meet yet again, darling, be of good cheer." 
 
 She rose and was comforted ; darkness was past, 
 Hope's star o'er her soul shone triumphant at last ; 
 She knew and she felt that her sun would yet rise. 
 To shine more resplendent 'neath happier skies. 
 
 Time pass'd, and the father, with mistaken care. 
 Thought it best that his child for her change should prepare, 
 For the wealthy old lover had bought with his gold 
 The hand, but the heart still refused to be sold.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 109 
 
 She had never been asked, she had never said No ! 
 Nor ever consented that this sliould be so ; 
 She had never deceived him, by word or by look, 
 They knew her no more than a sacred sealed book. 
 
 She had smiled never yet since the day she had said, 
 Farewell to the one who now ranked with the dead. 
 But had patiently borne all her trials and care, 
 Since the day she had found such a solace in prayer. 
 
 Yet they marked the slow step once so graceful and light, 
 And the sad dreamy look of those eyes once so bright ; 
 The bloom on lier cheek was fast passing away. 
 Yet they smiled as they spoke of her bridal array. 
 
 For the wealthy old baronet freely had spent 
 His gold for the grand and miich-hoj)ed-for event. 
 And the father, whose pride was now pampered and fed, 
 Never dreamt how the heart of his daughter had bled. 
 
 And thus they went on and the bridal eve came. 
 
 They thought her no worse, but of course much the same ; 
 
 They knew not how slowly yet surely that heart 
 
 With sorrow was breaking, and soon they must part. 
 
 She had begged to retire rather early to rest. 
 And the father had whispered, as fondly he pressed 
 The child who had been his sole comfort in sorrow, 
 " My darling, I hope you'll be better to-mo)-iT)W\" 
 
 She lovingly lingered and held him a while, 
 And back to her beautiful face came the smile, 
 And her look was so earnest he dreamt not of sorrow, 
 As she echoed his words, "I'll be better to-morrow."
 
 110 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 The morrow's sun rose without blemish or blot, 
 They call'd for the bride but she answered them not, 
 They hastened to rouse her, and chide her long sleep. 
 Ah ! well might they tremble, and silently weep. 
 
 They caught the last smile, they saw the last breath, 
 Heard a name fondly breathed 'mid the throbbings of death, 
 That name was the fondest, the dearest and last. 
 And with him her freed spirit now joyously passed. 
 
 Ah ! who will deny that our loved ones are near, 
 Our sorrows to lighten our spirits to cheer, 
 Oh ! who would not wish when this earth-life is past. 
 Like Laura, to meet with the loved ones at last 1 
 
 RICH AND POOR. 
 
 (Suggested by the Cotton Strike.) 
 
 " Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor. 
 
 Earth held not in all her proud palaces one 
 Who more for the poor of his country had done 
 Than He who thus answer'd the urgent request 
 Of one who most earnestly sought to be blest. 
 
 No doubt he had waited for many a day. 
 Intending, if Jesus should pass in his way. 
 To pray the Great Teacher more plainly to state 
 How he Vjcst might secure an eternal estate.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. Ill 
 
 Most anxious, indeed, the young nobleman felt, 
 As earth's Master approached — for before Him he knelt, 
 And in touching humility oflfer'd his prayer, 
 Regardless of all save that Jesus was there. 
 
 He pleads that from youth he has kept the commands — 
 Hear this ye that boast of your houses and lands — 
 He led a life equal to many of you. 
 And yet he inquired what more he could do. 
 
 The Saviour looked on him with pitying love, 
 As He read him his claim to the mansions above ; 
 One sin yet remained — he must leave even this — 
 Ere the bliss that he sighed for could ever be his. 
 
 He must part from his gold — he had lov'd it too well ; 
 This last darling idol He bids him expel ; 
 'Twas a snare to this rich one — the poor it might save, 
 For want opens many a premature grave. 
 
 He offers him treasures that pass not away 
 In exchange for the dross He has doom'd to decay ; 
 In tenderest pity implores him to choose — 
 Will he wisely accept it or madly refuse ? 
 
 One moment of thrilling suspense, then he cast 
 One look at his Saviour, his fondest and last ; 
 Then slowly and sadly he passed on his way — 
 We shall meet him no more till the last final day. 
 
 We may hear of him then ; it might be that at last, 
 When the charm of his riches for ever had pass'd ; 
 When wealtli offered nothing his peace to restore, 
 The reign of his golden god then might be o'er.
 
 112 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 How many like him, wliose possessions are great, 
 Run the same fearful risk of his uncertain fate 1 
 How many who, but for this one fatal sin, 
 Need fear not, or fail, heaven's treasures to win ? 
 
 Can those who are seeking the poor to op23ress 
 
 Ever hope that this Saviour their efforts will bless ? 
 
 Do they fondly imagine their gold will prevail 
 
 'Gainst the honest man's prayer or his children's sad wail ? 
 
 Oh ! ye who have power for good or for ill. 
 Remember the aching hearts waiting your will ; 
 Forget not that He who hath bless'd you in store 
 Hath also commanded, " Deal well with the poor." 
 
 Yet thousands are wanting the bread ye can give 
 In return for the labour by which they must live ; 
 In mercy then save from this direst of ills — 
 Cheer the heart of your country and open your mills. 
 
 They ask but their right, and ye know it is true ; 
 Your Bible instructs you to pay what is due ; 
 Ye reap a rich harvest from their honest gains, 
 Then why seek to force them in fetters and chains 
 
 To work at your bid, at the price ye would give 1 
 On which in most cases they could not well live ; 
 Many barely exist, ye could not call it life, 
 And yet ye would strengthen this ruinous strife. 
 
 Hard enough is the life of a poor working man, 
 Who day after day must toil hard as he can, 
 Whose nights find him wearied in body and brain, 
 Till nature exhausted sinks under the strain.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 113 
 
 And yet ye would take from this overworked man 
 A part of his hardly-earned wages, and plan 
 How best to compel him your vile ends to meet — 
 Starvation must bring him in chains to you feet. 
 
 Oh ! Englishmen, blight not your country's fair fame, 
 Prove yourselves truly worthy of England's prcnid name ; 
 Delay not, but hasten your people to save, 
 Or many ere long will find rest in the grave. 
 
 For fathers arc sinking, they'll soon pass away. 
 And mothers are leaving us day after day. 
 While innocent children are pining for bread — 
 How can you withold it and raise your proud head 1 
 
 Ye suffering workers, still patiently wait, 
 
 There arc hearts tiiat mourn deeply your undcrscrvcd fate ; 
 
 Suffer peacefully on, oh ! raise not a hand 
 
 'Gainst those who have wrought this distress in our land. 
 
 Ye have honour'd your name, oh ! stain it not now, 
 Not long 'ncath the yoke of oppression ye'll bow ; 
 Not long shall they trample you under their feet — 
 Remember they, too, have a judgment to meet. 
 
 Then plead your sad case at the bar of that One, 
 Who ordered that justice and right should be done ; 
 Then when this and all future struggles are o'er, 
 'Twill add to your bliss that on earth ye were poor.
 
 114 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM.— WM. BURY, ESQ. 
 " Nay, Death, they are not thine." 
 
 They are not thine, prond cruel death, 
 Those lov'd ones gone from earth ; 
 
 Not thine the sonl's diviner breath, 
 Not thine that holier birth. 
 
 The pui'e and sacred flame of love, 
 That spark of life divine ; 
 
 Tlie theme of angel songs above 
 Can never, death, be thine. 
 
 The seci'et, hidden force of life. 
 It were Tiot thine to sever ; 
 
 Beyond these shades of mortal strife, 
 Its waves roll on for ever. 
 
 Not thine the wondrous mystic power 
 
 That renders life so fair. 
 That brightens earth's dark weary hour, 
 
 And lightens every care. 
 
 Not thine the hope and dream of yeai's, 
 From waiting hearts to sever ; 
 
 Beyond the tide of human tears 
 They'll meet again for ever. 
 
 The fondly lov'd, to memory dear. 
 That round our hearts entwine. 
 
 Though vacant now their places here, 
 Still, death, they are not thine.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 115 
 
 We see beyond thy frowning tide 
 
 A Avorld of beauty rare, 
 And they who once on earth have died 
 
 Still smile upon us there. 
 
 We hear across thy stormy swell, 
 
 From that immortal shore, 
 The glad re-echo, " All is well ! 
 
 We live for evermore." 
 
 Yes, death, they live on happier plains, 
 
 Those geins of life divine ; 
 And while a God eternal reigns, 
 
 They never can be thine. 
 
 .JEALOUSY. 
 
 AN IMPROMPTU. 
 
 Beware, beware ! of this dangerous sin, 
 
 Give it never a place in your heart ; 
 Check at once and for ever, if peace ye would win. 
 
 Its fatal and poisonous dart. 
 
 More homes have been wreck'd than our records have shown 
 
 ?,y its liateful and treacherous wile ; 
 More hopes have been bliglited, more discord been sown. 
 
 More hearts turned from virtue to guile.
 
 116 THE POET'S WREATH. 
 
 It has severed the fondest, the dearest of ties, 
 
 And blasted much innocent fame ; 
 Stained many a soul with sin's deepest dyes, 
 
 Brought ruin to many a proud name. 
 
 Our prisons have held many fondly lov'd sons, 
 Yea, and daughters once owned with much pride, 
 
 Who, but for the poison that jealousy runs. 
 Had never thus languished and died. 
 
 Many aged and trembling, with none to protect. 
 
 Dishonoured have passed to the grave ; 
 While the young and the lovely have often been wrecked, 
 
 Overwhelm'd by the same cruel wave. 
 
 Oh ! the tears and the sighs, and the heartrending cries. 
 That oin- winds have borne on in their sweep : 
 
 Methinks coidd they pierce the celestial skies, 
 That for once even angels might weep. 
 
 Then shun, brother mortal, this ruinous sin. 
 Turn the dark loathsome foe from thy heart ; 
 
 Check at once and for ever its tiniest spring. 
 Ere thou fall by its venomous dart.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 117 
 
 A CONTRAST. 
 
 The New York "Sun" estimates that there are 10,000 working 
 women receiving wages so low that they must embrace vice, apply for 
 charity, or starve. A.nd yet, one church society is erecting a catliedral 
 to cost .$7,000,000. The Rev. Dr. Dix, pastor of Trinity Churcl), 
 receives .$20,000 per year for preaching the gospel. 
 
 What Gospel I should like to know 
 
 Can Dr. Dix be preaching ; 
 Is all this pomp and gilded show, 
 
 The outcome of his teaching. 
 Does he believe a costly wall 
 
 Of architectural beauty ; 
 Will please the Father, God of all, 
 
 Instead of saintly duty. 
 
 Suppose we take this man of pride, 
 
 This richly-portioned preacher ; 
 And place him f<jr awhile beside 
 
 The Galilean teacher. 
 Minutely scan the lives of each 
 
 Ye honest-hearted sages, 
 Compare the principles they teach, 
 
 And then compare the wages. 
 
 One teaches from the mountain's brow, 
 
 'Mid nature's lovely dells ; 
 In fields were golden corn sheaves bow, 
 
 And by the wayside wells. 
 Sometimes upon the angry wave. 
 
 While thunders crash around ; 
 And sometimes by the silent grave, 
 
 This Man of God is found.
 
 118 THE POET'S WREATH. 
 
 The other 'neath a costly dome, 
 
 Of grand artistic beauty, 
 Wlierc scarce the poor ill-clad may roam, 
 
 To breathe their vows of duty. 
 With sheltered head and cushioned tread, 
 
 And fashion's glare around him. 
 Where wealth's proud idol rears her head, 
 
 There e;olden coils have bound him. 
 
 The gentle Galilean knew 
 
 The want of home and bread ; 
 And often when the night winds blew 
 
 Could nowhere lay His head. 
 Night's shades have often o'er Him furl'd 
 
 When bow'd in bitter sorrow. 
 And yet a faithless, cruel world. 
 
 He blessed on each to-morrow. 
 
 The other flattered, pampered, fed, 
 
 Dwells in a lordly hall ; 
 On downy pillow rests his head, 
 
 While wealth presides o'er all. 
 Xo weary footsteps mark his way, 
 
 Night's dews fall not on him. 
 But comforts flow from day to day, 
 
 In plenteous streams for him. 
 
 Poor Jesus always might be found 
 
 Amongst the poor and lowly ; 
 No matter by what fetters bound, 
 
 Degraded or unholy. 
 He never shunned the fevered bed, 
 
 Or passed the house of sorrow : 
 But l)y His sainty lustre shed 
 
 Gems of a happier morrow.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 119 
 
 The other takes the higher ground, 
 
 Where fashion's lead is strongest ; 
 Where sumptuous ease is ever found, 
 
 There will he tarry longest. 
 But when the pestilential fear 
 
 Is raging far and wide. 
 When death and danger lurketh near. 
 
 He kindly steps aside. 
 
 1 wonder has the Doctor taught 
 
 Those lessons from the mountain ; 
 The richest, purest, gems of thought 
 
 From inspiration's fountain : 
 Or does he to his hearers show 
 
 Their duty to their neighbour, 
 Or brand the sin of those who go 
 
 And trample honest labour. 
 
 The Gospel Jesus gave the world 
 
 Centres in one grand duty ; 
 Which practised by Himself unfurl'd 
 
 A life of rarest beauty. 
 The golden rule if taught to-day. 
 
 With such examples leading, 
 Would i)rove one great redeeming ray 
 
 This darkened world is needing. 
 
 Would God this ray of Gospel light 
 
 Might break into a flame ; 
 And chase this dark Egyptian night 
 
 Which wrai)s the world in shame. 
 Would heaven some mighty force might shake 
 
 Those shepherds of the fold. 
 And bid them from their slumbers wake. 
 
 And break their gods of gold.
 
 120 THE POETS WREAIH. 
 
 But stay my muse, that day is nigh, 
 
 'Tis even in the dawn, 
 Humanity's desj)airing cry 
 
 Has reached the eternal throne. 
 And back has come a mighty wave, 
 
 Which sweeps from cloud to sod, 
 Destined this ruined world to save. 
 
 And give it back to (iod. 
 
 Not long shall trampled women slave 
 
 In sin and shame and sorrow ; 
 The grand redress for which they crave 
 
 Comes with that brighter morrow. 
 Not long the starving child of earth. 
 
 Shall plead l)ut to be fed ; 
 That God who gave the creature birth, 
 
 Gave also honest bread. 
 
 Oppression's reign is nearly run. 
 
 It's harvest nearly past, 
 The hidden Gospel's welcome sun 
 
 Will flood the earth at last. 
 And 'neath those fertilizing rays. 
 
 Shall blossom lives of beauty ; 
 While brighter, happier, holier days. 
 
 Reward their honest duty. 
 
 Hail then, ye noble-hearted crew, 
 
 Ye workers in the shuns ; 
 From worlds beyond where all is true, 
 
 Your inspiration comes. 
 On, in the cause of truth and right, 
 
 On, for ye cannot fail : 
 Still on, for 'gainst this evil night 
 
 Ye must and shall prevail.
 
 THE POETS WREA TH. 121 
 
 "SHE'S ONLY GONE TO SLEEP." 
 DEDICATED TO FRED. 
 
 Yes, baby, sister's gone to sleep, 
 
 Eartli cannot wake her, never ; 
 Where angel children cease to weejj, 
 
 She's gone to dwell for ever. 
 
 Pain cannot reach thy sister there, 
 
 No wrong can mar her beauty ; 
 Taught by the angels ever fair, 
 
 She'll learn an angel's duty. 
 
 They'll teach her gentle unstain'd soul 
 
 The love that bears for ever ; 
 And long as earthly years may roll. 
 
 She will forget thee never. 
 
 Soon will her tender soul o'erflow 
 ^V'ith love for human kind ; 
 
 And will she not that love bestow- 
 On those she left behind ? 
 
 Yes, Fred, my boy, that angel child, 
 
 By heavenly guidance fitted ; 
 May lead thy steps througli earth's dark wild, 
 
 By ruling love permitted. 
 
 Should length of years be thine below, 
 
 'J'o brave life's stormy ocean ; 
 Oh, be it thine to trust and .show 
 
 A beautiful devotion.
 
 122 THE POETS WREA TH 
 
 Be thine a noble trne resolve, 
 
 To so fulfil life's duty ; 
 That long as endless years revolve, 
 
 Thy soul may gi'ow in beauty. 
 
 Thus baby sister's earthly sleep 
 Though now a bitter sorrow ; 
 
 May bring to those who mourn and weep 
 A fair and bright to-morrow. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 IMPROMPTU POEM WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF 
 ALEXANDER HARGREAVES. 
 
 "The young and the beautiful die." 
 
 In the bloom of 3'outh and beauty, 
 
 In the sweet springtide of life, 
 From the post of honoured duty, 
 
 Called to leave earth's weary strife. 
 
 Ere the cares of life could meet him, 
 
 Or his soul with sorrow bend, 
 Angel friends with pleasure greet him. 
 
 To the joys which ne'er shall end.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 123 
 
 Ere liis tender heart could sorrow, 
 
 O'er the cold world's bitter chill, 
 Heaven's eternal bright to-morrow, 
 
 Fills his sonl with pleasure still. 
 
 Ere affliction long had known him 
 
 Ere his soul could weary be, 
 God's most tender love is shown him. 
 
 He from future ills is free. 
 
 Happy youth, thy life in heaven. 
 
 Purer, brighter, still shall grow. 
 To thy noble soul is given, 
 
 Heights of rapture yet to know. 
 
 May one sunny ray of gladness. 
 
 From thy soothing presence near. 
 Reach the hearts that yet in sadness, 
 
 Mourn because thou art not here. 
 
 May the mother who caressed thee, 
 
 And the weej)ing ones so dear. 
 Know that (iod wlio thus hath blessed thee, 
 
 Soon will chase their cverv tear. 
 
 May the love that ever bound thee. 
 
 Like a halo circle o'er, 
 Till again the lov'd have found thee. 
 
 On the bright eternal shore.
 
 124 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 THE MUSE. 
 
 [On the Twenty-third of St. Matthew.] 
 
 Wearily pondering over the past, 
 
 So laden with sorrow and care, 
 With every vestige of sky overcast. 
 
 And a fast-yielding sense of despair. 
 
 Weary of weeping the dreary long day, 
 And dreading each long weary night. 
 
 And weary of watching through life's gloomy way, 
 For only one glimmer of light. 
 
 Weary of pity from those who might save 
 
 From gathering darkness around, 
 If only the tide of humanity's wave. 
 
 In their cold selfish hearts could be found. 
 
 Weary, yes, Aveary of life and its care. 
 
 And tired of earth's bitter scorn ; 
 Oh ! Why in a world so entrancingly fair 
 
 Should wrong and oppression be borne ? 
 
 Why should the poor toiler petition and pray 
 That justice and right should be given 1 
 
 Can the gold-loving Christian tyrant to-day 
 Believe in the justice of heaven ? 
 
 Sure not, or the w^ords of his Savour woidd teach 
 
 His cold selfish heart to relent ; 
 For does He not judgments most terrible preach 
 
 'Gainst those on such tyranny bent 1
 
 TEE POETS WREATH. 125 
 
 Does he not, in His anger, denounce those who pray 
 And boast of the tithes they have given ; 
 
 Who tell Him how much they have paid, by the way, 
 To open the kingdom of heaven 1 
 
 Does He bless the oppressors who burden the poor 
 
 With sorrows they cannot well bear , 
 And answer most readily certain and sure, 
 
 Their long hypocritical prayer. 
 
 Or, does He not rather condemn them in wrath. 
 
 If his terrible language must tell ; 
 And point out the end of their gold-laden path 
 
 And show their tyrannical hell 1 
 
 Poor, crucified Jesus ! Thy time-honoured name, 
 
 They stain and dishonour it yet ; 
 Thy beautiful life and Thy glori(Jus fame. 
 
 In the worship of self they forget. 
 
 The whited sepulchres are fair to behold 
 Though filled with contention and pride ; 
 
 And many still worship the image of gold, 
 While preaching the Saviour who died. 
 
 Much evil is done in Thy glorious name, 
 
 And done by Thy worship] )ers too ; 
 They put Thee again to Thy once open shame. 
 
 Then boast that they honour Thee true. 
 
 Dear Jesus, if still Thou hast power to defend 
 
 The down-trodden poor of our land, 
 We pray Thee a c(nivoy of angels to send, 
 
 And free us from tyranny's band.
 
 1-26 THE POET'S WREATH. 
 
 lledeem Tliy fair name from tlie dark dreary stain ; 
 
 Which has dimni'd its bright lustre too long ; 
 Unveil Thy illustrious self once again, 
 
 And chase from our midst this deep wrong. 
 
 Bring down all this arrogance, pride, and deceit, 
 
 Restore Thy lost beautiful life ; 
 Let Christian honour and honest}^ meet. 
 
 And end this un-Christian strife. 
 
 Oh ! Then shall Thy name, like the sun in our sphere, 
 
 Shed a halo o'er life's darkened way, 
 And lead through the gloom of our pilgrimage here, 
 
 To the realms of a glorious day. 
 
 I N .M E :\1 O U I A M . 
 Mrs. John Bury. 
 
 Friend after friend departs ; 
 Who has not lost a friend 1 
 
 Another fi-iend has left me, 
 Long trusted, tried, and true. 
 But one whose noble virtues 
 Were known to but a few ; 
 Yet 'mongst that favour'd number. 
 Through all life's changing scene, 
 To me unchanging ever 
 That faithful heart has l)eeu.
 
 THE POET'S WREATH. 127 
 
 Not in life's sunny morning, 
 when, like a poet's dream, 
 With golden skies above me, 
 Life seem'd one beauteous stream ; 
 But when those skies have darkeu'd, 
 And tempests gather'd round, 
 True as the stars of heaven. 
 That friend was ever found. 
 
 When summer friends have left me. 
 To bear the gloom alone. 
 When cruel slight and coldness 
 My tortur'd heart has known ; 
 When hope had well-nigh left me. 
 And faith's bright star had paled — 
 In nature's darkest sori'ow 
 Her friendship never fail'd. 
 
 And now, with earth-life ended, 
 Its cares for ever past, 
 The sweet reward of harvest 
 Is her's to reap at last. 
 Each earthly deed of kindness, 
 Each genei'ous loving thought. 
 Each faithful act of duty. 
 With richest fruit is fraught. 
 
 Farewell, old friend, I mourn not 
 Thy glad release from earth, 
 While angels bid thee welcome, 
 Thou child of happier birth. 
 Thou well hast won thy laurels, 
 And nobly earn'd thy rest ; 
 Then take the joys before thee, 
 And r;uik among the blest.
 
 128 THE POETS WREAIH. 
 
 'Tis not for long I'll miss thee, 
 The time for me will come, 
 When, like some wearied pilgrim, 
 I'll reach my spirit's home. 
 Home ! Let me close my farewell 
 With that word on my ear, 
 it wakes a thousand echoes 
 From lov'd ones — over there. 
 
 ONLY A PAUPER. 
 
 She had walked from the refuge, a weary two mile. 
 And was leaning for rest on the old broken stile. 
 Where in happier days she had lingered with one 
 Who had long from the world and its sorrows been gone. 
 
 From the dearly lov'd spot she could look on the scene 
 Where the gambols and play of her girlhood had been, 
 Where the lov'd and the loving had wandered so free. 
 Ever dreaming how blissful their future should be. 
 
 While gazing around her in sorrow and pain, 
 The tide of the past seemed to roll back again ; 
 And the veil that had gathered in sorrow's dark hour 
 (rive way 'neath the spell of some mystical power.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 129 
 
 Fond memory awoke from the sleep of long years. 
 And opened the fount of her long pent-up tears ; 
 And as visions of beauty and happiness passed, 
 The heart's deepest waters were troubled at last. 
 
 Long and sadly she wept as the lovely scenes fled, 
 As she gazed on the forms of her long-hidden dead, 
 While echoing back on the tide as it fell, 
 Came the voices of loved ones remembered so well. 
 
 Ah ! this is an hour when life is but weak, 
 
 When the slightest rude touch will the tender strings break ; 
 
 When the heart, now already too full to endure, 
 
 Needs little indeed its last throb to ensure. 
 
 While the poor aged mourner, thus sorely in need. 
 Sat silently waiting for strength to proceed, 
 A lady approached her, adorned xvitli nnich pride, 
 While a sweet little girl skipped along by her side. 
 
 The child's tender nature, unchill'd by the world. 
 Would there a most beautiful trait have unfurled. 
 But the world-fashioned mamma stoojj'd gently to say, 
 " She's only a pauper ! My darling, don't stay." 
 
 The old lady heard them, but none would have thought 
 Of the deep, subtle mischief those idle words wrought; 
 Such words are most cutting, most cruel, and sore. 
 Did we know but their power, we should breathe them no 
 more. 
 
 Time sped, and the poor, weary pilgrim was bid 
 At the litnise of a friend, where a visit she'd paid; 
 Prostrated with weakness, o'ercomc witli distress. 
 But praying that heaven their kindness would bless.
 
 130 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 As matters grew worse, and her illness increased, 
 
 A medical man was entreated at least 
 
 To visit her once and pronounce on her state. 
 
 But he answered with scorn that "A pauper nmst wait." 
 
 He had those on his hands whose lives were worth saviiiir, 
 And Lady Van Dell for her child was now craving ; 
 And offered much gold could he save her this sorrow, 
 The pauper must surely then wait for the morrow. 
 
 The morrow came round, and the doctor was there, 
 
 But the pauper was far from his kindness and care ; 
 
 She had died just an hour before, whispering, " They come! 
 
 The angels of glory, to welcome me home.'' 
 
 A fair little form had been laid down to rest 
 'Mid the dark gloomy splendour of all that was best. 
 But the poor bereaved mother could turn not away 
 From the spot where her only, her darling one lay. 
 
 She was lingering still when another slow tread 
 Impell'd her to raise her proud, beautiful head ; 
 'Twas the Lady Van Dell who now piteously cried, 
 "Would God, like the pauper, I too had but died!" 
 
 Strange meeting! The same little darling we saw, 
 Whose mamma forbade her a kindness to show 
 To a poor honest pauper in nature's dark hour — 
 " Oh ! Death, thou art mighty, we own to thy power."
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 131 
 
 " The wealthy can never compel thee to wait, 
 Or urge thee to spare them this one common fate ; 
 Their'g-old cannot tempt thee themselves to pass by, 
 Or they only would live, and the paupers would die. 
 
 " But, in the beyond, where distinctions are not, 
 
 Where names shall be rid of this dark, loathsome blot, 
 
 Our paupers shall wander, unfettered and free, 
 
 And the badge that has marked them shall perish with thee." 
 
 IN MEMORIAM.— EDWIN WAUGH. 
 
 " Death is the mightier second birth, 
 The unveiling uf the soul.'" 
 
 All liail I emancipated soul, 
 
 Well ended thy probation. 
 Not now shall earth's discordant i-oU 
 
 Impede thy inspiration. 
 
 For clearer, sweeter, richer far. 
 
 Where kindred souls are dwelling ; 
 
 Where briglitly gleams thy rising star, 
 Thy music still is swelling. 
 
 There in that holier, happier sphere, 
 Where earth's great [wets gather ; 
 
 Tliy soul shall eouiprehend more clear 
 The great eternal Father.
 
 132 THE POET'S WREATH. 
 
 There after all earth's weary round, 
 The toil and care and weeping ; 
 
 There bloometh on celestial ground 
 An harvest worth thy reaping. 
 
 We speak of death as though, alas ! 
 ^ "Twere nought but gloom and sorrow ; 
 P'orgetting 'tis the only pass 
 To that unclouded morrow. 
 
 Be thine the task, thou master mind. 
 
 By purer inspiration, 
 To teach earth's wearied how to find 
 
 The surest consolation. 
 
 In honour of thy glorious birth. 
 The light now thine, bestow it ; 
 
 In memory of thy life on earth. 
 Inspire some humbler poet. 
 
 'Twas thine whilst here to chase away 
 The gloom of sin and sorrow ; 
 
 And point beyond earth's darkening day 
 To God's eternal morrow. 
 
 So be it still ; lead on, till we 
 
 Like thee shall cross death's river ; 
 
 Till earth-life jjass and then with thee 
 We'll meet, and meet for ever.
 
 THE POETS WREA TIL 133 
 
 REMEMBER THE POOR. 
 
 The night was a bitter one, piercing and cold, 
 Just the night when stern poverty's pages unfold, 
 When the rich may rejoice o'er their coffers well tilled, 
 While the poor in their homes are half frozen and chilled. 
 
 When forth from her cosy warm home with delight, 
 Out in the cold went the lovely Miss Bright, 
 Bent on a mission of mercy aud love. 
 Which sure would have honoured an angel above. 
 
 Her father had long been the pastor and friend 
 Of a neat little village not far from Lane End, 
 Where two years before he had laid down to rest 
 The dear little wife who had made his home blest. 
 
 But yet slie had left liim this daughter most fair, 
 And lovingly charged her his labour to share. 
 With strictest injunctions the poor to befriend, 
 Whose comfort and welfare had been her sole end. 
 
 And faithfully had she fulfilled the request. 
 
 In the hearts she had gladdened aud liomes she had blest; 
 
 Not only wise counsels of love did she give. 
 
 But in teaching them how she had helped them to live. 
 
 Each Christmas she spent in distributing free 
 
 To the comfort of those not so favoured as she. 
 
 And hearts had been turned from eai'th's darkness to light, 
 
 Through the unselfish care of the noble Miss Bright.
 
 134 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 And this was tlie night wlieu hor visits fell due, 
 Besides slie liad promised to call for Miss Frew, 
 Who long- had protested no good could she see 
 In visiting paupers and taking them tea. 
 
 So with basket well laden with all she required 
 She boldly step'd forward, nor fainted nor tired, 
 Till she and her friend entered Wellington Court, 
 Where liv'd just a few of the better poor sort. 
 
 The first call they made was on poor Widow Lee, 
 Witli her invalid son sitting snugly at tea, 
 In a home which for neatness and cleanliness too. 
 Pleased the eye of the aristocratic Miss Frew. 
 
 When greetings were passed and the visitors sat. 
 It was jjleasing to listen to Mrs. Lee's chat, 
 As she briefly recoinited the kindness of those 
 Whose generous spirit had lessened her woes. 
 
 " And really, Miss Bright," said the widow with joy, 
 
 " I have cause to rejoice for tlie sake of my boy, 
 
 The only one left to a mother's fond heart ; 
 
 How I shrank from the thought that perhaps we might part. 
 
 But the doctor declares now the fever's quite gone, 
 He'll soon lie again my stout little John, 
 Then I shall rejoicingly lift \\\> my head. 
 And once more be able to earn my own bread. 
 
 They relieved Widow Lee, and with many more thanks 
 She bade them " good-bye," and they called on Miss Banks, 
 A poor aged cripple who liv'd quite alone, 
 But whose Martyr-like patience Miss Bright had long known.
 
 THE POETS WREA TH. 135 
 
 They surprised the old dame in the midst of a song;, 
 As with one stick in liand she was hobbling along, 
 And i)utting to rights a few things by the way, 
 For Miss Banks had received many presents that day. 
 
 And well might she sing for her bread it was sure. 
 And for some time at least she could not be called poor ; 
 So bidding: Miss Bright and her friend take a seat, 
 She spread out before them her wonderful treat. 
 
 There was butter and sugar, and bread liy the pound, 
 With a nice pot of jam — how it made her heart bound — 
 Such luxuries had not been always her fare, 
 She felt quite as proud as if wife of the mayoi*. 
 
 "And besides this, Miss Bright," said she, <piickly as 
 
 thoiight, 
 " Quite a good stock of coal T had this morning brought, 
 I shall live like a princess, of that 1 am sure, 
 Heaven's blessings on those who are kind to the poor." 
 
 She rambled and chatted, and talked with such power. 
 Miss Bright and her friend never thought of the hour. 
 Till the faithful old clock struck the time on his boll, 
 Then they bade her "good night," and wished her (piite 
 well. 
 
 One or two houses more and their work was well done. 
 Their basket was emptied, their ])leasure well won ; 
 And Miss Frew was con(picred and v(>ntured to say, 
 More real enjoyment was gained in this way.
 
 136 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 Since then she has laboured, incessantly too, 
 And many are blessing the name of Miss Frew, 
 Who thinks it no longer beneath her to be 
 Seen visiting paupers and^taking them tea. 
 
 Many more have since joined them and find themselves blest, 
 In visiting those who are sorely distrest, 
 Though in creed they may vary of this we are sure, 
 They lend but to God what they give to the poor. 
 
 IN MEMOPJAM.— MRS. NEWELL. 
 
 " There is no death." 
 
 It is not death, oh no not death, 
 
 'Tis but another stage of life ; 
 'Tis but the yielding mortal breath, 
 
 The end of earth's sad weary strife. 
 One step towards the grand ascent, 
 
 One scene in life's great drama past. 
 The soul on progress ever bent, 
 
 Has pass'd the bounds of eartli at last. 
 It is not death. 
 Oh no not death.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 137 
 
 With death we claim no kith or kin, 
 
 We know the God-like spark within 
 Howe'er the tide of life may turn, 
 
 Shall ever round its centre burn. 
 And though obscured by shadows here, 
 
 The light from some more perfect sphere 
 Shall guide its feeble flickering glow 
 
 Safe through the shades of earth's deep woe. 
 It is not death, 
 Oh no not death. 
 
 To death we give the mortal form, 
 
 In which this earthly stage is run ; 
 While far beyond earth's wildest storm, 
 
 A better life is just begun. 
 Where under more congenial skies, 
 
 We live and love for cvei'more. 
 And taught by purer souls we rise 
 
 To higher glories still before. 
 It is not death. 
 Oh no not death. 
 
 Did we believe our loved and dear. 
 
 With whom we held sweet converse here. 
 Had left our hearth and homes below, 
 
 And pass'd to endless joy or woe. 
 And we this mortal life must wait, 
 
 To know their dark or happy fate ; 
 While loving hearts in anguish bleed, 
 
 Oh tliis were cruel death indeed. 
 Yes this were death, 
 And death indeed.
 
 138 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 IN MEMOPJAM. 
 Albert Dobson. — Over Theiie. 
 
 'Tis in truth a world of sorrow, 
 
 Though so beautiful and fair • 
 Smiles to-day, maybe to-morrow 
 
 Tears of bitter grief or care. 
 But a world of richer beauty 
 
 Opens to our faith and prayer ; 
 Home of angel-love and duty, 
 
 Waits for each one — over there. 
 
 Here our heart's best love has centred 
 
 On some darling one most near ; 
 Death our peaceful home has entered, 
 
 Taking just that one so dear. 
 But beyond the grave's dark portal, 
 
 Where we laid the casket fair, 
 Blooms the gem of life immortal, 
 
 Lives our lov'd one — over thei'e. 
 
 Here we meet but meet to sever, 
 
 Friends are passing fast away ; 
 One by one they're gone for ever. 
 
 Leaving blanks by life's dull way. 
 But we see them as they gather 
 
 One by one in realms more fair, 
 Children of one happy Fathei", 
 
 In His mansions — over there. 
 
 Here we kneel around one altar. 
 
 Seeking guidance through life's day ; 
 
 And our spirits often falter 
 
 O'er earth's rough and toilsome way.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 13& 
 
 But when prayers and tears are ended, 
 
 And our spirits free from care, 
 We shall find all have but tended 
 
 To our rapture — over thei'e. 
 
 Rouse, ye mourners, from your sorrow, 
 
 Look beyond these shades of earth. 
 And behold that holier morrow. 
 
 Where your loving one has birth. 
 Enter those celestial portals, 
 
 Open to your faith and prayer; 
 Search among those bright immortals. 
 
 Ye shall find him — over there. 
 
 IN MEM OR 1AM. 
 
 ALICE HIGHAM. 
 " For ever with the Lord." 
 
 For ever, for ever, at rest with her (iod. 
 Away from this earth's dreary night. 
 
 Not under the cold, cheerless, pitiless sod, 
 But away to the regions of light. 
 
 For ever at rest with the lov'd who had jDassed, 
 From her sight by this life's darkened way, 
 
 IJut the darkness is chased from her spirit at last, 
 By the light of God's glorious day.
 
 140 THE POETS WREA TH. 
 
 For ever at rest from affliction and pain, 
 Where sorrows may never moi'e roll, 
 
 To the harvest of love she had liv'd to attain. 
 In the beautiful home of the soul. 
 
 For ever at rest from the world and its cares. 
 Where many now pray but to be 
 
 In the land of her earliest — holiest prayers. 
 Blest spirit, why weep we for thee 1 
 
 For ever beyond thee, proud Death, is that soul, 
 Thy conquests belong but to earth, 
 
 Thy merciless waves arc forbidden to roll 
 On the shores of that holier birth. 
 
 For ever with angels, whose guardian care 
 
 Shall ever lead upward and on. 
 To scenes more enti'ancing, more wondrously rare. 
 
 While still higher beauties roll on. 
 
 For ever with Jesus, whose Name she professed, 
 
 Whose beautiful life was her guide, 
 Who called the tried Spirit so early to rest, 
 
 Away from this earth's chilling tide. 
 
 For ever, dear sainted oiie, we too, would pray, 
 
 May we be thus gloriously blest. 
 May we, when our Spirits have left the cold clay. 
 
 Have earned the same heaven's sweet rest.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 141 
 
 HYMN ON THE DEATH OF ELI HIGHAM, JUNIOR. 
 
 Tune — " Shall we meet beyond the river.'' 
 
 We shall meet beyond the river, 
 
 When these sad farewells are o'er ; 
 We shall join the lov'd for ever, 
 
 On a brighter, fairer shore. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 We shall meet, we shall meet, 
 
 We shall meet and love for ever ; 
 
 We shall meet and love for ever, 
 When these sad farewells are o'er. 
 
 We shall know why all this sorrow, — 
 
 All this darkness by the way ; 
 And before that bright to-morrow. 
 
 All these clouds shall pass away. 
 
 We shall meet, &c. 
 
 Here are breaking hearts aro\ind us. 
 Funeral's dark and solemn shade ; 
 
 And bright loving forms that bound us. 
 In the earth's cold arms are laid. 
 
 We shall meet, itc. 
 
 Many brave and noble hearted. 
 
 Whom we could not choose to spare. 
 
 Have like sunny dreams departed. 
 Leaving life less bright and fair. 
 
 We shall meet, &c.
 
 142 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 Not the aged, worn and weary, 
 Who for death would gladly jjray, 
 
 But the young, the bright and cheery, 
 These the soonest pass away. 
 
 We shall meet, kc. 
 
 Noble brother, thovigh we mourn thee, 
 
 And thy genial presence miss. 
 Angel hands with gems adorn thee, 
 
 In that sunny land of bliss. 
 
 We shall meet, *fec. 
 
 Though thy voice no longer soundeth 
 In the songs we sing with tears, 
 
 Yet thy soul's rich joy aboundeth 
 In the music of the spheres. 
 
 We shall meet, &c. 
 
 Weary mourners, cease your sorrow. 
 Look beyond death's dreary tide ; 
 
 Safe in Heaven's bright to-morrow. 
 Lives your loving one that died. 
 
 We shall meet, &c. 
 
 Yes we'll meet, and meet for ever. 
 
 On a brighter, fairer shore, 
 Where not even death can sever. 
 
 And farewells shall all be o'er. 
 
 We shall meet, &c.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 143 
 
 A VOICE FROM BEYOND. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF THE LATE MR. DAVID ORMEROD. 
 
 " In Heaven above, where all is love, 
 Ther'll be no more sorrow there." 
 
 No sorrows we know in these realms of delight, 
 
 No grief ever darkens our home, 
 No scenes of distress our pleasures can blight, 
 
 In happy contentment we roam. 
 
 No parting with husband, or father so dear, 
 
 No severing tViendshi|)'s sweet tie, 
 No sudden or lingering death do we fear, 
 
 We live but we never can die. 
 
 No dreary procession of funeral shade, 
 
 No widow or sorrowing heir, 
 N(j desolate orphans in heaven are made. 
 
 We know not a shadow of care. 
 
 No tears ever fall, no sighs ever tell 
 
 The sorrows that break the fond heart ; 
 We hear not the tones of your deep passing bell 
 
 As they echo "Ye mortals must part." 
 
 No graves with their beautiful flowerets so fair, 
 
 Or the ever green tear-bedeck'd sod. 
 No wail of distress ever floats on the air, 
 
 In this beautiful City of (^d. 
 
 We live in a world most transcendently fair, 
 
 No clouds ever darken our sky. 
 No hearts are here broken by grief and despair, 
 
 Our friends never languish and die.
 
 144 THE POETS WREAin. 
 
 Our sun never yields to the darkness of night, 
 
 Our days are all balmy and fair, 
 Our flowers for ever are blooming and bright. 
 
 And angel songs float on the air. 
 
 We meet and rejoice with the friends who have pass'd 
 
 From earth and its soitows away, 
 The bond of our friendship for ever shall last. 
 
 Our pleasures can never decay. 
 
 We learn of the angels their beautiful life. 
 
 We join in their beautiful song, 
 We rest from all suftering, sorrow and strife, 
 
 A happy and glorified throng. 
 
 Poor mourner of earth, never yield to despair, 
 
 Thy lov'd one is hapjw and free. 
 Somewhere in Gixl's mansions so wondrously fair, 
 
 He lovingly waiteth for thee. 
 
 IN :\I E M 11 I A M . 
 
 Miss Annie Williams. 
 
 "When and Where." 
 
 When life's sad fitful dream is o'er. 
 Its cares and sorrows past ; 
 When cruel death can never more 
 His darkening shadow cast ; 
 When sever'd hearts so rudely torn 
 Have throbb'd their last deej) pain ; 
 When dawns the grand eternal morn- 
 Then we shall meet again.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 14^ 
 
 When fond farewells have all been said, 
 
 When tears no longer fall ; 
 
 ^Vhen earth's cold, narrow, silent bed 
 
 Receives pur earthly all ; 
 
 When softly o'er our spirits steal 
 
 Those chords of holier strain ; 
 
 When once-lov'd hands again we feel — 
 
 Then we shall meet again. 
 
 Where worlds revolve more glorious far 
 Than aught of thine, oh, earth ; 
 Where each transi)lendent radiant star 
 Reveals some happier birth ; 
 Where blend the purest gems of thought, 
 With music's richest strain ; 
 Where hearts with sweetest joys are fraught- 
 There we shall meet again. 
 
 AVhere cloudless skies and fadeless fluwei's 
 
 Make one eternal spring, 
 
 Where through the happy gulden hours 
 
 Familiar voices ring ; 
 
 Where beam the smiles we lov'd so well. 
 
 That lighten'd earth's dull pain ; 
 
 'Mid scenes of which no muse can tell — 
 
 There we shall meet again. 
 
 Thou bright ascended hapjjy soul, 
 
 If Highest Wisdom will 
 
 Sometimes 'mid eartli's dark dreary roll. 
 
 Be near our spirits still ; 
 
 And teach us from those realms above, 
 
 How we may best attain 
 
 That home of wondrous Joy and love, 
 
 Where all may meet again.
 
 146 THE POETS WREATH. 
 
 D U . CLAYTON. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 " We shall meet, but we shall miss him." 
 
 One by one, our friends are passing 
 
 Quickly from -this mortal sj^here ; 
 
 Old familiar forms have vanished, 
 
 True and loyal, fond and dear ; 
 
 Eyes that shone with love's own brightness. 
 
 Hearts that throbbVl with love's sweet thrill. 
 
 Hands that minister'd in kindness, 
 
 Now are silent, cold, and still. 
 
 But of all familiar faces, 
 None shall we so sadly miss 
 As the Doctor's well-known features, 
 And that genial smile of his. 
 Foremost of our willing helpers, 
 Prompt and ready at each call, 
 Full of noble deeds of kindness ; 
 Now, alas, we'll miss them all. 
 
 How they'll miss him as they gather 
 Lov'd ones round his vacant chair. 
 How fond memory oft will linger 
 O'er the scenes that centre there ; 
 Scenes of home life, richly blending 
 Days that seem'd too fair to last ; 
 Hopes more bright than summer sunlight, 
 All like sunny dreams are jnist.
 
 THE POETS WREATH. 147 
 
 When the Council friends assemble, 
 How they'll miss his honest greet ; 
 And in school or sanctuary, 
 When the worshippers shall meet ; 
 In the mansion or the cottage. 
 Soothing oft some anxious care ; 
 In the sufferer's silent chamber — 
 We shall miss him everywhere. 
 
 But, enough of earth's dark sorrow ; 
 Tuni we to a brighter side, 
 Someone whispers, oh, how sweetly, 
 Look beyond death's gloomy tide ; 
 There rich scenes of rarest beauty 
 Meet him with a glad surprise, 
 And a grand reunion gathers 
 In that home where nothing dies. 
 
 " KXPKIi»S ASU STANDARD," 41, CUUKCU STBliET, BLACKBURN.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Short Dedication, in Memoriani, Benj. Hargreaves, Esq. ... 5 
 
 In Mbinoriam — Benjamin Harrison, E.sq. ... ... ... 6 
 
 Preface ... ... ••• •■• ■•• ••• ' 
 
 The Angel's Wreath ... ... •.• .• 9 
 
 A Wasted Life ... ... ... ... •■• ••• 12 
 
 A Sad Story ... ... ..• •■• I'' 
 
 The Suicide's Grave ... ... ... •■• ••• ^a 
 
 AJy Childhood's Home ... .. ... •.■ ••• 27 
 
 In Memoriam — Uiike of Albany .. ... ... ... 28 
 
 Pity Me Not ... ... ... •■• •.. •• '^^ 
 
 Song— The Drunkard's Dying Child ... ... ■•. 31 
 
 Song— The Father's Vow ... ... .•■ •■• 33 
 
 In Memory of the Lifeboat Crew ... ... ... 34 
 
 A Plea for the Unemployed ... ... ••• ••. 35 
 
 One by One ... ... ... ••. •• ••• 37 
 
 No Creed ... ... .■• ••• •■• ••• ^^ 
 
 Reverie, Written in Oak Hill Grounds ... ... ... 40 
 
 In Memoriam— xMrs. W. Smith ... ... ... ••■ 42 
 
 Song of the Weary ... ... ... ••• ••■ ^4 
 
 Song of Hope . .•• ••• ••• ••• ^^ 
 
 Can this be True ? ... ... ••• ••• •• ^^ 
 
 To the Memory of Lord Beaconsfield ... .. ... 50 
 
 The Rt. Hon. W. E. Gladstone on his 79th Birthday ... 52 
 
 Mother's Boy ... ... ... ••• •■• ••• ^^ 
 
 Our Cemetery ... ... ... .-. ••• ■•• ^^ 
 
 Shipwreck'd ... ... •.. .•• •■• ••■ ^' 
 
 An Appeal 
 
 Sunderland Calamity 
 
 In Memoriam— Lord Fredk. Cavendish .. ... ... f>2 
 
 58 
 60
 
 CONTENTS. ii. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Lily May ... ... ... •• ••■ ••• 64 
 
 Homeless ... ... ... ... ... ■• '1 
 
 A Satire ... ... ... ... ■•. ••• 73 
 
 Song — Wandering Boy ... ... ... • ■ • . • • '7 
 
 Song — Wandering Boy's Return ... .. ... ... 78 
 
 A Christmas Eve's Vision ... ... ... ... 79 
 
 An Impromptu Farewell ... ... ... ••■ 84 
 
 Woman's Mission ... ... ... ... •■. 85 
 
 In Memoriam — Mrs. Lang Bridge ... ... ... 88 
 
 Man's Inhumany ... ... ... ... -.• 90 
 
 Bitter Memorie.s, or, the Ballet Girl's Remorse ... ... S'7 
 
 Dedicated to the Rev. Tho.s. Waugh ... ... .. 100 
 
 Dedicated to the Rev. R. Catterall ... ... ... 102 
 
 Honour to Christ ... ... ... ... ... 103 
 
 Spirit Love ... ... ... ... ... ... 100 
 
 Rich and Poor ... ... ... .. ... HO 
 
 In Memoriam — Wm. Bury, Es(i. .. ... ... ... 114 
 
 Jealousy ... ... ... ... ... ... ll.'J 
 
 A Contrast ... ... ... ... ... ... 117 
 
 She'sonly Gone to Sleep... ... ... ... ... 121 
 
 In .Memoriam — Ale.xr. Hargreaves ... ... ... 122 
 
 The Muse ... ... ... ... ... 124 
 
 In Memoriam — Mr.s. Jno. Bury ... ... ... ... 126 
 
 The Pauper ... ... ... ... ... ... 128 
 
 In Memoriam — Edwin Waugh ... ... ... 131 
 
 Remember the Poor ... ... ... ... ... 133 
 
 In Memoriam — Mrs. Xewell ... ... ... ... 136 
 
 In Memoriam — Albert Dobson ... ... ... 138 
 
 T I Memoriam — Alice Higham ... ... ... ... 139 
 
 Hymn on the Death of Eli Higham, junior ... ... ... 141 
 
 A Voice from Beyond ... ... ... ... ... 143 
 
 In Memoriam — Miss Annie Williams ... ... ... 144 
 
 Jn Memoriam — Dr. Clayton ... ... ... ... 146
 
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