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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 BABY MAY, 
 
 AJTD 
 
 OTHER POEMS ON INFANTS. 
 
 i.r 
 
 W. C. BENNETT. 
 
 HIRD THOUSAND. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 103, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1861. 
 
 ONE SHILLING. 
 
 i^
 
 t3' 
 
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 fC«^' 
 
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 V:-1
 
 BABY MAY, 
 
 A3n) 
 
 OTHER POEMS ON INFANTS. 
 
 BY 
 
 W. C. BEXXETT. 
 
 THIED TECrSA>"D. 
 
 LONDON : 
 CHAPIJIAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1S61.
 
 tOTTDOy : 
 
 G, VS WIS, GBESHAM STEAM PBESS, 
 
 BCCKLEKSBCET, B.C.
 
 
 TO 
 
 WILLLIM FEEDERICK ROCK, 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME 
 
 |s Inscribcllr, 
 
 WITH THE WARMEST ESTEEM; A>'D REGARD, 
 
 BY HIS FEIE>'D, 
 
 TV. C. BEXXETT. 
 
 2, The Cracrs, 
 
 A \^^ A
 
 CONTEXTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface . . . • vii 
 
 Babv May ...,.,,, 1 
 
 Baby's Shoes 3 
 
 Toddling May 5 
 
 Cradle Songs — 1 7 
 
 To a Lady I know, aged One .... 8 
 
 The Seasons 11 
 
 To a Locket 12 
 
 Cradle Songs — 2 l-i 
 
 Epitaphs for Lifants 15 
 
 To our Baby Kate 18 
 
 On a Dead Infant 21 
 
 Cradle Songs— 3 24 
 
 The Wish 25 
 
 To W. G. B 27 
 
 Cradle Songs — 4 28 
 
 The Story of a Mother 29 
 
 Cradle Songs — 5 31
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 Tex years since, "Baby May" was printed for 
 private circulation ; and I shortly after received a 
 request from the late Mr. Douglas Jerrold that 
 he might give it to the public in his " Sliilling 
 Magazine." It at once became a favourite. 
 Since then it has been a pleasure to me to know 
 that the Httle lady has made friends far and near, 
 both in England and America ; among whom she 
 reckons with becoming pride, among the dead, 
 Maiy Eussell Mitford, who re-introduced her to 
 the pubhc in her " Eecollections of a Literary 
 Life," — among the living, Mr. John Euskin, 
 Mr. Nathaniel Hawthorne, Mr. and Mrs. Howitt, 
 and many of the leading writers of England and 
 America. The volume in which I pubhshed this 
 best known of my poems is out of print, but I 
 find that " Baby May " still holds her place in the 
 recollections of her old acquaintances, and year
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 by year gains new ones. It is recited in lectures, 
 and included in American selections from tlie 
 English poets ; and now I hear of constant 
 requests that this and other poems of mine, on 
 kindred subjects, may be reprinted at a price 
 which vnR enable the many who wish for them 
 to obtain them. So I again present her to the 
 world, with a confident hope that her welcome 
 may be as warm an one as that which so long 
 since greeted her on her first appearance.
 
 BABY MAY. 
 
 pHEEKS as soft as July peaches, 
 ^ Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches 
 Poppies paleness — round large eyes 
 Ever great with new surprise, 
 Minutes filled with shadeless gladness, 
 Minutes just as brimmed with sadness, 
 Happy smiles and wailing cries. 
 Crows and laughs and tearful eyes, 
 Lights and shadows s\vifter born 
 Than on wind-swept Autumn corn, 
 Ever some new tiny notion 
 Making every limb all motion — 
 Catchings up of legs and arms, 
 Throwings back and small alarms, 
 Clutching fingers — straightening jerks, 
 Twining feet whose each toe works, 
 Kickings up and straining risings. 
 Mother's ever new surprisings. 
 Hands all wants and looks all wonder 
 At all things the heavens imder, 
 Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings 
 That have more of love than lovings, 
 Mischiefs done with such a winning 
 Archness, that we prize such sinning.
 
 BABY MAY. 
 
 Breakings dire of plates and glasses, 
 Graspiugs small at all that passes, 
 PuUings off of all that's able 
 To be caught from tray or table ; 
 Silences — small meditations, 
 Deep as thoughts of cares for nations, 
 Breaking into wisest speeches 
 In a tongue that nothing teaches, 
 All the thoughts of whose possessing 
 Must be wooed to light by guessing ; 
 Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings 
 That we'd ever have such dreamings, 
 1 ill from sleep we see thee breaking. 
 And we'd always have thee waking ; 
 Wealth for which we kn«v no measure, 
 Pleasure high above all pleasvire, 
 Gladness brimming over gladness, 
 Joy in care — delight in sadness, 
 Lovelmess beyond completeness, 
 Sweetness distancing all sweetness, 
 Beauty all that beauty may be, 
 That's May Bennett — that's my baby.
 
 BABY'S SHOES. 
 
 A THOSE little, those little blue shoes ! 
 
 ^ Those shoes that no little feet use ! 
 the price were high, 
 That those shoes would buy, 
 
 Those little blue unused shoes ! 
 
 For they hold the small shape of feet 
 That no more their mother's eyes meet, 
 
 That, by God's good will, 
 
 Years since grew still. 
 And ceased from their totter so sweet ! 
 
 And 0, since that baby slept, 
 
 So hush'd ! hoAv the mother has kept, 
 
 With a tearful pleasure, 
 
 That little dear treasure, 
 And o'er them thought and wept ! 
 
 For they mind her for evermore 
 Of a patter along the floor. 
 
 And blue eyes she sees 
 
 Look up from her knees, 
 With the look that in life they wore.
 
 BABY'S SHOES. 
 
 As they lie before her there, 
 There babbles from chair to chair 
 
 A little sweet face, 
 
 That's a gleam in the place, 
 "With its little gold curls of hair. 
 
 Then wonder not that her heart 
 From all else would rather part 
 
 Than those tiny blue shoes 
 
 That no little feet use, 
 ^Vnd whose sight makes such fond tears start.
 
 TODDLIXG MAY. 
 
 "PIYE pearly teeth and tsvo soft blue eyes, 
 
 -*- Two sinless eyes of blue, 
 
 That are dim or are bright they scarce know why, 
 
 That, baby dear, is you. 
 And parted hair of a pale, pale gold, 
 
 That is priceless, every curl, 
 And a boldness shy, and a fear half bold, 
 
 Ay, that's my baby girL 
 
 A small, small frock, as the snowdrop white. 
 
 That is worn ^vitb. a tiny pride, 
 With a sash of blue, by a little sight 
 
 With a baby wonder eyed ; 
 And a pattering pair of restless shoes, 
 
 Whose feet have a tinv fall, 
 That not for the world's coined wealth we'd lose, 
 
 That, Baby May, we calL 
 
 A rocker of dolls with staring eyes 
 
 That a thought of sleep disdain, 
 That with shouts of tiny lullabies 
 
 Are by'd and by'd in vain ; 
 A drawer of carts with baby noise. 
 
 With strainings and pursed-up brow, 
 Whose hopes are cakes and whose dreams are toys. 
 
 Ay, that's my baby now.
 
 ! 6 TODDLING MAY. 
 
 ! ' 
 
 I 
 
 I \ 
 
 A sinking of heart, a shuddering dread, 
 
 Too deep for a word or tear, 
 Or a joy whose measure may not be said. 
 
 As the future is hope or fear ; 
 A sumless venture, whose voyage's fate 
 
 We would and yet would not know, 
 Is she whom we dower with love as gi-eat 
 
 As is perilled by hearts below. 
 
 Oh what as her tiny laugh is dear, 
 
 Or our days with gladness girds ! 
 Or what is the sound we love to hear 
 
 Like the joy of her baby words ! 
 Oh pleasure our pain, and joys our fears 
 
 Should be, could the future say. 
 Away with sorrow — time has no tears 
 
 For the eyes of Baby May.
 
 CRADLE SOXGS. 
 
 1. 
 
 T ULLABT ! lullaby ! 
 
 ^ Baby, hush that little cry ! 
 
 Light is dying, 
 
 Bats are flying. 
 Bees to-day with -work have done ; 
 So, till comes the morrow's sun. 
 Let sleep kiss those bright eyes dry ! 
 
 Lullaby ! lullaby ! 
 
 Lullaby ! lullaby ! 
 
 Hushed are all things, far and nigh ; 
 
 Flowers are closing, 
 
 Birds reposing, 
 All sweet things with life have done. 
 Sweet, till dawns the mornmg sun, 
 Sleep then kiss those blue eyes dry ! 
 
 Lullaby! OluUaby!
 
 TO A LADY I KNOW, AGED ONE. 
 
 A SUXXY curls ! eyes of blue ! 
 ^ The hardest natures kno^NTi, 
 Baby, -would softly speak to you, 
 
 With strangely tender tone ; 
 What marvel, Mary, if from such 
 
 Your sweetness, love would call, 
 We love you, baby, how much, 
 
 Most dear of all thinirs small ! 
 
 ^ss"- 
 
 Unborn, how, more than aU on earth, 
 
 Your mother yearn'd to meet 
 Your dream'd-of face ; you, from your bii'th. 
 
 Most sweet of all things sweet ! 
 Even now for your small hands' first press 
 
 Of her full happy breast. 
 How oft does she God's goodness bless. 
 
 And feel her heart too blest ! 
 
 You came, a wonder to her eyes, 
 
 That doated on each grace, 
 Each charm that still with new surprise 
 
 She show'd us in your face :
 
 Small beauties ? ah, to her not small, 
 How plain to her blest mind ! 
 
 Though, baby dear, I doubt if all, 
 All that she found, could find. 
 
 A rear has gone, and, mother, say. 
 
 Through all that year's blest roimd, 
 In her, has one sweet week or day 
 
 Xot some new beauty found ? 
 What moment has not fancied one, 
 
 Siace first your eyes she met ? 
 And, wife, I know you have not done 
 
 With finding fresh ones yet. 
 
 Nor I ; for, bahy, some new charm 
 
 Each coming hour supplies, 
 So sweet, we think change can but harm 
 
 Your sweetness in our eyes, 
 Till comes a newer, and we know 
 
 As that fresh charm we see, 
 In you, sweet Xature wills to show 
 
 How fair a babe can be. 
 
 Kind God, that gave this precious gift, 
 
 ]\Iore clung-to every day, 
 To Thee our eyes we trembling lift — 
 
 Take not Thy gift away ! 
 Looking on her, we start in dread, 
 
 We stay our shuddering breath. 
 And shrink to feel the terror said 
 
 In that one dark word— death.
 
 10 TO A. LADY I KNOW, AGED ONE. 
 
 tender eyes ! beauty strange ! 
 
 When childhood shall depart, 
 that thou, babe, through every change, 
 
 May'st keep that infant heart ! 
 gracious God ! this make sure, 
 
 That, of no grace beguiled, 
 The -woman be in soul as pure 
 
 As now she is, a child !
 
 THE SEASONS. 
 
 \ BLUE-EYED child that sits amid the noon, 
 ^ O'erhung with a laburnum's drooping sprays, 
 Singing her little songs, while, softly round. 
 Along the grass the chequered sunshine plays. 
 
 All beauty that is throned in womanhood, 
 Pacing a summer garden's fountained walks, 
 
 That stoops to smooth a glossy spaniel down, 
 To hide her flushing cheek from one who talks. 
 
 A happy mother with her fair -faced girls, 
 
 In whose sweet Spring again her youth she sees, 
 
 With shout and dance, and laugh, and bound, and song, 
 Stripping an autumn orchard's laden trees. 
 
 An aged woman in a wintry room, 
 
 Frost on the pane — without, the whirling snow ; 
 Reading old letters of her far-ofif youth. 
 
 Of pleasures past, and griefs of long ago.
 
 TO A LOCKET. 
 
 A CASKET of dear fancies, 
 
 little case of gold, 
 What rarest -wealth of memories 
 
 Thy tiny round will hold ! 
 With this first curl of haby's 
 
 In thy small charge will live 
 All thoughts that all her little life 
 
 To memory can give. 
 
 prize its silken softness, 
 
 Within its amber round 
 "What worlds of sweet rememberings 
 
 Will still by us be found ; 
 The weak, shrill cry so blessing 
 
 The curtained room of pain, 
 With every since-felt feeling 
 
 To us 'twill bring again. 
 
 'Twill mind us of her lying 
 In rest soft-pillowed deep, 
 
 While, hands the candle shading, 
 We stole upon her sleep.
 
 TO A LOCKET. 13 
 
 Of many a blessed moment 
 
 Her little rest above 
 "We hung in marvelling stillness, 
 
 In ecstacy of love. 
 
 'Twill mind us, radiant sunshine 
 
 For all our shadowed days, 
 Of all her baby wonderings, 
 
 Of all her little ways. 
 Of all her tiny shoutings, 
 
 Of all her starts and fears, 
 And sudden mirths out -gleaming 
 
 Through eyes yet hung with tears. 
 
 There's not a care — a watching — 
 
 A hope — a laugh — a fear. 
 Of all her little bringing, 
 
 But we shall find it here ; 
 Then, tiny golden warder, 
 
 Oh safely ever hold 
 This glossy silken memory, 
 
 This little curl of gold.
 
 CRADLE SONGS. 
 2. 
 
 OLEEP ! the bird is in its nest; 
 ^ Sleep ! the bee" is hushed in rest ; 
 Sleep ! rocked on thy mother's breast ; 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 To thy mother's fond heart pressed, 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 Sleep ! the ^vaning daylight dies ; 
 Sleep ! the stars dream in the skies ; 
 Daisies long have closed their eyes ; 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 Calm, how calm ! on all things lies ; 
 
 LuUaby ! 
 
 Sleep then, sleep ! my heart's delight ; 
 Sleep ! and through the darksome night, 
 Rovmd thy bed God's angels bright, 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 Guard thee till I come -vvith light ; 
 
 Lullaby !
 
 EPITAPHS FOR IXFAXTS. 
 1. 
 
 TJERE Spring's tenderest nurslings set, 
 
 ■*--'- "Wind-flo-^ers and the violet ; 
 
 Here the -svhite-drooped snowdrop frail, 
 
 And the lily of the vale ; 
 
 All of sweetness passing soon, 
 
 Withering ere the year be noon; 
 
 For the little rester here. 
 
 Like these infants of the year, 
 
 Was, oh grief, as fair as they, 
 
 And as quickly fled away. 
 
 2. 
 
 Here the gusts of wild March blow 
 
 But in murmurs faint and low ; 
 
 Ever here, when Spring is green. 
 
 Be the brightest verdure seen ; 
 
 And when June's in field and glade, 
 
 Here be ever freshest shade. » 
 
 Here hued Autumn latest stav. 
 
 Latest call the flowers away ; 
 
 And when Winter's shrilling by, 
 
 Here its snows the warmest lie ; 
 
 For a little life is here. 
 
 Hid in earth, for ever dear, 
 
 And this grassy heap above 
 
 Sorrow broods and weeping love.
 
 16 EPITAPHS FOR INFANTS. 
 
 On this little grassy mound 
 Never be the darnel found : 
 Ne'er be venomed nettle seen 
 On this little heap of green ; 
 For the little lost one here 
 Was too sweet for aught of fear, 
 Aught of harm to harbour nigh 
 This green spot where she must lie : 
 So be nought but sweetness found 
 On this little grassy mound. 
 
 Here in gentle pity, Spring, 
 Let thy sweetest voices sing ; 
 Nightingale, be here thy song 
 Charmed by gi-ief to linger long ; 
 Here the thrush with longest stay 
 Pipe its pleasant song to day. 
 And the blackbird warble shrill 
 All its passion latest still ; 
 Still the old grey tower above 
 Her small rest, the swallow love, 
 And through all Jime's honied hours 
 Booming bees hum in its flowers. 
 And when comes the eve's cold gray 
 Murmurhig gnats unresting play 
 "Weave, while, round, the beetle's flight 
 Drones across the shadowing night ; 
 For the sweetness dreaming here 
 Was a gladness to the year, 
 And the sad months all should bring 
 Dirges o'er her sleep to sing.
 
 EPITAPHS FOR INFANTS. 17 
 
 5. 
 
 Haunter of the opening year, 
 Ever be the primrose here ; 
 Whitest daisies deck the spot, 
 Pansies and forget-me-not, 
 Fairest things that earliest fly, 
 Sweetness blooming but to die ; 
 For this blossom, o'er whose fall 
 Sorrow sighs, was fair as all, 
 But, alas, as frail as they, 
 All as quickly fled away.
 
 TO OUR BABY KATE. 
 
 A reai:rie. 
 
 "]\ f ARYEL, baby, 'tis to me 
 ■^'-'- "WTiat thy little thoughts can be, 
 What the meanings small, that reach 
 Hearing in thy mites of speech, 
 Sayings that no language know 
 More than coo, and cry, and crow, 
 "Would-be Ts-ords, that hide away 
 All that they themselves -would say, 
 Tiny fancies courting sight, 
 Masked from all in shrouding night ; 
 Fain its secret I'd beguile 
 From the mystery of thy smile ; 
 Fain would fathom all that lies 
 In thy pleasure and surprise, 
 In the fancies flitting through 
 Those two eyes of wondering blue. 
 In thy starts and tiny fears, 
 Gleams of joy and fleeting tears. 
 Ah, in vain I seek to win 
 Way to the small life within ! 
 Curious thought no clue can find 
 To that wondrous world, thy mind.
 
 TO OUR BABY KATE. 19 
 
 That its little sights hath shown 
 
 Unto fancy's gaze alone ; 
 
 Therefore do I converse hold 
 
 Oft "svith fancy, to unfold 
 
 All the marvels of its seeing, 
 
 Wordless mysteries of thy being ; 
 
 Then of all seen things it tells 
 
 Unto thee, high miracles ; 
 
 How thy baby fancy lingers. 
 
 Wondering minutes o'er thy fingers, 
 
 Or, still marvelling more and more. 
 
 Eyes thy pinked feet o'er and o'er ; 
 
 How the world and all things seem 
 
 Airy shadows of a dream, 
 
 Unsubstantial — forms unreal. 
 
 Out to which thy graspings feel 
 
 Wavering stretchmgs, marvelling much 
 
 At the mystery of a touch; 
 
 How with little shout thou'dst pass 
 
 To thy likeness in the glass, 
 
 Or thy little talks are told 
 
 Unto aU thou dost behold, 
 
 Guessed-at griefs and baby joys 
 
 Crowed to busy sister's toys. 
 
 Or, in murmurings low, rehearsed 
 
 To the kitten for thee nursed. 
 
 So with fancy do I dream, 
 
 Baby miae, until I seem 
 
 All the little thoughts to know, 
 
 All thy little acts below, 
 
 Till thought comes and bids me own 
 
 That I dream and dream alone.
 
 20 TO OUR BABY KATE. 
 
 Yet one surety lies above 
 Eeason's doubtings — thine is love, 
 Love abundant, leaping out 
 In thy lighted look and shout, 
 In thy joy tbat sorrow dumbs, 
 In thy bubbling laugh that comes 
 Ever still with glad surprise 
 "When thy mother meets thine eyes. 
 Love is in thy eager watch 
 Ever strained her form to catch, 
 In thy glance that, place to place. 
 Tracks the gladness of her face, 
 In thy hush of joy that charms 
 Cries to stillness in her arms, 
 Calms of rapture, blessing, blest, 
 Eosy nestlings in her breast, 
 Dreaming eyes for ever raising 
 Eaptured gazes to her gazing, 
 Gaze so blessed, sure we deem 
 Heaven is in thy happy dream. 
 So our love would have it be 
 Ever, little Kate, with thee ; 
 Treasure, treasures all above. 
 Ever, baby, thine be love. 
 Love, that doubly-mirrored lives 
 In the smiles it wins and gives, 
 Love, that gives to life its worth. 
 Lending glory to the earth.
 
 ox A DEAD IXFAXT. 
 
 "HEAD I dead I — what peace abides witliin the word — 
 -^ For thee, little one, what bliss of rest ! 
 By her who bore thee, with what anguish heard, 
 
 God knows ! — God knoweth best ; 
 God willeth best ; yet while the words we say, 
 We know thy grief, wild mother, must have way. 
 
 Oh, never shall those tiny fingers press 
 
 Her cheek ! — oh, never to the full breasts steal, 
 
 That yearn their tender touch, that so would bless, 
 
 Their blessed touch to feel ! 
 Oh, never shall those closed lids opening rise 
 To look delight into her hungering eyes ! 
 
 Yearned for — how yearned for wast thou, little one ! 
 Each month more dear that seemed to bring thee near, 
 Alas ! that seemed, but seemed ; God's will be done ! 
 
 "We may not know thee here ; 
 We may not know thee, but as, babe, thou art, 
 Cold even to thy mother's quivering heart. 
 
 Not know thee ! Mother, with thy sorrow wild. 
 How is that still face stamped within thy heart ! 
 That face so looked on, when, " Give me my child !" 
 
 Thou criedst, nor dared we part 
 In that first moment from thy arms' embrace 
 The cold white stillness of that blind, fixed face.
 
 ON A DEAD INFANT. 
 
 Cod comfort her ! all human -words are vain 
 To bid her shun to die or care to live. 
 Who shall bid peace to be for hor again ? 
 
 "VMio, save God, comfort give ? 
 TTho fill the empty heart that finds a void 
 In all it feared or hoped for or enjoyed? 
 
 God comfort her ! — ^who else ? — not even he 
 Who for thee, sweet one, bore a father's love, 
 Who, ^\-ith what pride and joy ! she looked to see 
 
 Bend this new life above, 
 And show her in his eyes the unsliadowed bliss 
 That looked from hers — alas ! now changed to this I 
 
 Leave her to God and to the tender years 
 
 That soften misery into gentle grief, 
 
 Grief that may almost find at last from tears, 
 
 Sad tears, may find relief. 
 Grief that from time may gather perfect trust 
 In all Heaven wiUs, and own even this is just. 
 
 For thee, dead snowdrop, all our tears are dried ; 
 We know thee evermore as to us given 
 Within our hearts for ever to abide, 
 
 Type of all meet for heaven ; 
 Type of all purity of which we guess, 
 That heaven shall make more pure and earth not less. 
 
 Wake not ! the cruel tender hand of death, 
 
 Death, with a tenderness for earth too deep, 
 
 Ere thou hadst dra-\vn one mortal troubled breath, 
 
 Hushed thee to quiet sleep, 
 Stilled, ere it woke, the anguish of thy cries. 
 Nor gave the tears of earth to dim thine eyes.
 
 ox A DEAD IXiAXT. 23 
 
 Why would we wake thee? — joy and grief, we know, 
 "Walk hand in hand along earth's crowded ways ; 
 Who 'scape the thorns that in our paths below 
 
 For all life thickly lays ? 
 Why should we wish thee on a weary way 
 "^Vhere thou might'st long for night while yet 'twas day ? 
 
 For we, most blest, even when to heaven we turn 
 Eyes bright -^vith thanks for all that makes life dear, 
 Even then our trembling hearts have not to learn 
 
 Of sorrows that are here — 
 Of griefs that dimmed our dearest hours with tears — 
 Of bitter memories that seem shadowing fears. 
 
 Hope has no part in thee, in surety lost, 
 
 Sweet bud of being, but to bloom above ; 
 
 Xor may our thoughts of thee -with fear be crossed, 
 
 Thou, homed in God's dear love, 
 Borne by thy heavenly Father's hand from all 
 That makes the purest stoop, the strongest fall. 
 
 Lily, thou shalt not know the soiling gust 
 Of earthly passion bow thee to its will ; 
 Temptation and all ill are from thee thrust, 
 
 Nor tears thine eyes shall fill ; 
 Remorse and penitence thou shalt not need, 
 From sin's pollution and earth's errors freed. 
 
 Oh, blessed, to 'scape the mystery of life, 
 Its wavering walk 't^vixt holiness and sin ! 
 Allowed, without earth's struggles — our weak strife. 
 
 Heaven's palms to win. 
 Through the bright portals thou at once hast pressed. 
 To endless blessedness and lasting rest.
 
 CRADLE SOXGS. 
 3. 
 
 T ULLABY— luUaby, baby dear ! 
 ^ Take thy rest without a fear ; 
 Quiet sleep, for mother is here, 
 Ever wakeful, ever near, 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 Lullaby — lullaby ! gone is the light, 
 Yet let not darkness my baby fright ; 
 Mother is with her amid the night, 
 Then softly sleep, my heart's delight, 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 May thy small dreams no ill things see, 
 Kind Heaven keep watch, my baby, o'er thee, 
 Kind angels bright thy guardians be, 
 And give thee smiling to day and to me. 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 Sleep, sleep on ! thy rest is deep ; 
 But, ah ! what wild thoughts on me creep, 
 As by thy side my watch I keep. 
 To think how like to death is sleep 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 But God our Father will hear my prayer, 
 And have thee, dear one, in His care ; 
 Thee, little one, soft breathing there. 
 To me the Lord's dear love will spare, 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 Sleep on ! sleep on ! till glad day break, 
 And with the sunshine gladly wake, 
 Thy mother's day, how blest ! to make, 
 Her life, what joy ! through thy dear sake, 
 Lullaby !
 
 THE WISH. 
 
 1 TY boy, my boy, what wovild I have 
 -^'-'- Thy futui-e lot should be, 
 Yv^ere that sweet fay, so kind of old, 
 
 To leave the choice with me ? 
 Were she to say, " My fairy power, 
 
 To grant all blessings, use ; 
 Give what thou wilt to this young life, 
 
 And what thou wilt, refuse." 
 
 Her diamond wand, my little one, 
 
 Above thee would I raise, 
 " Be health," I'd say, " be beauty thine, 
 
 My boy, through all thy days. 
 The perfect powers that give thee strength 
 
 Thy work on earth to do ; 
 The perfect form, that shows the soul's 
 
 Own beauty shining through. 
 
 " Be plenty thine ; that, wealthy, thou 
 
 Mayst independent live ; 
 That, rich, to thee it may be given 
 
 Abundantly to give : 
 That heaven, through means of that thou hast. 
 
 To thee may be made sure ; 
 In life — in death — that thou mayst have 
 
 The blessings of the poor. 
 
 " Be thine a warm and open heart, 
 
 Be thine unnumbered friends ; 
 A life, held precious while it lasts, 
 
 And wept for when it ends.
 
 26 THE WISH. 
 
 And, heaven on earth, be thine a home 
 "\Miere children round thee grow, 
 
 TThere one, with all thy mother's love, 
 Makes blest thy days below. 
 
 " Harold, be thine that better life 
 
 That higher still aspires, 
 Supreme in sovereign sway above 
 
 The senses' low desires ; 
 And thine the fame that, told of, men 
 
 Of holy deeds shall hear, 
 A glory, unto good men's thoughts 
 
 And lowly memories dear. 
 
 " Walk thou a poet among men, 
 
 A prophet sent of God, 
 That hallowed grow the common ways 
 
 Of earth, which thou hast trod; 
 That truth in thy eternal words 
 
 Sit throned in might sublime. 
 And love and mercy, from thy tongue. 
 
 For ever preach to Time. 
 
 " All human wishes most desire, 
 
 All last they would resign. 
 All fondest love can long to give, 
 
 My little one, be thine. 
 The purest good that man can know. 
 
 To thee, my boy, be given ; 
 And be thy every act on earth 
 
 A deed, to win thee heaven ! "
 
 TO TV. G. B. 
 
 C OUL, not yet from heaven beguiled, 
 '^ Soul, not yet by earth defiled, 
 Dwelling in this little child, 
 Be, to him be 
 All we would have thee ! 
 
 Through this life of joy and care, 
 If that grief must be his share, 
 Make, make him strong to bear 
 
 AU God willeth, all 
 
 That to him must fall. 
 
 when passions stir his heart, 
 Tempting him from good ro part, 
 Make him from the evil start, 
 
 That he walk aright, 
 
 Soil-less in God's sisrht ! 
 
 ^to'^ 
 
 Taint him not with mortal sin, 
 
 That heaven's palms his hands may "win, 
 
 That heaven's gates he enter in. 
 
 Of God's favour sure, 
 
 Pure as he is pure ! 
 
 If he wander from the right, 
 
 O through error's darksome night. 
 
 On to heaven's eternal light. 
 
 Guide, guide his way 
 
 To heaven's perfect day !
 
 CRADLE SOXGS. 
 
 4. 
 
 C LEEP, boy, sleep— sleep ! 
 
 ^ For the day is for waking — for rest the night, 
 
 And my boy must learn to use each aright ; 
 
 Let him toil in the day, and steep 
 Through the night his senses in slumber sound, 
 To fit him to work when day comes round ! 
 
 Sleep, boy, sleep — sleep ! 
 
 Sleep, boy, sleep — sleep ! 
 For my boy must be strong of body and limb, 
 To do all I'd have to be done by him ; 
 
 Let his slumbers be sound and deep, 
 That stout of arm and of heart he may grow, 
 Both hot to do and keen to know ; 
 
 Sleep, boy, sleep — sleep ! 
 
 Sleep, boy, sleep — sleep ! 
 For no pmiy son must I have — not I, 
 Blade through his days but to crouch and sigh, 
 
 To bend and to weakly weep ; 
 No — my man must be strong to battle with care, 
 The bravest to do, and the boldest to dare ; 
 
 Sleep, boy, sleep — sleep ! 
 
 Sleep, boy, sleep — sleep ! 
 Yes, thy mother, my boy, would have thee one 
 By whom this old world's best work is done ; 
 
 One who on its dullards shall sweep, [strife, 
 If it must be, through storm — if it must be, through 
 To still freer thoughts, and to still purer life ; 
 
 Sleep, boy, sleep — sleep !
 
 THE STORY OF A MOTHEPw 
 
 FROM HAXS CHRISTIAN AXDERSEX. 
 
 THERE the little one lay, -white and dying, 
 -^ And beside its bed, -with sorrow "svild, 
 Wailed the mofher, unto Heaven crying, 
 " Spare my baby ! spare, God, my child ! " 
 
 Then the darkness, death, arose before her, 
 
 Laid its hand upon her baby's heart ; 
 And, a nameless anguish creeping o'er her, 
 
 From her infant saw she life depart. 
 
 It was dead, and fixed before her eye was 
 That dear face that on her should have smiled ; 
 
 But a moment dumb with grief, her cry was 
 Straight, " God ! O give me back my child ! " 
 
 Then it was as if God willed to send her 
 Answer to the wail that from her rose ; 
 
 And it seemed as if, with accents tender, [close ! " 
 Death breathed, " Fate, what might have been, dis- 
 
 And with anguish that she might not smother, 
 Looked she through the distant years with awe, 
 
 All the child had lived to, saw the mother ; 
 All its grown-up life the mother saw.
 
 30 THE STORY OF A MOTHER. 
 
 And she saw her babe, her heart's dear treasure, 
 
 Fated, not to peace and joy, alas! 
 Fated, not to know a pure life's pleasure, 
 
 But through want, and woe, and guilt to pass. 
 
 Then the mother knew her human blindness, 
 
 And, even through her tears, she brightly smiled, 
 
 " Blessed be God ! " she cried, '• that in His kindness 
 Bore from earth, and sin, and shame, my cliild ! "
 
 CEADLE SONGS. 
 5. 
 
 C LEEP, baby, sleep ! 
 
 ^ Cease thy bitter crjang ! 
 In the cold earth deep, 
 Deep in death's long sleep, 
 that we were lying ! 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 Let's forget to-morrow 
 
 Comes, when we must bear 
 Scorn, and want, and care, 
 Waking but for sorrow ! 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 Thy poor mother pity ! 
 Worn and faint, she hears 
 No voice her life that cheers 
 In all this great, hard city ; 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 Thou hast thy mother only ; 
 Cold and still lies he 
 'Who worked for thee and me, 
 And left us, boy, how lonely ! 
 Sleep, baT»y, sleep !
 
 82 CRADLE SONGS. 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep! 
 Faint and, God ! how weary ! 
 Let these eyes, how blest ! 
 Baby mine, in rest, 
 Forget this world so dreary ! 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
 Heed not mother's crying! 
 
 O boy, by God's will, 
 * We were cold and still, 
 With thy father Ij-ing ! 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep !
 
 WOEKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 Price One Shilling, free bj' Post, 
 
 WAR SONGS. 
 
 From the Athencmm. 
 
 "In the ' War Songs ' of W. C. Bennett we recognize a poet who 
 has frequently merited and received our commendutiou. He is a 
 writer who has always preferred sense to sound. An earnest 
 student of the poetic art as applicable to the common-places of 
 life, and the events of the passing day, he has dealt with fugitive 
 themes, but in a manner that will reheve his songs and sagas'from 
 the epithet. His style, too, is his own ; strong and vigoroixs, never 
 formal. His words are, for the most part, Saxon. Sucti is the 
 character of Mr. Bennett's genius. It is eminently patriotic, also ; 
 and these War Songs, both in their themes and treatment, come 
 ' as natural to liim as eating aud drinking ; ' he liad but to let liis 
 heart speak, aud they existed. 'Occasional' poems ai-e generally 
 artificial ; with Mr. Bennett they are but opportunities for spon- 
 taneous utterance." 
 
 From the Examiner. 
 
 " There is a spirit and true instinct for poetry in these ' War 
 Songs.' " 
 
 From the Weekly Dispatch. 
 " These songs have vigour and fire about them." 
 
 From the Dublin University Magazine. 
 
 " These songs have this great merit, that they are written in 
 strong, vigorous, manly English." 
 
 From the Morning Advertiser, 
 " Full of feeling, melody, and fire." 
 
 London: ErFiNGHAii Wilson, Royal Exchange.
 
 2 
 
 Fcap. 8vo., cloth, Ss. 6il., 
 
 QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE, 
 
 London : Chapman & Hall, 193, Piccadilly. 
 
 From the Critic. 
 
 " We look upon Mr. Bennett as a landmark to indicate the way 
 where lie the strengrth of nature and the power of simplicity. He 
 is one of those old-fashioned poets— rare now, and valuable from 
 their rarity— who were not ashamed to speak naturally Use men, 
 and who evinced power with' ml the exhibition of muscular throes. 
 As a poem, ' Queen Eleanor's Vengeance ' is admirable ; it has the 
 intensity of tragic fire. It is brief, but pointed and defim d hs a 
 poniard. In conspicuous contrast to this poem we would place 
 another, entitled ' .\ New Griselda.' Here there is simpucity of 
 style, but neither bareness nor barrenness. The tender emotions, 
 which ai-e best kn iwn to those who dive deepest below the surface 
 of domestic life, are employed in this poem as only a true poet can 
 employ them. Mr. Bennett's great triumphs, in our opinion, con- 
 sist not in the kingly manner in which he walks the classic regions 
 of the 'Gods,' but in the homely step which carries him through 
 the dwellings of men. He is known — and it is a pleasing acknow- 
 ledgment of his fame to say so— by thousands of little happy folk, 
 wingless, but no less on that account our nursery angels, and by 
 thousands of full-grown men and women. No wonder he is so 
 well known, since he has conversed with them in a language they 
 can understand — since he has expressed to them home delights and 
 home sorrows with the purest Sa.von feeling. The volume before 
 ui will serve still more, to rivet the fellowship of the poet and his 
 readers." 
 
 From Fraser's Magazine. 
 
 " It is impossible to deny the genuine pictorial power of the 
 mind from wnich this description, that might stand for a trans- 
 lation into words of Titian's ' Bacchus and Ariadne,' in our National 
 
 Gallery, proceeds Perhaps a famous song of Shelley's may have 
 
 been echoing in Mr. Bennett's brain when he wrote tliis ' Summer 
 Invocation ;' but no one that was not a true poet could have re- 
 produced the echo with such a sweet melody, and such delicate 
 touches of his own. Altogether, Mr. Bennett's volume appears to 
 us lull of promise."
 
 Trom. the Athenmuvi. 
 
 "■Many a tender thought and charming fancy find graceful 
 utterance in his pages." 
 
 From the Examiner. 
 
 "Mr. W. C. Bennett shares with Dr. Mackay the right to he 
 popular on the score of simple, unaffected utterance. In his 
 new volume we like the natural tone of the ' New Griselda,' better 
 than the ballad style — less suited to the writer's genius — of the 
 ' Queen Eleanor's Vengeance,' after which the book is named. But 
 there is everywhere unexaggerated expression, a pleasant sense of 
 the joy of the primrose bank, ot blooming thorn-trees, and of 
 summer rain ; and tliere is occasional expression of that love of 
 children, which itw writers of our day have expressed with so much 
 naive fidelity as Mr. Bennett." 
 
 From the WeeUy Dispatch. 
 
 " Mr. W. C. Bennett is a poet of great power, and possessing a 
 fine descriptive faculty, especially when employed on subjects of a 
 picturesque, rural character. Some of his poems on children, too, 
 are among the most charming in the language, and are familiar in 
 a thousand homes. The longest poem in the book is ' Queen 
 Eleanor's Vengeance,' a terrible tale, related with commensurate 
 force. 'Pygmalion* is an ambitious strain, finely conceived and 
 executed, ^ir. Bennett has produced a charming and graceful 
 book." 
 
 From the Guardian. 
 
 "Mr. Bennett writes with practised skill, and what is more re- 
 markable in these days, with unimpeachable taste. He is a man of 
 taste and ability, who will yield pleasure and interest to every one 
 who reads him." 
 
 From the National Magazine. 
 
 " Another -volume has proceeded from the pen of Mr. W. C. 
 Bennett. It is entitled ' Queen Eleanor's Vengeance, and other 
 Poems.' Amoii2 these there are strains that bring Tennyson and 
 Browning to mind, without abating our respect for the immediate 
 author. The ballad which initiates the collection is written in 
 stanza-couplets, and shows a power in deahng with the elements of 
 the terrible perhaps not suspected by the author's admirers. On 
 the Fair Rosamond he dwells but little ; the vindictive feelings of 
 the jealous Eleanor are those that have plainly fascinated the poet's 
 genius. A dramatic poem, entitled 'A Character,' manifests the 
 same tendency. The Creole, Liua Merton, is a Queen Eleanor on 
 a small scale, and of a more metaphysical turn of mind; but her 
 Tengeance is equally cruel, or rather more so. The Queen only 
 murders, but the Creole annihilates. The piece, however, most to our 
 mind, is ' The Boat Race.' The ' New Griselda,' which is evidently
 
 the writer's favourite, has less of pare beautT, and the conventions 
 introduced disturb the ideal impressions. Mr. Bennett's classic 
 imitations are, as usual, excellent. Theocritus writes again in such 
 pieces as 'Pygmalion,' 'Ariadne,' and 'The Judgment of Midas.' 
 The political pieces are vigorous, satirical, and fully justify the re- 
 putation already acquired by the author for compositions of the 
 Kind. But it is in his domestic moods that we best love to 
 encomiter Mr. Bennett. Is not the following ('Baby's Shoes') 
 exquisite ? Among the more ambitious efforts, we may note with 
 especial commendation tiie poems entitled ' Columbus,' and the 
 ' Star of the Ballet.' The last is a ballad, in which simplicity, 
 thought, and sentiment wrestle for the victory, and lovijigly unite, 
 as It were, in a war embrace." 
 
 Fcap. 8vo., cloth, Ss. 6d., 
 
 SONGS BY A SONG-V/RITER. 
 
 First Hundred. 
 
 London : Chapman & Hall, 193, Piccadilly. 
 
 From the Leader. 
 
 *'Mr. W, C. Bennett has been well-advised to collect his various 
 songs. The only difficulty that could be in his way was their 
 number. He has endeavoured to solve this by experimenting, 
 fii-st of all, with a specimen of his quality. He has selected from 
 his large store a hundred ; and here they are, in a handsome 
 volume, which ought immediately to become popular. We find 
 here many old acquaintances, and some new faces ; but every- 
 wliere the same grace, melody, and Saxon purity of language. A 
 little more accuracy and finish, and Mr. Bennett might rank as the 
 Beranger of England. Here we find the sweet song of 'Baby's 
 Shoes,' on which Miss Mitford bestows such high commendation, 
 and which has been so frequently quoted with enthusiastic recog- 
 nition; and that Beranger-like 'Loudon Lyric, from a Garret,' 
 which so rationally and heroically moralises on the distinction 
 between true and false riches, and defies poverty altogether. To 
 this we would add 'The Dressmaker's Thrush.' I'ine, too, is 
 the song inscribed 'To the Memory of Robert Burns,' a just 
 tribute from one whose own writings reflect so much of the 
 influences derived from those of the Scottish bard. It is one of the 
 most ambitious poems in the collection. Other poems of Mr. Bennett
 
 sliow, in lyrical form, a fine decree of political shrewdness, and a 
 scorn of mere partial prejudices, whether national or social. Wit- 
 ness those capital ' Friendly Hints to Transatlantic Friends,' which 
 he has headed with ' God save the Queen.' For the racst uart, Mr. 
 Bennett's son^s deal with facts, the stem, hard facts of the 
 Mammon-ridden world; but there ar3, nevertheless, some most 
 dehcious fancies scattered between. Mr. Bennett has borrowed 
 largely from our old poets, and sometimes indulges freely in their 
 wildest conceits. His mind is not simply a mirror, purely reflecting 
 nature and society, but he has coloured it with innumerable as- 
 sociations, both ancient and modern ; so that his sulyects alwavs 
 derive some attributes from the media through which he perceives 
 them. Though a self-taught, he is a highly-educnted wTiter, and 
 to some extent, therefore, his treatment of liis themes is artificial; 
 there is, however, always a basis of origmality in all he writes, for 
 he is not a mere mocking-bird, but a genuine "poet." 
 
 From the Literary Gazette. 
 "He bids fair to become one of our best English song-writers." 
 
 From the Athenceum. 
 
 "On reading this book we are glad to find that Mr. Bennett is 
 himself again. We always like his writing when he dares to be 
 true to his own genius. The stream of his verse is not a deep- 
 flowing one, but it is clear and healthy; it runs with a sprightly 
 music, and there often flutters such a dance of sunbeams on 
 the surface, that we do not think of gauging the depth. Here 
 is a song with a minuet movement, and a conscious seventeenth- 
 century kind of grace. This soft, sweet niurmiuing invocation 
 to the summer rain is one we like." 
 
 From the Critic. 
 
 " Mr. Bennett comes before us in his hundred songs— only an 
 instalment, these— with qualifications which admirably adapt 'him 
 to his work. In his poems, which have demanded constructive 
 power, which a song, strictly speaking, does not, he has shown two 
 of the conditions without which song cannot exist. These are 
 melody and naturalness. We hold Mr. Bennett to be among the 
 best of our song-writers. There is fire in his patriotic, and tender- 
 ness in his domestic themes. What a sweet picture, and what 
 homely pa-hos there is in ' The Daisy.' And what more joyous 
 than this ' Spring Song?' For a trathful, heart-gushing strain, we 
 should quote 'The Dressmaker's Thrush.' What a world-wide 
 sermon lives in that regretful refrain ! We hope Mr. Bennett will 
 give the world the remainder of his songs. He is so genial, so 
 healthy, so purely Saxon, that silence on his part would go far to 
 favour the growth of literary spasm and contortion."
 
 6 
 
 "From the Illustrated Times. 
 
 " Mr. Bennett is quite riglit in calling himself a writer of songs. 
 Nearly all the lyric poetry contained in this vohime is adniimble, 
 but the songs are particularly beautiful. Some of the poems about 
 children i especially the charming one entitled ' Baby's Shoes,') are 
 as good as anything of the kind that has ever been written ; and 
 Mr. Bennett's verse is always flowing and melodious, but, on the 
 whole, he is more a song- writer than anything else. When he 
 writes in his own simple, natural way, we have no soug-writer who 
 can be compared to him " 
 
 from the Atlas. 
 
 "We opened this volnrac with serious misgivings, which passed 
 away before we had read three pages. Mr. Bennett has achieved 
 a most decided success ; his songs as poems will cling fast to the 
 reader's mind, and if only they be joined to fitting music, the author 
 may look forward to a popularity almost as great as J)ibdin ever 
 enjoyed. We could only wish that he liad himself written liis 
 lyrics to some of the old favourite tunes, which are at present 
 in the company of very bad words. Mr. Bennett is a man of 
 all moods. Here is a pretty love-song, ('A Sailor's Song,') which 
 none can read and not admire. In the piece entitled ' The Tricolor,' 
 we have an appeal to our patriotism. Its vigour and nr^elody of 
 rhythm carry the reader along as if to the sound of martial music. 
 Beautifully contrasted, and thoughtfully worked-out are the ideas 
 in the onlv two songs which we have space to quote, 'The Home- 
 ward Watch,' and ' The Wrecked Hope.' " 
 
 From the John Bull. 
 
 " This author has established such general fame as a song- 
 writer, that few writers have achieved similar popularity. The 
 present ' first hundred ' compositions are conceived in the purest 
 and most versatile vein of poetry, and if their reception does not 
 encourage successive centuries of verse, we shall be much mis- 
 taken." 
 
 From the Statesman. 
 
 "Mr. Bennett's volume contains a hundred songs, many of them 
 of great merit. ' Song--nTiter ' is an ambitious title, but Mr. 
 Bennett has vindicated his right to a place of some note among 
 those to whom it may be applied." 
 
 From the Morning Herald. 
 
 " Mr, Bennett is already known to the English reading public as 
 a poet of much ability. He is extremely happy in his descriptions 
 of pastoral and domestic Hfe. He possesses real poetic teeling, and 
 we are glad to add, his sentiments are always English, and they 
 are sure to find a response in the hearts ot his countrymen and 
 countrywomen. He lias written nearly 400 songs. Most of those 
 in the volume now published are very good mdeed. Many are 
 really beautiful."
 
 From the Inquirer. 
 
 " Mr. Bennett's stimng war-songs and occasional contributions 
 to newspapers and ma;4azines hare made their writer widely known 
 as a popular poet. Like most good songs, some of the hghter 
 strains in the volume before us need to be wedded to suitable 
 music in order to be fully appreciated ; but in the graver pieces 
 we discern a deep sympathy with humanity and afervid senti- 
 ment of patriotism wlncli entitle their author to a hisih place 
 among our popular song-writers. Mr. Bennett does not belong to 
 the servile iiorde of imitators, but writes with a vigour of thought 
 and a graceful clearness of style which are peculiarly his own. 
 The following pathetic hues ('The Wife's Appeal,') for the sake of 
 the powerful influence they are calculated to exercise in a good 
 cause, if for no other reason, deserve as wide a circulation as can 
 possibly be giveu to them." 
 
 From the News of the World. 
 
 "'Ever since I could read songs,' says Mr. Bennett, 'I have 
 loved them,' and we may add, that ever since he besiau to wnie 
 them the puliiic have been pleased with what he has written. In 
 this volume we have a hundi-ed charming things, which will delight 
 all readers, because of their true feeling and unaffected grace." 
 
 From the Weekly Dispatch. 
 
 "Mr. Bennett has collected into a neat volume a century of 
 songs, and promises more. This fertility would be alarming in a 
 writer of feeble powers, but Mr. Bennett writes so freshly and 
 charmingly that we always read his poems with pleasure. He 
 writes like a true poet, especially on domestic subjects, or M-heu 
 sketching landscapes, with a feeling akin to that of Creswick or 
 Lee. We are bound to say that his political songs have a vigour 
 such as few poets can infuse One, indeed, 'The Tricolor,' might, 
 if wedded to kindred music, become another ' Marseillaise.'" 
 
 From the Observer. 
 
 "The author of these songs has a considerable fund of poetry in 
 his nature, and has written several songs wh ch deserve to' be 
 popular. One of tliem, ' fhe Dressmaker's Thrush,' is of the 
 right stuff, and will doubtless obtain admiration. This volume 
 ought to meet with public favour, more particularly as the feehng 
 which animates its contents is true." 
 
 From the Morning Star. 
 
 " Many of these songs would inspire us to wish that Mr. Bennett 
 may be induced to appear soon again in print. One of the best 
 songs in the b wk is to the memory of Berangcr ; another, to the 
 memory of liobert Burns, is of ne'arly equal merit. There are
 
 8 
 
 several of the songs we should like to quote, but must refer our 
 readers to the volume itself, and we feel sure that those who have 
 a taste for this parriciUar kind of poetry will fiud much that is 
 pleasing and original." 
 
 From the Daily Telegraph. 
 
 "From the poems publislied in the present volume, we should 
 select ' The Tricolor,' as pre-eminently dist.nguished for vigour und 
 that melodious ring of rhyme wliich thrills tiie heart through the 
 ear, making the pulses lje:it to the march of verse as to warhke 
 music. There is pith aud irresistible humour in his 'Hints to 
 Transatlantic Friends.' But Mr. Bennett speaks to the heart not 
 only throui^h the heroic chanson or sparkling satire ; not less 
 etfective are those fragments appeaUng to the social and domestic 
 feelings. In these we perceive a tender grace, a pathos aud a 
 charm, which offer a refreshing contrast to the prosaic monotony 
 usually cliaracteriziug effusions of this class. This truthfulness to 
 nature, hearty simplicity of utterance, and sportive play of fancy, 
 it is wluch enables Mr. Bennett so well to adapt the poetic art to 
 the events and emotions of ordinary life. To beautify and elevate 
 these through the tianstiguratiou of poetry, is, we think, essentially 
 Mr. Bennett's vocation, though he has proved himself to possess 
 unmistakeable capacity for minstrelsy of another order." 
 
 From the Sunday Times. 
 
 " He possesses, in no small degree, the qualities which this 
 species of compositiou requires — feeling, fancy, condensation, and 
 a varied power of expression." 
 
 From the Weekly Times. 
 
 "He 13 terse, epigrammatic, and can be, when he pleases, elo- 
 quent and pathetic." 
 
 From the Morning Advertiser. 
 
 " Varied in sentiment and style, some of the compositions display 
 much force, fei-ling, and taste. The volume will be acceptable t o 
 a vast number of readers — those to whom the song sings to th e 
 heart. We can heartily commend Mr. Bennett's songs to our 
 readers." 
 
 From the Morning Chronicle. 
 
 " This volume of a hundred songs by Mr. Bennett wiU be a 
 welcome addition to the poetic literatui-e of the day."
 
 9 
 
 NEW VOLUME, 
 
 Just Published, foolscap 8vo., Ss. 6d. 
 
 THE WORN WEDDING-RING, 
 
 From the Morning Chronicle. 
 
 " Mr. Bennett has unquestionably won the right of being 
 reckoned with the poets of his country. At present he is the poet 
 of the home and its affections. His ' Baby May and other Poems 
 on Infants ' broke entirely new ground ; it "was found that we had 
 a singer amongst us able to touch our hearts on the tenderest 
 side. His ' Baby's Shoes ' was hailed as a poem perfect of its 
 kind, and sure of admiration as long as fathers and mothers shall 
 continue to love their children, or children remain the lovely 
 things that God has made them. In the round of English poetry 
 there are no lyrics that are so thoroughly imbued with the spirit 
 of childhood as those of Mr. Bennett. But it is not only as the 
 poet of childhood that Mr. Bennett has won his well-deserved 
 popularity. It has been said of him, that with a very little more 
 of accuracy and finish he might fairly be called the B^ranger of 
 England. There is, undoubtedly, a remarkable similarity of power 
 evinced by Mr. Bennett in his songs; they come nearer to the 
 heart-stirring strains of the great French lyrist than any songs of 
 the day. 
 
 "In the volume before us the excellence of Mr. Bennett's songs 
 is very conspicuous. They have all the qualities requisite to make 
 them popular, and, like those which he has before published, they 
 will doubtless be heartily received by the public. Full of vigour, 
 freshness, music, and feeling, they are worthy to be on every lip. 
 'The Worn Wedding-ring,' which gives its title to the present 
 volume, is a little poem, full of grace, tenderness, and piety, in 
 which the sight of his wife's worn wedding-ring calls up in the 
 poet's mind the history of all the joys, sorrows, and cares that 
 have passed over them both, since the time ' when this old ring 
 was new.' Some of the sonnets are decidedly fine, reminding us 
 of Wordsworth, and even of Milton." 
 
 From the Literary Gazette. 
 
 "Many of the Sonnets are equal, after their kind, to his best 
 songs. Many are as fresh, thoughtful, and musical as any that 
 have appeared since Wordsworth thought and wrote. Of the 
 earlier part of Mr. Bennett's volume we can only remark, to those 
 who know that he is great in songs, that he here weU sustains 
 his reputation. We would, in conclusion, say of Mr. Bennett, that
 
 10 
 
 we hope he will always give us such a Christmas-box. 'Baby 
 May' was, perhaps, more charming in its simplicity than anything 
 in the present volume, but the old graceful homeliness and pathos 
 are fully evidenced here." 
 
 From the Spectator. 
 
 " ' The Worn Wedding-ring' is one of the prettiest poems bv the 
 author of 'Baby May.' It expresses, in simple and enthusiastic 
 verses, the genuine teeling of a man who has been married many 
 years to a wife he has always loved. This is a good subject for 
 a poem, because it is common human ground for feeling. Mr. 
 W. C. Bennett is a sweet singer of the people ; to our thinking, one 
 of the very best among those who use ' the Doric strain.' His 
 domestic poems and songs of every-day life would have found 
 favour with Wordsworth, for the sake of their love of nature and 
 power of appreciating all the small goods of hfe." 
 
 From the Critic. 
 
 " There is an earnest simplicity about Mr. Bennett which gives 
 him a high place among our modern poets." 
 
 From the Glohe. 
 
 " The poem which gives a title to this volume is in the happiest 
 style of the writer, who is established as the poet of heart and 
 home. ' The Worn Wedding-ring ' is a fitting address to the 
 mother of ' Baby May.' Similarly illustrative of the hold which 
 home association has over Mr. Bennett, is his address to his 
 'Native Town.' 'Leafy Greenwich, green pleasant Greenwich' is 
 sung in the most taking homely ballad style, such as Isaac Walton 
 would have loved to hear 'maidens singing over their milking- 
 pails.'" 
 
 From the Illustrated Times. 
 
 " Mr. Bennett is now well known, and cordially accepted as a 
 writer of songs and of child-poetry ; and the songs in this new 
 volume are most of them very welcome and pleasant reading. The 
 refrains are capitally managed." 
 
 From the London American. 
 
 " Mr. Bennett's happiest efforts are those in which he deals with 
 the social affections. He certainly has the power to enwrap the 
 feelings while he charms the imagination. A sort of pastoral 
 simplicity breathes through his odes, bringing the freshness of 
 the country into town, as witness the following on Greenwich. 
 But with all the gentleness breathing in this and kindred com- 
 positions, Mr. Bennett has a reserved power which reminds us, in 
 its occasional manifestations, of some of the grandest strains of 
 Schiller and Goethe."
 
 11 
 
 From the Morning Advertiser. 
 
 "ilr. Bennett is equally happy in his descriptions of rural 
 beauty, the pleasures of the coiintry, and the sublimity of the 
 ocean". The book altogether will be decidedly popular with the 
 lovers of poetry." 
 
 From the Tfeekly Dispatch. 
 
 " A new volume of poems by Mr. Bennett is sure of a welcome. 
 Few of our writers are so happy m the exhibition of the domestic 
 feelings, the pure and intense love of a good man for the wife 
 and children whose presence at the domestic fire-side imparts 
 its dearest charm. Witliout obtruding personal relationships, 
 Mr. Bennett sounds a note of natural emotion, to which all must 
 respond; and this is the reason of the great popularity of his 
 child-poems. Js'atural and unaffected, playful and tender, they 
 are almost unequalled for their understanding of child nature, — 
 a most delightful thing, though a great mystery to some. But 
 Mr. Bennett is not alone a poet of the domestic affections. He 
 can raise a louder and loftier strain, on the side of freedom and 
 progress, and sketch, with rare iChcity, the aspects of nature, 
 especially in rural scenes. The volume before us contains speci- 
 mens of all the aspects of his muse; and we recognize one or two 
 sonnets, especial tavourites of ours, which well deserved the 
 reprint." 
 
 From the English Churchman. 
 
 "We have before had occasion to praise Mr. Bennett as worthy 
 to rank amongst the best of our modern song-writers. The volume 
 which he now puts forward forms another instalment of miscel- 
 laneous pieces and sonnets, all of them embodying graceful thoughts 
 in pleasant verse, and each in its turn exhibiting the versatility of 
 the writer, — the pathetic, the stirring, the earnest and the quaint 
 following each other in quick succession throughout the volume. 
 We cordially recommend it to notice." 
 
 From the Atlas, 
 "These poems have refreshed and delighted us." 
 
 From the John Bull. 
 
 " Mr. Bennett has before this established his fame as a popular 
 poet. 'The Worn Wedding-ring' and the ' Green Hills of Surrey ' 
 are specimens of Mr. Bennett's very best style in the way of 
 songs, both happily rendering true human emotion in musical and 
 vigorous lines. We like his sonnets better than his songs; there 
 is something in the mood of his poetry which suits the form of 
 the sonnet, and he has especial strength in illustrating by this 
 medium the higher aspect of art. We may cite particularly, in 
 evidence of this, his sonnet on ' Holman Hunt's Picture,' and that
 
 12 
 
 on the 'Tomb of Benozzo Gozzoli.' His beautiful sonnet on the 
 'Venus de Medici' is conceived in a far higher vein of poetry than 
 the sensuous stanza of Ciiilde Harold on the same subject ; and 
 among many that will make the name of their author live, we may 
 point especially to those on 'The Turners,' 'The Photograph of 
 Dante,' and ' To Keats.'" 
 
 From the National Magazine. 
 
 " Mr. Bennett has again come before the world with a volume 
 of poems. To the readers of the 'National' it is superfluous to 
 expatiate on his merits. We all love him as the poet of home and 
 its treasures. No one has sung so weU of the joy, and beauty, 
 and blessedness of childhood — of the sacred tie' which binds 
 togetlier man and wife — of the tenderness which grows and ripens, 
 and bears fruit by the fireside. His verse is always harmonious, 
 healthy, and cheering ; and we feel all the better after reading his 
 songs. Some of his very sweetest are in the volume whose title 
 we have just given, and, besides, we have many noble sonnets, in 
 simplicity and dignity almost rivalling those of Wordsworth. Let 
 us trust he may go on singing, and the world listening, for many 
 coming years. "When such poems as these are in demand it is a 
 good sign of the times." 
 
 From the Eclectic Review. 
 
 " Mr. Bennett's volume is bom of a reverent and loving spirit, 
 enjoying the world, and especially the social affections of the 
 English fireside. Mr. Bennett's poems are well-known by us, 
 and we have before now said our hearty commendatory word upon 
 them; they are the productions of a happy, cheerful nature, to 
 whom life has brougiit all its best things, and taken few away. 
 His verses, so flowing along like a merry brook, occasionally 
 detained, it may be, for a few moments, and compelled to wear 
 upon its wavelets a deeper shadow from some overhanging tree, or 
 brooding village, or darker bay, but hastening on again, as fast as 
 possible, into the open space, the sunshine, and the buoyant air 
 and light ; a hearty appreciation of all graceful and beautiful 
 things — not merely the cold critical eye to perceive, but the heart 
 to feel beauty as well, for whom travel has done a little, and books 
 more. Happy husband, happy father, lively and free, in his, no 
 doubt, happy home, and with no disposition to see the dark things of 
 life. We do not think that this volume will add to Mr. Bennett's 
 reputation; certainly it will not diminish it. We have no baby 
 poetry here ; and Mr. Bennett is the acknowledged and crowned 
 laureate of babies. He has a fine eye for nature — lines of very 
 graphic description — description which shows heart-work and 
 artist-work are here. He has also a fine eye for art ; he has also, 
 which in these days is a more rare faculty, reverence before noble 
 men and teachers." 
 
 G£ORQ£ CNWIK, GRESHAM STEAM PBESS, BUCKLEBSBCRY, E.C.
 
 4
 
 ■-T m i-Ti iitnurr^"-- 
 
 OPINION S OF THE PRESS. 
 
 From the Leader. 
 
 Here we find the sweet song of "Baby's Shoes," which has been so 
 frequently quoted with enthusiastic recognition. 
 
 From the Daily Telegraph. 
 
 "Baby's Shoes" is worthy to rank with "Baby May," which, from 
 its completeness and finished charm as a picture of infancy, is one of 
 the most exquisite among the whole of Mr. Bennett's productions. 
 From the Eclectic Review. 
 
 "We confess, of all things small, we love balnes; and we derive more 
 poetical inspiration from baby-watchings and baby-nursings than from 
 any other class of sub-adorations ; and we further confess, that we never 
 met with more truthful descriptions of them than we find in this 
 volume. Memory itself is not so faithful,- though it is capable of 
 appreciating the fidelity of the artist. 
 
 From the Atlas. 
 
 "VTould you have a poem on domestic subjects on the love between 
 parent and cliild ? Ilow charmingly is that brought out in the Uttle 
 poem entitled "Baby's Shoes." 
 
 From the Globe. 
 
 We know Mr. Bennett as the sweet singer of the domestic hearth, 
 as one ready to hail each aspect of nature and her influences in words 
 as fresh as her flowers, in music as soft as the voice of her birds. 
 From Chambers's Jou.rxal. 
 
 In Mr. Bennett's descriptions we seem to hear the very jerk of the 
 cradle breaking the sweet monotony of tiie mother's song. In the new 
 volume before us there are several excellent songs — those which have 
 little children for their subject, as usual, the best ; but there is none 
 which quite comes up to our old favourite, "Baby May." Perliaps some 
 of our readers may be even yet unacquainted with tliat lyric of the 
 nursery, in wliich case we could scarcely do tiiem a pleasanter piece of 
 service than by extracting it. It is a poem with which every woman, 
 and every man with a heart within him is charmed at the first reading, 
 quite apart from its perfectness as a work of art. It bears criticism, 
 indeed, of the strictest kind; but just as their " mother's grave" bears 
 the sons who come to "peep and botanize" upon it. Critics are warned 
 off the premises as trespassers. "All the place is holy ground ;" " liollow 
 smile and frozen sneer" have no business tliere. Look at the child ! 
 
 AVho but a real poet could have made such a subject as the following 
 ("Baby's Shoes") awakeu thoughts at least deep enough for tears? 
 Thus far it will be owned that he has borrowed of no brother of his' 
 craft; that his lyrics have been as original as they have been natural 
 and tender; but before we have done with him it is but fair to show 
 how he can hold his own when entt-ring the lists with some of our older 
 poets. He does not expend his eneri^ies, indeed, as some of them did, 
 upon " Inscriptions for a Grotto," or " Lines upon a Crystal Spring ;" but 
 the form, intention, and even metre of his lines are identical with many 
 of theirs who have Lived thus long, and are even now admired, with 
 a not greater right, as we believe, to the laurel crown than has 
 Mr. Bennett. Have "Waller or Sheustoue ever written, m the same man 
 uer, anything more admirable than these two "Epitaphs for Iniantsr'
 
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