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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 yfi . ^ /9ii-..^2-->^^
 
 REST IN THE LORD ; 
 
 AND OTHER SMALL PIECES. 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCES POWER COBBE. 
 
 FOB PRIVATE GIFT OMLY 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY PEWTRESS & CO., 
 
 28, LITTLE QUEEN STREET, HIGH HOLBOKN, W.C. 
 
 1887.
 
 M4UI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In human life, as in external Nature, there occur now 
 and then luminous hours when our consciousness either 
 of ]oy or pam, becomes suddenly and intensely vivid, 
 even as the beauty or dreariness of a landscape 
 reveal themselves in the sunburst dispelling a mist. 
 Just as the form and colour of every rock on the 
 mountain side, and of every tree in the waving wood, 
 grow distinct in the radiant light, so feelings and 
 thoughts which have remained dim and doubtful to us 
 hitherto, seem all at once transparent and throbbing 
 with life. 
 
 In such moments as those 1 believe that every one 
 to whom Writing is the natural Art of expression (as 
 Music and Painting are to others) finds himself prompted 
 to use language rising into the forms of Poetry. 
 Something is needed, which the imagery and rhythm of 
 poetic diction can alone supi)ly, to render his lucid 
 thought and fervent feelings; and lie drops his wonted 
 prose and adopts verse as spontaneously as the 
 
 r.
 
 IV. 
 
 swiimnor strikos out when lio finds the water in 
 wliidi lie lias been wadiii}^ <^row deep. 
 
 It is a mistake into which only the vainest fall, 
 to confound this occasional verse-making with the 
 composition of true pootry, oven of the minor sort. 
 For that consummation not only something far loftier 
 and more sustained, but something quite different 
 from any such temporary flush of feeling is required. 
 " The Poet in a golden hour was born ;" and must 
 dwell in his own golden clime ; not merely inhale its 
 ether for a moment. He is the Priest whose abode is 
 ever in the courts of the Beautiful Temple. The 
 other is onlj' a poor husbandman who goes up thither 
 thrice a year to keep the Feast. Yet the verses 
 composed in such days of illumination are not always 
 wholl)' without value, even if they may not claim 
 the title of Poems. Chiefest is their worth, no 
 doubt, to the writer himself, for whom they partially 
 revive in distant years the glamour of the hour 
 which gave them birth. But to others also (at 
 least to those who sympathise with the sentiments 
 they express), they may resemble an amateur's sketch 
 drawn on a favoured spot, which, rough and imj)erfect 
 as it may be, possesses yd a certain freshness and 
 charm of its own, though no comparison could exist 
 between it and the work of a genuine artist. 
 
 It is my hope that, as the lines in this little 
 volume will only come (so far as I can contrive) into 
 the hands of the dear friends of whose sympathy I
 
 V. 
 
 am already assured, they will meet none but such kindly 
 eyes ; and serve perhaps, a little to draw closer 
 those links of affection which, as the evening of life 
 comes on, grow ever more precious. 
 
 I have been often asked for copies of two of the 
 pieces which have been printed before, — the Address 
 to Lord Shaftesbury, and the verses which I have 
 placed first in the little collection, — and having once 
 decided to put these in type, I have been tempted 
 to add a few other records of the " luminous 
 hours " in my long and liappy, but by no means 
 dreamy or poetical, life. Of course there were others 
 beside these, — especially numerous in the earlier period — 
 long tales in verse dating from the raature age of 
 thirteen ; the inevitable tragedy of eighteen, and 
 several Addresses of purely personal kind to friends 
 and relatives. These may all best be forgotten ; but 
 it would give me pleasure to think that some of the 
 lines I have here preserved, all faulty and inartistic as 
 1 know them to be, might touch some chords in the 
 hearts of those who will read them. Perhaps the 
 optimism which pervades them, and which in these 
 latter days somids like some long-forgotten dear 
 old tune, will provoke a sigh of dissent. But even 
 now, in this midwinter of Pessimism and Unfaith, 
 — of which " Locksley Hall Sixty Years After " is the 
 too true exponent, — I cherish the belief that a Spring- 
 time of Hope and Trust will come again over the 
 world, though 1 shall not live to share it. The 
 note of joy and thankfulness which my young heart
 
 VI. 
 
 snii'4 Imlf a contnry nfjo. is. after all, truer than tlie 
 iiiartiiMilato wail wliicli scoiiis the prevailing voice 
 of these latter days of jjloom. " IJeyond the clouds is 
 the Sun still shinin<j.' 
 
 F. P. C. 
 
 
 Hengwrt, Dolgeli.v, 
 Mil,/. 1887.
 
 C O N T E N T S . 
 
 Prebace ... 
 
 Rest in the Lord 
 
 The Festa of the World 
 
 MoRiENs Gang 
 
 A Thunderstorm on the Diablerets 
 
 To Lord Shaftesbury on his BOth Birthday 
 
 To the Same on his H-Jnd Birthday, avith 
 
 Tablet 
 
 To Margaret Elliot 
 
 Alone in the Schwakzwald 
 
 The Pageant of Time 
 
 " The Chalice of the Grapes of God " 
 
 EAKLY PIECES 
 A Vale of Tears 
 A Summer Dawn in Youth 
 The Joy of Youth ... 
 A Litany of Thanksgiving 
 Grief ... 
 
 A Creed 
 
 An Aspiration 
 A De.\th Song 
 
 PAGE 
 
 iii. 
 1 
 3 
 G 
 8 
 
 10 
 
 12 
 13 
 14 
 18 
 24 
 
 25 
 
 27 
 28 
 3U 
 :57 
 42 
 44 
 4(3
 
 BEST IN THE LOKD. 
 
 God draws a cloud over each gleaming morn. 
 
 Woulds't thou ask, why? 
 It is because all noblest things are born 
 
 In agony. 
 
 Only upon some Cross of pain or woe 
 
 God's Son may lie. 
 Each soul redeemed from self and sin must 
 know 
 
 It's Calvary. 
 
 Yet we must crave neither for joy nor grief, 
 
 God chooses best. 
 He only knows our sick soul's fit relief, 
 
 And gives us rest. 
 
 More than our feeble souls can ever pine 
 
 For holiness, 
 That Father in His tenderness divine 
 
 Yearneth to bless.
 
 IIo never sends a joy not meant in love, 
 
 Still less a pain. 
 Our Gratitude the sunlij^bt falls to move ; 
 
 Our Faith, {\\c rain. 
 
 In His hands we are safe. We falter on 
 Through storm and mire. 
 
 Above, around, beside us there is One 
 "Will never tire. 
 
 What thougli we fall, and bruised and 
 wounded lie 
 
 Oiu- lips in dust ? 
 God's Arm will lift us up to victory. 
 
 In Him we trust ! 
 
 For neither Life nor Death nor things below 
 
 Nor things above. 
 Shall ever sever us that we should go 
 
 From His great Love. 
 
 September 10, 1859.
 
 THE FESTA OF THE WOELD. 
 
 A Princess came to a southern strand, over 
 
 a summer sea ; 
 And the sky smiled down on the laughing 
 
 land, for that land was Italy. 
 
 The fruit trees bent their laden boughs o'er 
 
 the fields with harvest gold, 
 And the rich vines wreathed from tree to 
 
 tree, like garlands in temples old. 
 
 And over all fell the glad sunlight, so warm, 
 
 so bright, so clear. 
 The earth shone out like an emerald set in 
 
 the diamond atmosphere. 
 
 Then down to greet that lady sweet came 
 the Duke from his palace hall : 
 
 " I thank thee, gentle Sire," she cried, " for 
 thy princely festival.
 
 " For honoureil guests have towns 'ere now 
 
 been decked right royally ; 
 " But thy whole land is garlanded, one 
 
 bower of bloom for me ! " 
 
 Then smiled the Duke at the lady's thought, 
 and the thanks he had lightly won ; 
 
 For Nature's eternal Festa-day she deemed 
 was for her alone ! 
 
 A Poet stood by the Princess' side ; " Lady 
 
 raise thine eye, 
 The Giver of this great festival, He dwelleth 
 
 in yon blue sky. 
 
 Thy kinsman Prince hath welcomed thee, but 
 
 God hath His world arrayed 
 Not more for thee than yon beggar old who 
 
 sleeps 'neath the ilex shade. 
 
 His Sun doth shine on the peasant's fields. 
 His rain on liis vinej^ard pour. 
 
 His flowers bloom by the worn wayside, and 
 creep o'er the cottage door.
 
 For each, for all is a welcome given and 
 spread the world's great feast ; 
 
 And the King of Kings is the loving Host 
 and each child of man a guest. ' 
 
 
 Villa Brichieri, Bellosguardo. 
 May 17, 1860. 
 
 [The mistake recorded above was made by a daughter 
 of Louis Philippe when visiting her uncle, the Grand 
 Duke of Lucca. The incident was narrated to me 
 by Mdlle. Felicie de Fauveau, attendant on the 
 Duchesse de Berri.]
 
 MORIENS CANO.* 
 
 Slowly down the moonlight wave 
 Floats the wild swan to her grave, 
 Soft and low is her sweet song, 
 Sweeping the midnight stream, along. 
 
 Moriens Cano. 
 
 Calmly on the river deep 
 
 Lies the martyr* as in sleep ; 
 
 Peace of angels she has won. 
 
 Life's battle fought, life's labour done. 
 
 Moriens Cano. 
 
 O'er her shines the aureole, 
 Crown of saint's triumphant soul ; 
 Crossed her shackled hands ; no more 
 Earthly toil for them in store, 
 
 Moriens Canu. 
 
 '■'■'■ This motto (referring to the swans which form the 
 charges in their armorial bearings), has been used by 
 the writer's family for more than three centuries.
 
 Martyr ! when I see thee He, 
 Resting thus victoriously, 
 My spirit yearns that I might dare 
 Thine infinite repose to share. 
 
 Moriens Cano. 
 
 Like the bird whose pfean high 
 
 Rises in death triumphantly, 
 
 And sings her farewell to the sun — ; 
 
 " The task God gave me I have 
 
 DONE." 
 
 Moriens Cano. 
 
 I^^^ 
 
 :^^ 
 
 Clifton, 1862.
 
 A THUNDEESTORlSr ON THE 
 DIABLERETS. 
 
 KoLL ! Roll ! Roll and crash ! 
 
 Magnificent tliunder ! Roar ! 
 The clouds 'j^ainst the mountain break and 
 dash 
 
 Like tempestuous waves on the shore. 
 
 And up from the depths of the valleys beyond 
 
 Great vaporous volumes arise, 
 As if nations had chosen their battling 
 ground, 
 
 And their cannon-smoke mounted the skies. 
 
 Down ! Down ! Lower and lower. 
 
 Black cloud with the outspread wings, 
 Like a fierce huge bird from thine eagle 
 
 tower 
 Swoop down to the glacier springs !
 
 The mountain is hid 'neath the hmd shroud, 
 
 Only the white snow gleams 
 Through a rift aloft in the torn wild cloud, 
 
 Like a vision of Heaven in dreams. 
 
 The vision of purity angels win 
 
 For a moment revealed to the soul, 
 
 Ere again the billows of passion and sin 
 In storm and oblivion roll. 
 
 Flash ! Flash ! Arrow of light, 
 
 Down the crags by the chamois trod, 
 
 Strike to the heart of the pine-forest's night 
 Like the withering glance of a God ! 
 
 EoU, Koll, Koll and Eoar ! 
 
 Glorious thunder ! Roll ! 
 The tempest and fury of Heaven's great war 
 
 Are the joy of a human soul. 
 
 The Diablcrcts, 
 
 August 10, 1863.
 
 10 
 
 To Till': Ttii earl of SIIAl'TESBUKY 
 OX HIS 80th BIRTHDAY. 
 
 For eighty years ! Many will count them over, 
 But none save He who knoweth all may guess 
 
 What those long years have held of high 
 endeavour, 
 Of world wide blessing and of blessedness. 
 
 For eighty years the champion of the right 
 Of hapless child neglected and forlorn ; 
 
 Of maniac dungeoned in his double night ; 
 Of woman overtasked and labour-w^orn ; 
 
 Of homeless boy in streets with peril rife ; 
 
 Of workman sickening in his airless den ; 
 Of Indian parching for the streams of life ; 
 
 Of Negro slave in bonds of cruel men. 
 
 ! Friend of all the friendless 'neath the sun, 
 Whose hand has wiped away a thousand tears, 
 
 Whose eloquent lips and clear strong brain 
 have done 
 God's holy service, lo ! these eighty years.
 
 11 
 
 How meet it seems thy grand and vigorous age 
 Should find beyond man's race fresh pangs 
 to spare, 
 And for the wronged and tortured brutes 
 engage 
 In yet fresh labours and ungrudging care. 
 
 O tarry long amongst us ! Live, we pray. 
 
 Hasten not yet to hear thy Lord's "Well 
 done ! " 
 Let this world still seem better while it may 
 
 Number one soul like thine amid its throng. 
 
 Whilst thou art here our inmost hearts 
 confess 
 Truth spake the kingly seer of old who 
 said : 
 
 "Found in the ways of God and Righteous- 
 ness, 
 
 " A crown of glory is the hoary head." 
 
 April 28, 1881. 
 
 [These lines were introduced into the oration of 
 the City Chamberlain when the Freedom of the 
 City of London was conferred on Lord Shaftesbury.]
 
 12 
 
 TO JAUil) silAI"l'i:si;(i;\- ox HIS 
 82ni) i;ii:'riij)AV. 
 
 \\'iTii A China Ta];lkt. 
 
 The Lord of Kome, historians say, 
 Lamented he had "lost a day," 
 When no good deed was done. 
 Scarce one such day, methinks, appears 
 In the long record of the years 
 Of England's worthier son. 
 
 If on this tablet's surface light 
 
 His hourly toils should Shaftesbury write 
 
 All may be soon effaced : 
 
 But in our grateful memories graven 
 
 And in the registers of Heaven 
 
 They will not be erased. 
 
 London, April 28, 1883.
 
 13 
 
 TO MARGAEET ELLIOT. 
 
 My Margaret ; What Fairy chose 
 Her god-child's name with so ninch art- 
 The simplest, purest flower that grows — 
 The fioiuer witli the golden heart ! 
 
 
 Borne, March, 18G2.
 
 14 
 
 ALOXK IX THE SCTIWAEZWALD. 
 
 Lord of the Forest Sanctuaiy ! Thou 
 B}' the (^-ey fathers of the world in these 
 Thine own self fashioned shrines dimly adored, 
 " All-Father Odin," mover of the spheres ; 
 Zeus, Baal, Ormusd, Lord of Light Divine ! 
 God, blessed God ! the Good One ! — Best of 
 
 names. 
 By noblest Saxon race found Thee at last, — 
 O Father when the slow revolving years 
 
 Bring forth the day when men shall see Thy 
 
 face 
 Unveiled from superstition's web of errors 
 
 old, 
 Shall they not seek Thee here amid the 
 
 woods. 
 Rather than in the pillared aisle, or dome 
 By loftiest genius reared ?
 
 15 
 
 Six months have rolled 
 Smce I stood solitary in the fane 
 Of desolate Baalbec. The huge walls closed 
 Bound nie sublime as when milleniums past 
 Lost nations worshipped there. I sate 
 
 beside 
 The altar stone o'erthrown. For hours I sate 
 Until the homeward winging hawk at even 
 
 Shrieked when he saw me there, a human 
 
 form 
 Where human feet tread once perchance a 
 
 year. 
 Then the moon slowly rose above the walls, 
 And then I knelt. It was a glorious fane. 
 All, all my own. 
 
 But not that grand Baalbec, 
 Nor Parthenon, nor Rome's stupendous pile, 
 Nor lovelier Milan, nor the Sepulchre 
 So dark and solemn where the Christ was 
 
 laid. 
 Nor even yet that dreadful field of death 
 At Ghizeh where the eternal Pyramids 
 Have from a world of graves pointed to Heaven 
 For sixty ages past, — not all these shrines 
 Are holy to my soul as are the woods.
 
 Lo ! how God liiiiiscll' has phiniiccl this place 
 So tliat all sweet, and ealin, and solemu 
 
 thou<;hts 
 Should have their nests amid the shadowy 
 
 trees ; 
 How the rude work-day world is all closed out 
 By the thick curtained foliage, and the sky 
 Alone revealed, a deep zenith heaven, 
 Fitly heheld through clasped and upraised 
 
 arms 
 Of prayer-like trees. There is no sound 
 
 more loud 
 Than tlie low insect hum, the chirp of birds, 
 The rustling murmur of embracing boughs, 
 The gentle dropping of the autumn leaves. 
 The wood's sweet breath is incense. From 
 
 the pines 
 And larch and chestnut come rich odours 
 
 pure ; 
 All things are pure and sweet and holy here. 
 
 I lie down underneath the firs. 
 The moss 
 Makes richest cushion for my weary limbs ; 
 Long I gaze upward while the dark green 
 
 boughs 
 Moveless project against the azure sky.
 
 17 
 
 Fringed with their russet cones. My satiate 
 
 eyes 
 Sink down at length. I turn my cheek to 
 
 earth. 
 What may this be, this sense of youth 
 
 restored, 
 My happy childhood with its sunbright hours, 
 Beturning once again as in a dream ? 
 'Tis but the odour of the mossy ground, 
 The "field-smells known in infancy," when yet. 
 Our childish sports were near to mother Earth, 
 Our childlike hearts near to the God in Heaven. 
 
 September 23, 1858.
 
 18 
 
 THE PAGEANT OF Tnii:. 
 
 I HAD a vision long ug<i in the sunrise light 
 
 of youth, 
 A glorious vision whicli my soul shall ever 
 
 hold for truth. 
 I stood in dream celestial beneath a grander 
 
 dome 
 Than roofs the mighty temple, the crown of 
 
 Christian Rome. 
 And in that theatre sublime a wondrous 
 
 drama played, 
 Beyond all words of mine to tell were the 
 
 marvels there arrayed ; 
 All things on earth majestic and beautiful 
 
 and wise, 
 And the treasures of the ocean depths and 
 
 secrets of the skies. 
 /Then the Sorcerer Science entered, and 
 
 where'er he w^aved his wand 
 Fresh wonders and fresh mysteries arose on 
 
 every hand. \
 
 19 
 
 But grander grew that spectacle, with deeper 
 
 awe I gazed, 
 When ten thousand human actors the 
 
 melodious chorus raised. 
 Before mine eyes passed slowly the Pageant 
 
 of all Time, 
 The progress of man's sacred race towards 
 
 his destiny sublime. 
 I saw each deed heroic of every clime and 
 
 age; 
 Each patriot fought, each martyr died, upon 
 
 that solemn stage. 
 The Jew, the Greek, the Eoman, our own 
 
 forefathers old 
 And all the good and great and brave since 
 
 Homer's tale was told. 
 Then holy voices heard I, falling sweet as 
 
 from the sky. 
 Of every sage and prophet of our great 
 
 Humanity ; 
 Till the wisdom which God's spirit from 
 
 Creation's dawn had taught 
 Was in one mighty oracle to my soul in 
 
 rapture brought.
 
 '20 
 
 "0 God! I erica, I lliank Tlicc ! Almi^Oily 
 
 Lord of All! 
 Creator, Poet, Architect, of this worid-^dorious 
 
 hull! 
 I thank Thee Thou hast called me to see 
 
 hut for a day, 
 The universe of beauty and of s^ory Thou 
 
 dost sway. 
 I tliank Thee for the eyes wliicli see, for 
 
 the happy ears which hear, 
 Thy works so full of goodness, Thy words 
 
 of wisdom dear. 
 I thank Thee ! Creator ! unworthy though I be 
 This heart which throbs responsive proves 
 
 my parentage to Thee. 
 My Father! It is Thy blest Hand, Thy 
 
 Love in all I trace, 
 The sunlight of a million worlds is the smile 
 
 upon Thy face. 
 Thy works all lead me to Thyself, and if 
 
 never joy beside. 
 Upon my pathway to the grave Thou wiliest 
 
 should betide, 
 Yet still, Lord, I thank Thee, a thousand, 
 
 thousand fold, 
 That Thou hast suffered me one hour Thy 
 
 glory to behold."
 
 21 
 
 Thus I poured my glad thanksgiving in the 
 
 fervid joy of youth, — 
 A youth whose years had fleeted in the 
 
 quenchless thirst of truth. 
 
 Then cried I to my brother men around that 
 
 mystic hall, 
 Where each was seated in his place as God 
 
 appointed all. 
 "Join all," I cried, "ye happy souls! Let 
 
 one vast Pfean rise, 
 Glory to Him who built the world, and 
 
 planned the star-strewn skies " ! 
 
 But ah ! my cry fell coldly. Not one 'mid 
 
 thousands there, 
 E'en glanced at that great spectacle which 
 
 God had made so fair. 
 Their heavy eyes looked downward, each 
 
 where he sat looked down 
 On some small thing he handled with many 
 
 a sigh and groan. 
 The axe, the wheel, the needle, the shuttle, 
 
 awl and spade, 
 A few poor coins the wretched dole which a 
 
 life of labour paid.
 
 Down, (liiwii. those sad eyes settK'd ; or if 
 
 they glanced aside, 
 'Twas but in mean and sordid strife with 
 
 the brothers at their side. 
 "Wake! Wake!" I cried, "my brothers! 
 
 Wake from yom- dream of woe ! 
 Look out upon this goodly scene whicli God 
 
 hath planned below." 
 Yet still they gave no response, save a few 
 
 who sat apart, 
 And held not in their idle hands the types 
 
 of toil or art. 
 " We see, we see," they answered, " 'Tis in 
 
 truth a noble sight. 
 And the privilege to view it thus we value 
 
 as is right." 
 " then arouse om- brothers " ! " Our 
 
 brothers ? Say not so. 
 In a sense they are our brothers, but we 
 
 differ all, you know. 
 For them they have their duties ; enough for 
 
 them to plough. 
 To dig, to weave, to forge, to reap, to herd 
 
 and thresh and mow.
 
 23 
 
 There must be hewers of the wood, drawers 
 
 of water base. 
 Teach them alone the things which fit their 
 
 own inferior place. 
 For us let God's great theatre it's million 
 
 wonders show ; 
 For them '? — Why teach the men to dig, 
 
 women to wash and sew." 
 
 I heard them but my soul rebelled and I 
 
 left my birthright's place, 
 And down amid those toil bent ones I strove 
 
 my path to trace, 
 Crying ever till I lie in my last sleep 'neath 
 
 the sod ; 
 " Look up brother men and see the 
 
 Ldorious works of God." 
 
 Bristol, DcccDihcr, 1859.
 
 24 
 
 " THE CHALICE OF THE GKAPES 
 OF GOD." 
 
 My soul is like a chalice deep 
 God will fill with I10I3' wine ; 
 In work, in prayer, awake, asleep 
 He pours therein His love divine. 
 
 Pour on, Master ! Fill thy cup 
 Till the sweet drops overflow 
 Fill my heart's whole measure up 
 To share with all Thy sons below. 
 
 
 Clifton, 1861.
 
 25 
 
 EAELY PIECES 
 
 A VALE OF TEAKS. 
 
 " A Vale of Tears " / No, bigot, no ! 
 A bounteous God blaspheme not so. 
 
 " A Vale of Tears " ? Canst thou then see 
 The fertile earth. Heaven's canopy ? 
 The hills with freedom's soul endued 
 The forest's holy solitude ? 
 
 *' A Vale of Tears'' :^ Canst thou then hear 
 The glad birds hymn the plenteous year? 
 The whispered love of the leaf-clad trees, 
 The war blast of the storm-roused seas? 
 
 " A Vale of Tears " / The bright flow'rs bloom 
 Wafts it where no rich perfume? 
 The wild gorse on the mountain side, 
 The odorous airs of eventide?
 
 26 
 
 ".I I'dJr of Tc(irs'\' Canst tliou then feel 
 Tlie ]\\v of niorninj^'s active zeal V 
 The calm delight, hlessing and blest 
 To sink at night to dreamy rest ? 
 
 ^ Is it to mock a world of woe 
 The soft winds laugh, the clear streams flow ? 
 Is it a proof of wrath Divine 
 That the earth is gilt by the bright smishine ? 
 
 "A Vale of Tears" ! Does not each sense 
 Proclaim a good Omnipotence? 
 Is it thy heart which cold and~dark 
 Can light not at the heaven-sent spark? 
 
 Hast thou no being then to whom 
 Thy joy is bliss, thy grief is gloom? 
 No friend mid all man's countless race 
 Whose smile can bring thee happiness ? 
 
 If this be so, and thou hast moved 
 Through life unloving and unloved, 
 Then call, poor slave of doubts and fears ! 
 God's glorious world, a " Vale of Tears." 
 
 Newbridge.
 
 27 
 
 A SUMMEE DAWN IN YOUTH. 
 
 The clouds of night are breaking in the 
 
 far-off Eastern sky, 
 And the giant sun up-springing to his golden 
 
 throne on high, 
 
 Each bird has left her dewy nest and is 
 
 singing her anthem sweet, 
 And over the flowery, glittering grass leap 
 
 the hares so wild and fleet. 
 
 And I too rise from my dreamy rest to 
 
 kneel, Lord, to Thee ! 
 And thou wilt shed. Thou Sun of Suns ! the 
 
 Light of Life on me. 
 
 Kise Saviour-Lord ! arise and shine, 
 Illume this darkly heart of mine ; 
 With healing on thy wings arise, 
 And move, like Memnon's breast, my stony 
 heart to praise. 
 
 Neivhridge, 1839. {/Etat IG.)
 
 28 
 
 THE JUY UF YuUTli. 
 
 I LIVE ! I live I and never to man hath such 
 
 joy in hfe been pfiven, 
 Or power to make, as I can make, of this 
 
 glorious world a Heaven. 
 
 My mind is free, my limbs are clad with 
 strength which few may know, 
 
 And every eye smiles lovingly ; on earth I 
 have no foe. 
 
 With pm'e and peaceful pleasures blessed, 
 fleet my calm and studious days ; 
 
 While the noblest works of mightiest minds 
 lie open to my gaze. 
 
 To poet and painter and sculptors' dream 
 my pulse leaps fast and high 
 
 And my breath hath paused till delight grew 
 pain at one voice's melody.
 
 29 
 
 To me each breath of the summer air, each 
 
 wave of the stormy sea, 
 Each cloud which floats o'er Heaven's bkie 
 
 dome lirings share of ecstasy. 
 
 ■-m 
 
 Newhridge, 1845.
 
 30 
 
 A LITANY OF THANKSGIVING. 
 
 For Life, for Health, I bless Thee, for 
 
 hearing and for sight ; 
 For food and clothing and abode ; for the rest 
 
 of the dreamy night ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God ! 
 
 For the beloved ones romid me, for all who 
 
 grant me love ; 
 For the sweet affections budding here to 
 
 bloom in heaven above ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God ! 
 
 For my mother, I bless Thee, thou 
 
 bounteous Lord of Good, 
 What her dear love has been to me Thou 
 
 alone hast understood ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God !
 
 31 
 
 I bless Thee that Thy countless gifts are for 
 all, nor only mine ; 
 
 That every creature Thou hast made par- 
 takes Thy love Divine ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God ! 
 
 For the order of the Universe ; for the daily 
 
 rising Sun ; 
 For the gladsome light and warmth he sheds, 
 
 blessing all he gazes on ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God! 
 
 For the calm moon's gentle beams to light 
 
 the peaceful night. 
 For the stars to speak to us of Thee and of 
 
 Thy boundless might ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God ! 
 
 For the clouds which deck the sky or pour 
 
 life-giving rain, 
 Yet oft unveil the radiant sun and the holy 
 
 starry train ; 
 
 I bless Thee, O my God !
 
 32 
 
 For Siiniinor's plenteous fruits iiiul flowers, 
 
 for Autumn's harvest store ; 
 For Winter's healthful snow and stnmi ; for 
 
 Spring's V(>viving power ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God! 
 
 For the stately forest trees, and flowers so 
 
 bright and fair, 
 Springing from every spot of earth to show 
 
 Thy Love is there ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God! 
 
 For the birds of joyous song, for the brutes 
 
 which serve us well, 
 And for our care and gentleness their love 
 
 so humbly tell ; 
 
 I bless Thee, O my God ! 
 
 For the fishes' sportive throng, and insects 
 
 gay and free, 
 For every creature which enjoys, — seen or 
 
 unseen by me ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God !
 
 33 
 
 For Language, — priceless human gift ! the 
 
 power of commune sweet, 
 Whereby the brain and heart of man his 
 
 brother's heart may meet ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God ! 
 
 For all deep wisdom's fountains, that Wisdom 
 
 froin above, 
 Thy Spirit pours on faithful souls, teaching 
 
 all truth and love ; 
 
 I bless Thee, O my God ! 
 
 That same great Inspiration through all the 
 
 ages rolled. 
 Breaking through Moses' " tardy lips," and 
 
 Plato's mouth of gold ; 
 
 I bless Thee, O my God! 
 
 For that fullest Word descending, like the 
 
 wind which bloweth free, 
 Through Him who called Thee " Father," 
 
 on the Mount of Galilee ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God !
 
 34 
 
 For tlie throl) of pi'ticoful <,'laclness, when 
 
 some endeavour weak 
 Has obeyed the blessed mandate Thou 
 
 dost through Conscience speak ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God! 
 
 For the blank and troubled sadness when 
 
 that Conscience is unheard ; 
 For the anguish of remorse when its fearful 
 
 wrath is stirred ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God! 
 
 For every joy bestowed which brought my 
 
 soul to Thee ; 
 For every pang which showed Sin's foul 
 
 deformity ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God ! 
 
 For Thine endless gifts I bless Thee ! Yet, 
 
 the gi-eatest would be small, 
 Had'st Thou not added to them this — to 
 
 trace Thy hand in all ; 
 
 And bless Thee, my God !
 
 35 
 
 To read Thy goodness on the earth, Thy 
 
 glory in the sky, 
 And in my heart's deep sohtnde to feel 
 
 Thy spirit nigh ; 
 
 And bless Thee, my God ! 
 
 To know that love of truest hiends but 
 flows through them from Thee, 
 
 That every joy which fills my life proves 
 that Thou lovest me ; 
 
 I bless Thee, my God ! 
 
 Nor only me — each heart that swells on the 
 
 wide bright earth before Thee, 
 Every high Intelligence that dwells where 
 the sons of the stars adore Thee. 
 I bless Thee, my God ! 
 
 For all the pure and sinless joys, unknown, 
 
 unfelt by me 
 Which through Thy realms all Infinite, flow 
 
 down eternally. 
 
 I bless Thee, my God!
 
 36 
 
 I bli'ss Theo An- llu' dearest gift enjoyed or 
 
 understood, 
 I bless Thee that I know and feel that Thou 
 Thyself art good. 
 
 I bless Thee, my God ! 
 
 .zm. 
 
 Neivhridge, May, 1847.
 
 37 
 
 GEIE F 
 
 Mother, Mother ! can it be 
 
 The grave holds all that once was thee, 
 
 And thou art but a memory. 
 
 My blessed Mother? 
 
 A memory thy gentle heart, thy spirit pure 
 
 and mild ? 
 A memory thy speechless love for thy poor 
 
 broken child? 
 
 Thou dost not feel, thou dost not know, 
 That heart to which my gloom was woe, 
 Heeds not though mine is breaking now. 
 Mother, mother ! 
 
 for one moment but to lay my head upon 
 
 thy breast. 
 Or sleep by thy dear side and share the grave's 
 eternal rest. 
 
 1 gaze around — thou art not here, 
 My home has grown a desert drear, 
 
 How bright was earth when thou wert near ! 
 Where art thou, Mother? 
 if man's dreams were true not Heaven's gate 
 Could hold thee from thy child thou hast 
 left desolate.
 
 38 
 
 ]'»iit these arc dreams. The tlcad feel not. 
 
 Thou art forj^ettiiif];, not forgot ; 
 
 I suffer, thou can'st suffer not, 
 
 ?*ry happy mother! 
 
 Thy sleepless nights, thy days of pain and 
 
 gi-ief, 
 Are over now. Why is the thought such 
 
 poor and faint relief'? 
 
 I loved thee. Is love selfishness, 
 
 Mother do I love thee less. 
 
 If I would wake thee to caress, 
 As oft thou badst me. Mother ? 
 
 1 lived for thee. The life thou gav'st was 
 
 thine. 
 And O ! right well I knew thy gentle soul 
 was mine. 
 
 Thine eyes are closed. No sunshine more 
 
 Their gaze into my heart shall pour. 
 
 Thy lips sweet task, to bless, is o'er, 
 
 My angel Mother ! 
 
 Thine arms will never fold around me 
 
 now, 
 Nor thy beloved breast pillow this aching 
 
 brow\
 
 39 
 
 More strong than youthful beauty's might. 
 
 Thy feeble steps, thy fading sight, 
 
 My spirit did to thine unite, 
 
 My poor old mother ! 
 
 Age, pain, and weakness were the links which 
 
 bound 
 My every care and thought thy tottering 
 
 steps around. 
 
 And I, the light of thy dimmed eyes, 
 
 Whom others saw, but to despise. 
 
 In thy sight, beautiful and wise, 
 
 "Was I not, mother? 
 
 I smiled ; but 0, Earth's kingdom were 
 
 to me, 
 A poor and mean exchange for thine 
 
 idolatry. 
 
 Who now my griefs and tears will share ? 
 
 Who watch my face with mother's care 
 
 Arid pine, if but a cloud be there. 
 
 As thou didst, mother '? 
 
 My God ! My God ! art Thou for ever 
 
 near ? 
 Does Thy all-seeing eye behold each 
 
 creature's tear ?
 
 Repiniii}:^ heart, be silent imw, 
 
 Not to blind Fate, to Justice bow, 
 
 And ask who suffers ? Sinner, thou ! 
 
 God ! I submit. 
 
 Break, breuk my ^^uilty heart, if such Thy 
 
 just decree ; 
 My earthly love is o'er, God ! I still love 
 
 Thee. 
 
 Nov. 1847. 
 
 (Added six years later.) 
 
 Mother adored ! it cannot be 
 
 Yon lonely grave can hold not thee ; 
 
 Thou hvest — blessed, pure, and free, 
 
 My angel mother ! 
 
 Only the form I loved so well is sleeping 
 
 'neath the sod, 
 Thy memory is with thy child, thy spirit 
 
 with our God.
 
 41 
 
 Meet we again ? Ah, who may tell ? 
 
 Perchance for her thou lov'st so well, 
 
 Thy spirit yet on earth may dwell 
 
 And watch me, mother ? 
 
 Was it a dream, when I have felt thy view- 
 less spirit nigh. 
 
 And still my heart refused to thrust the 
 fond thought by ? 
 
 I know not. This alone I know. 
 We meet hereafter, if not now. 
 When purified my soul shall grow 
 Like thine, my Mother ; 
 And before Him we now do both adore, 
 Oiu" undivided hearts shall meet to part no 
 more. 
 
 Newbridge, 1853.
 
 I'i 
 
 A CKl'KD. 
 
 God is more good, 
 Thau heart of man hath understood — 
 More good on earth, to each, to all, 
 To those who stand, to those who fall ; 
 More good in Heaven where every soul 
 Shall own at last His Love's control. 
 A seraph's dream were all too low, 
 A shadow of that Love to show ; 
 A mother's heart reflects a ray 
 Shed fi'om that Sun of endless daj' ; 
 That God whose awful Happiness 
 Can only be to love and bless ; 
 AYho made for \irtue, joy, and love, 
 Man and each starry Mind above ; 
 Whose pm'pose firm no pow'r can bound 
 Till the last wandering sheep be found. 
 Love Him, love all. Hevere His Law, 
 ^Miose " fleshly tablet " knows no flaw ; 
 All law beside which human hand 
 Hath traced and called it God's command,
 
 43 
 
 Judge by those powers He destined thee ; 
 
 And having judged, rest fearlessly. 
 
 Thy sins abhor as wrought in spite 
 
 Of boundless love and ample light ; 
 
 Thy griefs endure with humbled heart, 
 
 Justice appoints their bitterest part. 
 
 Be Happy, nor Besigned alone, 
 
 This thy sole prayer, " Thy will be done. 
 
 -Wt 
 
 Boniuj-glcn, Donegal, 
 July, 1849.
 
 11 
 
 AN ASI'IUATION. 
 
 I would that I were letter ; that to child- 
 hood's fervent soul, 
 
 The strength were joined of solemn years o'er 
 which life's noon doth roll. 
 
 The strength to think, to feel, to do, only 
 the holy Kight, 
 
 To yield no step in the awful Eace, no hlow 
 in the fearful Fight. 
 
 That all I willed that I should do, while each 
 conquered passion quailed, 
 
 And the lordly soul o'er its subject powers 
 like a throned God prevailed. 
 
 I would that I were better ; that I loved 
 
 with holier zeal 
 That Source of Love whose goodness wide 
 
 our hearts so poorly feel, 
 That I could feel, as well as know. He is 
 
 that One we seek. 
 When our blind creeping souls explore 
 
 earth's desert cold and bleak.
 
 45 
 
 We look for love and find but woe, while He 
 
 stands pitying by, 
 "We grieve o'er frailty while we shrink fi'om 
 
 infinite purity. 
 We mourn the absent, — He is near ; the 
 
 Dead, — He liveth ever ; 
 The lost and fallen, the estranged, — the 
 
 Eternal changeth never. 
 
 God and Father, Hohest Lord ! Touch yet 
 
 Thy creature's heart, 
 And to my weak and palsied powers the life 
 
 of life impart. 
 Inspire, as well as offer Love ! Aid, ere Thou 
 
 hearest Prayer ; 
 Even Thy poorest sacrifice Thou wilt Thyself 
 
 prepare. 
 Make me to love Thee ! In that love 
 
 strength, light and life shall flow 
 And as Thy Will is done in Heaven, I shall 
 
 do it on earth below. 
 
 Neivhridge, Sept., 1852.
 
 iG 
 
 A DEATH SONG. 
 
 I DIE ! I die ! 
 
 Blessed be God ! 
 
 Blessed the Life Giver ! 
 
 Blessed the Life Taker ! 
 
 Blessed the dear God of holy Death ! 
 
 Blessed be Thou, O Lord! 
 
 I die ! I die ! 
 Farewell, Earth. 
 Farewell, beloved ones. 
 I leave ye to our God ; 
 The God to whom I go. 
 He will be near us all, 
 The Dead and the Living.
 
 47 
 
 I die! I die! 
 I go to the Life Eternal — 
 The Life wliere Life is Life — 
 Where Death is Death no longer 
 Where Sin alone is Dead ; 
 And Love for ever liveth. 
 I die ! I go. 
 Blessed be God ! 
 
 
 Ncicbridgc, 1856.
 
 To Mary C. Lloyd. 
 
 Friend of my Life, whene'er my eyes 
 Rest with sudden, glad surprise 
 On Nature's scenes of earth and air 
 Subhmely grand, or sweetly fair, 
 
 I want you, — Mary. 
 
 When men and women gifted, free. 
 Speak their fresh thoughts ungrudgingly, 
 And springing forth each kindling mind 
 Streams like a meteor in the wind, 
 
 T want you, — Mary. 
 
 When soft the summer evenings close, 
 And crimson in the sunset rose, 
 Our Cader glows, majestic, grand, 
 The crown of all your lovely land, 
 
 I want you, — Mary. 
 
 When the dark winter nights come round 
 To our " ain fireside " cheerly bound. 
 With our dear Rembrandt girl, so brown, 
 Smiling serenely on us down, 
 
 I want you, — Mary.
 
 41) 
 
 Now, — while the vigorous pulses leap 
 Still strong within my spirit's deep ; 
 Now, while my yet unwearied brain 
 Weaves its thick web of thoughts amain, 
 
 I want you, — Mary. 
 
 Hereafter, when slow ebbs the tide, 
 And age drains out my strength and pride, 
 And dim-grown eyes and palsied hand 
 No longer list my soul's command, 
 
 I'll want you, — Mary. 
 
 In joy and grief, in good and ill, 
 Friend of my heart: I need you still, 
 My Guide, Companion, Playmate, Love, 
 To dwell with here, to clasp above, 
 
 I want you, — Mary. 
 
 For O! if past the gates of Death 
 To me the Unseen openeth 
 Immortal joys, to angels given, 
 Upon the holy heights of Heaven, 
 
 I'll want you,— Mary. 
 
 Written in Hartley Coombe, Liss, about 1875.
 
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