.•-', . V,' ^. ... J . : (< . ,. j - !i ■; ■■,'•-/;■/■* 'y^ ,^ n : ,; < I I THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ^ GEMS OF THOUGHT, ETC. /^rA GEMS OF THOUGHT AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. EDITED BY RICHARD V/RIGHT PROCTER. "i Have long wandered in the garden op genius, PLUCKING STRAT [''LOWERS. HERE ARE SOME OK THB CHOICEST." SYLVAN. L N D O N : V A R T K I 1) (i E AND ( ) A K E Y. MDCCCLV. i PREFACE. I HAVE long wished to have all my favourite poems in one book, so that I could lay my hand upon them without trouble or disappointment when, like York, they happened to be wanted. I also desired to bring together the good short poems of Lancashire, and its borders. Both of these plans had serious drawbacks. The first, I foiind, would make a book too much like other collections ; and the second, would be of too local a character for a general publisher to bring out : so I have amalgamated the two, in about eqvial proportions. This design will require two vo- lumes ; the first of which is now placed before the reader : its companion is in preparation, and will be issTied shortly, under a new title. Care has been taken to give to each author his own poem, which is not always done, — the VI IHKFAOE. relations of literature being often strangely sun- dered. The dates, also, have been especially observed. As it is clear I could not ask permission from all the parties named in this book, I have asked permission from none ; but have gleaned conscientiously, and with due acknowledgment, where I admired R. W. P. Manchester, October, 1854. CONTENTS. The Asterisks indicate the poets and poems of Lancashire. PAGE. *Address to the Muse The Editor . 1 *To the Deity Thomas Nicholson . i Proem to a volume of selected ) Poems . . ) H. W. Longfellow 5 *Aloue at Eve Charles Swain . 7 The Reformer J. G. Whittier . 8 Autumnal Hymn "Elegiac Poems" 12 *Lines written in Rhuddlan Cas- ) tie, North Wales . ) J. 0. Prince 13 *Dreams of the Dead J. B. Eogerson . 15 *Ale versus Physic . . . Elijah Ridings 17 *The Pass of Death . Samicel Bamford 19 *To Moss and Ivy David Holt 28 *The Mother's Hand Charles Swain 29 VllI CONTENTS. *A Fairy Song *Tlie Anniversary of Death *The Dreams of Old *Jolinny Green's Wedding *Our God is Good , *Keni\\vorth *01d Frost . *Babylon *The Homeward Bound *The Contented Spouse *He was too Beautiful to Live *The Unfostered Apple Tree *Cupid's Love Draught *The Butterfly The Controversy The Rivulet *Sonnet The Gate-keeper's Daughter Verses to the Comet of 1811 *I Bless thee as thou Sleepest The Grave Lines from an Old Volume A Light Article Hellvellyn Song Why do we Love ? *The Hermit . The Flower of Malhamdale The Raven How Sleep the Dead ? . The Bucket PAGE- . Mrs. James Gray . 31 )> >! }> • "" )) jj jj . OD . Alexander Wilson 39 . Benjamin Stott . 43 . William Harper . 45 . John Scholes . 46 . William Rowlinson 47 . Isabella Varley . 49 . D. W. Paynter . 52 . Joseph Anthony . 53 . D. W. PaT/nter . 55 . T. A. Tidmarsh . 56 . T. Nicholson . 62 . Anonymous . 63 . W. C. Bryant . 65 . George Richardson 68 . Anonymous . 69 . James Hogg . 70 . Mrs. Caulton . 73 . .7. Montgomery . 75 . Mrs. Maclean . 81 . Anonymous . 84 . Sir Walter Scott . 85 . W. C. Bryant . 87 . T. H. Bayly . 88 . Dr. John Byrom . 92 . Robert Story . 93 . Edgar Allan Roe . 94 . Robert Story . 101 . ^. Woodnorth . 102 CONTENTS. IX PAGE To a Cough L. H. Sheridan 103 *Moruiug in Summer . Rohert Wood 104 The Passage Ludivig Uhland 106 *Love dies not with Beauty William Gaspey 108 My Soldier Boy Dr. W. Maginn 109 *The Cottagers Thomas Hindle 110 Genevieve S. T. Coleridge 112 The Lonely Euin W. Allingham . 116 Lodgings for Single Gentlemen George Colman 118 To the Cuckoo John Logan . 120 A Thought on Death . . Mrs. Barhauld 122 *A Sister's Inquiries William Mort 123 Ode to an Indian Gold Coin John Leyden . 125 To-morrow A. L Barhauld 128 *0h, Beautiful Star J.R. Wood 129 Jeanie Morrison W. Motherwell 131 The Lover's Leap J. A. Wade 13.5 Who Dare to Die ? . E. H. BvTringtmi 137 Death's Final Conquest James Shirley 139 *Conipassion .... Ner Gardiner 140 Epitaph, for the Tablet in Me- ^ mory of the Marquis of Anj'b-- Thomas Gaspey 142 sey's Leg . . ) The Song of Health . E. H. Burrington 144 The Lost Path Thomas Davis 146 *The Gift of Poesy P. J. Bailey 147 The Well of St. Keyne Rohert Southey 148 The Land of Fame Anonymous 150 Reflections . ... Emily Bronte 151 The Night Wind « )> )> 158 Love and Friendship )> )> 156 X CONTENTS. PAIJE Song . Emily Brontr. 157 *01i ! Bear me Away . F. Kemp.ster 159 A Hundred Years . Anna Blackwell 160 Grongar Hill . , . John Dyer 161 "Please to Ring the Belle" . Thomas Hood 167 *Love . J. C Prince 168 First Love . "Modern Orlando' 169 Monks if n 170 Reflections J' »' 171 *Dreams . P. J. Bailey 173 The Mighty Dead . W. Allston 175 *The Neglected Bard . George Smith. 176 Florence Vane . Philip P. Coke . 178 The Contrast . Captain C. Morrib 180 *Bootless Ambition . John Cameron 183 Changes . Zarach 184 An Unfortunate Mocher to hei Child /. W. Lake 186 *Ode to Time . Charles Daiiin 187 The Catalogue . Caiitain C. Morris 191 Marco Bozzaria . Filz-GreeneHallech 193 Speak Gently . David Bates 198 The English Hearth . Oi'orge Tiveddill . 200 The Lady Alice . Household Words. 202 Flowers for the Heart . Ebenezer Elliott . 204 *Chri.stmas Song . Edwin Waugh 206 Procrastination . Anonymous 207 The bonny Wood of Craigie ^ea . Robert Tamiuhill . 208 The Midij;es danoe aboon the ^\^\■a ,. ., 209 Merrie h^n gland . George Daniel 211 The Wind at Niglit . G. J. C. 213 Lilies . Q. in the Corner . 214 CONTENTS. XI *The Convict, Ship The Lover Daily Work The Dying Child Hannah Ratcliflfe *Loneliness and Melody The Fate of the Oak A Love Song *Stanzas Hohenlinden Love's Anguish "We" *Forest Scenery Guardiart Angels The Old Arm-Chair Mary *Jnst Instinct and Brute Thanksgiving Day *Burial Song for a *ioo Youth's Dreams Spare the Poor The Skull Roch Abbey April — Tears and Smil December *To my Wife The Dying Soldier The Fishermen *To Mary The Church Poor-Box Lines on the Death of Rea Ma PAGK . Thomas K. Hervey 216 . Heinrirh Voss . 21 8 . Charles Maclay . 220 . /. A Langford . 222 . Elenezer Elliott . 223 . John Scholcs . 22.5 . B. W. Procter . 229 . George Darley . 230 . Elijah Ridings . 232 . Thomas Campbell . 233 . John Saunders . 235 . C H. W. 236 . W. H. DLron . 238 . /. E. Carpenter . 240 . Eliza Cook . 24 . Brv. Charles Wolfe 243 . A Man. Operative . 245 . ./. Bayard Taylor . 246 . llrr. W. Gashell . 247 . Bobert Nicoll . 248 . /. B. Walker . 250 . Anonymous . 252 . Ebenezer Elliott . 254 . C. R. Pemherton . 258 259 . J. B. Roger son . 260 . Draw. Room, Sa'-Bk. 263 . Rev. C. Kingsley . 266 . Three Friends . 267 . Anonymous . 272 l^'r■ieud . /. G. Whittic XII CONTENTS. *Memory and Hope A Petition to Time Mingviillo *Never Despair Nora's Vow The Ivy Poor Jane's Lament The Bird of Passage The Soldier's Funeral The Shadow The Retrospect *To a Fly loitering near a Spi- der's Web The Land which no Mortal may Know Song *The Grave of Koraer Specimen of a Dutch Poet Lines on the Loss of a Ship The Lake .... *rhe Vanished Star The Death of the First-Born Fidelity *Common Things Love . . . . . The Hours . . . . * Wlio are the Living of the Earth ? Friend.s . . . . . Song, from " Fanny" Epigram Ballad PAGE Charles Kenwurthy 277 £. W. Procter . 278 Spanish Ballad . 279 Thomas F. Ker . 280 Sir Walter Scott . 281 F. Von Schiller . 283 January Searle . 285 Sir B. of Hampton 286 L. E. Landon . 288 Thomas Gaspey . 289 P, M. James . 290 William Reid 292 John Allen Walker 294 Thomas Pringle . 295 Mrs. Hemans . 297 /. Van Den Vondel 300 John Malcolm . 301 L. E. Landon . 303 William Harper . 305 Alaric A. Watts . 306 Bion . 310 Mrs. Hawhshaw . 311 James Wilson . 313 Mattheio 0. Lewis . 316 John Mills . 318 James Montr/ornery 321 Fitz-Greene Halleck 323 Godelin . 324 R. R. . 325 CONTENTS. XTIT *The Crow *The Dead Trumpeter The Island of Atlantis *Midnight Hour Napoleon's Grave B.illad .... Poets .... Puff of a Seller of Ear (.Jil . The Laurel . . . . *An Indian's Address to the 1 Water Spirit . . 'j The Remembrance The September Frost *A Lover's Ballad The Forgotten One The Tender Passion *Stanzas . . . . I'm not a Single Man The Poet's Song to his Wife *The Gold Seekers Confession . . . . Lines sugge.nted by the sight of \ a beautiful Statue of a Dead > Child . . ) *To my Daughter Song . . . . . Twilight with the Kairies *Death and the World The Night of the Neekar Lord Bvron'.s Last Verses W. H. Ainsivorth . 326 Thomas K. Hervey 327 Rev. George Croly 329 Richard P. Hewitt 331 Rev. H. F. Lyte . 332 Sir Robert Ayton . 336 /. A. 6. . 337 Anonymous . 338 F. P. H. . 338 Henry Gilpin . 339 Anonymous . 340 David M. Moir . 342 Maria J. Jewshury 344 Letitia E. Landon 345 Elizaheth W. Mills 348 Thomas K. Hervey 349 Thomas Hood . 351 Bryan W. Procter 355 Walter R. Cassels . 356 Rosa . 360 Mrs. A. A. WatfK .361 John Ball . 363 Rev. C. Wolfe . 365 Emma Roberts . 366 Mrs. Fletcher . 367 " The Keepsake" . 368 Byron . 371 XIV CONTENTS. *A Word to the Few The Two Fountains Time *"EcceHomo!" Infancy The Wife to her Husband *The Negro's Refiectious Lines on the Death of Lord Byroa Ballad *The Lost Bride On the Death of Weber Youth and Age Saturday Afteruoou *Stauza3 Use of Phrenology *God Bless You Song Abou Ben Adheiu and the Angel *Castles in the Air Love's Philosophy The Past and the Future *The Albatross The Battle of Naseby Trees The Man of Hereafter •Moonlight *King Edward *To the Storm *Morniug On seeing a Deceased Infant PAUK Malcolm Russ . 373 Thomas Moore . 374 Anonyniotis . 375 Isabella Varley . 376 R-%: R. Montffomery 378 Anoiiyvious . 380 John Jones . 382 John Malcolm . 384 Mrs. Charles Gore . 386 Mrs. Fletcher . 387 / R. Blanche . 388 iSani. T. Coleridge . 390 Natlia. P. Willis . 392 William ti. Roscoe . 393 Anonymous . 394 Mrs. £. IS. C. Green 396 ''Francis the First" 397 Leigh Hunt . 398 David Holt . 399 Percy B. Shelley . 402 Robert SoiUhey . 403 George Wilkinson . 404 L. D. . 40t> Anonymous . 409 Beranger . 410 Robert Rose .412 . 413 . 414 . 415 Rir. W. O.Pmbody 41 fi CONTENTS. XV PAGE The Pilgrim Child . . . Anonymous . 418 Had I the Tim which Bacchus used li. A. MillikeM . 420 *A Church lu North Wales . 3Irs. Hemans . 422 The Parrot. A Domestic Tale , Thomas Campbell . 423 Stanzas John Keats . 424 *The Voice of Christmas . . The Editor . 426 GEMS OF THOUGHT, ETC. ADDRESS TO THE MUSE. BY THE EDITOR. " She smiled, and I could not but love." Shrnstone. " Visions of disquietude and fame floated before me." UuLWEii Lytton. 1 Wooed thee, bright nymph, in the minstrel's May, Wheu my heart, like the year, was young ; When hopes beat wild in the poet-child. That rarely found a tongue : Fond nature fired my spirit free, While fancy fix'd my gaze on thee. And who shall paint the bliss that warms, Type of the sea, that mocks control, W hen first the rapt eye greets thy charms, Ethereal Hebe of the soul ! What fairy forms entranced me then — When will such day-dreams lure again ? B 2 GEMS OF THOUGHT 'Twas then I viow'd that minstrel baud To whom perpetual yonth is given ; Who touch'd the grave with potent wand. Who bloom at once on earth — in heaven ! And as I bless'd each dear loved name, Each gem within the crown of fame. In wordless prayer I press'd its shrine ; The mortal woi-ship'd the divine. Till earth was into chaos thrown — My gods, my idols, lived alone ! How shall my heart's deep joy be told When fancy wrote my name in gold. And placed it 'midst that glittering throng, A magnet to the world of song ? Sweet children of thy teeming smile, Fair visions of a day, Bright sun-tlowcrs on life's desert isle, How soon they pass'd away : For truth has touch'd where fancy drew. And sered the bays my young hopes knew. Yet, when I hear the poet's power Extoll'd by wit in wisdom's hour — When beauty's lips pour forth his strain. And waken hope, or joy, or pain — When bright eyes gleam athwart each line, Till looks, and words, are both divine, And those high thoughts aro all his own. Which love would claim, and love alone ; — What wonder if I yearn for fame. And envy each undying name. Though beaming forth from sainted ground, Creation-lost, but heavcn-foiuid ! AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 3 Full oft old Time, with stately pride. Hath paced each mount and mead, With young Spring blnshing by his side, Since vainly, with my sylvan reed, I wooed thee for my bride. Yet still thine image fills my soul, Still burns that flame with fierce control ; And should I breathe tjirough years untold Thy beauty never will grow old ; But purer pride and rapture bring To me, a minstrel, than a King ! Oh ! fleet though fair their fate must prove, Whose hopes, whose hearts, to flesh are given, Who build uo ark of rest above ; Earth holds a grave for earthly love. But deathless is the love of heaven ; And, source of all things pure and free, The love of heaven is loving thee ! Great empress of the spirit-land. The sting of youth's best hour, The griefs that cursed me like a brand, Were seeds of thy mute power. But high the rose o'ertops the thorn. The rainbow gilds the tempest-worn ; For hours of deep pure bosom-glee, A realm of beauty and of mind, A land where giftless eyes are blind. Thy bright brief smile bequeath'd to me. What blessings, nursed in Nature's lap, Burst forth from that sweet time ; What riches for the poor man's heart — GEMS OF THOUGUT Hail to the poet-clime ! Where'er thy angel foot doth fall, One holy passion tinctures all ! I'll laud thy lyre, still drink thy words, Though stranger fingers wake the chords ; And aye shall breathe these lips of mine, The nymph that spurns me is divine ; And years confirm thy bless'd control, Ethereal Hebe of my soul ! TO THE DEITY. FBOM "tales and POEMS," BT THOMAS NICHOLSON; ISCi. THOn, Invisible, whose voice I hear Loud on the rushing tempest where Thou ridest ; Thine airy car through boundless space Thou guidest. Where, through the regions of Thy dread career, Thy mighty hands the forked lightnings dart. And the deep soul-appalling thunders roll — The universal works own Thy control ; — Yet, Thou, Omnipotent, though gi-cat Thou art, 'Midst the innumerable orbs that through The infinity of Thine empyrean move, show Thyself a God of mercy too ! Regard us from Thy towering throne above With kind compassion, and benignant eye — Avert the lowering storm when it di'aws nigh, AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. PROEM TO A VOLUME OF SELECTED POEMS. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, BORN AT PORTLAND, XJNITED STATES, FEBRUARY 27, 1807. The day is gone, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. 1 see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me. That my soul cannot resist ; A feeling of sadness and longing. That is not akin to pain. And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem. Some simple and heartfelt lay, 2 B GEMS OP THOUGHT That shall soothe this restless feeUng, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters. Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of time. For, like sti-ains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavour ; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gush'd from his heart. As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start ; Who through long days of labour. And nights devoid of ease. Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care. And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. And the night shall be fill'd with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. ALONE AT EVE. CHABLES SWAIN, BORN AT MANCHESTEn, IN OCTOBER, 1803. Alone at eve, when all is still — And memory turns to other years. How oft our weary hearts we fill With feeling's dark and bitter tears : The friendships of onr youthful day — The hopes, which time could ne'er fulfil And voices that have j)ass'd away, Keturn at eve — when all is still ! — When all is still except the breast That wakes to long remember'd woe ; Of parted hopes, and hearts opprest, And loved-ones buried long ago ! — Yet solace may our spirits find, — A star to light the darkest ill ; There's One the broken heart can bind- Alone at eve — when all is still ! GEMS OF THOUGHT THE REFORMER. JOHN GREENLEAP WHITTIER, BORN IN 180S, AT HAVERHILL, IN MASSACHUSETTS, All grim and soil'd, and brown with tau, I saw a Strong One in his wi'ath, Smiting the godless shrines of man. Along his path. The Church, beneath her trembling dome, Essay'd in vain her ghostly charm ; Wealth shook within his gilded home With pale alarm. Fraud from his secret chambers fled, Before the sunlight bursting in ; Sloth drew her pillow o'er her head, To drown the din. " Spare !" Art implored, " yon holy pile ; That grand, old, time-worn turret spare ;" Meek Reverence, kneeling in the ai-sle, Cried out, "Forbear!" AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. Grey-headed Use, who, deaf and blind, Groped for his old accustom'd stone, Leau'd on his staff, and wept to find His seat o'erthrowu. Young Komance raised his dreamy eyes, O'erhuug with paly locks of gold, " Why smite," he ask'd in sad surprise, "The fair, the old?" Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke, Yet nearer flash'd his axe's gleam; Shuddei'ing and sick of heart, I woke As from a dream. I look'd aside; the dust-cloud roU'd — The Waster secm'd the Builder too ; Upspringing from the ruin old, I saw the new. ' Twas but the ruin of the bad — The wasting of the wrong and ill ; Whate'er of good the old time had, Was living still. Calm grew the brows of him I fear'd ; The frown which awed me pass'd away, And left behind a smile, which chcer'd Like breaking d;iy. Green grew the grass on battle plains, O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow ; 10 GEMS OF THOUGHT The slave stood forging from his chains The spade and plough. Where frown'd the fort, pavilions gay. And cottage-windows, flower-entwined, Look'd out upon the peaceful bay, And hills behind. Through vine-wreathed cups, with wine once red, The lights on brimming crystal fell; Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head. And mossy well. Through prison walls, like heaven-sent hope, Fresh breezes grew, and sunbeams stray'd, And with the idle gallows -rope The young child play'd. Where the doom'd victim in his cell Had counted o'er the weary hours, Glad school-girls, answering to the bell, Came crown'd with flowers, Gi'own wiser for the lesson given, I fear no longer, for I know That where the share is deepest driven. The best fruits grow. The out-worn rite, the old abuse, The pious fraud transparent grown, The Good held captive in the use Of Wrong alone. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. H These wait their doom, from that great law Which makes the past time serve to-day ; And fresher life the world shall draw From their decay. Oh ! backward looking son of time ! The new is old, the old is new, The cycle of a change sublime Still sweeping through. So wisely taught the Indian seer ; Destroying Seva, forming Brahm, Who wake by turns Earth's love and fear, Are one the same. As idly as in that old day Thou mournest, did thy sires repine, So, in his time, thy child grown grey, Shall sigh for thine. Yet, not the less for them or thou, The eternal step of Progress beats To that great anthem, calm and slow, Which God repeats ! Take heart ! the Waster builds again, A channed life old Goodness hath ; The tares may perish, but the grain Is not for Death ! God works in all things ; all obey His first propulsion from the night — Ho ! wake and watch ! the world is grey With morning light ! 12 GEMS OF TIIOUCUIT AUTUMNAL HYMN. FROM ELEGIAC POEMS. The leaves around me falling Are preaching of decay ; The hollow winds are calling, "Come, pilgrim, come away !" The day, in night declining, Says, I must, too, decline ; The year its life reclining, Its lot foreshadows mine. The light my path surrounding, The loves to which I cHng, The hopes within mc bounding. The joys that round me wing — All melt like stars of even Before the morning ray, Tass upward into heaven, And chido at my delay. The friends gone there before mn Are calling from on high, AND £■ LOWERS OF FANCY. 13 Aud joyous angels o'er me Tempt sweetly to the sky. *' Why wait," they say, " and wither ' Mid scenes of death and sin ? Oh rise to glory hither, And find true life begin." I hear the invitation, And fain would rise and come — A sinner to salvation. An exile to his home. But while I here must linger. Thus, thus, let all I see Point on, with faithful finger. To heaven, Lord, and Thee • LINES WRITTEN m RHUDDLAN CASTLE, NORTH WALES. sown CRITCHLEY PRINCE. FROM "DREAMS AND REALITIES," 1847. Retreat of our fathers, who battled and bled Against the unhallow'd invasion of Rome, Who, vanquish'd by numbers, were scattor'd and fled To find 'mid these solitudes freedom and home, Preserving through sorrows and changes untold The firmness, the feelings, the language of old. ] 4 GEMS OF TITorailT I conie, ill the liglit of the blue summer skies, To visit thy beauties wild Cambrian laud ! Already thj^ mountiiins rise dark on mj' eyes, And blooming before me thy valleys expand ; Thy rude rocks invite me, thy flood.^ as they flow Allure me to follow wherever they go. I will muse in thy castles, I'll look from thy hills, I'll plunge in the depths of thy forests and valea; I will climb to thy cataracts, drink at thy rills, And list to thy songs and thy stoi'ies, old Wale* ! I will dream by thy rivers, and proudly explore >'.vcry path which Tradition hath trodden before. A ))ilgrim I am, and a pilgnm I've been. And a pilgrim I would be while vigour reniain.«i, My fond feet have wauder'd o'er many a scene, Bat none which surpasses thy mountains and plaiue; And I marvel that e'er I could linger to see A land less enchanting, less glorious than thee. There are beings I love without coldness or guile, There are friends I would cling to whatever betide, My absence from these may be borne for awhile, But the other will mourn me away from their side ; Yet a season will come when my manhood is past, That will bind me to one little circle at last. With a feeling of wonder I pause on my vvay. In a ruin where monarchs held splendour ;\nd ]ilac0, But pleasures await mc for many a day, In a region of poesy, grandeur, and grace; P'eu- a time I will linger by hill, stream, and glen, Then back to the common existence of mm. JLND FLOWERS OF FANCY. l-'^ DREAMS OF THE DEAD. JOHN BOLTON ROGERSON. FROM HIS "POETICAL WORKS," 1850. It is the midnight's still and solemn hour, A"d eyes aud flowers are folded up in rest, And glides the moou from out her sapphire bower. With veil of clouds aud star embroider'd vest; And now there comes a voice to memory dear — I WEEP to hear it, and yet love to hear. It soundeth not as it was wont to sound, It greets me not with glad and laughing tone : — Ah ! how is this ? — I call and search around, Save mine own echo all is still and lone ; Nor voice nor form — perchance my senses dream — I hear what is not, yet I waking seem. It was HIS voice, the voice of my dear friend — Dead ! — speak the tenants of the silent grave ? Have not earth's attributes a final end, When sinketh life in death's o'erwhelming wave ? The spirit's destiny is hid in gloom, All mortal tliingp uuist perish in the tomb. 16 GEMS OF THOUGHT 'Twas but remembrance of what once hath been, And liveth still within the sorrowing heart : Oh, mystic Memory ! for ever green We view the past by thy all potent art — Thou cau'st restore the forms whose loss we mourn, Thou reud'st the grave, and bursts the funeral urn. And not alone unto my waking eyes Is imaged forth that loved, familiar form ; In the night's visions doth the past arise, And thoughts of him who dwelleth with the worm : I see him then — I hear, but not as now — His voice is glad, and health is on his brow. I hear him then as I was wont to hear, I see him then as he was wont to be, And comes his accents on my gladden'd ear. As when of old we roam'd, in convei-se free ; And each to each sought only to impart Without disguise, the secrets of the heart. My buried friend ! thou unto me wert bound, Not by the ties which sordid beings bind, But I in thee a kindred nature found Thou wert to me a brother of the mind ; Thou could'st not brook the worldling's narrow skill, And wert the martyr of thine own proud will. As one who sleeps and walks near rushing streams, Surrounding dangers passeth heedless by : So did'st thou live, wrapt in aspiring dreams. Viewing the world with a regardless eye ; With sickening soul mingling with soulless men, Thou livcd'st and died'st a god-forin'd denizeu. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 17 Thou wert the child of higher, and lofty thought, Borne by the tide of thine own heart along ; With chainless mind thine uncheck'd spirit sought. On soaring wing, the towering mount of song ; Thou died'st or ere its pi'oudest height was won — • A tameless eagle stricken near the sun. ALE VERSUS PHYSIC. A SPECIMEX OF THE LANCASHIRE DIALECT, BY ELIJAH RIDINGS. Aw'r gooin by a docthiir's shop, Ut top o' Newton Yeth ; Un theer aw gan a sudden stop, Un begun t' be feort o' death. My bonds shak'd loike an aspen leof, Aw dithert i' my shoon ; It seemt as dark as twelve at neet, Though it wur boh twelve at noon. Aw thowt aw seed the gallows-tree, Wheer th' yorn-croft thief wur swung ;* * The "yorn-croft thief" wns a young man, named George Russell, who was executed on Newton Heath, near Manchester, September 15, 1798, for stealing apiece of fustian from Sharrocks bleaching ground, at the end of Long Millgale. ■i 1 8 GEMS OF THOUGHT Uii ut owd Nick wur takkin me, ITu theer he'd lia me hung. Aw grop'd my way to th' docthiu'.s lieawse, Un theu aw tumblet deawn ; The floor it gan me sich a seawae, Aw welly breek my creawn. Neaw, what wur th' docthur thinkin on For t' bring me to mysel, Un save a sick un deein moii, So feort o' death un hell ? He used no lance — he used no drug, Ut strengthens, or ut soothes ; Boh he browt some strung ale in a jug, Ut had come fro' WiUey Booth's. He put it in my wackeiin hont, Ut wur so pale un thin ; Aw swoipt it o' off at a woint, Un aw never ailt nowt sin. A.Yli Fl.DWi;)!:? 1)1' KAXOY. 19 THE PASS OF DEATH. WIITTTHN SHORTLY AFTER THE DECEASE OF THK RIGHT noX- OURABI.E GEOUGE CANNING, AND WITH REFERENCE TO IT. SaUl'EL BAMFORD, BORN AT MIDDLETON, NEAR MANCHESTER, FEBRUARY 28, 1788. Another's gone, and who comes next, Of all the sons of pride ? And is humanity perplex'd Because tliis man hatb. died ? The sons of men did raise their voico And cried in despair, "We will not come, we will not come. Whilst death is waiting there !" But Time went forth and dragg'd then: on, By one, by two, by three ; Nay, sometimes thousands came as one, So merciless was he ! And still they go, and still they go, The slave, the lord, the king ; And disappear like flakes of snow Before the sun of spring ! 20 GEMS OF THOUGHT For Death stood in the path of Time, And slew them as they came. And not a soul escap'd his hand. So certain was his aim. The beggar fell across his staff. The soldier on his sword, The king sank down beneath his ctowd. The priest beside the Word. And Youth came in his blush of health. And in a moment fell ; And Avarice, grasping still at wealth. Was rolled into hell ; And Age stood trembling at the pass. And would have turu'd again ; But Time said, " No, 'tis never so. Thou can'st not here remain." The bride came in her wedding robe — But that did nought avail ; Her ruby lips went cold and blue. Her rosy cheek turn'd pale ! And some were hurried from the ball. And some came from the play ; And some were eating to the last. And some with wine were gay. And some were ravenous for food. And rais'd seditious cries ; But, being a " legitimate," Death quickly stopp'd their noise ! The father left his infant brood Amid the world to weep ; AND FLOWERS OF FAXCY. 21 And the mother di'd whilst her babe Lay smilmg in its sleep ! And some did offer bribes of gold, If they might but survive ; But he drew his arrow to the head, And left them not alive ! And some were plighting vows of love, When their very hearts were torn ; And eyes that shone so bright at eve Were clos'd ere the morn I And one had just attain'd to power. And wist not he should die ; Till the arrow smote his stream of life. And left the cistern dry ! Another's gone, and who comes next. Of all the sons of pride ? And is humanity perplex'd Because this man hath died ? And still they come, and still they go. And still there is no end, — The hungry gi-ave is yawning yet, And who shall next descend ? Oh ! shall it be a crown'd head. Or one of noble line ? Or doth the slayer turn to smite A life so frail as mine ? The following is an outline of the career of George Canning, whose death is celebrated in Mr. Bamford's spi- rited poem. 2 c 22 GEMS OF THOUGHT George Canning is a solitary instance, in Englisli His- tory, of literary talents lifting their possessor from a station compai'atively low to the highest places of political dis- tinction. Yet were not these talents such as of them- selves to justify so remarkable a fortune. Many a man has written better things — many have spoken finer speechea — and yet have died as they had lived, in the station to which they were born, and which an insurmountable bar- rier appeared to prevent their passing. There is more in fortune and circumstances than we are willing to acknow- ledge. They lifted Canning to be Prime Minister of England, as they have chained many better men to the drudgery of the desk or the penury of the garret. Mr, Bell, in his Life of Canning, has laboured diligently to throw light upon the early life of that statesman, but he leaves it as he found it, a mystery. The facts he has gathered do not account for the consequences we behold. How his rise was accomplished is nowhere explained. To-day we see him in one sphere, to-morrow in a diflFei'ent one, and we cannot learn by what effort or accident he succeeded in moving from one into the other. We feel that there is something not known ; a secret which the biographer has not fathomed ; more than meets the eye ; and that destroys the completeness of the picture. But it is not the fault of Mr. Bell ; it was during Canning's life a problem he would not solve even to his most inti- mate friends. He never told the precise history of his rise, and as Mr. Bell has failed to trace it, probably it will never be known, and an example will be lost to the world. George Canning was born on the 11th of April, 1770. His father, according to Mi". Bell, was a lineal descendant of the Canyngcs of Bristol, immortalized by Chattcrton, but his immediatfi progenitors were Irish, and he wa» AND FLOWF.KS OF FANCr. 23 himself cast upon the world as a poor gentleman, with an allowance of £150 a year to fight his way as best he might. The elder George Canning entered the Middle Temple in 1757, but he was a lawyer in name only. Instead of pursuing his profession he turned author, and wrote bad poems and fierce party pamphlets, siding with " Wilkes and Liberty." He led a very profligate life, got into debt, joined in cutting off the ent-ail of the family property to which he was heir, for some trifling considera- tion that relieved him for a time ; then he plunged into debt again, and when his embarrassments were hopeless, he married a young lady named Costello, pretty but por- tionless; became a wine merchant, failed in that attempt also, and, three years afterwards, died, leaving his widow unprovided for, with an only son, George Canning, the illustrious subject of this memoir, then only twelve months old. In so uni:iromising a manner was this great man ushei'ed into life; such the evil fortune that attended upon his infancy. His mother sought her livelihood upon the stage, to which her beauty and abilities recommended her. She made her appearance at Drury-lane in 1773, as Jane Shore, and for a time was a public favourite. But she had no real genius for the pursuit into which necessity raiher than inclination had conducted her, and from filling the leading characters she gradually declined to be no more than the " walkiug lady," or the lady's maid. She formed a connection with a player named Reddish, and took his name. From London she travelled into the proviuces, where, probably, she passed as a sort of stai-. On one of these excursions she married Mr. Hunn, a bankrupt draper, of Plymouth, and with him she lived for laauy 24 GEMS OF THOUGHT years in the West of England, and, if we rightly remem- ber, at Collumpton, in Devonshire. Such were the guardians and guides of Canning's child- hood and early youth. But luckily his father's relations pitied his situation, and one of his uncles, Mr. Stratford Canning, a merchant in London, and himself destined to be the father of a man of some note, Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, took charge of the boy, removed him from his dangerous associations, sent him to Winchester, and after- wards to Eton. Whether the kindness of the uncle was prompted by mere good feeling, or whether the boy's unmistakeable talents and graceful manners had excited for him a special interest, we are not told. At Eton the young Canning speedily distinguished himself, not only by his ready scholarship but also by the brilliancy of his wit, and the facility with which he wrote themes prescribed, and essays, epigram and poetry, not falling within the category of school exercises. It is pro- bable that the foundation of his subsequent fortunes was laid in this school. His fine parts recommended him to the notice, and the gentleman that was inherent in him to the regard, of those of his schoolfellows most distin- guished in rank and connection, and the fiuits of the friendships then formed were visible in his after rise. From Eton he went to Oxford, where again he charmed a large circle of acquaintances, and thence he proceeded to the Inns of Court, intending to make the law his pro- fession. His fame had preceded him to London. Scarcely was he settled here when his school and college acquaintance eagerly sought his society. He was admitted into the best circles as a privileged man ; and the Whig coterie AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 25 turned an eye to him as one whose talents might advan- tageously be enlisted into their ranks. But by some means not explained, Mr. Pitt was induced to notice him, and the flattery of a minister, and of such a minister as Mr. Pitt, who had place and pension in his gift, was more likely to attract a young man who had his own fortune to make than the more exciting but less sub- stantial cheers of an opposition. Canning suddenly be- came a Tory, and was put into Parliament in the year 1793 for the borough of Newport, on the convenient retirement of Sir Richard Worsley. Throughout the whole of this period of his life, from the time of his quitting school to that of coming into parliament, there is a mystery which must strike every reader. How did he live ? College life costs something. A man cannot study for the Bar and visit in the highest circles without a tolerable income ; nor can a Member of Parliament subsist upon "hear, hear," and "cheers from both sides." Canning had not a farthing of his own. His uncle died in 1788, and left him nothing. His mother could with difBculty keep herself. There is some dubious sort of story of a sum of £200 per annum, charged on the paternal estate on the cutting off of the entail ; but of this there is no evidence — it is only rumour and con- jecture. How, then, did Canning subsist? It is to be regretted that Mr. Bell has been unable to solve this problem, for the sake of the many young men of parts who would fain, like him, be gentlemen without money and without work. Such an example would have been invaluable; it would have totally eclipsed the famous treatise, "How to live in comfort and respectability on £150 a year." Canning might have taught us how to live as a gentleman upon nothing ! Yet we never heard that 26 GEMS OF THOUGHT he got into debt or gambled. Did his peu help him to an income ? His after career is familiar to all who remember the history of the present century. His reputation in the House of Commons rose as rapidly as it had done at school and at college. He was found to be that most valuable of assistants to a minister, a ready debater, prompt at reply, and capable of hitting an adversary very hai'd with the utmost suavity of manner. The next year he was honoured with tbe duty of seconding the Address, and discharged it amid general applause, and the tacit acknowledgment of all parties that he was " the coming man." In the nest year he was invited to take office as Under Secretary of State for Foi-eign Affiiirs ; and soon afterwards he enlisted pen a.? well as tongue in the service of the goverumeut, and commenced " The Anti-Jacobin." Pitt resigned in ISOl, and Canning with him, and in Opposition he distinguished him.self by his brilliant attacks iipon the administration, in which all the powers of his invective, envenomed by personal bitterness, were concen- trated. For three years he continued these assaults with unwearied animosity, employing every engine that tongue or pen could work to bring the goverumeut into odium. He succeeded, and returned to power with his patron. Pitt, in 1804, but, on this occasion, as Treasurer of the Navy. When '' the Talents," as they were termed, came in, he again retired to renew agaiust them the same sort of warfare which had proved so effective agaiust the Adding- ton Ministry. His zeal was rewarded, for on the accession of the Duko of Portland, he was entrused with the impor- tant office of Foreign Secretary. In 1809, his qunrrel with Lord Castlcreagh and the duel that ensued compelled his retirement. Five dreary years of exclusion from placo AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 27 now awaited him ; but once during that period the offer of re-instatetnent was made to him and refused, because he would not serve under his adversary. Time, however, or necessity, modified these feelings, and in 1814 he did not scruple to accept the embassy to Lisbon, and two years after that the Presidency of the Board of Control, under the very Castlei-eagh he had before so vilified. But Canning was after all only a brilliant adventurer. He had some conscience nevertheless. The persecution of Queen Caroline met with his hearty opposition, and rather than be a party to it he resigned his post in 1820. Two years after his indignation was cooled by the ofl:er of the profit- able Governor-Generalship of ludia. On the death of Castlereagh he resigned that for the Foreign Office, from which he was, in April, 1827, exalted to the most import- ant position in the world, that of Premier of Great- Britain. But his triumph was his death-blow ; the harass and ex- citement of an office that exposed him to every species of hostility, public and private, were too great for his delicate nerves. In four months from the attainment of his proud dignity, he was a corpse, — The Critic. 28 GEMS OF THOUGHT TO MOSS AXD IVY. DAVID HOLT. FROM " POEMS, RURAL AND MISCEL- LANEOUS." 1846. Twin Sisters, growing on the ancient walls ^Vl^ich are Time's naonumeuts — rich tapestry. That wreathe your garlands iu chivalric halls, Outri vailing the page of heraldry ! In desolation's garden ye are fair, And Ruin loves you — ye her children are. How solemn — when the silent moon reclines Upon the broken arch, the ruined tower. And thro' the shafted oriel brightly shines — How solemn, then, to rove at such an hour. And trace your fragile trellice-work on high Upon the surface of the deep blue sky ! Ye grow when man hath ceased to cultivate, So, ye are nature's own ! — the wreath she bears To Time, her father ; and ye do create A chart whereon to trace the lapse of years, Creeping and growing o'er the shatter'd stone, In your own simple majestj', alone. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. - 29 lu old ancestral mansions, where, oh, where Are lordly brows and eyes — the soft and bright ? Where the brave soldier ? where the matchless fair ? The gentle lady and the courtly knight ? Through the high lattice moss and ivy still Peep forth and whisper, " We their places fill." THE MOTHER'S HAND. CHAELES SWAIN. A WANDERING orphan child was I — And meanly at the best attired ; For, oh ! my mother scarce could buy The common food each week required ; But when the anxious day had fled. It seem'd to be her dearest joy, To press her pale hand on my head, And pray that God would guide her boy. But more, each winter, more and more Stern suffering brought her to decay ; And then an Angel pass'd her door, And bore her lingering soul away ! And I — they know not what is grief Who ne'er knelt by a dying bed ; All other woe on earth is brief, Save that which weeps a mother dead. 30 GKXIS OF TTIOUOIIT A seaman's life was soon my lot, ' Mid reckless deeds, and despeMtf men ; But still I never (juite forgot The prayer I ne'er should hear again ; And oft, when half induced to tread Such pathis as unto sin decoy, I've felt her fond hand press my head— And that soft touch hath saved her boy ! Though hard their mockery to receive. Who ne'er thenihjelves 'gamst sin had striven, Her who, on earth, I dared not grieve, I could not, would not, grieve in heaven ; And thus from many an action dread, Too dark for human eyes to scan. The same fond hand upon my hea;l That bless'd the boy hath saved the man ! AND FI>i)Wi:US OF VANX'Y, 31 A FATRY SONG. MRS. JAIIES GRAY ; BORN AT THE ELMS, NEAR MAIDENHEAD, BERKSHIRE, ON THE 24tH OF SEPTEMBER, 181 ■!: : DIED AT SDNDAY's well, CORK, JANUARY 28, ISliJ. From the alder bushes, From the daisieis' home. From the bending rushes. Come, come, come ! I am spirit weary. Weary of the earth ; I would be a fairy, Joining in your mirth ! At my wishes take me, Little fairy elves ; By your magic, make me Even as yourselves ! From the mossy hollow. From the lily's dome, Follow, follow, follow, Come, come, come ! Shall we to the river ? Shall we to the mead. 32 GEMS OF THOUGHT Where the dew drops quiver, Where the rainbows feed ? In you airy palace, I will lightliest trip ; From the acorn chalice. Deepest will I sip ! Bring me to the waters By the brisk wind fann'd ; Let me see the daughters Of your happy land ! Or where monsters wallow, ' Neath the white sea foam, Follow, follow, follow ! Come, come, come ! ' Neath the glistening laurel. In the moon's pale light. Or 'midst the branching coral. Where sea-bones are white. In earth, air, or ocean, Stars, or flower, or dew ; Anywhere for motion, Anywhere with you ! So shall come forgetting Of the days gone by ; So shall come the setting Of each rising sigh. Skim we like the swallow ! Wheresoe'er we roam ; Follow, follow, follow, Come, come, come ! AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 33 THE ANNIVERSARY OF DEATH, MRS. JAMES GRAY. We keep an anniversary to-day — But not as those who mark with festal mirth The victories of ages pass'd away, Or sweet home-time of marriage or of birth— We wear the mourner's robes, we hush our breath : Ours is an anniversary of death ! Oh, how this day recalls the bitter past ! This summer day, our loved one's last of life; And this deep midnight hour, the very last Wherein she slumber'd from the final strife ; Even noio the death-damp crept o'er every limb, Even now her gentle eye grew glazed and dim. Methinks I see her yet — that fairest creature — Panting her very life in fever forth ; I sec her yet, with every lovely feature, Bearing the prophecy, of "earth to earth :" Yet with her soft, deep-loving eyes, who.^e meekness Look'd gratefully around through all her weakness. 34 GEMS VV THOUGHT I see ber yet, as on her death bed laid, Hei- face all still, yet mutely eloquent — A solemn twiliglit, that was scarce a shade, Show'd on her brow, the fulness of content — The small, white, di'oopiug hand, the braided hair, The stirless lip. the cheek so calmly fair. One year ago, this night, my hands for her Perform'd the last sad offices of love ; 8till, 'iniilst my task, I dream'd her pulse must stir, My straining eyes saiv those dark tresses move ! But the white morning broke upon thy brow, Beloved and lovely one, and what wast thou ? A rigid corpse — a mai-ble image changed From slumber's likeness to a sculptured form, — A something sadly from our dreams estranged. That look'd as though with life 'twas never warm. That seem'd our hearts instinctively to draw. Yet thrill' d them with a deep, mysterious awe. Sweet one, thou Host in thy lowly tomb, We ask not of thy mortal relics now, — They perish'd like the wild flower's summer bloom; Yet are they garner'd as the seed we sow, From whose corruption God's great power shall bring An incorruptible and holy thing ! Said I that we should mourn ? The thought I call Back to my heart — we keep no mournful day — Let tlicrc be high and solemn festival. As for (he saints of old, who pass'd away ; The church •>( C.od m;i)ks each returning year AVilh joyful rc'vcrincr and hopeful cheer. J^ND FLOWEKS OF FxVNCT. 35 We celebrate a victory, — o'er the earth, Its tribulation, its decay, its sighs^ We celebrate a glorious day of birth, An entrance ou a life that never dies- We keep a marriage-feast — her darksome tomb la but a passage to the Bridegroo:n's home. THE DREAMS OF OLD. JIRS. JAMES GKAT. The dreams of old are faded, Their wondrous spells are o'er ; We cannot be persuaded To try their power once more. Our wisdom now is scorning What our fathers deem'd a boon ; The world's bright clouds of morumg Have melted iu her noon. Yet, for the parted glory They shed on mortal mould. Think gently of the 2)bantasy That framed the dreams of old. ^Vhore are the fairy legions That peopled vale and grove, And overspread earth's regions With strange ethereal love ? 36 GEMS OF THOUGHT The flowers their essence hauuted Are blooming gaily still, But Juno hath disenchauted The meadow and the rill. There's not a child who listens, When their magic tale is told, Who does not know they were but dreams. Those radiant dreams of old. Where is the high aspiring That the star-watcher knew, Born of the pure desiring For the holy and the true? The faith, that never halted Heaven's starry page to read, And framed a dream, exalted Unto a prophet's creed. Who 7101V would seek the planets. The future to unfold. Who, as the grave astrologer, Revive the dreams of old ? Where is the kindred spirit. With weary endless guest, Still hoping to inherit Earth's riches, and be blest? No more beside his furnace The alchemist may bend^ No more, in lonely sternness. His secret labours tend. We have a bolder wisdom To multiply our gold. An open craft to supersede That strongest dream of old. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 37 So pass the dream of ages, And leave but little trace, Visions of bards and sages, New wisdom can efface ; Dreams, that have wou the fearful To hope for better days ; Dreams, that have fiU'd the cheerful With terror and amaze ! All pass — doth nothing linger With deathless things enroll'd, That shall not perish and depart. Amidst the dreams of old ? Yes — what upheld the martyr Amidst the final strife, When he refused to barter This holy faith for life ? What cheer' d the pilgrim strangers To lofty thought and deed, To sow, 'midst death and dangers. The gospel's sacred seed ? They hoped the world's wide nations Its fruit should yet behold. And was their glorious faith a dream, A fading dream of old ? No — by the babe's devotion Lisp'd at his mother's knee. And by her deep emotion Its early trust to see ; And by the bond of union, The faithful here may prove, D OO GEMS OF THOUGHT And by the blest communion Of ransom'd ones above, We feel that here no vision Was with the past enroU'd, That the Christian faith may never be A baseless dream of old ! From over the sea, (I quote from the Art-Union,) came news of the death of one who, if longer spai-ed, would have achieved a much higher reputation than she had yet won — for her mind was evidently gaining strength, and her views of life and knowledge of literature were expand- ing. One of our contemporaries has said, that Mary Anne Browne was "spoiled at first by over-praise;" over-praised the girl-poet might have been, but none who have read what she has written as Mrs. James Gray could have deemed her " spoiled" — for all her latter works evince care and thought, and much genuine refinement ; and her last small volume of poems. Sketches from the Antique, supply evidence of higher hopes and holier aspirations than be- long to the "spoiled" children of the Muses. Her short life, although eventful, was checquered and of imeven course — as literary lives always are in England — but she was a loving and a beloved wife, esteemed by those who knew her as a kind and amiable woman, and one of rare industry. I found it hard to believe that death had taken her from the new-born infant that nestled in her bosom ; that the grave had closed over the laughing girl I had seen but as yesterday. Mary Anne Browne resided some years in Liverpool, and there established her poetical reputa- tion. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 39 JOHNNY GREEN'S WEDDING AND DESCRIPTION OF MANCHESTER COLLEGE. ALEXANDER WILSON, DIED JANUARY 6, 1846, AQED 43 TEARS. Neaw lads, wheer ar yo beawn so fast ? Yo happun ha no yerd what's past : Aw gettun wed siu aw'r here last, Just three week sin, come Sunday. Aw ax'd th' owd folk, an aw wur reet, So Nan an me agreed tat nelght, Ot if we could mak booth eends meet. We'd wed o' Easter Monday. That morn, as prim as pewter quarts. Aw th' wenches coom and browt t' sweethearts ; Aw fund we're loike to ha three carts — ' Twur thrunk as Eccles wakes, men : We donn'd eawr tits i' ribbius too — One red, one green, an tone wur blue ; So hey ! lads, hey ! away we flew, Loike a race for th' Leger stakes, mou. Height merrily we drove, full bat, An eh ! heaw Duke an Dobbin swat ; 40 GEMS OF THOUGHT Owd Grizzle wur so lawm an fat Fro soide to soide hoc jow'd um : Deawn Withy Grove at last we coom. An stopt at Seven Stars, by gum, An drunk as mich warm ale an rum, As'd dreawn o'th folk i' Owdham. When th' shot wur paid, an drink wur don*". Up Fennel-street, to th' church, for fun ; We donced loike morris-doncers dun, To th' best o' aw mea knowledge ; So th' job wur done, i hoave a crack ; Boh, eh ! what fun to get th' first smack. So neaw, mea lads, fore we gun back, Saya aw, " We'n look at th' College." We seed a clock-case, first, good laws ! Wheer deoth stonds up wi' great lung claws. His legs, an wings, an lantern jaws, They really lookt quite feorink. There's snakes an watch-bills, just loike poikes, Ot Hunt an aw th' reformink toikes, An thee an me, an Sam o' Moik's, Once took a blanketeeriuk. Eh ! lorjus days, booath far an woide, Theer's yards o' books at every stroide. Fro top to bothum, eend, an soide, Sich plecks there's very few so : Aw axt him if they wurn for t' sell ; For Nan loikes readink vastlj' well ; Boh th' measter wur eawt, so he could naw tell, Or aw'd bowt hnr Robison Crusoe. AXD FLOWERS OF FANCY. 4:1 Theer's a trumpet speyks an maks a din, An a shute o' clooas made o' tin, For folk to goo a feightink in, Just loike thoose chaps o' Boney's : An theer's a table carv'd so queer, Wi' OS mouy planks os days i'th' year, An crinkum-crankums heer an theer, Loike th' clooas-presa at mea gronny's. Theer's Oliver Crumill's bums an balls, An Frenchmen's guns they'd tean i' squalls. An swords, os lunk os mo, on th' walls, An bows an arrows too, mon ; Aw didno moind his fearfo words, Nor skeletons o' men an birds. Boh aw fair hate seet o' greyt lung swords. Sin th' feight at Peterloo, raon. We seed a wooden cock loikewise ; Boh dang it, mon, these college boys. They tell'n a pack o' starink loies, Os sure os teaw'r a sinner ; That cock, when it smells roast beef, '11 crow, Says he ; " Boh" aw said, "teaw lies, aw know, " An aw con prove it plainly so, Aw've a peawnd i' mea hat for my dinner." Boh th' hairy mon had miss'd mea thowt, An th' clog fair crackt by thunner boAvt, An th' woman noather lawmt nor nowt, Theaw ne'er seed loike sin t'ur born, mon f 2 D 42 GEMS OF THOUGHT Thecr's crocodiles, an tliiug.s, indeed, Aw colours, mak, ehap, size, and breed ; An if aw moot tell tone hoave aw seed. We naoot sit an smook till morn, mon. Then deawn Lung Millgate we did steer, To owd Moike Wilson's goods-shop theer, To bey eawr Nan a rockiuk cheer. An pots, an spoons, an ladles ; Nan bowt a glass for lookink in, A tin Dutch oon for cookink in. Aw bowt a cheer for smookink in, An Nan ast proice o' th' cradles. Then th' fiddler struck up th' honeymoon, An off we seet for Owdham soon ; We made owd Grizzle trot to th' tune, Every yard o'th' way, mon ; At neight, oytch lad an bonny lass, Laws ! heaw they donced an drunk their glass ; So tyrt wur Nan an I, by th' mass, Ot wea leigh 'till twelve next day, mon. Alexander Wilson, the author of the above and other provincial songs, was also a self-taught artist. He excelled in paintuig animals and humourous scenes ; his picture of Cheetham Hill Wakes is especially droll. AND FLOAA'ERS OF FANCY. 43 OUR GOD IS GOOD. BENJAMIN STOTT, BOEN AT MANCHESTER, NOVEMBER 24, 1813, AND DIED THERE, JDLY 26, 1850. Our God is good, His works are fair, His gifts to man are rich and rare ; His lioly presence everywhere. O'er land and sea. Proclaims that all should equal share Sweet liberty. The air with sounds of Freedom rings. Whene'er the lark his carol sings, Whene'er the bee bestirs his wings ; From tiny bird And joyful twittering insect things That sound is heard. 'Tis first of Nature's wise decrees, It floats upon the healthful breeze, It speaketh in the rustling trees, Without control It rolls o'er waves of mighty seas, From Pole to Pole. 44 GEMS OF THOUGHT Wherever mortal mau hath beeu, In deserts wild, or prairies green, In storm, or solitude serene. On hills, or plains, He hath in Nature's kingdom seen That freedom reigns. Dear liberty ! foul slavery's ban, Destroy thee, tyrants never can. For when the flight of time began, God made all free ; He breathed into the soul of man, Pure love for thee. That love inspired great Bruc« and Tell, Before them despots fled and fell ; That love hath often rung the knell Of coward knaves, Whose powerful villauies compel Men to bo slaves. And yet that love shall millions bless. Its power will all their wrongs redress. Base tyranny shall soon confess The rights of all ; Then woe to him that dare oppress With chains and thrall. For God is good, His works are fair. His gifts to man are rich and rare, His holy presence everywhere O'er land and sea, Proclaims that all should equal share Sweet liberty. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 45 KENILWORTH. WILLIAM HARPER. FROM "THE GENICS, AND OTHER POEMS," 1840. Proud Kenilworth a ruin stands. That is of old renown ; 'Mid smiling streams, and pleasant lands, He bows his glory down. My spirit dreams of other days, While yet I gaze on thee ; Of mailed knights, and minstrel lays, And queenly revelrie ! And then, methinks, how sad the things Which such mutation know ! The pomps of nobles, and of kings, Are but a passing show. And where are they who in thy halls Have suit and service known ? Who piled thy ivy-tangled walls, Unshaped, and overthrown ? 4G GEMS OF THOUGHT All silent now ! in mist and gloom, The shadows of the past ! Their mansion is the barren tomb. Their triumphs could not last. Be mine a portion better far Than aiight of earth can be ; Whose glory is a falling star, Like, Kenilworth, to thee ! OLD FROST. JOHN SCHOLES. ' Tis such a night, when herdsmen first begin The winter's task, to house and fodder up Their cattle. WTien white frost hangs thick Upon the brookside hedge, and meads, close cropp'd. Rustle beneath the tread ; and to the gate The kine with argent frost come, silver'd o'er. Puffing their cloudy breath in the moon's face. With wicker maun the merry maiden trips To gather linen from the orchard-pale : Anon she spreads it steaming at the hearth ; Anon heaps logs upon the blazing pile ; Her pretty rounded arm shows dappled o'er. And on her modest cheek the frolic kiss Of snowy-headed winter sits in blushes. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 4 All uight Old Frost works woud'roua alcliemj- — And every noteless bush and mossy stone Of wraught-enchased silver shows at mora. Round glittering sloea, that peep'd thro' leafy shade?, Like elfin eyes in the dusk twilight hour, A misty bloom, as on Damascus blade, At dawn enwraps. The brook its wonted soag Sings in an alter'd key. The richly-jewell'd fern And pendant branches, hung with crystal bells, Their icy cymbals clash in harmony : — A low, clear, ringing music, often heard In quiet places on so sweet a night. From perilous rocks the venerable goat, With hoary-hermit beard, looks sagely down And ruminates on change. BABYLON. WtLLtAM ROWLINSON; DROWNED IN THE THAMES, WHIMt BATUIKG, JUNE 22, 1829; BURIED IN BI3HAM CHURCHYARD, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE. Where great Euphrates' giant flood RoU'd joyously along, Chaldean's noblest city stood, In grandeur seeming strong, — 48 GEMS OP THt)UGHT The proudeat city of the earth, Where all was grand and fair, Where is its joyousness and mirth ? — Its might and splendour, where ? Its noble palaces, and halls, Have fallen to decay ; Where stood the city's giant walls, The moss is growing grey ; Where Babel's mighty column rose, Stands not a single stone ! But there the rank grass wildly grows. And all is drear and lone. That stream still rolls in gladness on, But o'er the silent scene Remains no trace of Babylon, To tell that it hath been. Where is the proud Chaldean's might, His majesty and power ? CfOne — like the darkness of the night, Pass'd — like an April shower ! Whence came this desolation, why Hath ruin strew'd the land ? Came there no vengeance from on high, No sternly dread command ? The magic writing on the wall, Appalling eye and heart. Foretold that temple, palace, hall. And power, should depart ! ANI> FLOWKHS OF FANCY. 4'J THE HOMEWARD BOUND. PROM "ivy LKAVKS," BY ISABELLA VARLEY, 1844. " On Christmas Day I shall dine with you in England." Last Letter home of a Ship Surgeon. " Mother, our vessel is homeward bound ; — Leaps not thy heart at the welcome sound ? — Flashes not gladly thy thankful eye ? Hath not hope chidden the starting sigh ? , Throbs not thy pulse with an eager joy, — Impatient yearnings to clasp thy boy ? " We come, we come ; through the beaded foam Our vessel cutteth her pathway home : troudly she parteth the swelling tide, And dasheth the froth from her painted side ; Where farewell tears of the weeping wave Glisten like gems from a mermaid's cave, " Ere Christmas cometh, I trust to stand, With unchanged heart, on my native strand, E 50 GEMS OF THOUGHT I'hough somewhat altered in form aud mien, From the pale and fragile youth, I ween : I alojost question thy power to trace Thine only one in my sunburnt face. " Oh ! light of heart I had need to be, Each moment bringing me nearer thee ; Yet slowly, slowly, Time's pinions move, Parted from home and the friends we love : But the time of meeting draweth near, And I shall partake your Christmas cheer. " Never hath home been so dear as now ; Aud I lean at eve o'er the vessel's prow, Picturing forms I was wont to meet Eouud our cheery fire,— and long to greet. Kindly and warmly, the friendly band Fancy hath call'd from the shadow-land. " Mother, thy truant may love the sea, Its dashing billows and breezes free ; Yet wearied turns from its wild unrest To the holy calm his home possess'd, And yearns for the gentle smile and tone That none save a mothers lip hath known. " As flew the dove to the ark again. Return I to thee o'er the trackless main ; More welcome thy wandering .sou will be, Preserved from the perils that walk the sea I've learu'd the value of childhood's home, And nought shall tempt ine again to roam. ANU FLOWERS OF FANCY. 31 " Reuiemberest thou the boding fears That drench' d thy cheek with a flood of teai's, When I left my home to tread the deck ? Yet I'm safe and well, and fear no wreck ;— The fever hath pass'd and left me free. It hath thinned our crew but scathed not me. " Health hath breathed on qui- ship again, Gaily we scud o'er the watery plain ; — Gaily, for now we are homeward bound, Soon we shall leap upon English ground : Joy, joy, my dear Mother, for me and you ; Till Christmas merry, — adieu ! adieu !" Christmas approacheth— is here- -is gone, But where is the long-expected one ? Round the hearth his childhood's playmates meet. Where is the friend they had hoped to greet ? Mother, his wandermgs aye ai-e o'er ; Friends, he will meet ye ou earth no more. Buoyant and fearless of future ill, Dreaming happiness waited his will ; With step elastic and hope-lit eye He paced the deck, — his pulse beat high ; But the scorching breath of fever pass'd, And life-blood shrank from the burning blast. Homeward he fled to the better shore, — The toilsome voyage of life is o'er : h2 GEMS OP THOUGHT He sleeps the sleep of the dreamless dead, A sea- weed pillow beneath his head ; The rest he sought his spirit found, - Mother, thy wept one was Homeward Bound I 'JlIE CONTENTED SPOUSE. DAVID WILLIAM PAYNTER ; DIED NEAR MANCHKSTER, MARCH 15, 1823. AVhile striplings sigh in sugar'd verse, Invoking sylph and fairy, — A husband, surely, may rehearse The love he bears to Mary. No puling vows he'll e'er employ, To prove his passion chary ; Nor e'er with fiction s dross alloy The praise he gives to Mary. ^ At home, abroad, in joy, or Rrief. Her heart is ever wary ; Who yields not to this truth belief. Docs wrong to him and Mart. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. TiS Let courtly fools their vain intrigues Pursue, with liceuse aiiy ; He fondly boasts no amorous leagues, But those he keeps with Mart. Five years, she now hath been his wife, Whose faith will never vary ; But whilst he holds one spark of life, That spark shall bum for Mary. HE WAS TOO BEAUTIFUL TO LIVE. PROM "IKWELL, AND OTHER POEMS," BY JOSEPH ANTHONY, 1843. My brother was a lovely child. His beauty language may not give ; There was a something when he smiled. All thoughts of earthly things beguili-d ; To realms above, and heavenly things. To cherubs and their golden wings, And joys alone those realms can give — He was too beautiful to live. My brother oft would ask the boon, In stilly night by me to sit. To gaze on the resplendent moon, Or watch huge clouds before it flit ; 54 GEMS OF THOUGHT Or on some star his eye would rest, And then, himself could ne'er tell why, With deep emotion heaved his breast, Whilst tears unconscious fiU'd his eye. And once, I do remember well, Whilst thus his gaze intently set, He said that he should love to dwell Where such bright beings nightly met ; Or happy be alone to roam Upon the bright and beauteous dome ; And then he ask'd with tearful eye. If those bright stars did ever die ? And in these early days he died — He was too beautiful to live ; And years since then away have died, And others dear are by his side ; Yet flits his form in radiance bright, Before mine eyes in hours of night ; Sweet visions they which e'er will be, Whilst unto me lives memory ; And oh, the joy those visions give, Of one too beautiful to live ! AND FLOWERS OF FA.^X'Y. THE UNFOSTERED APPLR TREE ; Wliicli regularly blooms, liut never produces fruit, probably owing to its being planted in a rough, gravelly soil. DAVID WILLIAM PATNTBR. In vain thou blossom'st, hapless Tree ! On thy frail boughs we ne'er shall see The autumnal Fruit, with russet cheek, Till thou art placed in soil more sleek. E'en thus, while yet my Muse was young, The bloom of hope profusely hung About her lyre and plaintive lute, — But ne'er could ripen into Fruit. The preface to Mr. Paynter's volume of poems, Thf Muse in Idleness, is somewhat quaint and pleasing : " The heterogeneous children, disposed herein according to their respective temperaments, having lived for a considerable time, (several of them, indeed, longer than a seven-years' apprenticeship,) idle and unprofitable members of their Fa- ther's household, — are sent into the world, in order tu make ^6 GEMS OF THOUGHT some sort of provision for themselves ; yet with no other recommendation, {heaven help them !) than self-report, — which, by the way, people of thoughtful discretion and forecast consider but a scurvily-slender loop, whereby to suspend so pretty a gimcrack as Ifope/ However, if all of them prove honest enough to escape the jail of Infamy, — and even One (be it the veriest dapperling amongst them,) has sufiScient address to gain a settlement in the Republic of Letters, — the Parent's most lively expectations will be answered to the full." CUPID'S LOVE DRAUGHT. THOMAS ARKELL TIDMARSH ; DIED JULY 30, 1843, IN HIS 24th teak. " I WILL gather the smiles of the ftiirest of women," Said Cupid one evening to me, " In a goblet of wine for thy spirit to swim in, And bring it all glowing to thee, If thou'lt swear by the cup, Ere thou drainest it up, That thou'lt worship no maiden beside, And affirm, by the shine Of her smilea in the wine, That thou'lt woo her and make her thy bride ; AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 57 And she shall be lustre and glory to thee, Enchanting thy bosom with heaven-born glee ; For she is the brightest and loveliest thing That ever I press'd with the down of my wing." E'en already my heart, with a trembling emotion, Felt more than it e'er could express ; As I dreamt of the maiden I warm'd to devotion, And whisper'd in Cupid's ear, " Yes ! 1 would swear that and more, If it were to adore But the vision of one so divine ; For my spirit would fly To the uttermost sky, To alight on so hallow'd a shrine ; And fondly I'd worship by day and by night, Through my winters of sorrow and springs of deliglit. That fairy-like, brightest, and loveliest thing Thou hast ever caress'd with the down of thy wing." " Then 'tis a bargain — a bargain," the little god said, Unfolding his white wings for flight, " Tarry not, but speed westward when I shall have fled^ And thou wilt behold her to-night; And the tint of the rose On her cheek shall repose, ' Mid the silver of blossoming May, As the crimson beams glow On the feathery snow. Ere the sun bids farewell to the day. And mellow light dropping like dew from her eyes, Shall lavish thy spirit with dreams of the skies, 2 E 58 GEMS OF THOUGHT For truly I vow she's the loveliest thing That ever I press'd with the down of my wing." So saying, he spread out his wings, and he flew On the breath of the balmy wind. And his pinions which shone in the sun-ray's hue, Were like silver and gold entwined ; And still onward he flew. Till he hung on the blue Of the sky like a bright fleecy cloud. And the music of spheres Is less sweet to the ears Than the magic he caroU'd aloud; While the heavenly vault, as he soar'd along. Re-echoed in rapture this spell of his song — " Oh ! she is the brightest and loveliest thing That ever I press'd with the down of my wing." As the honied bee flutteringly trembles on flight Away to its mansion of rest. So my spirit o'erladen with love and delight. Flew on to its home in the west. And the crescent moon wove Over meadow and grove A deluge of glorious beaming, While the dew-drops shone round, Till the glittering giouud Was glass'd with their crystalized gleaming ; And I behold in each diamond drop that shone, Like an angel to cheer me and light me on. The miniature form of the loveliest thing That ever Love press'd with the down of his wing. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 59 I endeavoured full often to gather a prize, But ere I could seize one it died, For it faded away like the mist from my eyes. The closer I drew to its side ; Yet it vanish' d in play, For it lit up the way That stretch'd out its winding before me, And allured me along, Like a dream or a song, Till the roof of a palace clos'd o'er me ; I enter'd the hall, and a banquet was spread, And the crystal lamps o'er it a radiance shed ; But in vain did I look for the brightest thing That ever Love press'd to the down of his wing. There were silver and gold, there were beauty and splen- dour. And viands delicious and rare ; There were looks, there were smiles, there were hearts young and tender. Which felt not, which dreamt not of care; There were eyes of the hue Of the violet's blue. Which by sorrow had never been wet ; On others was graven The dye of the raven, Rimm'd round by long arrows of jet ; But my heart turn'd aside from the rich display, And the hope I had cherish'd was fading away ; For in vain did I look for that brightest thing That Love ever press'd to the down of his wing. 60 GEMS OF THOUGHT There were cheeks that were blushing with crimson glow, Enwreath'd with luxuriant hair. While foreheads, whose whiteness was that of the snow, Proclaim'd purity's temples there ; There were soft lips which might Have been stealing the light Of the rose-leaf, so red were they dyed ; Yet they moved not my heart, And I thought to depart. When a maiden sat down by my side : And by instinct I knew, though I gazed not upon The face or the form of tliat beautiful one, That she was the brightest and loveliest thing That ever Love press'd to the down of his wing. Oh ! I dared not to gaze, for each pulse in my frame, Each feeling that throbb'd through my soul, Might have told her the tale of my bosom's wild flame. And suddenly ruin'd the whole ; But ere long I'd been mute, In the notes of the lute She softly spoke, and the words I heard Were moi'e welcome to me Than the bark's mast can be To the ocean-bound wing-weary bird ; And though they breathed little of tenderness, yet Their musical tone I can never forget, For it came through the lips of the brightest thing That ever Love press'd to the down of his wing. Round a goblet her tapering white finger.^ did twine, Like lilies, and blushing she bent AND FLDWKKS OF FANCY. Gl O'er the brim to behold her dark eyes in the wine, Which retain'd all the lustre they'd lent ; And it pilfei"'d each smile That was dancing the while On the lip and the cheek of the maid, Till the wine seem'd on flame With the pure light that came, And meteor-like over it play'd ; And Love cried " Oh ! waste not a moment, drain up Each cherishing drop in that nectarous cup. For it hath been charm'd by the loveliest thing That ever I press'd to the down of my wing." Then wildly I seized the bright goblet and swore To Love, who was hovering nigh, By the cup, and by all I had promised before, To woo lier and wed her, or die ; And I ([uaff'd off the wine From the goblet divine, And my soul with its luxury buru'd ; Then, then to the maiden, With ecstacy laden. Enraptured my fond spirit turn'd ; Anl innocence, virtue, and joy look'd on me, For my beautiful, beautiful Mary— 'twas she ! The purest, the brightest, the loveliest thing, That Love ever press'd to the down of his wing. 62 GEMS OF THOUGHT THE BUTTERFLY. THOMAS NICHOLSON. Fluttering, trembling, here and there, Basking in the sunny air, The summer phantom comes and goes, Like the fitful breeze that blows : I love to see your wings vmfold, Sylph of silver !— sylph of gold ! I When hawthorn blossoms scent the gale, And daisy white, and primrose pale. Are in their modest beauty seen To deck the meadows, virgin green. Child of the sunbeams ! born of light ! You first display your wings of white. But when days longer, warmer hours, Make field and garden smile with flowers ; When summer gusts, with gentle shock, Make violets shake, and roses rock ; Oh, then is seen your fairy crew, In every tint of flowery hue. AND FLOWERS OF FANOi'. 6'. But when the sun, with fainter eye, Sinks far aclown the southern sky ; And nipping frost, and wintry blast, Proclaim the reign of summer past : All — all are gone, and like a dream To us, those summer pageants seem. And so in life, the passing fair, And all of earth's creation rare, Do, like the rainbow — heavenly sign — Their fleeting beauty soon resign ; And yet, oh yet, they leave behind Their forms on the immortal mind ! q THE CONTROVERSY. ANONYMOUS. FROM " BI.ACKWOOD's MAGAZINK.' No plate had John and Joan to hoard — Plain folks in humble plight — One only tankard graced their board, But that was fill'd each night. Upon whose inner bottom, sketch'd In pride of chubby grace, Some rude engravers hand had etcli'd A baby angel's face. 64 GEMS OF THOUGHT John took at first a moderate sup — But Joan was not like John — For when her lips once touch'd the cup, She swill'd till all was gone. John often urged her to drink fair, But she cared not a jot — She loved to see that angel there, And therefore drain'd the pot. When John found all remonstrance vain, Another card he play'd, And where the angel stood so plain, He had a devil portray'd, Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail. Yet still she stoutly quaff'd, And when her lips once touch'd the ale. She clear'd it at a draught. John stood with wonder petrified, His hair stood on his pate, " And why dost guzzle now," he cried, " At that enormous rate ?" "Oh, John !" she said, " I'm not to blame. 1 rant in comcience stop— For sure 'tvvould be a burning shame To leave ..he devil a drop." AND KLOWKliS (>!<' FANCY. Go THE RIVITLET. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, BORN AT CUMMINGTON, IN MASSACHUSETTS, NOVEMBER 3, 1794, This little rill that, fi-om the springs Of yonder grove, it* current brings, Plays on the slope awhile, and then Goes prattling into groves again, Oft to its warbling waters drew My little feet, when life was new. When woods in early green were dress'd, And from the chambers of the west The warmer breezes, travelling out, Breathed the new scent of flowers about. My truant steps from home would stray, Upon its grassy side to play. List the brown thrasher's vernal hymu, And crop the violet on its brim, With blooming cheek and open brow, As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou And when the days of boyhood Ciime, And I had grown in love with fame, Duly I sought thy banks, and tried My first rude numbers by thy side. 66 GKMS OF THOUGHT Wordti cannot tell liow bright and gay The scenes of life before me lay. Then glorious hopes, that now to speak Would bring the blood into my cheek, Pass'd o'er me ; and I wrote, on high, A name I deem'd should never die. Years change '■hee not. Upon yon liill The tall old maples, verdant still, Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, How swift the years have pass'd away. Since first, a child, and half afraid, I wander'd in the forest shade. Thou, ever joyous rivulet, Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet; And sporting with the sands that pave The windinjrs o thy silver wave, And dancing to thy own wild chime. Thou laugh est at the lapse of time. The same sweet sounds are in my ear My early childhood loved to hear ; As pure thy limpid waters run. As bright they spai'kle to the sun ; As fresh and thick the bending ranks Of herbs that line thy oozy banks ; The violet there, in soft May dew, Comes up, as modest and as blue ; As green amid thy current's stress, Floats the scarce-rooted watercress ; And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen, Still ohii-ps as merrily as then. Thnn changest not— but I am changed. Since firsi thy pleafmnt Vianks T i-anped ; A^T) FLOWERS OF FANCY, G7 And the grave stranger, come to see The play-place of his infancy. Has scarce a single trace of biiu Who sported once upon thy brim. The visions of my youth are past — Too bright, too beautiful to last. I've tried the world— it wears no more The colouring of romance it wore : Yet well has Nature kept the truth She promised to my earliest youth : The radiant beauty shed abroad On all the glorious works of God, Shows freshly, to my sober'd eye. Each charm it wore in days gone by, A few brief years shall pass away, And I, all trembling, weak, and grey, Bow'd to the earth, which waits to fold My ashes in the embracing mould, (If haply the dark will of fate Indulge my life so long a date,) May come for the last time to look Upon my childhood's favourite brook Then dimly on my eye shall gleam The sparkle of thy dancing stream ; And faintly on my ear shall fall Thy prattling current's merry call ; Yet shalt thou How as glad and brigbt As when thou met'st my infant sight. And I shall sleep— and on thy side. As ages after ages glide, Children their early sports shall try, And pass to hoary age and die. 68 GEM3 OF THOUGHT But thou, viiichanfj;eil from year to year, Gaily shalt play and glitter here ; Amid young flowers and tender grass Thy endless infancy shall pass ; And, singing down thy narrow glen, Shalt mock the fading race of men. SONNET. ( WRITTBN AFTER A VI^IT TO WHM.IEY inilP-T, LANCA^iillKK. GEORGE RICHARDSON. FKOM " PATBIOTISM : A.NDOTIIFR POEMS." 1844. Thou ancient temple of six liuudred years ! Hoary with age, and in stern ruin grand. Thy mossy-mantled arches proudly stand Like monumental fanes which fate reveres ; No pompous mass — nor monk nor vestal prayer, Breaks, as of yore, upon thy calm repose, For on the mouldering walls, where ivy grows. The day-scared owlet finds its gloomy lair. — A solemn awe pervades the sacred ground ; The crumbled cloisters, and each haJlow'd bed, AND kijOWers of FANCJY. (')'.) The verdant sepulchre, where sleep the dead Give a dread silence to the scene around ; Save 'neath thy walls, the Calder wends along, Singing of man's frail lot, and Time's triumphant song ! THE GATK-KEEPER'S DAUGHTER. ANONYMOUS. No traveller pass'd either early or late By Tiverton bar, but would gaze for awhile Oil the sweet little girl who open'd the gate. And was sure to be paid by a beautiful smile. The rich and the poor man admired with delight, No yeoman around but had ardently sought her ; The toast of the village was drank every night — " The sweet little Mary, the gate-keeper's daughter." I then too was young, and was buoyant in soul, And often would linger myself for awhile, 1 thought it was heaven, whilst paying the toll, To win from yoimg Mary a beautiful smile. 1 weni t'other day — still the white bar was there, I paid down the toll, and rode peevishly on, 70 GKMS OP THOUGHT 1 thought that the coviutry look'd desert aud bare. For Mary, the gate-keeper's daughter, was goue. I enquired of a peasant who journey'd that way, Where Mary was flown to ? — he bow'd his gi'ey head, — He spoke not a word — but I knew he would say That Mary, the gate-keeper's daughter, was dead. And sure 'twas a fact, she lay in the grave. Far, far, from the lovers, who ardently sought her, I reiuember'd the smiles she so prettily gave, And wept, when 1 thought of the gate-keeper's daugh- ter. VEKSES TO THP: COMET OF 1811. JAMKS HOC.G. How lovely is this wilder'd scene, As twilight from the vaults so blue Steals soft o'er Yarrow's mountains green, To sleep embalm'd in midnight dew ! All hail, ye hills, whose towering height, Like shadows, scoops the yielding sky ! And thou, mysterious guest of night, 1 'rcMfl traveller of immensity. AND Fl.OWERS OF FANCY. 71 Stranger of Heaven ! I bid thee hail • Shred from the pall of glory riven. That fla-hest ia celestial gale, Broad pennon of the King of Heaven ! Art th(ju the flag of woe and death, From angel's ensign-staft' unfurl'd ? Art thou the standard of his wrath, Waved o'er a sordid, sinful world ? No, from that pure pellucid beam. That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone, No latent evil we can deem, Bright herald of the eternal throne ! Whate'er portends thy front of fire, Thy streaming locks so lovely pale — Or peace to man, or judgments dire. Stranger of heaven, I bid thee hail ! Where hast thou roam'd these thousand years ? Why sought these polar paths again. From wilderness of glowing spheres, To fling thy vesture o'er the wain 1 And when thou scal'st the Milky Way — And vanishest from human view, A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray Through wilds of yon empyreal blue ! O ! on thy rapid prow to glide ! To sail the boundless skies with thee, 72 GEMS OF THOUGHT And plough the twinkling stars aside, Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea ! To brush the embern from the sun, The icicles from off the pole ; Then far to other systems run, Where other moons and planets roll ! Stranger of Heaven ! let thine eye Smile on a rapt enthusiast's dream ; Eccentric as thy coarse on high, And airy as thine ambient beam ! And long, long may thy silver ray Our northern arch at eve adorn ; Then wheeling to the east away, Seek the grey portals of the morn ! The Ettrick Shepherd was born January SS, 1772 ; he died at his house on the Banks of the Yarrow, November 21, 1835; and was buried in the churchyard adjoining the cottage where he first drew breath. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 73 1 BLESS THEE AS THOU SLEEPEST. fROM THE " DOMESTIC HEARTH, AND OTHER POEMS," 1843) BY MRS. ISABELLA CADLTON. I BLESS thee, as thou sleepest, my beautiful, my child ! A joyful watch beside thy couch, my heart hath oft beguiled, — I gaze upon thy infant face, I kiss thy lineless brow, And the gushings of a mother's love o'erflow mine eyes e'en now. iSTot two have been thy summers, my joyous one, my pet, Thy mother's voice can soothe all thy baby troubles yet ; No cloud hath overshadow'd thee, but what she can dispel, And thy love and thy endearments repay her care full well. But there are years of future, which it may be thou wilt see. And then her arm be powerless, to ward off ill from thee ; A shade may come upon thy brow, a dimness on thine eye, And a weight of this world's misery, upon thy spirit lie. Oh ! even as I gaze upon thy soft and rosy cheek, A vision rises shadowing what other years may speak ; P 74 GEMS OF THOUGHT Earth's sorrows bring their heavy loads, earth's joys their soul's unrest, And her glory, and her bravery, their thorns to wound the breast. I see before me all that train of busy hopes and fears, Which first are bright aud glittering, but close in bitter tears ; Life's dearest treasures perish'd, her rainbow smiles believed, — God shield thee young and dear one, from all my vision weaved- Yea, holy thoughts breathe round thee ; I know that He can '_,'uide Thy spirit's barlt in safety, o'er temptation's foaming tide; And when thy soul is heavy, and when thine hope is dim, The comforting of faithfulness will surely come from Him. Oh boy ! my si)irit bows me ! He who gave, alone can tell The yearning hopes o'ei-flowing from Love's undying well ; — But Sleep's warm spell unlooses, again for me thou'st smiled, And to my heart I proas theo, my beautiful, my chilrl ! Mrs. C.'inlt^i pmi!:;rated with her family From Manchei- ter to thp <'Ut\(\ Rrginns, in the Rummor nf l.'^.'>3. AND FLOWKRS OF FANCY. THE GRAVE. JAMBS MONTOOMERT, BOEN AT IRVINE, IN AYRSHlRlt, NOVEMBER 4, 1771. Theke is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found. They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low iu the grotmd. The storm that wrecks the winter sky, No more disturbs their deep repose, Thau summer evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose. I long to lay this painful head And aching heart beneath the soil, To slumber in that dreamless bed From all my toil. For Misery stole me at my birth, And cast me helpless on the wild ; I perish ; — my Mother Earth ! Take home thy child ! 76 GEMS OF THOUGHT On thy dear lap these limbs reclined, Shall gently moulder into thee ; Nor leave one wretched trace behind Resembling me. Hark !— a strange sound affrights mine ear ; My pulse, — my brain runs wild,— I rave ; — Ah, who art thou whose voice I hear ? — " I am The Grave ! " The Grave, that never spake before, Hath found a tongiie to chide at length ; listen ! — I will speak no more ; — Be silent, Pride ! " Art thou a wretch of hope forlorn, The victim of consuming care ? Is thy distracted conscience torn By fell despair ? " Do foul misdeeds of former times Wring with remorse thy guilty breast ? And ghosts of unforgiven crimes Murder thy rest ? " Lash'd by the furies of the mind, From Wrath and Vengeance wouldst thou flee ? Ah ! think not, hope not, fool ! to find A friend in me. " By all the terrors of the tomb, Beyond the power of tongue to tell ; By the dread secrets of my womb ! Bv Death and HoU t AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. ' ' " I charge thee Live ! repent and pray ; In dust thy infamy deplore ; There yet is mercy ; — go thy way, And sin no more. " Art thou a mourner ?— Hast thou known The joy of innocent delights, Enchanting days for ever flown, And tranquil nights ? " Live ! — and deeply cherish still The sweet remembrance of the past : Rely on heaven's unchanging will For peace at last. " Art thou a wanderer ? — Hast thou seen O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark ? A shipwreck'd sufferer hast thou been, Misfortune's mark? " Though long of winds and waves the sport, Condemn'd in wretchedness to roam, Live ! — thou shait reach a sheltering port, . A quiet home. " To Friendship didst thou trust thy fame, And was thy friend a deadly foe, Who stole into thy breast, to aim A surer blow ? " Live ! — and repine not o'er his loss, A loss unworthy to be told ; Thou hast mistaken sordM dross For friciidsliip's gold. 78 GEMS OF THOUGHT " Seek the true treasure seldom found, Of power the fiercest griefs to calm, And soothe the bosom's deepest wound With heavenly balm, " Did woman's charms thy youth beguile, And did the Fair One faithless prove 1 Hath she betray'd thee with a smile, And sold thy love ? " Live ' ' Twas a false bewildering fire ; Too often Love's insidious dart Thrills the fond soul with wild desire. But kills the heart. " Thou yet shalt know, how sweet, how dear. To gaze on listening Beauty's eye ! To ask, — and pause in hope and fear Till she reply. ' ' A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, A brighter maiden faithful prove ; Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest In woman's love. " Whate'er thy lot, — whoe'er tbou be, — Confess thy folly,— kiss the rod. And in thy chastening sorrows see The hand of God. " A bruised reed He will not break ; AfiUctions all His children feel ; He wovmds them for His mercy's sake, He wounds to heal I AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 79 " Humbled beneath His mighty hand, Prostrate his Providence adore : 'Tis done ! — Arise !— He bids thee stand, To fall no more. " Now, traveller in the vale of tears ! To realms of everlasting light, Through Time's dark v?ildernes3 of years. Pursue thy flight. " There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found : And whUe the mouldering ashes sleep Low in the ground : " The Soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image, freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine A star of day ! " The sun is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky ; The soul, immortal as its Sire, Shall never die." ' James Montgomery, the poet, breathed his last on Sunday afternoon, April 30, 1854, at his residence, the Mount, Sheffield, aged 82. He presided at the weekly board of the Infirmary within a week of his death, and walked home, more than a mile. James Montgomery's tather was a Moravian missionary, and died in the West Indies while his son was being educated in Yorkshire. Montgomery wrote poetry as early as his twelfth year. 80 GEMS OF THOUGHT While yet a youth, he weut to Loudon, his heart full of hope, and his pockets full of poems. He there sought out a bookseller, who refused his verses, but made him a shopman. In 1792 he joined the Sheffield Reporter, of which he soon became the editor, the name, however, being afterwards changed to the Iris. It was on account of his ultra-liberal views expressed in this paper that he suffered imprisonment, in the days when the profession of liberalism was a crime. James Montgomery is the author of ' Prison Amusements,' published in 1797 ; the ' Ocean, in 1805; the 'Wanderer in Switzerland,' in 1806; the ' West Indies,' in 1812. By these works he obtained his chief reputation. In 1819 appeared ' Greenland,' a poem in five cantos; in 1828, the 'Pelican Island,' and in 1835, ' A Poet's Portfolio.' In 1851 the whole of his works were issued in one volume, 8vo., of which two editions are in circulation; and in 1853, 'Original Hymns, for Public, Private, and Social Devotion.' The venerable poet enjoyed a well-deserved literary pension of £160 a- year.' AND FLOWERS OF FANCY, 81 LINES FROM AN OLD VOLUMK. ANONYMOUS. Deep iu the silent waters, A thousand fathoms low, A gallant ship lies perishing — She founder'd long ago. There are pale sea-flowers wreathing Around her port-holes now. And spars and shining coral Encrust her gallant prow. Upon the old deck bleaching, White bones uubnried shine. While in the deep hold hidden Are casks of ruby wine. There are pistol, sword, and carbine. Hung on the cabin wall, And many a curious dagger ; But rust has spoil'd them all. 82 GKMS OF THOU(niT A: d can this be the vessel That went so boldly forth, With the red flag of Old Euglaiid To brave the stormy North ? There were blessingfs pour'd upon her, When from her port aail'd she, And prayers and anxious weeping Went with her o'er the sea. And once she sent home letters, And joyous ones were they, Dash'd but with fond remembrance Of friends so far away. Ah ' many a heart was happy That evening when they came. And many a lip press'd kisses On a beloved name. How little those who read them Deem'd far below the wave, That child, and sire, and lover, Had found a seaman's grave ' But how that brave ship perisb'd None knew, save Him on high ; No island heard her cannon, No otlier bark was nigh. We only know from England She sail'd far o'er the main — We only know to England She ne'er came back aa;ai)i. V AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 83 And eyes grew dim with watching, That yet refused to weep ; And years were spent in hoping For tidings from the deep. It grew an old man's story Upon their native shore — God rest those souls in heaven Who met on earth no more ! The above was correctly copied from a newspaper-clip- ping pasted in my scrap-book many years ago. I have since discovered the same poem in the Literary Gazette for 1833, where it first appeared. The verses are there entitled " The Lost Ship," and bear the well-known ini- tials L. E. L., consequently they are Mrs. Maclean's. How or why the newspaper scribe could clip oif both head and tail, and transform the thing into anonymous " Lines from an old volume," is difficult to understand. It illustrates a system much in vogue, but which is unworthy of editors, who profess to correct the public taste. Wherever an author's piece goes by selection, his signature should follow by right. 84 GEMS OF THOUGHT A LIGHT ARTICLE, ANONYMOUS. FROM THE "NEW YORK KXlClvEBBOCKER." LioHT was the maid, in light array' d, for light to her waa given, From light she flew, and lightly, too, she'll light again in heaven ; No northern light was e'er so bright, no light could e'er be brighter, Her light-drawn sigh pass'd lightly by, as light as air, and lighter. The lights divine that lightly shine, in yonder lighten'd skies. Can ne'er excel the light that fell like lightning from her eyes, She lightly moved by all beloved, a light and fairy elf ; Light was her frame, and light her name, for she waa Light itself I AND KLOWKKS OF FANCY. 85 HELLVELLYN. SIR WALTER SCOTT, BORN IN EDINBURGH, ADGDST 15, 1771, DIED AT ABBOTSFORD, SEPTEMBER 21, 1832, BURIED IN DRYBURGH ABBEY. I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide; A.11 was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling. And starting aroimd me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending. And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather. Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. G 86 GEMS OF THOUGHT Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended. And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. How long rlidst thou think that his silence was slumber; When the wind waved his garment how oft didst thou start ; How many long days and long nights didst thou number. Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? And, oh ! was it meet that — no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep and no friend to deplore him, And thou, litble guardian, alone stretcb'd before him, Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart ? When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall ; With scutcheons of silver the cof&n is ^ihielded. And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming ; In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming; Far down the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head lite the meek uiountain lainb ; When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff" huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of hii? dam. And moi'e stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying, With one faithful friend l)ut to witness thy dyin;;. In the arms of Hellvcllyn and Catchedicam. AND FLOWErfiS OF FANCY. ^' lu the spring of 1805, a yo\ing gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, (Mr. Charles Gough, of Manchester), perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during fre- quent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. SONG. WILLIAM CtJLLKN BRYANT. FROM THE SPANISH OF IGLESIA8. Alexis calls me cruel ; The rifted crags that hold The gather'd ice of winter, He says, are not more cold. When even the very blossoms Around the fountain's brim. And forest walks can witness The love I bear to him. I would that I could utter My feelings without shanip ; S''^ (iKMS OF THOUGHT A lid tell him how I love him. Nor wrong my virgin fame. Alas ! to seize the moment When heart inclines to heart. And pre^s a suit with passion, Is not a womau's part. If man comes not to gather The roses where they staud, They fiide among their foliage ; They cannot seek hi.s hand. WHY DO AVE LOVE? TUOMAS UAYKES BAYLY, BORN IN 1797, NEAR BATH; DIED AT CHELTENHAM, IN APRIL, 1839. I OFTEN think each tottering form That limps along in life's decline ; Once bore a heart as young — as warm — As full of idle thoughts, as mine. And each has had his dream of joy. His own nnequall'd pure romance; ''omnioiicing when the blushing boy Fiivt tlifills at lovely woman's glance. AND FLOWKHS OF FANOY. 6^ And each could tell his tale of youth, And think its scenes of love evince More passion, more unearthly truth, Than any tale before, or since. Yes ! they could tell of tender lays At midnight penn'd in classic shades ; Of days more bright than modern days, And maids more fair than living maids. Of whispers in a willing ear ; Of kisses on a blushing cheek ; Each kiss — each whisper, far too dear For modern lips to give or speak. Of prospects too untimely cross'd ; Of passion slighted, or betray'd ; Of kindred .'spirits early lost. And buds that blopsom'd but to fade. Of beaming eyes and tresses gay — Elastic form, and noble brow ; And charms that all have pass'd away, And left them what we see tliein now ! And is it so ? Is human love So very light, so frail a thing ! And must youth's brightest visions move For ever on Time's restless wing ! Must all the eyes that still are bright. And all the lips that talk of bliss. 90 GEMS OF THOUGHT Aud all the forms so fair to sight, Hereafter only come to this ? Ah, yes ! each path where lovers rove, In shady groves or on the shore ; If it can echo vows of love, Hath echoed vowa as fond before. And other forms as fair as these. Have glided down yon verdant glen ; And other nymphs beneath the trees Have heard the flattering words of men. A strain as sweet as that which floats Upon the breeze, o'er yonder wave, By moonlight, rose from other boats, — From lips now silent as the grave. Then what are love's best visions worth. If we, at length, must yield them thus ; If all we value most on earth. Ere long, must fade away from us ? If that one being, whom we take From all the world, and still recur To all she said, and for her sake Feel far from joy, when far from her ; If that one form which we adore. From youth to age, in bliss or pain, Soon withers, and is seen no more ; Why do we love, if love be vain ? AND FL WERS OP FANCY. 91 Oh ! is it not because we love (Far more than beauty's fleeting worth) The kindred soul which floats above The fail', yet fading flowers of earth ? Because afiectiou shuddering shrinks From the cold dust left mouldering here, And 'midst his tears the mourner thinks, Of joy beyond this troubled sphere. Yes ; if when beauty's dazzling mask Is gone, no other charms remain. Well may the heai-t desponding ask — "Why do Wfe love, if love be vain ?" But 'tis not so. When we behold Death's faded victim, once so fan' ; The eye is dim — the lip is cold — But all we valued lies not there ! The name of Thomas Haynes Bayly was famous in its day ; and his strains serve to renew the memories of music passed away, and to revive in many a bosom the feelings with which, years ago, they listened to those words, breathed in sweet tones by some loved lips now cold and pale ; when they were a part of dreams which time and the world have dissipated. — The Critic. Q2 UEMS OK THOUGHT THE HERMIT. DR. JOHN BY ROM, BURN AT KERSAL, NEAR MANCHESTER, IN 1691, DIED SEPTEMBER 28, 1763. » A HERMIT there was, and be lived in a grot. And the way to be happy they said he had got ; As I wanted to learn it, I went to his cell. And when I got there, the old hermit said, " Well, Young man, by your looks you want something I see • Come tell me the business which bi-iugs you to me." "Why, hermit," I answered, "you say very true, And I'll tell you the busiuess which brings me to you ; The way to be happy tliey say you have got. As I wanted to learn it, I came to your grot ; Now I beg and I pray, if you've got such a plau. That you'll write it down for me as plain as you can." Upon this, the old hermit soon took up his pen, Aud he brought me these lines when he came back again : — AND FLOV/ERS OF FANCY. " It is being, and doing, and having, that make All the pleasures and pains of which mortals partake ; Now to he what God pleases, to do a man's best, And to have a good heart, is the way to be blest." THE FLOWER OF MALHAMDALE. FROM "songs and LYRICAL POEMS," BT ROBERT STORY. Her form was like the fair sun-stream That glances through the mists of noon — Ah ! little thought we that its beam Would vanish from our glens so soon ! Yet when her eye had most of mirth, And when her cheek the least was pale. They talk'd of purer worlds than earth — She could not stay in Malhamdale ! The placid depth of that dark eye. The wild-rose tint of that fair cheek — Will still awake the long-drawn sigh. While Memory of the past shall speak. And we can never be but pain'd To think, when gazing on that vale, One angel more to Heaven is gain'd, But one is lost to Malhamdale ! •2 G 9-i GEMS OF THOUGHT I may uot tell what dreama were miue — • Dreams, laid in bright futurity — When the full, soft, and partial shine Of that fair eye was turn'd on me. Enough, enough — the blooming wreath Of Lore, and Hope, and Joy, is pale ; And now its withering perfumes breathe O'er yon new grave in Malhamdale ! THE RAVEN. EDGAR ALLAN FOE, B(J«N AT BALTIMOKE, IN THE UNITED STATES, IN JANUARY 1811, DIED AT TEE SAME PLACE, OCTOBER 7, 1849. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door; "'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber door — Only this and nothing more." AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 9-5 Ah ! distinctly I reaiember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wish'd the morrow; vainly T had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrill'd me — fill'd me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door : This it is and nothing more.' Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, " Sir," said I, " or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore ; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door. That I scarce was sure I heard you" — ere I open'd wide the door — Darkness there, and nothing more. yG GEMS OF THOUGHT Deep iuto that darkness peering, long 1 stood there won- dering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word, " Lenore !" This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word, "Lenore !" Merely this and nothing more. Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning. Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before, " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window lattice ; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore — Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; — ' Tis the wind and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepp'd a stately Haven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stay'd he ; But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber door — Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door — Perch'd and sat and nothing more. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 97 Then this ebouy bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the counteuauce it wore, "Though thy cre.st be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, ' ' art siu-e no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore — Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's IHutonian shore :" Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing that no human living being Ever yet was tless'd with seeing bird above his chamber door — Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door. With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust spoke only That one word, as if his sonl in that one word he did out- pour ; Nothing further then he utter'd ; not a feather then he flutter'd— Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, " Other friends have flown before^ On the morrow he will leave me, aa my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, " Never more." 98 GEMS OF THOUGHT Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store. Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore — Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore. Of ' Never — never moi'e.' " But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird and bust and door. Theu, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking " never more." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burn'd into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining. On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er She shall press, ah, never more ! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. i)9 "Wretch!" I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Leuore ! Quaff, oh quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenoi'e !" Quoth the Raven, " Never more !" " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil !— prophet still, if bird or devil ' Whether tempter sent, or tempest toss'd thee here ashore Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- chanted — On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — la there— IS there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I implore !"— Quoth the Raven, " Never more." " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil— prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore — Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore — Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore," Quoth the Raven, " Never more." lOU GKMS OF THOUGHT " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !" I shi-iek'd, upstarting— " Get tliee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door !" Quoth tlie Raven, " Never more." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, throws his shadov? on the floor ; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted— never more ! In our opinion, says Mr. N. P. "Willis, "The Raven" is the most effective single example of fugitive poetry ever published in this country ; and unauri)as8ed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of ver- sification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift. It is one of those ' dainties bred in a book' which we feed on ' It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 101 HOW SLEEP THE DEAD. FKOM "SOiSGS AND LYRICAL POEMS," BY BOBERT STORT. How sleep the dead in yon churchyard. Where chequering moonbeams purely fall ? How sleep the dead beneath the sward ? Calmly — softly— sweetly all ! lu mute companionship they lie — No hearts that ache, no eyes that weep ! Pain, sickness, trouble, come not nigh The beds of those that yonder sleep. Around, the world is passion-tost — War, murder, crime, for ever reign ; Of sacred peace alone may boast The churchyard's vmdisturb'd domain. The stormy sea of human life. With all its surges, roars around ; Their barrier-wall repels its strife — No wave breaks o'er their hallow'd ground. 102 UKMS OF THOUGHT Ai'ound, the summei- suu may seorch — The dead feel not the sultry ray ; Winter may howl in spire and porch — The dead are reckless of his sway. Thus sleep the dead io you churchyard, Wliere chequering moonbeams purely fall ; Thus sleep the dead beneath the sward — Calmly — softly — sweetly all ! IH I-: l^UCKKT. SAMUEL WOODWORTH, BURN IN MASSACHUSETTS, IN 1785. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which ray infancy knew ; The wide-spi'eadiug pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell ; The cot of my father, the dairy -house nigh it. And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well : The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The mosR-cover'd bucket, which hung in the well. That mosa-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure ; Kor often, at noon, wlieii roturn'd from the field. AND FL0\VKK8 Ob' FANCY. 103 I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell ; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overiiowing. And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; The old oaken bucket, the iron-boundJsucket, The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well. TO A COUGH. On being ordered by physicians to pass the winter at Bonnlfaiix or Madeira, in consequence of a severe cough, MISS LOU'ISA H. 3Hi,KIDAN. " Ma'am, that is a rerv had cough of yours," " Sir, I regret to say it is Uie verv heat I have " Do cease, hollow sound ! you alarm e'en the merry, — You banish all sjnrit away from "pale Sheri." Strange ! that Sheri, in order with colour to glow, Must change to Madeira or else to Bordeaux. But since a long voyage seems the only resort. When at sea how the Sheri will long for the Port ! l<*-i UEMS OF THOUGHT MORNING IN SUMMER. ROBERT WOOD. PROM " BRADSHAW'S JOURNAL," 1842. See, the mountains are gilded, the clouds dazzling bright. And the curtain of mist drawn away, As gay morning bursts out from the arms of old night. To give all her charms to young day. Now the moon veils her face, and the last lingering star Shuts his lamp, and withdraws in disguise ; While Apollo is yoking the steeds to his car. To run his swift course through the skies. Now a bright stream of sunshine spreads over the plain ; You hills are all bathed iu the light. While the billows which sparkle and foam on the main. Are dancing with joy at the sight. And tho lily is drest in her grandest array. Which .-ilie neither has toil'd for nor .sjmu ; While the young roses blush, half aahauied to display Their beauties at first to the sun. ANI» FJ.OWEliS OF FANXT. 105 See, the shepherd is up, and has gone from his t-ot. As cheerful and blithe as the morn ; He has left his couch early, and why may he not Think on late-rising sluggards with scorn ? Awake thou that sleepest, and arise from thy bed, And hie to the hill to behold The morning's fresh picture before thee outspread, All framed with a margin of gold ! While the skylark is singing and mounting aloft, Above all the musical throng; And while echo is blending in harmony soft. The many new versions of song. Then shall we not join in a chorus so sweet, ' To praise the Creator above ; Whose works are with wonder and wisdom replete, And ct ow:i'd with his mercy and love. i06 GEMS OP THOUGHT THF, PASSAGi' LUDWIG UHLAND. Many a year is in its grave Since I cross'd this restless wave ; And the evening, fair as ever, Shines on ruin, rock, and river. Then in this same boat beside Sat two comrades old and tried ; One with all a father's truth, One with all the fire of youth. One on earth in silence wrought, A nd his grave in silence sought ; But the younger brighter form Pass'd in battle and in storm. So, whene'er I turn my eye Back upon the days gone by. Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er Ttic, Kriends that closed their days before me. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 107 But what binds us friend to friend, But that soul with soul can blend ? Squl-like were those hours of yore ; Let us walk in soul once more. Take, boatman, thrice thy fee, Take, I give it williiagly ; For, invisible to thee, Spirits twain have cross'd with me. "An Indkpendent Poet. — Uhland. the German poet, has refused to accept the Order of Merit offered him by the King of Prussia on the recommendation of Baron Hum- boldt. The reason he assigns is, that the king's govern- meut has persecuted his political friends. Uhland is a gre;it liberal, and is a member of the Chamber of Repre- sentatives of Wurtemburg." Manchester Advertiser, Januari/, 1854. 108 GEMS OP THOUGHT LOVE DIES NOT WITH BEAUTY. WILLIAM GASPET. Oh ! thiuk not when Time shall have silver'd thy brow, I shall love thee less foudly, dear Mary, than now; Nor believe that my ardent aSection will fly With the rose of thy cheek, or the light of thine eye ; For in age, as in youth, thou a blessing wilt prove — Beauty never departs from the woman we love. Nay, dearest, say not, 'tween a eigh and a smile, That my love, like thy charms, will but flourish awhile; When wrinkles shall steal o'er thy beautiful face. And the mind can alone thy past loveliness trace, I shall treasure thee more, for in thee shall I see An angel, that stoops to be mortal for me ! AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 109 MY SOLDIER BOY. 1>R, WILLIAM MAGINN, BORN IN JULY, 1794, AT CORK, DIED AnGUST 19, 1842, BURIED AT WALTON- ON-THAMES. / Qive my soldier-hoy a blade, In fair Damascus fashion' d well ; Who first the glittering falchion sway'd. Who first beneath its fury fell, I know not, but I hope to know, That for no mean or hireling trade, To guard no feeling base or low, 7 give my soldier-boy a blade. Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood, In which its tempering work was done, As calm, as clear, as cool of mood. Be thou whene'er it sees the sun. For country's claim, at honour's call. For outraged friend, insulted maid, At mercy's voice to bid it fall, I give my soldier-hoy a blade. H 110 GEMS OF THOUGHT The eye which mark'd its peerless edge, The hand that weigh'd its balanced poise, Auvil and pincers, forge and wedge, Are gone, with all their flame and noise — And still the gleaming sword remains. So when in dust I low am laid, Remember by these heart-felt strains / (/ave my soldier-boy a blade. THE COTTAGERS. THOMAS IIINDLE. FUOM " LKIUH HUNTS JOURNAL. " In a garden, hark thee, Willie, Here's a tree and there's a tree, Apple tree and rose tree ; Which wouldst thou the rather he, Apple tree or rose tree ?" " Oh, I know," wee Willie said, Looking high above his head : " I would be the apple tree — The tall, the fruit-bowed apple troo." " In a garden, hark tliec, Annie, Here's a tree, and there's a tree, Apple ti-ee and rose tree; Wliich wouldst thoih the rather he, AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 1 1 I Apple tree or rose tree V' " Rather be !" sweet Aunie cries, Looking lively with her eyesi ; " I would be the white rose tree — The drooping, flower-crowu'd white rose troe.' Aunie, Willie, iu a cottage I Both the trees remember still ; Apple tree and rose tree. Fitting pair are Ann and Will ; Apple tree and rose tree ! He brings fruit and she brings flowers, Cheerful days and joyous hours ; He and she live happily, In the cottage on the lea. Simple creatures, Annie, Willie ! What a world this woi'ld so fair ; Apple tree and Rose tree, If like you its people were ; Apple tree and Rose tree ! Love's sweet works would glad the day, Healthful Rest sleep night away ; All would be, as all should be, A fruit-bowed, ilower-crown'd, living tree. 112 GEMS OF THOUGHT GENEVIEVE. SAMDEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, BORN OCTOBER 20, iTT'i, AT OTTERY ST. MARY, UEVONSHIRE, DJED AT HIGHGATE, JULT 25, 1834. All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, Are all but ministers of love. And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour. When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruin'd tower. The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene. Had blended with the light of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve ! She lean'd against the armed man, The statue of the armed kuight ; She stood and listen'd to my lay Amid the lingering light. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 113 Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I play'd a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story— An old rude song that suited well That niin wild and hoary. She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the knight that wore T^pon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he wooed The lady of the land. 1 told her how he pined ; and ah ! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own. She listen'd with a flitting blush, vVith downcast eyes and modest grace ; And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face. But when I told the cruel scorn Which crazed this bold and lovely knight, 2 H 114 GEMS OF THOUGHT And that he cross'd the mountain- woods, Nor rested day nor night ; But sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade. And sometimes starting up at once, In green and sunny glade, There came and look'd him in the face An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a fiend, This miserable knight ! And that, unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band. And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land ; And how she wept and clasp'd his knees, And how she tended him in vain, — And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain. And that she nursed him in a cave ; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay : His dying words — but when I reach'd That tenderest sti-ain of all the ditty. My faltering voice and pausing harp Disfciirb'd her soul with pity ! AND FLOWERS OP FANCY. Hy All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve — The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve ; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng ; And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherish'd long ! She wept with pity and delight. She blush'd with love and virgin shame ; And like the murmur of a dream I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved, she stept aside ; As conscious of my look she stept — Then suddenly, with timorous eye, She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms. She press'd me with a meek embrace. And bending back her head, look'd up And gazed upon my face. ' Twas partly love, and partly fear. And partly 'twas a bashful art. That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart. I calm'd her fears ; and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride ; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride ! 1 1 'i GEMS OF THOUGHT "Nearly twenty years ago Coleridge went to stay for a week with a medical friend, Mr. Gillnian, at Highgate ; and, from a feeling of liberality and attachment rare indeed in our age, that gentleman made his house the home of Coleridge to the day of his death ! He was his guide, his physician, his generous host, and his warm friend throughout the whole period. On the morning of Friday, .Tuly 25, the last melancholy event took place, when the lamented poet had reached his sixty-second year ; and on Saturday the 2nd of August his remains, attended but by a few who had been long known to him, were interi-ed in the vaults of Highgate church." — Literary Gazette. 1834. THE LONELY RUIN. WILLIAM ALLINQHAM. By the shore, a plot of ground Clips a ruin'd chapel round, Buttress'd with a grassy mound, Wliere Day and Night and Day go by, And bring no touch or human sound. Washing of the lonely seas, Shaking of the guardian trees, I'iping of the s;dted breeze ; AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 117 Day and Night and Day go by, To the endless tune of these. Or when, as winds and waters keep A hush more dead than any sleep, Still morns to stiller evenings creep. And Day and Night and Day go by ; Here the silence is most deep. The chapel-ruins, lapsed again Into nature's wide domain, Sow themselves with seed and grain. As Day and Night and Day go by ; And hoard June's sun and April's rain. Here fresh funeral tears were shed ; And now, the graves are also dead ; And suckers from the ash-tree spread. While Day and Night and Day go by ; And stars move calmly over head. 118 GEMS OF TITOUOIIT LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN. GEORGE COLMAN, THE YOUNGER, BORN OCTOBl R 21, 1762, DIED IN LONDON, OCTOBEU 26, 1836. Who has e'er been in Loudon, that ovei'growu place, Has seen ' Lodgings to Let' stare him full in the face ; Some are good, and let dearly ; while some, 'tis well known. Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone. Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely, Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only ; But Will was so fat, he appear'd like a ton, Or like two single gentlemen roll'd into one. He enter'd his rooms, and to bed he retreated, But all the night long he felt fever'd and heated, And though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sliooj). He was not by any means heavy to sleep. Next night 'twas the same ; and the next, and the nei He perspired like au ox ; he was nervous and vex'd ; Week pass'd after week, till, by weekly succession. His weakly condition was past all pxi>rossioii. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 1 1 ^> In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him ; For his skin, ' like a lady's loose gown,' hung about him. He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny ; ' I have lost many pounds — make me well — there's a guinea.' The doctor look'd wise ; ' A slow fever,' he said ; Prescribed sudorifics and going to bed. ' Sudorifics in bed,' exclaim'd Will, 'are humbugs ! I've enough of them there without paying for drugs ! Will kick'd out the doctor ; but when ill indeed. E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed ; So calling his host, he said, ' Sir, do you know, I'm the fat single gentleman six months ago * Look'e. landlord. I think,' argued Will with a grin, ' That with honest intentions you first took me in ; But from the first night — and to say it I'm bold — I've been so hang'd hot, that I'm sure I caught cold.' Quoth the landlord, ' Till now, I ne'er had a dispute ; I've let lodgiugs ten years ; I'm a baker to boot ; In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven ; And your bed is immediately over my oven.' ' The oven !' says Will. Says the host, ' Why this passion ? Ill that excellent bed died three; people of fashion. Why so crusty, good sir ?' ' Zovinds !' cries Will, in a taking, ' Who wouldn't be ci-usty with li;i,lf ii year's baking T 120 GEMS OF THOUGHT Will paid for his rooms ; cried the host, with a sneer, ' Well, I see you've been going away half a year ? ' Friend, we can't well agree ; yet no quarrel,' Will said, ' But I'd rather not perish while you make your bread.' TO THE CUCKOO. John LOGAN, BORN AT SOUTRA, MID-LOTHIAN, IN 1748, DIED IN LONDON, DECEMBER, 1788. Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! Thou messenger of Spring ! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat. And woods thy welcome sing. What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hoar; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year ? Delightful visitant ! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 121 The schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on its bloom, Thou liiest thy vocal vale. An annual guest in other lauds. Another Spring to hail. Sweet bird ! thy bower ia ever green, Thy sky is ever clear ; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No Winter in thy year ! could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe. Companions of the Spring. " Magical stanzas," says D'Israeli, " of picture, melody, and sentiment." 122 (jrlCMr^ or TnoiKUlT A THOUGHT OX DEATH. WRITTEN IN THE AUTHOR'S EIGHTIETH YEAR. MKb llAKBAULD, BORN AT KIBWOKTIi HARCUURT, LEICES- TKliSHIKE, IN 1743, DIED MARCH 9, 1825. .When life, as opening buds, is sweet,' And golden hoijes the spirit greet. And youtii prepares his joys to meet — Alas ! how hard it is to die ! When scarce is seized some valued prize, And duties press, and tender ties Forbid the soul from earth to rise — How awful then it is to die ! When, one by one, those ties are torn, And friend from friend is snatch'd forlorn, And miin is left alone to mourn, — Ah ! then how easy 'tis to die ! AVhen faith is strong, and conscience clear, And words of peace the spirit cheer. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 123 And vision'd glories half appear, — 'Tis joy, 'tis triumph, then to die. When trembling limbs refuse their weight, And films, slow-gathering, dim the sight, And clouds obscure the mental light,— ' Tis Nature's precious boon to die f A SISTER'S INQUIRIES. PROM "trifles op FANCY," BY WILLIAM MORT, 1832. Oh, tell me, brother, who is that With a face so mild and bright ; And beaming eyes that seem to emit A clear and dazzling light ? Whose foot doth bound so freely, And whose fancy hath such scope : Oh, tell me, brother, who is that ? Her name, my love, i^^ffope. And who is he that stalks along In philosophic mood ; Upon whose path some fairy form The brightest flowers hath sti'ew'd ? Who seems so calm and innocent, And guileless as a dove ; 124 GEMS OF TH(1UrrIIT Oh, tell lue, brother, who is that ? — His name — his name is Love. And who is you that wandereth So recklessly and lone ; And from whose spirit issues forth A deep and fearful moan ? Whose eye is dark and heavy, And whose brow seems worn with care Oh, tell me, brother, who is that ? — My love, it is Despair. And who is he with aspect wild, And forchearl black as death; With a serpent in his bosom, And foul slander on his breath ? AVhose voice, like a magician, Doth some hideous form create : Oti, tell mo, brother, who is lie? — That monster, love, is Hate. And what is yonder form that doth So fleetly glide along. Like a spectre of the night, amid The gay and idle throng ? Who sweeps them all before him Like a thunder- blast from heaven. When the proud ones of the forest By the lightning's flash are riven ? Who is ho ? r.rothci-, toll mo :— Ho is on(\ my love, on whom ANU FLOWEJ^S Ur F.VNOV. ^'25 All thy happiness depeiideth, Fi'om the cradle to the tomb ; He is with thee in thy childhood, He'll attend thee in thy prime ; He's a shadow of futurity — His name, my love, is Time. But there is One still mightier — The monarch of the grave ! The vanquisher of nations. And the conqueror of the brave ! Oh, learn, my love, whilst living. So to spend thy fleetiug breath, That at last, without a shudder, Thou may'st meet thy foeman Dtalli, f ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. WRITTEN IN CHERICAL, MALABAR. JOHN LEYDEN, BORN AT DENHOLM, BOXBUHGHSHriiE, ABOUT 1775, DIED AT BATAVIA. AOCJUST 28, 1811. Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! What vauity has brought theo here ? How can I love to see thee shine So bris;ht, whom I have bought so dear ? ] 2Cj GEMS OP THOUGHT The teut-ropes flapping lone I hear l''()r twilight converse, arm in arm ; The jackall's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and inasic wont to charm. By Cherical's dai'k wandering streams, Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild. Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams Of Teviot loved while still a child, Of castled rocks stupendous piled By Esk or Eden's classic wave, Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime. That once so bright on Fancy play'd. Revives no more in after-time. Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave ; The darling thoughts that soar'd sublime Arc sunk in ocean's southern wave. Slave of tlie mine ! thy yellow light Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widow'd heart to cheer : Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine ; Tier fond heart throbs with many a fear ! I cannot boar to see thco shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 1 left a hnai't that loved me true ! AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 127 I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave, To roam in climes unkind and new. The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my wither'd heart ; the grave Dark and untimely met my view — And all for thee, vile yellow slave. Ha ! com'st thou now so late to mock A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn, Now that his frame the lightning shock Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regi-ets the prey ; Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! There is so much of true genius, and poetic feeling of the highest order, in the "Ode to an Indian Gold Coin," that I cannot withstand the temptation of enriching my barren pages with so beautiful a gem. This Ode of Doctor Leyden's, in my opinion, comes as near perfection as the sublunary muse can arrive at, when assisted by a subject that is interesting, and an execution that is masterly. It adds a deeper shade to that sympathy, which such lines must awaken, to reflect that the spirit that dictated them has fled. — Lacon. 128 GEMS OF THOUGHT TO-MORROW. ANNA LETITIA BAKBAULD. (WRITTEN IN HER EIGHTIETH TEAR.) See where the falling day In silence steals away, Behind the western hills withdrawn ; Her fires are quench' d, her beanty fled, With blushes all her face o'ersprt^ad, As conscious she had ill fulfill'd The promise of the dawn. Another morning soon shall rise, Another day salute our eyes As smiling and as fair as she. And make as many promises ; But do not thou The tale believe, They're sisters all, And all deceive. AND KLOWr:Krf ( H'' l''A\OV. i 2d OH, BEAUTIFUL STAR ! PROM "angel visits : AND OTHER POEMS," BY JAMES RIDDALL WOOD, 1840. Oh beautiful star, with thine aspect of light, Arlorning eternity's mantle of blue. Were thy silvery features more lovely and bright When they smiled on the scene while the world was yet new ? Oh ! I who address thee am but of a day. And to-morrow thy fadeless and radiant eye Shall witness me wither and vanish away, And smile on my grave from thy throne in the sky. But though fix'd to one time, like a point in vast space, My soul is unpinion'd, and frequent doth cast A glance o'er the gloom of the future, or trace The varied events that have peopled the past. Thou hast seen, — thou hast seen, in thy deathless career, Far more than the records of ages have told ; Thou shalt see, from thy distant and shadowy sphere. What few but thyself and thy Maker behold. 2 I 130 GEMS OF THOUGHT Oh, tell me, wert thou of that glorious throng That witness'd creation's bright beauties unfurl'd ? That thrill'd to the music, and joined in the song, When the morning stars welcomed the birth of the world ? Then man was instinct with celestial fire. And Nature was graced with pereunial bloom ; Now these are exchanged for the thorn and the briar, The bed of afHiction, the mourner, the tomb. Didst thou see the wild flood in its horrible sweep Roll proudly, and usher the world to its grave ? Didst thou, when the ark was alone on the deep, First whisper of hope o'er the desolate wave ? When the armies of midnight were marshall'd on high. And earth with her children to slumber was given. Didst thou witness the Bethlehem shepherds draw nigh, And list the melodious pagans of heaven ? And haply thy mild and ethereal ray In the east where it rose was arrested till morn. Inviting the Chaldean Magi away To the lowly retreat where the Saviour was born. Again wert thou call'd to look earthward, and lo ! There were darkness, and earthquakes, and thuuderiugs dire ; The sun had withdrawn from the vision of woe, And man, — only man, saw the Saviour expire. 1 too must behold him when time shall be done. The angels his train, and the lightnings his car ; AND FLOWERS OP FANCY. 131 The earth shall be buru'd, aud extinguish'd the sun ; And thou too shalt perish, " Oh, beautiful star !" JEANIE MORRISON. WILLIAM MOTHKRWELL, BORN IN GLASGOW, 1797, BURIED IN THE CEMETERY OF THAT CITY IN 1835. I've wauder'd east, I've wauder'd west, Through mony a weary way ; But never, — never can forget The luve o' life's young day ! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule ; But blacker fa' awaits the heart When first fond luve grows cule. dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows owre my path, And blind my een wi' tears ! They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up. The blythe blinks o' langsyne. 132 GEMS OF THOUGHT ' Twas then we luv't ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; S.veet time ! — sad time ! — twa bairns at sohnle, Twa bairns, and but ae heart 1 ' Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To lear ilk ither lear ; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Reraember'd evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof. What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads. How cheeks brent red wi' shame. Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', sixid, We cleek'd thegither hame ? And mind ye o' the Satui-days (The schule then skail't at noon). When we ran aif to speel the braes— The broomy braes o' June ? My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea. As ane by ane the thochts rush back 0' schule-time and o' thee. Oh, mornin' life ! oh, mornin' luve 1 Oh, Uchtsouie days and lang, AND FLOWBKS OF FANCY. Wheu hinnied hopes around our hearts Like simmor blossoms, sprang ! Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin' dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside. And hear its water croon ; The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood The throsail whusslit sweet. The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the tress, And we, with Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies ; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' vera gladness grat. Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled down your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time. When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled— unsung ! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee 134 GEMS OF THOUGHT As closely twined \vi' eai'liest thochts As ye hae been to me ? Oh ! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine ; Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ! I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, I've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never wei-e forgot. The fount that first burst fi-ae this heart Still travels on its way ; And channels deeper as it rins The luve o' life's young day. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young, I've never seen your face, nor beard The music o' your tongue ; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dream'd 0' bygane days and me ! AND KLOWEHS OF FANCY. 135 THE LOVER'S LEAP. A ROMANTIC SPOT IN THE DARGLE, COUNTY WICKLOW. .TOSKPH AUGUSTINE WADE. Oh ! have you not heard of that dark woody glen, Where the oak-leaves are richest and rarest — Where Counal, the chief and foremost of uieu, Loved Eily, of maidens the fairest? She plighted her faith, but as quickly withdrew. At a story that slander'd her lover : — She left him in wrath, but how little she knew That her peace at their parting was over ! He met her in vale, and he met her in grove, — At midnight he roam'd by her dwelling ; But he said not a word of the truth of his love, For his cheek the sad story was telling ' He found her one eve by the rock in the glen, Where she once vow'd to love him foi? ever, — He gazed, till she murmur'd " Dear Connal," and then He leap'd from the rock to the river ! 13G GEMS OP THOUGHT Tlic summer pjtsK'il on, and the chief was forgot, — But one night when the oak -leaves were flying, There came a sad form to that desolate spot, — 'Neath which the bi'ave Connal was lying. She gaze* on the brown swelling stream 'mid tlie rocks. As she lean'd the wild precipice over : — Slie lo.ik'd a farewell to the glen of the oaks, And Eily was soon with her lover ! The Ci-itic for July '26th, 1845, announces the death of Mr. Wade, in the foUowmg terms: — "It is with deep emotion we record the deplorable death of this accom- plished individual ; a fine musician, a pleasing poet, and no mean scholar. He died at his lodgings, 340, Strand, under the most distressing circumstances, having sutfered a long and severe illness, ending in mental derangement, brought on by incessant study, and, we fear, by liabits or feelings which made the destructive resource of opium but too acceptable. Mr. Wade's musical compositions and poetical and other literary productions were of a high and pure order, nearly allied to that genius which is too much for the oppressed mind to straggle with. He has loft a widow and two children utterly destitute, threatened with an execution for rent, and witliout the means of burying his remains !" An appropriate addenda to this note will be found in the following verses from Mr. Wade's Last Choict> : — " So lay me in that pleasant grave. All cover'd o'er with green ; Though wrong'd through lifetime, I would have My tomb as if I'd been AND FLOWERS OP FANO"X. 1-H A liappy thing, and sweets were strewn Upon my sleep, to shew That I had never sorrow known, Had never tasted woe ! I like the mockery that flowers Exhibit on the mound, Beneath which lie the happy hours Hearts dreamt, but never found !" WHO DARE TO DIE? ' EDWIN HENRY BDRRINGTON There's a light that shineth, a lamp that biu-neth Before the brave, And he is the slave of time who turneth Back from the grave. By swoi-d or flood, by fire or wave. When glares Death's eye. All under the sun, who have great deeds done. Will dare to die. Will the monarch quit his lofty throiio, That costly thing, And shrink not to wrestle with death alone — A king with a king ? 138 GEMS OF J'HUUGHT Ay, he will daie the chance of the ring, As well he can, If he hath lived, and himself believed Less King than man. Will the beggar in his rags dare death ? Yes — if his mind Be free from fraud when he weeping saith — " Oh, pray be kind— I have left many dying ones behind Dying for bread !" With a Christian's faith, what is there in death That he should dread ? Will the gaudy-plumed warrior fear to die, Who, hand in hand, Hath walk'd with deatli, and heard his loud ci-y, On sea and land ? Where death is so red he may fear not his brand, But after the fight, It is well for his errors if death hath no terrors When death is «•////<. Will the poet or prophet — for both are one- Like others dare ? Ay, more ! for his love, like the light of the sun, Shines everywhere. And lie who gives love, treads the first white siirir Towards the sky, And well he may write, in his upward fiight, " I dare to die !" AND FI.OWEKS OF FANCY. 139 DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. James shirley, bohn 1594, died I'iOG. The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial thin^^s ; There is no armour against fate : Death lays his icy hands ou kings; Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still : Early or late They stooy) to fate. And must give up thf'ir murmuring breath. When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither ou your brow, — Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 14: 1) GEMS OF THOUGHT Upon death's purple altar, now, See where the victor-victim bleeds : All heads must come To the cold tomb ; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. " This finest production of Shirley occurs in one of his dramas. The piece is said to have been greatly admired by Charles II. The thoughts are elevated, and the ex- pression highly poetical." Ohamhtvs' English Literature, COMPASSION. NKR GAUUJNEH. Lonely, where a fountain wells, Soft Compassion meekly dwi-lls ; Care comes there with loads of grief. Kind Compassion lends relief. Calms his sorrow, bathes his feet, Yields to him her mossy seat, Pours her balmy wine and oil, Into his heart, to soothe his toil. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. J -t i^ Anguish next, with clasped hauds. At the fount uncouycious stands, O'er her neck and shoulders fair Streams her wild dishevell'd hair, All seems tenor in her soul, Pangs on pangs in tumult roll, Mildness soems the dread release ; Then, Compassion murmurs, — peace. Sorrow now comes drooping by, Oh ! the langour of her eye, Mark her cheek, how calm and pale. Ah ! it tells a mouruful tale ; As beside the fount she stands, Tears roll dropping to the sands, Then Compassion dries her tears. Whispering comfort in her ears. Who comes now, with dove-like eyes. Calmly lifted to the skies, Whose mild features yet disclose Traces of a thoiisand woes ; On whose forehead dwell enshrined Spiritual triumph ! Godlike mind ! Compassion, — though almost divine, — Religion needs no aid of thine. From " Sacred Poems :" a small volume, written and published for the benefit of the Ancoats Bazaar, Man- chester, in 1840. 142 GEMS OF THOUGHT EPITAPH, FOR THE TABLET IN MEMORY OF THE MARQUIS OF ANGLESEY'S LEG. THOMAS GASPEY. Herk rests — and let no saiicy kuavo Presume to sneer or laugh, To learn that mouldering in the grave, Is laid — a British calf. For he who writes these lines is sure, That those who read the whole. Will find such laugh were premature, For here, too, lies a sole. And here five little ones repose, Twin -born with other five; Unheeded by their brother toes, Who all arc now alive. A lef) and foot, to speak more plain, Lie here, of one commanding ; Who, though his wits he might retain, Lo-t half his um dust audi vj. AND FLOWERS OK FANCY. I l3 Who when the guns, with thunder fraught, Pour'd bullets thick as hail, Could only in this way be taught To give the foe leg-hail. And now in England, just as gay — As in the battle brave — Goes to the rout, review, or play, With one foot in tJie grave. Fortune in vain here shew'd her spite, For he will still be found. Should England's sons engage in fight, Resolved to stand his ground. But Fortune's pardon I must beg. She meant not to disarm ; And when sho lopp'd the hero's leg, By no means sought his h-arm. And but indulged a harmless whim ; Since he could walk with one, She saw two leys v/ere lost on him, Who never meant to run. At Beaudesert, the seat of the Noble Marquis, part of the cloth of the trowsers worn on the leg which was shot off, at the moment when his lordship received his wound, is preserved : m which all the marks of the bidlets arc seen, and it is in the same splashed state as wheu removed from the noble soldier's person at Waterloo. — M((^i/- Coloured Life. 144 OEMS OF THOUGHT THE SONG OF HEALTH. EDWIN HENEY BURRINGTON. Mt wing is touch'd with rosy light, I fly o'er wave and strand ; The seamen and the landsmen laugh, to shake me by the haud ; I have my fancies like a prince, and sup with whom I please, I'm changing as the April clouds and fickle as its breeze. Sometimes, when men for love of gold desire an old man's death, T touch him with my fairy wand and lengthen out his breath ; For never should the upstart young usurp their father's chair, — Oh ! mine is such a bonny life of sport the new and rare ! 1 made a child's blue eye more blue, his mother smooth'd his hair. And joy came rushing to her heart a« she said, " My childi tbou'rl fjiir ;" AND FLOWERS OP FANCY. 145 Faith with the loved aud beautiful I canuot always keej), So when the boy laid down his head, I left him in his sleep ; Then came a spirit from the tomb and flutter'd round his cheek ; He pass'd his shady pencil there and left the cold death- streak. Where on earth can one be found like me, so doubly kind ; For when I take the red rose off, I leave the white behind. An old crone witch'd a peasant girl, so village newsers said, And I, to share the frolic, from the timid witch'd one fled; Men flung the old dame in a pond, bouud tightly with a chain — She sank, and laughing I retum'd unto the maid again. I smile to see the sickly strive to counterfeit my form, To make a cold aud bloodless cheek look beautiful and warm ; But let them mock uie with their rouge, for when I once depart, They mimic me upon the cheek, but not so in the heart. I ride upon the morning air, the whirlwind is my broom, Which sweeps away the pestilence to give me light and room ; When cold rains lie upon the ground, and comes the wild- storm shock, I creep into a thick great coat, or in a soft warm sock. No minstrel ever strung his harp who decks the fields like I, 146 GKMS OF THOUGHT I build my emerald temples there when summer wanders by; I stir the mighty intellect, and nations rise or fall — I am that earthly Deity, the light and love of all ! THK LOST PATH. THOMAS DAVIS. SwGET thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be, All comfort else has flown ; For every hope was false to me, And here I am. alone. What thoughts were mine, in early youth ! Like some old Irish song, Brimful of love, and light, and truth. My spirit gush'd along. I hoped to right my native isle, I hoped soldier's fame, I hoped to rest in woman's smile, And win a minstrel's name — Oh ! little have I served my laud. No laurels press my brow, I have no womau's lieart nt- bfuid. Nor minstrel hnuours now. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY, IVl But fancy has a magic power, It brings me wealth and crown, And woman's love, the self -same hour It smites oppression down. Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be, I have no joy beside ; Oh ! throng around, and be to me Power, countiy, fame, and bride. THE GIFT OF POESY. PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. Apollo laid his lyre upon a stone — The stone was seized with music, and the touch Of mortal could awake the god's own tone For ever after. Marvel ye not much : Wherever God may choose, or man may dwell, This is an ever acting miracle. When once the gift of Godlike poesy Hath touch'd the heart, it answers everything In its own tongue, but in a harmony Instinct with heaven. Let the world then fling Its arms of honour round the poet's breast. And heaven shall hear earth's music, aud have rest. 148 GBMS OP THOUGHT THE WELL UB' ST. KEYNE. BOBBET SODTHEY, BORN AT BRISTOL, AUCHTST ] 2, ITTJ, DIED AFTER A RESIDENCE OP NEARLY 40 YEARS, AT GRETA HALL, MARCH 21, 1843, BDRIED IN CROSTHWAITE CHURCHYARD, NEAR KESWICK. A WELL there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen ; There is not a wife in the west country But haa heard of the well of St. Koyne. An oak and an elm tree stand beside. And behind does au ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops in the water below. A traveller came to the well of St. Keyue, Joyfully he diew nigh. For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky. He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he ; AND FLOWERS OP FANCY. liU Anil he sat down upon the bank, Under the willow tree. There came a man from the neighbouring town, At the well to fill his pail ; On the well-side he rested it And bade the stranger hail. " Now art thou a bachelor, stranger ?" quoth he, " For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day That ever thou didst in thy life, " Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been ? For an if she have, I'll venture ray life She has drunk of the well of St. Keyue.'^ " I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply ; " But that my draught should be better for that, 1 i^ray you answer me why." " St. Keyne," quoth the Cornishman, " many a time Drank of this crystal well ; And before the angel summon'd her. She laid on the water a spell. " If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man henceforth is he, For he shall be master for life. 2 K 150 GEMS OF THOUGHT " But if the wife should driuk it first, God help the husband then !" The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again. ' ' You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes !" He to the Cornishman said : But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake. And sheepishly shook his head : " T hasteu'd as soon as the wedding was done. And left my wife in the porch ; But, i' faith, she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church." THE LAND OF FAME. ANONYMOUS. FROM THK " AMERICAN MISCELLANY." Few pierce this limbo-land of cloud, But doff their armovir for the shroud, And leave, to cheer their comrades on, Their trophies — and their skeleton ! Yet inroads on this gloomy realm, That mists and shawdows overwhelm, AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. Are made ; for all that Truth would hail, Must force this frontier line, or fail. And through this vestibule have pass'd All master luinds ; the first as last, And mch by inch, and day by day, Have cut their road, or fought their way. l.H REFLECTIONS. EMILY BRONTE, DIED DECEMBER, 19, 1848. A LITTLE while, a little while. The weary task is put away, And I can sing and I can smile. Alike, while I have holiday. Where wilt thou go my harass' d heart — What thought, what scene invites thee now ? What spot, or near or far apart. Has rest for thee, my weary brow ? There is a spot, 'mid barren hills. Where Winter howls, and driving rain; But, if the dreary tempest chills. There is a light that warms again. 152 CxKMS OF THOUGHT Tlie house is old, t.lie trees are bare, Moonless above bends twilight's dome ; But what on earHi is half so dear — So long'd for — as the heartli of home ? The mute bird sitting on the stone ; The dank moss dripping from the wall, The thorn- trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown, I love them — ^how I love them all ! till, as I mused, the naked room. The alien firelight died away ; And from the midst of cheerless ^rloom I pass'd to bri_'ht, unclouded day. A little and a lone green lane That open'd on a common wide ; A distant, dreamy, dim, blue chain Of mountains circling every side. A heaven so clear, an earth so calm. So sweet, so soft, so hush'd an air ; And — deepening still the dreatn-like charm- Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere. Tliat was the scone, I knew it well ; I knew the turfy pathway's sweep, That, winding o'er each billowy swell, Mark'd out the tracks of wandering sheeii Could I have lingo r'd but an hour, It well had paid a week of toil : AND FLOWERS OF FANCY, lo3 But. truth has baiiish'd fancy's power ; Kesti'aint and heavy task recoil. Even as I stood with raptured eye, Absorb'd in bliss so deep and dear. My honr of rest had fleeted by, And back came labour, bondage, care. THE NIGHT WIND. EMILY BRONTE. In summer's mellow midnight A cloudless moon shone through Our open parlour-window. And rose-trees wet with dew. I sat in silent musing ; The soft wind waved my hair ; It told me heaven was glorious, And sleeping earth was fair. I needed not its breathing To bring such thoughts to me ; But still it whisper'd lowly, " How dark the woods will be ! 154 GEMS OF THOUGHT " The thick leaves iu my nuuiuur Are rustling like a dream, And all their myriad voices Instinct with spirit seem." I said, "Go, gentle singer, Thy moving voice is kind : But do not think its music Has power to reach my mind. " Play with the scented flower, The youug tree's supple bough, And leave my human feelings In their own course to flow." The wanderer would not heed me ; Its kiss grew warmer still. " come !" it sigh'd so sweetly ; " I'll woo thee 'gainst thy will. "Were we not friends fi'om childhood ? Have I not loved thee long ? As long as thou, the solemn niglit, Whose silence wakes my song ? " And when my heart is resting Beneath the church-aisle stone, / shall have time for mourning, And tlinu for lieiiig alone." Ay — there it is ! it wakes to-night Deo]i feelings I thought dead ; AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. loO Strong in the blast — quick gathering light — The heart's flame kindles i-ed. " Now 1 can tell by thy alter'd cheek, And by thine eyes' full gaze, And by the words thou scarce dost speak. How wildly fancy plays. " Yes —I could swear that glorious wind Has swept the world aside, Has dash'd its memory from thy mind Like foam-bells from the tide : " And thou art now a spii'it pouring Thy presence into all : The thunder of the tempest's roaring, The whisper of its fall : " An universal influence, From thine own influence free ; A principle of life — intense — Lost to mortality, " Thus truly, when that breast is cold. Thy prison'd soul shall rise ; Tlio dungeon mingle with the mould — The captive with the skies. Nature's deep being thine shall hold, Her spirit all thy spirit fold, Her breath absorb thy sighs. Morhal ! though soon life's tale is told, Who once lives, never dies !" 156 GEMS OF THOUGHT LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. EMILY BRONTE. LovF. is like the wild rose-briar ; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, But which will bloom most constantly ? The wild rose-briar is aweet in spring, Its summer blossoms scent the air ; Yet wait till winter comes again, And who will call the wild-briar fair? Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now, And deck thee with the holly's sheen. That, when December bliglits thy brow. He still may leave thy garland green, AND KLOWEKS OP FANCY. 157 SONG. BMILY BRONTE. The linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air, The bee among the heather bells, That hide my lady fair : The wild deer browse above her breast ; The wild birds raise their brood ; And they her smiles of love caress'd Have left her solitude. I ween, that when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again. They thought the tide of grief would flow Uncheck'd through future years ; But where is all their anguish now, And where ai-e all their tears ? 158 GEMS OF THOUGHT Well let theiu fight for honour's breath, Or pleasuie'a shade pursue — The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too. And, if their eyes should watch and weep. Till soiTow's source were dry, She WDuld not, iu her Liaiiqiiil f;lecp, Return a niugle sigh. Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound, And inuiuiur, sunmiei streams- There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams. The foregoing piece.s were compo.sed at twilight, in a schoolroom on the Continent, when the leisure of the evening play-hour brousht back in full tide the thoughts of home. My sister P]mily loved the moors. Flowers brighter- than the rose bloomed in tiie blackest of the heath for her; out of a sullen hollow in a livid hill-.side lier mind could make an Eden. She found in the bleak solitude many and df^.ir delights; a;id not the lea^t and best loved was — liberty. One day, in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a MS. volume of ver.'^o in my sister Emily's hand-writing. Of cour.se, I was not svirprised, knowing that she could and did write verse : I looked it over, and something more than surprise seized me,— a deep conviction that these were not common effu- sions, nor at all like the poetry women generally write. T thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and gontiine. To my ear, they liad also a peculiar mu.-iic — wild, melan- choly, and olcvatiug. The fixed conviction I held, and AND FLOWEKS OF KANOY. 159 hold, of the woi-tli of these poems has not indeed received the confirmation of mnch favourable criticism; but I must retain it notwithstanding. Literary Remains of Emily Bronte, by the aufhir of "Jane Eyre." OH ! BRAR ME AWAY. FKJiJjliiaCK KEJII'STFR. FliOM THE " MANCHBaTliR KEEPSAKE," 1844. ()u ! bear me away to some quiet spot V/here life'' unrest may be soon forgot, Where the treshenini,' dew on the glittering ground Is the only tear that Time hath fou id, — To some sylvan cloister, rapture-fraught. The nursery of priceless thought, Where grief may bask in fancy's ray, — To some quiet spot, oh ! bear me away. The echoing mirth of Pleasure's throng, The reckless tone of the reveller's song, The lustrous links of beauty's chaiu. Are things which alike allure iu vain,— Where nature's hand a «ouch has spread. Where the balm of peace o'er all is shed, Where grief may bask ui fancy's ray, — To some quiet spot, oh 1 bear me away. 160 GEMS OF THOUGHT A HUNDRED YEARS. A HUNDRED years ! and still and low Will be my sleeping head ; A hundred years ! and grass will gi-ow Above my dreamless bed. The grass will grow ; the brook will run ; Life still as fresh and fair Will spring in beauty 'neath the sun ; Where will my place be ? — where ? A hundred years ! some briefer space My life perchance had spann'd ; But ere they lapse my feet must pass Within the Silent Land. While on the jilaius the lastiug hills, In shadow and in shine, Still dial Time's slow chronicles, What record will be mine ? A liundred years ! O yearning heart I () spirit true and brave ! With Doubt and Death thou hast no pnrl. No kitidrcil with the grave ! AND FLOWKKS OF FANCY. l(j L For we shall last as lasts the earth, And live as lives the sau, And we shall know that death is bii'th, Ere a hundred years have run. " The above sweet little poem is quoted from a sm:ill volume of Poetry by Anna Blackwell, sister of Doctorea.s Elizabeth Blackwell, in the United States. The two ladies are both English born, and the Poetess is resident in England, where she shines as one of the many stars tliat decorate the firmament of English Literature.' GROXOAR HILL. JOHN DYKIl, BORN AT ABKRGLASST,YN, CVKMARTHEN- SlURE, tW 1700, DIED JULY 24, 1758. Silent nymph, with curious eye, Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van. Beyond the noise of busy man ; Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings ; Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale ; Come, with all thy various hues. Come, and aid thy sister Muse ; 162 GEMS OF Til(H;(;MT Now, while Plioehns, fiditiE; high, Give? lustre to the land and sky ! Grongar Hill invites my song. Draw the landscape bright and strong ; Grongar, in whose mossy cells, Sweetly musing, Quiet dwells ; Grongar, in whose silent shade. For the modest Muses made ; So oft I have, the evening still. At the fountain of a rill. Sat upon a ftoweiy bed, With my hand beneath my head ; While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood. Over mead, and over wood. From house to house, from hill to hill, Till contemplation had her fill. About his chequer'd sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind. And groves, and grottos whore I lay, And vistas shooting beams of day : Wide and wider spreads the vale. As circles on a smooth canal : The mountains round, unhappy fate, Soon.T or later, of all height, Witl)draw their summits from the akien, And lessen as the others rise : Still the prospect wider .spreads, Adds a thousand woods and meads ; Still it widens, widens still, Aiiil sinks the newlj'-riseu hill. Now I gain the mountain's brow. What a landscape lies below ! AND FLOWEBS OF FANCY. 1 G'-) No clouds, no vapours intervene, But the gay, the open scene, Does the face of Nature sho'.v, In all the hues of heaven'^ bow ; And, swelling to embrace the light, Spreads around beneath the sight. Old castles on the cifFs arise, Proudly towering in the skies ! Rusliing from the woods, the spii-e* Seem from hence ascending fires ! dalf his beams Apollo sheds On the yellow mountain heads ; Gilds the fleeces of the flocks. And glitters on the broken rocks ! Below me trees unnumber'd rise. Beautiful in variovis dyes ! The gloomy pine, the poplar blue. The yellow beech, the sable yew, The slender fir, that taper grows, The sturdy oak, with broad -leaf 'd bouglii. And beyond the pTirple grove. Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love ! Gaudy as the opening dawn. Lies a long and level lawu, On which a dark hill, steep and high. Holds and charms the wandering eye ! Deep are his feet in Towy's flood, His sides are cloth'd with waving wood. And ancient towers crown his brow, That cast an awful look below ; Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps. And witli her arms from falling keeps; 164 OEMS OF THOUGHT So both a safety from the wind In mutual dependence find. 'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ; ' Tis now the apartment of the toad ; And there the fox securely feeds, And there the poisonous adder breeds, Conceal' d in ruins, moss, and weeds ; While, ever and anon, there falls Huge heaps of hoary raoulder'd walls. Yet time has seen, that lifts the low, And level lays the lofty brow. Has seen this broken pile complete, Big with the vanity of state ; But transient is the smile of fate ! A. little rule, a little sway, A sunbeam in a winter's day. Is all the proud and mighty have Between the cradle and the grave. And see the rivers, how they run Through woods and meads, in shade and sun. Sometimes swift, sometimen slow, Wave succeeding wave, they go A various journey to the deep. Like human life, to endless sleep ! Thus is Nature's vesture wrought, To instruct our wandering thought ; Thus she dresses green and gay. To disperse our cares away. Ever charming, ever new. When will the landscape tire the view ! The fountain's fall, the river's flow, The woody valleys, warm and low ; AND FLOWERS OF FANCY, 16-5 The windy summit, wild and high, Roughly rushing on the sky ! The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower, The naked rock, the shady bower ; The town and village, dome and farm. Each give each a double charm, Like pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. See, on the mountain's southern side, Where the prospect opens wide, Where the evening gilds the tide, How close and small the hedges lie ! What streaks of meadows cross the eye ! A step, methinks, may pass the stream, So little distant dangers seem ; So we mistake the future's face, Eyed through hope's deluding glass ; As yon summits soft and fair Clad in colours of the air. Which to those who journey ntar. Barren, brown, and rough appear ; Still we tread the same coarse way, The present's still a cloudy day. may I with myself agree, And never covet what I see ! Content me with a humble shade. My passions tamed, my wishes laid ; For while our wishes wildly roll. We banish quiet from the soul : ' Tis thus the busy beat the air. And misers gather wealth and care. Now, even now, my joys run high. As on the mouutain turf I lie ; 2 L 1G6 GEMS OF THOUGHT While t.he wanton zephyr sings, And in the vale perfumes his wings ; While the waters murmur deep, Wliile the shepherd charms his sheep, While the birds unbounded fly. And with music fill the ^ky, Now, even now, my joys run high. Be full, ye courts ; be great who will ; Sen I oh for peace with all your skill ; Open wide the lufty door. Seek her on the marble floor : In vain you search, she is not there ; In vain you search the domes of c;uv ! Grass and flowers Quiet treads. On the meads and mountaia heads, Along with Pleasure close allied, Ever by each other's side : And often, by the murmuring rill, Hears the thrush, while all is still, Within the groves of Grongar Hill. With the exception of Gray's "Elegy, written in a Country Churchyard," perhaps no poem has been so fre- quently imitated as Dyer's " Grongar Hill ;" and this is uo marvel, for its beauties are manifold. AND Fl.,OWERa OF FANCY. 107 "PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE." THOMAS HOOD. FROM " WHIMS AND ODDITIES." I'll tell you a story that's not iu Tom Moore : — Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door : So be call'd upon Lucy — 'twas just ten o'clock — Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock. Now a handmaid, whatever her fingers be at. Will run like a puss when she hears a )•a^tat : So Lucy ran up — and in two seconds more Had question'd the stranger, and answer'd the door. The meeting was bliss ; but the parting was woe ; For the moment will come when such comers must go : So she kiss'd him, and whisper' d — poor innocent thing — " The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring." 168 GEMS OF THOUGHT LOVE. JOHN CRITCHLKT PRINCE, BORN AT WIG \N, TN LANCASHIRE, JDNE 21, 1808. Love is an odour from the heavenly bowers, Which stirs our seuses tenderly, and brings Dreams which are shadows of diviner things Beyond this grosser atmosphere of ours. An oasis of verdure and of flowers, Love smileth on the pilgrim's weary way ; There fresher airs, there sweeter waters play, There purer solace speeds the quiet hours. This glorious passion, unalloy'd, endowers With moral beauty all who feel its fire ; Maid, wife, and offspring, brother, mother, sire, Are names and symbols of its hallow'd povvera Love is immortal : — from our hold may fly Earth's other joys, but Love can never die ! AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 1 tJ"J FIRST LOVE. FROM "the modern ORLANDO," PDBLISHED ANONY- MOUSLY AT LONDON, IN 1846. Few hearts have never loved ; but fewer still Have felt a second passion ; none a third ! The first was living fire ; the next, a thrill ! The weary heart can never more be stirr'd ; Rely on it, the song has left the bird ! — All's for the best. — The fever and the flame, The pulse, that was a pang ; the glance, a sword ; The tone, that shot like lightning through the frame, Can shatter ua no more ; — the rest is but a name ! 17'! GICMS OF THOUGHT MONKS. FROM "THK MOJJEKN URLANDO." Its uiouks ! Yet wiiat have / to do with monks ? Cumberers of earth ; but made to sleep and die ; lu lice's green forestry, the wither'd trunks ; (Not seldom "hogs of Epicurus' sty ;") I doubt if I should give a siugle sigh If tbeir whole race were in their churchyards flung. How could I live and breathe (I'd scorn to try) Without the silver sound of woman's tongue ; Life's sal volatile, that lyre for ever strung ! Three-fourths of all I saw were born to ploughs, Or destined, spade in hand, to " mend our ways :" But 'twas much pleasanter to make their vows To walk the world in petticoats of baize ; Living on alma ; their years all holidays ! Huge caterpillars basking in the sun, Or fixing, in wild reveries, their gaze On the rich features of some sainted nun : Rome, Rome ! it is not tkux that life's hi^h deed:: ata done. AND FLOWRKS OF FANCY. 171 But then — "They look ao pious and pathetic; So t'in«ni'od, sack-clothed, sallow, and rerWEBS OK FAXCV. 17-5 THE MIGHTY DEAD. WASHINGTON ALLSTON, TH K AMERICAN PAINTER. BOUN IN SOUTH CAROLINA, IN 177^'. As, thinking of the mighty dead, The young from slothful couch will st.irt, And vow, with lifted hands outspread, Like them to act a noble part ! 0. who .shall lightly say that fame Is }iothing but a;i empty name, When, but for those our mighty dead, All ages past a blank would be. Sunk in oblivion's murky bed — A desert bare — a shipless sea ? They are the distant objects seen. The lofty marks of what hath been. 0, who shall lightly say that fame Is nothmg but an empty name, When memory of the mighty dead To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye The brightest rays of cheering shed. That point to immortality. 17(J GEMS OF THOUGHT THE NEGLECTED BARD. GEORGE SMITH. FROM "THE CITY MDSE," 1853. Child of the Lyre, 'tis hard of thee to siug When stern reverses bind thy soariut; wing, Bind it to earth — and yet there's beauty there, Food for the mind, as delicate and rare As poets need to banquet on ; a store Thou may'st partake until the soul runs o'er. And yet 'tis sad for Genius to behold The eyes of soulless men, all calm and cold, Pass o'er the beauties of his written thought. So feelingly, so musically wrought, Woven and interwoven with eaeii change Of the blest seasons, in their varied range Of bud, and flower, and fruit of many hues Pendant above the fructifying dews ; Of cloudless noon, of crimson sunset fair. Of twilight's hallow'd hour, of silent prayer; When his serene, aspiring thoughts ascend From purest source of worship, thence to blend With all that's beautiful in earth and skies, Shrined in his soul, and rairror'd in his eyes. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 177 Retard his dreamy flight, he back recoils To sordid earth's coutamiuatiug toils ; A space too narrow, his aspiring mind Would leap the clouds, and grapple with the wind, Mix with the rainbow, revel in the storm, And mould its power to every hne and form : Would chase the moon and stars athwart the niglit, And then emerging fi-om the dreamy light Of clustering clouds, like snowdrifts tinged with gold, - Still yearn new charms and wonders to behold ; Bathe in the fountains of celestial fire And wake to louder voice the music of his lyre. Inspiring hope bursts into loftier song, More cheering, more exalting, and more strong In thought poetic, or in pathos fine, Thau e'er was breathed from lowly lyre of mine. How thrilhng, throbbing, piercmg, yet refined His boundless genius rushes like the wind Through mountain passes, deep, dark, lode, and wild, Then sinks to quiet, like a weary child. Still in his soul a plaintive voice is heard, Ascending from the depths of hope deferr'd By the cold world's neglect, or scornful look Of men who see no beauty in the book Of nature or of poet ; men who find More glory in their gold than all the realms of mind. Grloomy incentives to a soul embued With all the poetry of gratitude, That spiritual music of his lyre, AVliich, but for hope, in silence would expire; Now that lone harp, in many a bitter pang, Wails in its master's woe, where once it sweetly sang. 78 GKMS OF THOUGHT FLORENCE VANE. FROM "FROISSART BALLADS, AND UTIlKIl I'OKMS," BT PHILIP PKNDLETON COKE, OF WINCUJSTER, VIRUINIA. I LoVKi) thee long aud dearly Florence Vaue ; My life's bright dream aud curly Hath come again ; I renew in my ibud vision My iienrl s dear pain. My hope and thy derision, Florence! Vane. The ruin lone and lionry, The rum old, Where thou didst iuirk my .story At even told, — That spot — the hues IClyRian Of sky and plain — 1 treahiurc in my vision, Florence Vane. AND KLUWERiS oF FANCY. 179 TliDn wa^t lovelier thau the roses lu their prime ; Tliy voice excell'd the closes Of sweetest rhyme ; Thy heart \va« as a river Without a main. Would I bad loved thee nevci', Florence Vane ! But fairest, coldest wonder. Thy glorious clay Lieth thu green sod under — Alas the d-iy ! And it boots not to I'emember Thy disdain — To quicken Tjove's pale ember, Florence Vane. The lilies of the valley By young graves wee]) ; The pansies love to dally Where maiden.s sleep ; May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane. 180 GEMS OF THOUGHT THE CONTRAST. FROM " LYRA ORBANICA ; OH THE SOCIAL EFFUSIONS OF THE CELEBRATED CAPTAIN CHAHLES MORRIS, OF THE LATE LIFE GUARDS." In London I never know what I'd be at, Enraptured with this, and euchauted with that ; I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan, And life seems a blessing too happy for man. But the Country, God help me ! sets all matters right. So calm and composing from morning to night ; Oh ! it settles the spirits when nothing is seen Bat an ass on a common, a goose on a green. In town if it i-ain, why it damps not onr hope. The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope; What harm thoiigh it pour whole nights and whole days ? It spoils not our prospects, it stops not our ways. In the country what bliss, when it rains in the fields, To live on the tran-ijiorts that shuttlecock yields ; AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 181 Or go crawling froui window to window, to seo A. pig on a dunghill, or crow on a tree. In London, if folks ill together are put, A bore may be dropp'd, and a quiz may be cut : We change without end ; and if lazy or ill, All wants are at hand, and all wishes at will. In the country you're nnil'd like a jjail in the park, To some stick of a neighbour that's cramm'd in the ark ; And 'tis odd, if you're hurt, or it' fits tumble down, You reach death ere the doctor can reach you from town. In London how easy we visit and meet, Gay pleasure's the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat ; (-)ur morning's a round of good humour'd delight. And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night. In the country, how sprightly ! our visits we make, Through ten miles of mud, for formality's sake ; With the coachman in drink, and tlie inoou in a fog, And no thought in your head but a ditch or a bog. in Loudon the spirits are cheerful and light. All places are gay and all faces are bright ; We've ever new joys, and revived by each whim, Each day on a fresh tide of pleasure we swim. But how gay in the country ! what summer delight To be waiting for winter from morning to night i Then the fi-et of impatience gives exquisite glee To relish the sweet rviral objects we see. M 1S2 GEMS OF THOUGHT In town we've no use for the skies overhead, For when the sun rises then we go to bed ; And as to that old-fashion'd virgin the moon, She shines out of season, like saturn in Jane. In the country these planets delightfully glare Just to show us the object we want is n't tliere : Oh, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise, To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes ! But 'tis in the country alone we can find That happy resource, that relief to the mnid, When, drove to despair, our last effort we make, And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake ! Indeed I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete To see ladies well draggled and wet in their feet ; But what is all that to the transport we feel Wlien we capture, in triuiuph, two toads and an eel ? I have heard though, that love in a cottage is sweet, When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet : That's to come — for as yet I, alas ! am a swain Who require, 1 own it, more links to my chain. Your magpies and stockdoves may liirt among trees, And chatter their transports in groves, if they please ; But a house is much more to ray taste than a tree, And for groves, oh ! a good grove of chimneys for mc. In the country, if Cupid should find a man out, The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about : But in London, thank heaven ! our peace is secure, Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to cure. AND FLOWEKS OF FANCY. 183 I know Love's a devil, too subtle to spy, That shoots through the soul, from the beam of an eye ; But in Loudon these devils so quick fly about, That a new devil still drives an old devil out. In town let me live then, iu town let me die ; For in truth I can't relish the country, not I. If one mu.st have a villa in summer to dwell, Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall ! BOUTLKSS AMBITION. JOHN CAMERON. PKOM " THE TRIAL OF THE MANCHESTER BAUDS AND THE BOWDON CORONATION," 1853. To feel within the stirrings of the power To bless the world ; to wish our thoughts had wings To sweep the world ; to wish that we were kings In royal-wise, to give a royal dower ; A God, to charge with blessings the swift hour ; To climb in dreams the glorious heights of hope ; To have the will to do, without the scope — ' Tis this that makes the sunniest day to lower ; 'Tis this that makes the Sisyphus of song Rolling his stone for ever up the hill 184 GEMS OF THOUGHT jS'o fable, bnt an ever-living truth : No tale to him the man of purpose strong, No tale to creduloria and aspiring youth That strives to set the right above the wrong. CHANGES. ZARACH. FHOM THE " L1TKH4RY GAZETTK." A CHiLTi is playing on the green, With rosy cheek and radiant mien ; But sorrow comes — the smile's departed, He weeps as he were broken-hearted : But see, ere yet his tears are dry, Again his laugh trills wild and high ; As lights and shades each other chace, So pain and joy flit o'er his face ; And nought shall have the power to keep His eyes one moment from their sleep : And such was I. A youth sits with his burning glance Tui-n'd upward to heaven's blue expanse : What is it o'er his pale cheek flushing ? What tln)u;,'lit has ..et the lite l)l()od gushing? AND FLOW Kits OF FAN(!Y. 185 It is of many a deed sublime That he will do in future time — Of mauy a struggle to be past, Repaid by deathless fame at last ; He thinks not on the moments gone — He lives in fiery hope alone : And such was I. Sunken those eyes, and worn that brow, Yet more of care than years they show : There's something in that cheek revealing The bosom-wound that knows no healing ; He lives, and will live on, and smile, And thoughts he cannot lose beguile; He'll shun no duty, break no tie — But his star's fallen from the sky. Oh ! pitying heaven, the wretch forgive That bears, but wishes not to live : And such am I. 2 M 18(> GKMS OK THOUGHT AN UNFORTUNATE MOTHER TO HER OHTLD, J. W. LAKE. Bless thee, my child ! thy beauty throws A lustre round thy mother's gi-ief — Like morning on the mountain snows, Or moonlight on the fading leaf ! Bless thee, my child ! thy cheeks are fair As lilies by the storm unbent, The hue of innocence is there. And I, like thee, was innocent ! Bless thee, my child ! thy crimson blush Is like the opening smile of May When roses hang on every bush — O may it ne'er be swept away ! AND FLOWRRS OF KANOY. 18'i ODE TO TIME. CHARLES DAVLIN. FROM "THE CITY MUSE," lSr)3. ' TwAS night, and somewhat d;u k, the hour was late, A trifle out of tune, as lone I sat To coax the midnight muse, to carp at fate. Or twist a thread from something ; but from what I knew not, till reflecting that the date Was to be changed from twenty-nine to that Of thirty, when in uietapLoric rhyme I thus accosted silver-bearded Time. Almighty potentate of earth and sea ! Whose all-creative, all -subversive power, Thy deep-womb'd mother, wide eternity, Can limit only ; thou whose grasp secure As fate, spares no distinction or degree, The lowly cottage and the lofty tower Must yield alike to thee, whose hand robust E'en rocks and mountains crumbles into dust. Long wave thy white locks to the wild winds hoarse, O'or peoplod region and o'er trackless void, ISS OKMS OF TliOUHHT (rer states and empires, with resistless force, Spurning at ouce hiimility and pride. Nor crowns nor coronets shall stay thy course, Or check thy rebel hand of regicide, Which foul'd with e'en the slaughter of a worm, Both clutches and uncrowns the royal form. Oh thou, whose reign commenced with the beginning, Ere the first sun had gUded Adam's corn, Or far-famed Paradise was lost by sinning, And wicked millions consequently born ; Ere thou beheldest such unequal spinning In winding up life's clue of motley yarn, Whence justice, yielding worth its proper place, Had dash'd the crazy wheel in fortune's face. Forbearance fails me ; when a trifle cool'd I would be, will be civiller, no doubt ; But say what pupil by disaster school'd, Has ever like myself been kick'd about ? If by some star my pilgrimage be ruled, Would that the twinkling planet had gone out, Ere at my birth an evil-boding blaze Announced the dark, bleak winter of my days. It grieves me not that competence is given To those at whom black want may scowl in vain. Nor do I murmur that 1 am driven From honest toil's hereditary train. But what dull wretch may passively be driven To famine's brink, there bootlessly to strain His latest nerve, life's comfort to procure, Now pillag'd, now contemn'd, for being poor ? AN^D FLOWRIIS OF FANCY. 189 Oil Hiou, I say, why come sach thina;s to pass '! Yet can I blame thee ? no — no fault is thine; Thy business being but to turn thy p:lass, And murder millions on the old design. Though mighty as a conqueror, alas ! Ere thou couldst change this froward fate of mine. My latest satid must sink ; when, thanks to thee. Thy last stern mandate bids me cease to be. Great revohttionist throughout the vast Immeasurable universe ! to thee I murmur no complainings of the past, Couldst thou in future somewhat kinder be ; To name no trick of brevity thou hast In meting out the world's mortality, Though e'en in this there are who cry thee shame. My views involve a nobler end and aim. Teach man to shun the curse of social strife, Whate'er his boast of colour, creed, or clime ; Sliow forth what blessings, exquisite as rife, Flow from benevolence, remote from crime ; Till clo.sing thence his pleasing dream of life, In hope- and rectitude alike sublime, ' He scans his last calm citadel, the grave, Mild as the moonlit deep imrufBed by a wave. Do this, and thou to whom we all must bend The neck, however hostile to control ; Thou whose dominion duly doth extend To every clime alike, from pole to pole ; Though livid lightnings flash, though earthquakes rend, Volcanoes burst, and threatening thunders roll, 190 GEMS OF THOUi wish it. I'm ready enough. To give you your cad you shall have a beginnimj ; And troth, though the music be not very fine, It's a bit of a thing that a body may sing, Just to set us a-going, and season our wine. Oh ! I once was a )over, like some of you here, And could feed a wliole night on a sigh or a tear; No sunshine I knew but from Kitty's black eye, And the world was a desert when she wasn't by : But the devil knows how, I got fond of Miss Betty, And Kitty slipp'd out of this bosora of mine — It's a bit of a thing that a body may sing, Just to set us a-going, and season our \viii(\ 192 GKMS OF THOUGHT Now Betty bad ej^es soft and blue as the sky ! And the lily was black when her bosom was by : Oh ! I found I was fix'd, and for ever her own, Sure I was, soul and body were Betty's alone ; But a sudden red shot from the goldeu-hair'd Lucy Burn'd Betty quite out, with a flame more divine- It's a bit of a thing that a body may sing, Just to set us a-going, and season our wine. Now Lucy vvas wtately, majestic, and tall. And in feature and shape what a goddess you'd call ; I adored, and I vow'd if she'd not, a kind eye I'd give up the whole world, and in banishment die : But Nancy came by, a round, plump, little creature, And fix'd in my heart ^ui^e another design — It's a bit of a thing that a body may sing, Just to set us a going, and season our wine. Little Nance, like a Hebe, was buxom and gay, Had a bloom like a rose, and was fre.sher than May : Oh ! 1 felt if she frown'd I musf die by a rope. Or my bosom would burst if she slighted my hope; But the slim, taper, elegant Fanny look'd at me. And troth, I no longer for Nancy could jiine — It'.s a bit of a tiling that a body may sing. Just to set us a-going, and season our wiuo. Now Fanny's light frame was so slender and fine That she skimm'd in the air like a shadow divine. Her motion bewitch'd, and to my loving eye ' Twas an angel soft gliding 'tween earth and the sky : *Twas all mighty well till T saw her fat sistor. And that gavp a turn I could never define — AND FLOWERS OP FANCY. 1^3 It's a bit of a thing that a body may sing, Just to set us a-going, and season our wine. Oh ! so I go on, evei- constantly blest, For I find I've a great store of love in my breast; And it never grows less — for whenever I try To get one in my heart, I get two in my eye. To all sorts of beauty I bow with devotion. And all kinds of liquor by turns I make mine; So I'll finish the thing, that another may sing, Just to keep us a-going, and season our wine. MARCO BOZZARIS. ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE "NEW TIMES." FITZ-GREENE HALLECK, BORN AT GaiLFORD, CONNECTICDT, IN AUGUST, 1795. At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power ; In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror ; In dreams his song of triumph heard : N 194 GEMS OF THOUGHT Then wore his monarch's signet, ring, Then press'd that monarch's throne — a king ; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, iu the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood On old Platsea's day ; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquer' d there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare. As quick, as far as they. An hour pass'd on — the Turk awoke; That bri:^ht dreani was Ids last ; He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, " To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !" He woke— to die, 'midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke. And death-shots falling thick and fast Like forest pines before the blast. Or lightnings from the mountain cloud ; And heard with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his baud ; " Strike — till the last arm'd foe expires, Strike — for your altar.s and your fires, Strike — for the g)-oou graves "i your su-of«. God — ajid your native land !" AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 195 They fought, like brave mei3, long and well, They piled that ground with Moslem slain, They conquer' d — but Bozzaris fell. Bleeding at every vein. His few siirviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah. And the red field was won ; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber. Death ! Come to the mother's, when she feels For the first time her first-born's breath ; Come when the blessed seals Which close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke ; Come in consumpHon's ghastly form, The earthquake's shock, the ocean storm ; Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dii.nce, and wine ; \nd thou art terrible ; the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, a^'e thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free. Thy voice sounds like a pi-ophet'.'! word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Come, when his task of Fame is wrouglU : Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought ; l;)6 GEMS OP THOUGHT Come in her crowning hour ; and then Thy sunken eyes' unearthly light To him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prison' d men ; Thy gi'asp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign laud ; Thy summons welcome as the cry Which told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land wind, from woods of i)alm, And orange groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytien seas. Bozzaris ! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee ; there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wure no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree. In sorrow's pomp and pageantry. The heartless luxury of the tomb ; But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone. For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; For thee she rings the birthday bells ; Of thee her babe's first lisping tells ; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch, and cottage bed. Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 197 His plighted maiden, wheu she fears For him, the joy of her yoimg years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears ; And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys, — And even she who gave thee birth. Will, by the pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's ; One of the few, the immortal names. That were not born to die. " Marco Bozzaris was the Epaminondas of Modern Greece. He fell in a night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platsea, August 20, lS-3 and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were, ' To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a paiu.' " Literary Eamblet: 108 GEMS OF THOUOirr SPEAK GENTLY. DAVID BATES. FROM AN OLD NEWSPAPIR. Speak gently— it is better far To in^le by love than fear ; Speak gently — let no harsh word mar The good we might do here ! Speak gently — love doth whisper low The vows that true hearts bind ! And gently friendship's accents flow ; Affection's voice is kind. Speak gently to the little child, Its love be sure to gain ; Teach it in accents soft and mild ; It may not long remain. Speak gently to the young, for they Will liave enough to boar — Pass through this Ufo as best they may, 'Tis full (if anxious care. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY 199 Speak gently to the aged one, Grieve not the care-worn heart. The sands of life are nearly I'un, Let such in peace depart. Speak gently, kindly, to the poor — Let no harsh tone be heard ; They have enongh they must endure, Without an unkind word. Speak gently to the eri-ing ones — They must have toil'd in vain ; Perchance unkindness made them so. Oh, win them back again. Speak gently ! — He who gave his life To bend man's stubborn will, When elements weie tierce with strife Said to them, " Peace, be still." Speak gently ! — 'tis a little thing Dropp'd in the heart's deep well ; The good, the joy that it may bring, Eternity shall tell. 2<)0 CEMS OF THOUGITT THE ENGLISH HEARTH. GEORGE TWEDDELL. FROM " THE YORKSHIRE MISCELLANY," 1845. O pleasant hour ! O moment ever sweet t When once again we reach the calm retreat, Where looks of lOve and tones of joy abide, That heaven on earth— our dear, our own fireside !'' Heavisides" Pleasures of Home. When Autumn's fruits are gather'd in, And trees and fields are bare ; When merry birds no more arc heard To warble in the air ; When sweetest flowers have droop'd and died. And snow is on the ground ; How cheerful is an English hearth, With friends all seated round. Then is the time for festive mirth, Then is the time for glee ; 'Tis then the tales of by -gone days Give pleasure unto me : AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 201 And when the wild storm howls without With deep and hollow sound, I love the cheerful English hearth With friends all seated round. And when those touching strains are sung, Writ by the bards of old, How swift the evening seems to fly — Unfelt the piercing cold : What though the snow-flakea thickly fall, And icicles abound ! I have a cheerful English hearth For friends to sit around. And when the clouds of worldly care Are gathering o'er my brow ; When sorrow's frost has nipt my heart, And check'd the blood's warm flow ; When grief has in her heavy chain My buoyant spirits bound ; How cheering is an English hearth, With friends ail seated round. Though slander's foul, envenom'd shafts Should pierce my spirit through. There is one smile, one sunlit eye, To beam upon me now ; And though my fate should be to roam Where stranger forms are found, I'll think upon my English hearth, And friends who sat around. 2 N 202 GEMS OF THOUGHT Then fill each glass with nut-brown ale. And smoke the fragrant weed ; Our English hearths we will protect In every hour of need : — Come, let us drink one parting toast. Through Europe let it sound ; It is — The cheerful English hearth, With friends all seated round. THE LADY ALICE. FROM " HOUSEHOLD WOUUS," AND, OP CoURSK, AH0NYM«iD3. What doth the Lady Alice so late on the turret-stair, Without a lamp to light her but the diamond in her hair ; When every arching passage overflows with shallow gloom, And dreams float through the castle, into every silent room ? She trembles at her footsteps, although their fall is light ; l''or through the turret-loopholes she sees the murky night,— Black, broken vapours streaming across the stormy skieis,-- Along the empty corridors the moaning tempest cries. AND FLOWERS OF H'AXCY. liUH She steals along a gallei-y, she pauses by a door ; Aud fast her teais are dropping down upon the oaken flooi' ; And thrice she seems returning, — but thrice she turns again ; — Now heavy lie the clouds of sleep on that old father's brain ! Oh, well it were that never thou should'st waken from tliy sleep ! For wherefore should they waken who waken but to weep ? No more, no more beside thy bed may Peace her vigil keep ; Thy sorrow, like a lion, waits \ipon its prey to leap. II. An afternoon m April. No sun appears on hig)i ; A moist and yellow lustre fills the deepness of the sky ; And through the castle gateway, with slow and solemn tread. Along the leafless avenue they bear the honour'd dead. They stop. The long line closes up, like some gigantic worm ; A shape is standing in the path ; a wan and ghost-like form; Which gazes fixedly, nor moves ; nor utters any sound ; Then, like a statue built of snow, falls lifeless to the ground. And though her clothes are ragged, and though her feet are bare ; And though all wild and tangled, falls her heavy silk- brown hair : 204 GEMS OF THOUGHT Though from her eyes the brightness, from her cheeks the bloom, has fled. They know their Lady Alice, the Darling of the Dead. With silence, in her own old room the fainting form they lay ; Where all things stand unalter'd since the night she fled away ; But who shall bring to life again her father from the clay ? But who shall give her back again her heart of that old day? FLOWERS FOR THE HEART. EBF.NEZER ELLIOTT, BORN AT MASBROWGH, MARCH 17, 1781, DIED AT GREAT HOUGHTON, NEAR BARNSLEY, DECEMBBR 1, 1849, BURIED IN THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD OF DARFIKLD. Flowers ! winter flowers ! the child is dead, The mother cannot speak : O softly couch his little head, Or Mary's heart will break ! Amid those curls of flaxen hair This pale pink ribbon twine, And on the little bosom there Place this wan lock of mine. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 205 How like a form in cold white stone The coffin'd infant lies ! Look, mother, on thy little one ! And tears will fill thine eyes. She cannot weep — more faint she grows, More deadly pale and still : Flowers ! oh, a flower ! a winter rose, That tiny hand to fill. Go, search the fields • the lichen wet Bends o'er the unfailing well ; Beneath the furrow lingers yet The scarlet pimpernel. Peeps not a snowdrop in the bower, Where never froze the spring ? A daisy ? ah ! bring childhood's flower ! The half-blown daisy bring ! Yes, lay the daisy's little head Beside the little cheek ; haste ! the last of five is dead ! The childless cannot speak ! It is strange how such tenderness, pity, and deep wo- manly love, should be united to so much rugged manliness, sternness, fierceness, and valour, as met together in his (Elliott's) hospitable nature. It was this mixture of op- posing elements, however, which gave strength, beauty, and consistency to his character.— Zi/e of Ebenezer Elliott, by January Searle. 2()6 GEMS OP THOUGHT CHRISTMAS SONG. EDWIN WAUGH. Keen blows the north wiud, the woodlauds are bare ; The snow-shroud envelopes the flowerless lea ; The red-breast is wailing the death of the year, As he cowers his wing in the leafless haw-tree. Of the song of the throstle, the lark, and the wren, And summer's blithe music, there stirs not a sound; And the leaves of the trees that o'ershadow'd the plain, Lie wither'd and frozen upon the cold ground. The wild voice of winter is heard in the woods : And frost-pearls are hanging on every tree ; There's teeth in the air ; and the ice-mantled floods Meander unseen, to the far-distant sea. The children run in with the snow on their feet, And make the house ring with an ancient yule-song ; Carols are cliaunting in every street, And C'liri.stmas is thrilling on every tongue. AND FLOWERS OP FANCY. 207 The bright fire is shining upon the clean hearth ; The goodwife is spreading her daintiest cheer ; The house is alive with the music and mirth That wakes but at Christmas, the pride of the year ! Bring in the green holly, the box, and the yew, The fir, and the laurel, all sparkling with rime ; Haug up to the ceiling the misletoe bough, And let us be merry another yule-time ! PROCRASTINATION. ANONTMODS. FROM " ELIZA CUOK's JOUUNAL." Shun delays, they breed remorse ; Take thy time while time is lent thee ; Creeping snails have weakest force ; Fly thy fault lest thou repent thee ; Good is best when soonest wrought ; Lingering labours come to nought. Hoist up sail while gale doth last ; Tide and wind wait no man's pleasure ; Seek not time when time is past ; Sober speed is wisdom's leisure ; Afterwits are dearly bought ; Let thy forewit guide thy thought. 208 GEMS OF THOUOHT THOU BONNY WOOD OF CRAIGIE LEA. ROBERT TANNAHILL, BORN IN PAISLEY, JUNE 3, 1774, DIED MAY 17, 1810. Thou bonny wood of Craigie Lea ! Thou bonny wood of Craigie Lea ! Near thee I pass'd life's early day, And won my Mary's heart in thee. The broom, the brier, the birken bush, Bloom bonny o'er thy flowery lea ; And a' the sweets that ane can wish Frae Nature's hand, are strew'd on thee. Far ben thy dark green planting's shade, The cushat croodles amorously ; The mavis, down thy bughted glade. Gars echo ring frae every tree. Awa,' ye thoughtless, murdering gang, Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee ! They'll sing you yet a canty sang, Then, O in pity let them be ! AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 209 When Winter blaws in sleety showers Frae aff the Norland hills sae high, He lightly skiffs thy bonny bowers. As laith to harm a flower in thee. Tliough fate should drag me south the line, Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea. The happy hours I'll ever min', That I in youth ha'e spent in thee.' Thou bonny wood of Craigie Lea. THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN. ROBERT TANNAHILL. The midges dance aboon the burn, The dews begm to fa', The pairtricks down the rushy holm, Set up their e'eniug ca'. Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang Rings through the briery shaw, While flittering, gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'. Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay. The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, To charm the lingering day ; 210 ' GEMS OF THOUGHT While weary yeldrins seem to wail Their little nestlings torn, The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn. The roses fauld their silken leaves, The foxglove shuts its bell, The honeysuckle and the birk Spread fragrance through the dell. — Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry, The simple joys that Nature yields Are dearer far to me. " Melancholy is the contemplation of the beginning and the end of Robert Tanuahill, the popular song-writer of Paisley. Tannahill was, no doubt, stimulated by the fame of Burns. iVue, he had not the genius of Burns, but genius he had, and tliat is conspicuous in many of those songs which during his lifetime were sung with enthusi- asm by his countrymen. Tannahill was a poor weav^^^r. The cottage where he lived is still to be seen, a very ordi- nary weaver's cottage in au ordinary street : and the place where he drowned himself may be seen too at the outside of the town. This is one of the most dismal places in which a poet ever terminated his career. Tannahill, like Burns, was fond of a jovial hour among his comrades iu a public house. But weaving of v6rse and weaving of calico did not agi'ee. The world applauded, but did not patrn- nize ; poverty came like au armed man ; and Tannahill, in the frenzy of despair, resolved to terminate his exist- ence. Outside of Paisley there is a place where a small stream passes iinder a canal. To facilitate this passage, a AND FLOWERS OF FANCY, '-i 1 1 deep pit is sunk, and a channel for tlie waters is made under the bottom of the canal. This pit is, I believe, eighteen feet deep. It is built round with stone, which is rounded off at its mouth, so that any one falling in cannot by any possibility get out, for there is nothing to lay hold of. No doubt Tannahill in a moment of gloomy observation had noted this. At midnight he came, strip- pi'd off his coat, laid down his hat, and took the fatal plunge. No cry could reach human ear from that horri- ble abyss : no effort of the strongest SM'immer could avail to sustain him. Thus died Robert Tannahill, and a more fearful termination was never put to a poetical career." — Homes and Haunts of the most emrnent. British Poets ; by William Hewitt. MERRIP: ENGLAND. FROM "MERRIE ENGLAND IN THE OLDEN TIME," BY GEORGE IIANIEL. WHY was England 'merrif' called, T pray you toll ;ne why ? Because Old England merry wae in merry times gone by ! She knew no dearth of honest mirth to cheer both son and sire, But kept it up o'er wassail cup around the Christmas fire. 2 1 2 GEMS OF THOUGHT When fields were dight with blossoms white, and leaves of lively greeu, The May-pole rear'd its flowery head, and dancing round were seen A youthful band, join'd hand in hand, with shoon and kirtle trim, And softly rose the melody of Floras moi'ning hymn. Her garlands, too, of varied hue the merry milkmaid wove, And Jack the piper caprioled within his dancing grove ; Will, Friar Tuck, and Little John, with Robin Hood their king. Bold foresters ! blythe choristers ! made vale and moun- tain ring. On every spray blooms lovely May, and balmy zephrys breathe — Ethereal splendour all above ! and beauty all beneath ! The cuckoo's song the woods among sounds sweetly as of old; As bright and warm the sunbeams shine, — and why should hearts grow cold ? AND FLOWKllS OF FANCY. 113 THE WIND AT NIGHT. G. J. C. FROM "LEIGH HUNT's JOURNAL." , Old voices of the night-wind ! varying tones, Familiar all ; my childhood's lullabies, All dear : both angry gust that howls and moans, And madly wrestles with rock-rooted trees, — Winning a worthless spoil of withered leaves, - And softly whispering sigh of summer breeze, Stiiring the silver crest of moonlit sheaves. Old voices of the night-wind ! ye are come To murmur mournful thiugs beneath our eaves : Your wailings waken from oblivion dumb The glimmering twilight of my being's prime, Dear, dewy morning ! memories of my home — That soft green vale that sent me forth to climb Those daily steeper, stonier slopes of Time. 214 GEMS OF THOUGHT LINES, On hearing that the Mayor of Rath had been requesti-d to exert his authority, and prevent shaving on Sundays! IJ. IN THE CORNER. FROM THE " LITERARY GAZETTE." Thou slialt not shave on Sundays ; to be saved, None must henceforth shave others, or be shaved ; No mortal shall be funnd, when shutters close, To take his fellow mortal by the nose ; No man of suds must let a stranger in, Or pass unholy razors o'er his chin ; Spread filthy lather on the Sabbath day. Or scrape a week's unseemliness away. Should swain, or barber, mar a six days' growth Upon the seventh,— ruin seize them botli :— And doubtless, by some newly-garbled text. Washing and combing will be sinful next. Whilst evils so minute our minds engage. In virtue, this must be a golden age ' Or is it flimsy leaf, which thinly spread "'•■r more (xternals, gilds an age of load ? AND FLOWKRS OF FANCY. 215 Whilst they preserve such sanctity without, Are meu more pure in deeds, and more devout ! Do they on show alone their care bestow ? Or have they " that within which passes show ?" Oh ! impious question ; oh ' most naughty doubt ! Their sanctity can ne'er abide without ; Their lo ve of Sunday beards, their dread of siu, Are kindred emanations from within ; All are, in truth, as pure as they appear, And every thing is gold that glitters here ! So much they strive to purify the heart, Tbey scorn to purify the carnal part ; They pray with untrimm'd sanctity of face, And e'en their very beards must groto in grace : Each holy hair demands a world's applause, Hairs left to flourish in a blessed cause ; And midst those beards, when every razor rests, Small birds of paradise shall build their nests. If any doubt them, look around and view Their systems, and their reformations too : New schemes, new schools, new lights, new sects arise ; New paths of peace ; new short cuts to the skies ; New doctrines to each scripture text belong, And all we once thought right, is reckon'd wrong. And mark the consequence : — iu modern times. How scarce are sinners ! and how rare are crimes ! Our penitentiai'ies are void within ! Now none need penitence, since none know sin ! From Judges' lips no awful doom is heard ! And Prison, is become an cmpf// word ! 216 GEMS OF THOUGHT THE CONVICT SHIP. THOMAS K. HERVET, PROM THE "LITERARY SOUVENIR," 1825. Morn ou the waters ! and, purple and bright, Bursts on the billows the flushing of light ; O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun. See the tall vessel goes gallantly on ; Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail. And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale ; The winds come around her, in murmur and song, And the surges rejoice as they bear her along : See ! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds, And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds ; Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray. Over the waters — away, and away ! Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part, Passing away, like a dream of the heart ! Who— as the beautiful pageant sweeps by, Music around her, and sunshine on high- Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow, Oh ! there be hearts that are breaking below ! Night on the waves !— and the moon is on high, Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky, AND FLOWERS OF FANCTt. 217 Treacling its depths in the power of her might, And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light ! Look to the waters ! — asleep on their breast. Seems not the ship like an island of rest ? Bright and alone on the shadowy main, Like a heart-cherish'd home on some desolate plain ! Who — as she smiles in the silvery light. Spreading her wings on the bosom of night. Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky, A phantom of beauty — could deem with a sigh, Tliat ao lovely a thing is the mansion of sin, And that souls that are smitten lie bursting within ? WIio, as he watches her silently gliding, Remembers that wave after wave is dividing Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, Hearts which are parted and broken for ever ? Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave, The deathbed of hope, or the young spirit's grave ? ' Tis thus with our life, while it passes along. Like a vessel at sea, amidst sunshine and song ! Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world. With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurl'd ; All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes. Yet charter'd by sorrow, and freighted with sighs : Fading and false is the aspect it wears, As the smiles we put on just to cover our tears ; And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know. Like heart-broken exiles, lie burramg below ; While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore, Where the dreams of our childhood are vanish'd and o'er, o 218 GEMS OF THOUGHTS THE LOVER. TEAN8LATED FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH VOSS, BY MART HOWITT. The maiden with browu eyes and Lair Came o'er the dewy meadows ; The nightingales were singing clear, Among the evening shadows. I saw and heard her stepping free ; She pas.s'd like suusliine o'er the lea ; I saw she was the girl for me ! Her skirts were lifted froQi the dew ; Her boddice iitted tightly ; Hor plaited hair, her apron blue, The night-breeze wafted lightly ; Her stockings white, as white could be ; Said I, that maiden fair to see Is just the very girl for me ! The biindled cow her call obey'd, Came all the meadows thorougli , AND FLOW^RRS OK FANCY. 319 And as she inilk'd, said I, "Sweet maid, God shield thee from all sorrow !" She look'd with eyes so bright and free ; Said I, she is the girl for me ; She shall my heart's beloved be ! Her eyes they seem'd to answer " Yes ;" My heart with love was gushing ; And I contrived my lips to press Upon her warm cheek, blushing. That blushing cheek, so fresh to see ! Said I, this maiden, fair and free, She is the very girl for me ! I help'd her over hedge and stile, With frothy milk-pail laden ; And sang to scare the goblins vile That might affright the maiden ; For now 'twas dark by bush and tree ; And said I, " maiden dear to me, Wilt thou my heart's beloved be?" — " Wherefore so late ?" her mother cried, In wrath her daughter viewing. " Soft, gentle mother !" I replied, " Thy daughter I've been wooing ! Give thy consent — then bless' d are we ! Sweet mother, give consent, for she Is willing my beloved to be !" 220 0R.M8 OF THOUGHT DAILY VVUKK. CHABLES MACKAY. FROM " VOICES FKOM THE CROWD.' Who lags for dread of daily work, Aud his appointed task would shirk, Commits a folly aud a crime : A soulless slave — A paltry kuave — A clog uj)on the wheels of Time. With work to do, and store of health, The man's unworthy to be free. Who will not give. That he may live, His daily toil for daily fee. No ! Let us work ! We only ask Reward proportion'd to our task : — We have no quarrel with the great ; No feud with rank — With mill, or bank — No envy of a lord's estate. If we can earn sufficient store To satisfy our daily need ; AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 221 And can retain, For age and pain, A fraction, we are rich indeed. No dread of toil have we or ours ; We know our worth, and weigh our powers ; The more we work, the more we win ; Success to Trade ! Success to Spade ! And to the Corn that's coming in ! And joy to him, who o'er his task Remembers toil is Nature's plan ; Who, working, thinks — And never sinks His independence as a man. Who only asks for humblest wealth. Enough for competence and health ; And leisure, when his work is done, To read his book, By chimney nook, Or stroll at setting of the sun. Who toil as every man should toil For fair reward, erect and fre« : These are the men — The best of men — These are the men we mean to be ! 222 GKMS OF THOUGHT THE DYING CHILD. JOHN ALFRED LANQPORD. Two fair ones lay and watch'd each other, An infant sickly, pale, and weak, An overhanging anxious mother, Too full of love and grief to speak. And as they on each other gazed, The child's pale face grew beautiful ; For tinist in that fair flower was raised. Which Death in vain might wait to cull. And all the love that from the face Of the o'orhauging mother beam'd, Reflected on the child a grace, Until its form transfigured seem'd. And though the life was ebbing fast, A glory round the face it threw. As by the sotting sun is cast Round Eastern clouds a golden hue. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 223 And from the mother's life and love A beauty to the child was given, And, as it pass'd to God above, It bore the precious gift to heaven. And all the angels welcome sung ; For still was sunshine round the head The glory that the mother hung, As from the earth its spirit fled. HANNAH RATCLIFFE. EBENEZER ELLIOTT. ' If e'er she knew an evil thought, She spoke no evil word. Peace to the gentle ! she hath sought The bosom of her lord. Slie lived to love, and loved to bless Whatever He hath made ; But early on her gentleness His chastening hand He laid. Like a maim'd linnet, nursed with care, She graced a house of bliss ; 224 GEMS OF THOUGHT And dwelt in thankful quiet there, To shew what goodness is. Her presence was a noiseless power. That soothed us day by day — A modest, meek, secluded flower. That smiled, and pass'd away. So meek she was, that, when she died, We miss'd the lonely one, As when we feel, on Loxley's .side, The silent sunshine gone. , But memox'y brings to sunless bowers The light they knew before ; And Hannah's quiet smile is ours, Though Hannah is no more. Her pale face visits yet my heart, And oft my guest will be ; White Rose ! thou shalt not depart, But wither here with me. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 225 LONELINESS AND MELODY. JOHN SCHOLES. FKOM " THE BRIDAL OF NAWORTH." 1838. Far amid hills there is an old grey stone Which in the desert-silence stands alone, Left to its solitude, with not an eye To view it, save the cold moou in the sky, Lone as a ruin'd heart who.se hopes have fled, Watching in .silent sorrow o'er the dead ; And ever there sad music sounds at night, No forms are seen, but in the dim cold light A brown mist wrajDS the stone, and dew-drops twinkle bright. It could not be that sorrow had brought hither The minstrel old, who wander'd none knew whither, When bui; to die was left him. Time, the foe Of happier hearts, is kind to stiffering woe ; And this can never be the strain thus thrown To the night winds, though much 'tis like his own. '•' The hearth is cold ; the hall is desolate ; No voice, no step ; unguarded is the gate ; Grass fills each crevice of the marble floor ; Bleak wintry winds rush by the jarring door ; 226 GEMS OF THOUGHT The tapestry rustles on the walls ; the cry Of horrid night-bu'ds, screaming fearfully, Frights the lean fox, as, famishing and keen, From chambers high he glares upon the scene ; No eerf, no guest, no lord — unenvied now The honours circling round the lordly brow ; Pure as a vestal 'mid conventual gloom, The moonbeam rests upon his marble tomb." It was the time when gentle twilight strews The hills with gems and steeps the vale with dews ; The lake below was seen to shine no more, But veil'd in mists it rippled to the shore ; From Beauty's bower came Music's sweetest strain. In tones so soft, so sad, so mix'd with pain. As if some wandering spirit from above Woo'd in that calm retreat an earthly love, And in celestial accents taught to flow A heavenly passion touch'd with earthly woe. Oh ! 'twas a melody so softly deep The sadden'd soul in luxury could weep, And pour itself in ecstacy, and be A part of that entrancing melody. Such the sweet sounds whose cadence died away In change all lovely as declining day, And charm'd the ear of him who glided by, O'er the smooth lake, like music of the sky. Or, when beneath the tall and cavera'd cliff He lonely steer'd his lightly-moving skiff, It seem'd the rocks that fairy music made : Fearful he fled, and charm'd he yet delaj-'d. As falls and vines Ocean's azure breast. When only inward sorrows break lier rest, AND FLOWERS UF FANCY. 327 In gentle undulation, slow and long. Wave blends with wave, then sinks amid the throng, Absorbing and abaorb'd each melts and dies Like summer clouds in bright Ausonian skies. So moved the notes whose ceaseless changes gi'cw, To ears a spell, as ocean to the view, Still reaching higher sweetness as they rose And gathering deeper pathos at each close. Till dying off in low and plaintive wail. More sweet than song of dove or nightingale, Or Memnon's airy harpings to the day. The last soft strain in music pass'd away — Like the last wave which heaves upon the shore When the sunk pebble moves the stream no more. The voice was mute ; the music ceased to sound. The heavens were still ; 'twas stillness all aroiiud. The silent night-dew Beauty's flowers was steeping ; The zephyrs, slept ; the happy lake lay sleeping. Calm was the mountain ; quiet was the vale ; Hush'd were the woods : and Echo told no tale. Sweet Peace sat listening in her lone alcove, And gazed and mused, her every musing love. Listening, she seem'd the breathless calm to hear. Or sounds so faint they reach'd no ruder ear, Of warbling brooks from distant hills couvey'd, Of dew-drops pattering in the leafy shade. Or mildly dripping from the bush which weeps And crisps the lake from yonder jutting steeps, Of murmurs heard from speaking crags to flow. When eagles sent the loosened rock below, Of waters trickling from the oar at rest, Of fem-bnsh rustling round the wild deer's brcasf. 228 GEMS OF THOUGHT The waveriug fall of leaf long sear and dead Torn by a breath, when .storm and blast had tied, And solemn tones from rude o'erarching cave, As plunged some sportive dweller of the wave. Array'd in beauty, sate within her bower The young enchantress of the pleasing| hour, Lovely as that half -heavenly form whose eyes First smiled at li'rht in holy paradise. Oh ! who could look on Ada's ej^es of blue, Nor think of heaven, from whence their light they drew ? Oh ! who could gaze upon the bright blue skies. Nor turn once more to look on Ada's eyes ? He who at eve, with kindling spirit, far Through azure fields roves oa from star to star, Whose fancy sees the seraph beings there, Alone can picture one like Ada fair. Oh ! not in eai"th below nor heaven above Seem'd aught more form'd to be beloved and love. Fond Fancy's idol. Nature's sweetest child. Her own loved spotless lily of the wild ; Pure as young Innocence, whose vision greets With heavenly light each gentle flower it meets ; A soul, alas ! so buoyant in its gladness, One trifling sorrow could o'crwhelm with sadness. With head upon her bended arm reclining, With fond blue eye in dewy moisture shining. She gazed upon her lover-chief, who sate With folded arms, and looks disconsolate ; And as she gazed the pearly drops which hung Beneath each silken lash more faintly clung. And, trembling, like two silver stars they fell. And told tht^ talc such meteors ever tell. ANU FLCWERS OF FANCY. 239 THE FATE OF THE OAK. BKYAN WALTER PROCTEH. FROM "ENGLISH SONUS, AND OTHER SMALL POEMS, BY BARRY CORNWALL." 1832. The owl to her mate is calling ; The river his hoarse song sings ; But the Oak is mark'd for falling, That has stood for a hundred springs. Hark ! — a blow, and a dull sound follows ; A second, — he bows his head ; A third, — and the wood's dark hollows Now know that their king is dead. His arms from their trunk are riven, His body all bark'd and squared ; And he's now, like a felon, driven In chains to the strong dockyard : He's sawn through the middle, and turn'd For the ribs of a frigate free ; And he's caulk'd and pitch'd, and burn'd, And now — he is fit for sea ! 230 GEMS OF THOUGHT Oh ! now, — with his wings outspread Like a ghost (if a ghost may be), He will triumph again, though dead, And be dreaded in every sea : The lightning will blaze about, And wrap him in flaming pride ; And the thunder-loud cannon will shout, In the fight, from his bold broad-side. And when he has fought, and won, And been honour'd from shore to shore ; And his journey on earth is done, — Why, what caii he ask for more ? There is nought that a king can claim. Or a poet or warrior bold, Save a rhyme and a short-lived name, And to mix with the common mould ! A LOVE SONG. GEORGE DAULEY. Sweet in her gvccn dell the Flower of r.cauty slntnbfrs. Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair. Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy nnmb( rs Breathed to my sad lute nmiil the lon(>ly air? AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 231 Down from the high cliflfls the rivulet is teeming, To wind round the willow-banks that lure him from above. O that, in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, T, too, could glide to the bower of my love ' ;\h ! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Opes she her eye-lids at the dream of my lay ; Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far away ! Come, then, my Bird ! for the peace thou ever bearest, Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me ! Come ! this fond bosom — my faithfullest — my fairest — Bleeds with its death-wound, but deeper yet for thee ! We should hardly have permitted to die in comparative obscurity, one of the most delicious versifiers and most fanciful poets of any day— George Darley. As his very name will be strange to many who read this, and as my praise may therefore excite suspicion in those who con- ceive themselves well read in poetry, I have justified myself by the above specimen of a song of the right quality ; a love-song, but how different from the opera trash with which we have been deluged ! — H. F. Charley. 232 <;i:m!s ok tiimight STANZAS. On seeing tlic fragments of a marble tahlet, in the south of Eng- land, with the following inscription: "Sacred to the Memoiy of "; the rest was broken ofll". ELIJAH RIDINGS. FROM "THK VILLAGE MUSE," 1854. BiTjLD, build again the cenotaphs, The moiiuinents and toinb.s — Man's vainer records — still Time laughs, And his vast frame consumes : The sculptor'.s marble piid the poet's rhyme Shrink from the liuger-touch of Time. Sound, sound again the trump of fame; Let man be flatter' d — let him raise, Kmblazoning but his empty name, His mortal voice in his own prai.-ie : Behold ! this marble fragment lies y\n emblem of his vanities. ANIi Fl.ti.VERS oK KANOY. HOHENLINDEN. THOMAS CAMPBELL, BORN AT GLASGOW, JULY 'il , 177l DIED AT BOULOGNE, JUNE 15, 1844, niKIEO IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. On Linden, when the sun was low. All bloodless lay the untrodden snow. And dark as wintei- was the. flow Of Iser, rolling rapidlj'. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night. Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd. Each horseman drew his battle-blade. And fui-ious every charger neigh'd To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riveu, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flash'd the red artillery. 234 GEMS OF THOUGHT But redder yet that light shall glow Ou Liuden's hills of stained suow, Aud bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Isor, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn, but scarce you level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich ' all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry. Few, few shall part whore many meet ! The snow shall be their winding-sheet : And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. Mr. Campbell visited the continent. He went to Bava- ria, then the seat of war, and from the monastery of St. Jacob witnessed the battle of Hohenlinden, in which (De- cember 3, 1800) the French under Morcau gained a victory over the Anstrians. In a letter written at this time, he says, "The sight of Ingoldstat in ruins, and Hohenlinden covered with fire, seven miles in circumference, were spec- tacles never to be forgotten." He. has made the memory of Hohenlinden immortal, for his stanzas on that conflict form one of the grandest battle-pieces that ever was drawn. — Chamhcn. AND flow;':rs of panuv. 235 LOVE'S ANGUISH. JOHN SAUNDERS. FROM "THE PEOPLE'S JOURNAL." Nay, tell me not that love like mine Can be subdued ; As 'twere the offspring of an hour, An idle mood ; Ah, not to love him were to me The truest pain : So I love on, and weep to be Unloved again. The love that groweth like a flower, By sunshine fed, May wither when cold winter comes Until 'tis dead : But mine sprang up in gloom and woo ; And tears have been Its simple nourishment ; — and lo, The Evergreen ! 236 GEMS OF THOUCIIT "WE." C. H. W. FROM " THE ILLUMINATED MAGAZINE.' LOVE is left iu days gone by ; And yet there is no broken vow ! " We" met of old, but "you and I" 'Tis sometimes meet each other now ; A quite indifferent "he"' and "she," Though once enshrined in lovers' " We !" That time ! — 'tis now " Long, long ago !" Its hopes and joys all pass'd away ! On life's calm tide three bubbles glow. And Pleasure, Youth, and Love are they ! Hope paints them bright as bright can be, Or did, when you and I were " We !" The distant isles of future years, Gleam lovely through a golden haze ; Time's sea a reflex heaven appeal's. Wherein the stars are happy days ! At least, 'twas always so with me, When, lovers, you and I were " Wk !" AND B'^LOWERS OF FANCY. 237 I paradised some woodland cot, — I built great castles in the air, — And Pleasure was, and Grief was not, And cot or castle, Thoii, wert there \ Yet they were not alone for thee, But Fancy always whisper'd " We !" My life was all one web of gold. Where thoughts of thee, like gems, were set \ But soon the light of love grew cold, And gems and gilding faded : yet The gilt and " paste" seem'd true to me ! But 'twas when you and I were " We ! Long, long ago, with life-hope bhone These faded fancies : now they seem Wild fragments of a gladness gone,— The memories of a pleasant dream ! And wonder whispers, can it be, That ever you and I were " We ?" 2 p 2'66 GBMS OF THOUGHT FOREST SCENERY. WILLIAM UEPWOETH DIXON. Bi<,NEATH the twilight gloom of forest trees, Whose high fantastic branches climb to heaven, Like the proud hopes of earth's aspiring sons ; I loved to wander from my boyish years, Wrapt ill profound and solemn reveries, And dreams which were not of the things of eart.h : And those young thouj.;hts of beauty and of bliss — The sweet forebodings of a human love- - Entwined and clung around those forest trees ; And my heart grew to them ; for in the deep, And awfid silence, I had learn'd to hear Mysterious pulses beating in the air — Sweet voices in the waving of the wood — A quicken'd motion in the inner life — And something, which, inaudible to sense, Spoke from the trembling silence to the soul In tones like thunder. Aad riper years have brought si loftier love, And stars have claim'd my worship : I have sat. And gashed upon them, through the live-long night, And drank their soothing influence, till my heart AND FliOWEHS OF FANCY. 239 Expanded with their greatness ; yet even then — When glory, beauty, majesty and power, Would woo my spirit to their distant spheres, And the bright worlds which roll twixt us and heaven Stood beckoning to the spirit-land beyond — The thought of those old forest trees came back, And with the native eloquence of earth, Appeal'd to the humanity within, And triumph'd o'er the rivalry of heaven. Midnight beneath the forest trees ! Oh, man, If thou wouldst learn the love of higher things — Exalt thy spirit o'er the thoughts of earth — And feel the holiest romance of the heart, Away to the deep forest, and converse With thine own soul in silence, and in awe. Silence divides the spirit-land from ours : And in its solemn stillness thou mayst glean. Assurance of thine immortality. Art thou of those who bend beneath the yoke. To whom earth's wine is reachless as the stars, Come let the influence of the future creep Like peace into thy heart, till thou forget' st Thy present desolation : I will teach thee hope. And thou to whom the wine and oil of earth Are plenteous, as the light and air of heaven. Here may'st thou learn life's true philosophy : Yon starving wretch, who lives on charity. The next pulsation in the heart of Time May stand with thee before the throne of God, And bear its glory, less abash'd than thou The forest calm is like the heaven of earth. 240 GEMS OF THOUGHT Care, grief, and passion, die upon its brink. It is as if the grave had intervened, And all onr wrongs and pains had pass'd away ; But all our bright and joyons memories Were stirring in the mind. How I have loved it ! Until the constant habit of my youth Became a passion in nie, and I felt The thoughtful grandeur of its solitudes, The stillness, yet astir — the air Thick, heavy, with a dim o'erpowering sense. And the prophetic silence, hush'd as death, As if all Nature paused and held its breath. In reverence of the presence of its God. GUARDIAN ANGELS. JOSEPH EDWARDS CARPENTER. Guardian angels ! do we doubt them ? Night by night, and day by day, Could we guide our steps without them, Where would wavering fancy stray ? Evei'y noble thought that's spoken, Every smile, and every sigh, Ai'e they not a sign — a token — That some guardian angel's by / AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. Guardiau angels, hovering o'er us, Keep the soul, in mercy", pure ; Had we not bright hope before us, Could we this frail world endure 1 Then, be sure, that ever near us Voices come from forms unseen, Breathed by angels sent to cheer us — Watching earth and heaven between ! 241 THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. KLIZA COOK. MUSIC BY HENRY RUSSELL. I LOVE it, I love it • and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with sighs ; 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell ? — a mother sat there, And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I linger'd near The hallowed seat with listening ear ; And gentle words that mother would give, To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 2i2 GEMS OF THOUGHT She told mo shame would uever betide, With truth for luy ci?eed and God for my guide ; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat, and watch' d her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey; And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled. And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child. Years roU'd on, but the last one sped — My idol was shatter' d, my earth-star fled ; I learn'd how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. ' Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow : ' Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died; And Memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, WhUe the scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it, 1 love it, and cannot tear My soul from my mother's old arm-chair. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. ^43 MARY. REV. CHARLES WOLFE, BORN IN DUBLIN, DECEMBER 13, 1791, LIED AT THE COVE OP COKK, FEBRUARY 21, 1823. If I had thought thou could' st have died, I might not weep for thee ; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou could' st mortal be : It never through my mind had past, The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou should' st smile no more ! And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again ; And still the thought I will not; brook, That I must look in vain ! But when I speak, thou dost uot say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! 244 GEMS OK THOUGHT If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art, All cold, and all sereue — I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been ! While e'eu thy chill bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own ; But there I lay thee iu thy grave — And I am now alone. I do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me ; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, In thinking too of thee : Yet there was round thee such a dawn. Of light ne'er seen before. As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore. The above pathetic lyric is adapted to the Irish air Grammachrec. Wolfe said he on one occasion sang the air over and over till ho burst into a flood of tears, in which mood he composed the song. — Chambers Cyclopo'dia of £nr/lish Literature. AND FLOWI'IKS OK KANCY. '2\5 JUST INSTINCT AND BRUTE REASON. A MANCHESTER OPEHATIVF;. FRoM "HOWITT'S JOURNAL," Keen Hawk, on that old elm-bough gravely sitting, Tearing that singing-bird with desperate skill, Great Nature says that what thou dost is fitting — Through instinct and for hunger thou dost kill. Rend thou the yet warm flesh, 'tis thy vocation ; Mind thou hast none — nor dost thou torture mind I Nay, thou, no doubt, art gentle in thy station, And, when thou killest, art most promptly kind. On other tribes the lightning of thy pinion Flashing descends — nor always on the weak : In other Hawks, the mates of thy dominion. Thou dost not flesh thy talons and thy beak. 0, natural Hawk, our lords of wheels and spindles Gorge as it grows the liver of their kind : Once in their clutch, both mind and body dwindles — • For Gain to Mercy is both deaf and blind. 0, instinct there is none — nor show of reason, But outrage gross on God and Nature's plan. With rarest gifts in blasphemy and treason. That Man, the soul'd, should piecemeal murder Man. '2i(J GKMS OF TJiOUGHT THANKSGIVING DAY. J. BAYaRD TAYLOR, AUTHOR OP "VIEWS A-FOOT. WRITTEN IN GERMANY. We meet the soas of pilgrim sires, Unchanged, where'er we roam, Whilst gather round their happy ftres The happy bands of home. And while across the far, blue wave, Their prayers go up to God, We pledge tiie faith our fathers gave — The land by freemen trod. The spirits of our fatherland Their sacred trust still hold — The freedom from a tyrant's hand Wrench'd by the men of old. That lesson to the broad earth given We pledge, beyond the sea ; The land from dark oppression riven ! A blessing on the free ! AND FLOWKRS OK FANCY. 2i7 BURIAL SONG FOR A GOOD MAN. BEV. WILLIAM GASKELL. FUOM "TEMPEUaNCE HIIYMES.' 1839. Calmly, calmly lay him down ! He hath fought a uoble fight ; He hath battled for the right ; He hath won the fadeless crown ! Memories, all too bright for tears, Crowd arovmd vis from the past ; He was faithful to the last, — Faithful through long toilsome yeaf.s. All that makes for human good. Freedom, righteousness, and truth, — These, the objects of his youth. Unto age he still pursued. Wealth, and pomp, and courtly nod, Might by others worshipp'd be, But to Man he bent the knee. As the deathless child of God. 248 GEMS (IF THOUGHT Meek aud gentle was his soul. Yet it had a glorious might ; Clouded miuds it fiU'd with light, Wouuded spirits it made whole. Huts where poor men sat distress'd, Homes where death had darkly pasa'd, Beds where suffering bi-eathed its last, — • These he sought, and soothed, aud bless'd. Hoping, trusting, lay him down ! Many in the realms above Look for him with eyes of love, Wreathing his immortal crown ! YOUTH'S DREAMS. KOBF.RT NIC()I,T;, BOIIN AT TULLIRBELTANB, PEUTHSHIRE, JANUARY 7, 1814, DIED 1837, BDUIKO IN NKWnAVKN I HDRCHYaUD. A PLEASANT thing it is to mind Of youthfu' thoughts an' things, — To pu' the fruit that on the tree Of Memory ripely hiugs, — AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 1*41) To live again the happiest hours of happy days gane by, — 1\) dream agaiu as I ha'e dream'd When I was herdiu' kye ! Thae days I thought that far awa', Where hill au' sky seem met, The bounds o' this maist glorious earth On mountain tops were set, — That sun an' moon, an' blinkin' stars, yhone down frae heaven high To light earth's garden : sae I dreaiu'd When 1 was herdin' kye ! I thought the little buruies ran, An' sang the while to me ! To glad me, flowers cam' on the earth, An' leaves upon the tree, — An' heather on the muirland grew. An' tarns in glens did lie : Of beauteous things like these I dream'd WLeii I was herdin' kye ! Sae weal I lo'ed a' things of earth ! The trees — the birds — the flowei-a — Tlie sun — the moon — the rocks an' glens — The spring's an' summer's hours ! A wither'd woodland twig would bring The tears into my eye ; — Laugh on ! but there are souls of love In laddies herdin' kye ! Ah ! weel I mind how I would muse, An' think, had I the power, 250 GEMS OF THOUGHT How happy, happy I would make Ilk heart the warld owre ! The gift, imendin' happiness — The joyful giver 1 ! — So pure an' holy were my dreams When I was herdin' kye ! A silver stream o' purest love Ran through my bosom then ; It yearu'd to bless all human things- To love all living men ! Yet scornfully the thoughtless fool Would pass the laddie by : But, oh ! I bless the happy time When I was herdin' kye ! SPARE THE POOR. , .lAMIS HRAIISIIAWK, WALKEH, AUTIIOU OF " WAYSIDE KT.OWERS." Ovn strensjth is laboiu', spare the poor From tl) oughts avci'se to love and peace : Oo ofto.iicr to the cottage door, r.r l>^<>^Ile^•s, let distinction cease. AND FLOWBBS OF FANCY. 261 The strongest might support the weak, Till strength would daily stronger grow ; A nation's faith would never break. Thus bound in one — the high, the low. Forge ye no more the chains of hate, Your kindred worms to bind m pain : Sin's night is surely wearing late ; Creation's dawn will breathe again ! Why of their friendship record keep. Or read their faults with lightning eye ? Where treasured wrongs are old and deep, Disease and error festering lie. From blighting scorn, oh, spare the poor ! (For ye they toil from youth to age ;) God's love will thus abound the more, And Charity your time engage. They have their sympathies, like you ; Forgive them all their cheerless plaint ; Affection would, like kindly dew, Restoi-e the erring and the faint. A forest rauk with huraftn weeds. Your brethren still, oh, spare the poor ; Go, Luxury, learn their pinching needs. For this heaven gave thy golden store. GKMS or THOUriHT THE SKULL The following fragment was found In the skeleton-case at the Ro)al Academy, supposed to have been deposited there by one of the stu- dents. Behold this ruin ! — 'twas a skull, Once of ethei'eal spirit full : This narrow cell was life's retreat—^ This space was thought's mysterious seat. What beauteous pictures fill'd this spot ! What dreams of pleasure long forgot ! Nor love, nor joy, uor hope, nor fear, Has left one trace or record here ! Beneath this mouldering canopy, Once shone the bright and busy eye. But sUirt not at the dismal void : If social love that eye employ'd — if with no lawless fire it glcam'd, But through the dew of kindness beam'd, The eye shall be for ever V)right, When stars and suns have lost their light. anp flowers .of fancy. 253 Here, in this silent cavern, hung The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue : If falsehood's lioney it disdain'd. And where it could not praise, was chain'd — If bold in virfue's cause it spoke, Yet gentle concord never broke, That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee, When death unveils eternity ! Say, did these fingers delve the mine, Or with itf envied rubies shine ? To hew the rock, or wear the gem. Can nothing now avail to them. But if the page of truth they sought, Or comfort to the mourner brought. These hands a richer meed shall claim, Thau all that waits on wealth or fame. Avails it, whether bare or shod, These feet the path of duty trod ? If from the bowers of joy they fled. To soothe affliction's humble bed,— If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurn'd, And home to virtue's lap return' d. These feet with angel's wings shall vie, And tread the palace of the sky. 3->4 0™s OF TIKKTGUT KOCH ABBEY. EBENEZER ELLIOTT. Would of my boyhood ! art thou what thou wast ? Seeu through the melancholy mist of years, Thy woods a pale diminish'd shadow cast O'er thoughts grown grey, and feelings duiua'd with tears. Our spirits, biggen'd by their griefs and fears, Sadden and dwindle, with their backward view. All they behold. Changed world ! thy face appears Poor as the toy that pleased when life was new ; And mournful as the inscription, trite and true. That lingers on our little sister's grave. Koch Abbey ! Canklow ! Aldwark ' if I crave Now, a boy's joy, from some lone flowers deep blue. Will your loved flowers assume a pensive hue? Or smile as once they smiled, still growing where they grew ? Pale ruhi ' no -they come no mere, the days When thcjught was like a bee within a rose, Happier and busier than the beam tliat plays On tliis thy stream. The stream .sings, as it flow/i, A song of valleys, whe)-e the hawthorn blow.s ; AND FLOWKHS OF FANCY. '255 And wanderings tbrongh a world of flowery ways, Even as of old ; but never will it bring Back to my heart my guileless love of praise; — The blossomy hours of life's all-beauteous spring, When joy and hope were ever on the wing, Chasing the redstart for its flamy glare, The coru-craik for its secret. Who can wring A healing balsam from the dregs of care. And turn to auburn curls the soul's grey hair? Yet, Abbey ! pleased, I greet thee once again ; Shake hands, old friend, for I in soul am old. But storms assault thy golden front in vain ; Unchanged thou seem'st, though times are changed ami cold; While to thy side I bring a man of pain, With youthful cheeks in furrows deep and wide, Plough'd up by Fortune's volley'd hail and rain ; To truth a martyr, hated and belied ; Of freedom's cause a champion true and tried. take him to thy heart ! for Pemberton Loves thee and thine, because your might hath died — Because thy friends are dead, thy glories gone — Because, like him, thy batter'd walls abide A thousand wrongs, and smile at power and pride. bid him welcome then ! and let his eyes Look on thy beauty, until blissful tears Flood the deep channels, worn by agonies. Which leave a wreck more sad than that of ye-Avn. Yes ; let him see the evening-purpled skies Above thy glowing lake bend down to thee ; And the love-listening vesper-star arise. Slowly, o'er silent earth's tranquillity ; And all thy ruins weeping silently; 256 GEMS OF THOUGHT Then, be his weakness pitied and forgiven, If, when the moon illumes her deep blue sea, His soul could wish to dream of thee in heaven, And, with a friend his bosom'd mate to be. Wander through endless years, by silver'd arch and tree. Charles Reece Pemberton, hero alluded to by Elliott, is better known as Pel Verjuice, the Wanderer. He was a man of pure heart and clear intellect, and so deeply im- bued with the spirit of Freedom that the formalities of life were like fetters to him. I feel justified in placing the following sketch by Pemberton in my book of poems ; for in thought, fire, and feeling, it is poetry, though not in rhyme. — "Mosely Common. — But the common ! — I saw it three years ago, and God be praised, it was not civilised. There is nothing in the whole range of English scenery, no beauty nor ornament, neither natural nor artificial glory, among all its delicious and enchanting variety, that glads my eyes and heart so fully and so instantaneously a.s a common of gorse-bush, and fern. Sheep were on this common, descendants in the tenth generation, perhaps, of my old friends, bobbing their noses into and nibbling the short soft grass — soft and slippery is that grass, on a sunny day, as my lady's velvet pelisse, or the tip of her ear. There, too, stood yet, the cn-cle of aged firs, a vege- tated druidical temple of firs. They were none of your prim, straight, smirking-lookiug things, that you see 'stuck in a modern shrubbery,' like a string of boarding- school misses, ranged at question and answer ; but stout, hearty, jolly old fellows, sturdy in the chest and waist, and such muscular and sinewy arms thrown out, as if they would knock the wind down. You may see something like them at Guy's Cliff", in the avenue, which they form ; AND FLOWKKS OF FANCY. 2-37 but, oh, they are babies cotiipared to those on my com- mon. Well, so they stood, solemnly waving their dark garments in the breeze, or motionless in their silent and deep worship of nature. Magnificence dreaming ! Nothing there was touched by the hand of civilization, thank God. Yes, one change had been made, and I felt that the milk of human kindness was not all soured within me. — This was a fanciful and beautiful improvement. An extensive old gravel-pit had been spread with productive earth and mould, without diminishing its depth percep- tibly, or changing its outlines in the least — all the abrupt- ness, hillocks, undulations, hollows, and projections were carefully preserved, then turfed and planted with shrubs, roots, and moss, which, when I saw them, were flouiish- ing with seventeen years of glory, making one of the most perfect specimens of romantic solitude I ever enjoyed. Who did it ? Take nine-tenths of the saints out of the calendar to make room for him." — History of Pel Verjuice, the Wanderer, by January Searle. 2 Q 258 GEMS OF THOUGHT APRIL— TEARS AND SMILES. CHARLES REECE PBMBERTON, BORN AT PONTYPOOL, SOUTH WALES, JANUARY 23, 1790, DIED AT BIRMINGHAM, MARCH 3, 1840, BURIED IN KEY HILL CEMETERY. Her cheek is pale, her eyes are wet, Her voice in murmurings Grieves lowly to the morn, that yet No funshine brings. Why linger ye, 0, laughing hours ? Uncoil, ye buds ; unfold, ye flowers ! Sad April sings. The paleness fleets, the tears are dry, Her voice with gladness rings ; • The sunshine over earth ^md sky Its brightness flings. Come revel through my laughing hours, Ye warbling birds, ye buds and flowers ! Crlad April sings. A\U KLuWEHS OF FANCY. 25*J DECEMBER. CHAULES REECE fEMBEKTON. The whispering foliage-song no more Along the air is sweeping ; But hush ! 'twill chorus as before — The spirit-leaves are sleeping : December's breath awhile shall be The cradle of their memory. Though flowers not now their varied hues In charmed union mingle ; Tet look ! the eye more richly views The flower in beauty single : And old December's smile shall be The perfumed tints of blazonry. Though warblers from the grove are gone, Here's yet a joyous fellow ; For hark ! 'tis robin's song, no one Was ever half so mellow : And old December chirps to be So welcomed by that minstrelsy. 260 GKMS OF THOUGHT Though cold and .storm-fiU'd clouds career, Aud o"er the casements darkle, They make — turn round, the hearth is here- The blaze moi-e brightly sparkle : December claps his hands iu glee ! Most jovial round the hearth is he. Then hail, December ! let the soul The moments dark appearing Make bright —for it can change the whole To beauty rich and cheering. Old guest to thoughts in harmony, December ever welcome be. TO MY WIFE. JOHN BOLTON ROGERSON, BORN IN MANCllKSTEU, JANUARY 20, 1809. Tht cheek is pale witli many cares, Thy brow is overcast, And thy fair face a shadow wears. That tells of sorrows past ; But music liath thy tongue for nia — How dark soo'cr my lot may be, I turn for comfort, hive, to thee, Mv beautiful, mv wife ! AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 261 Thy gentle eyes are not so bright As when I woo'd thee first, Yet still they have the same sweet light Which long my heart hath nurst ; They have the same enchanting beam Which charm'd me in love's early dream, And still with joy on me they stream, My beautiful, my wife ! When all without looks dark and cold, And voices change their tone, Nor greet me as they did of old, I feel I am not lone ; For thou, my love, art aye the same, And looks and deeds thy faith proclaim — Though all should scorn, thou would' st not blame, My beautiful, my wife ! A shadow comes across my heart. And overclouds my fate. Whene'er I think thou may'st depai't, And leave me desolate ; For as the wretch who treads alone Some gloomy path in wilds unknown, Such should I be if thou wert gone, My beautiful, my wife ! If thou wert dead, the flowers might spring. But I should heed them not ; The merry birds might soar and sing, They could not cheer my lot. Before me dark Despair would rise. And spread a pall o'er earth and skies. '2i'>2 GEMS OP thou Minstrel's lieart? AND FLOWERS OP FANCY, 271 A feeling yet without a name, Each sordid thought of self above, Warmer than Friendship's wavering flame. Yet softer than the fires of Love ! No change of purpose has the power To bid him hate where once he loved ; Though Reason may condemn the hour That once the pulse of rapture moved. And I, by minstrel arts beguiled. Have felt these passions, wild and strong, Though seldom have the mu.ses smiled Propitious on my artless song. And Mary, sure I need not say That I have loved, and loved in vain ; Though Science now has strewn my way With joys that lull the sense of pain. Years have rolled by since last we met. No longer Love enthralls my mind ; Yet charms I never can forget. Are cherish'd wherft they once were alnined. Passions in all their wildneas felt, Now with more sober feelings join, Changed only as alloyors melt Pure gold into a lighter coin. — AVlien sickening oft at hope deferr'd. My wounded «[iirit sought relief, J73 GEMS OF THOUGHT No sister's gentle voice was heard, To soothe a brother's lonely grief. Though this is joy to me unknown, Oft have I wish'd the blessing mine : — 0, that that sister's soothing tone Would flow from lips as loved as thine I THE CHURCH POOR-BOX. ANONYMOUS. FROM " HOUSEHOLD WOEDS." I AM a Poor-Box ! — here I stick, Nail'd to a wall of whitowash'd brick, Teeming with "fancies coming tliick," That sometimes mingle With solid pence from those who kneel j While, now and then, oh joy ! I feel A sixpence tingle ! The robin on me oft doth hop ; T am tlm woodloiisc' working shop ; And friendly spiders sometimes drop A line to me ; While e'en the sun will often stop To sliiiie on me. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. Ii7."i I am of sterling, close, hard grain As any box ou land or main ; But age, my friends, who can sustain, In solitude ? Neglect might make a Saint complam, Whate'er his wood. Heaven hath, no doubt, a large design : Some hearts are harder grain'd than mine ; Some men too fat, and some too fine. And some can't spare it ; — I do not mean to warp and pine, But humbly bear it. This is a cold and draughty place. And folks pass by with quicken' d pace. Praying, perchance, a dinner-grace ; But ever then, I feel the comfort of his face. Who pities men. I saw, last week, in portly style, A usurer coming down the ai.sle ; His chin a screw, his nose a file, With gimlet eye : He turn'd his head to cough and smile, — And sidled by. I saw the same rich man, this morn. With sickly cheek and gait forlorn — As feeble, almost, as when born ; He dropt some pelf, Pitying the Poor — the weak and worn — Meaning " himself." 2 R 274 GEMS DF TIIOUGHT I saw, lash year, a conrUy dame, With splendid bust, and je^^ ols' flame, And all the airs of feather'd game — A high-bred star-thing : All saw the gold— but close she uame, And dropt — a farthing. Two days ago, she pass'd this way, Heart-broken — prematurely grey — Her beauty like its mother — clay : She gave me gold ; " I am like thee" — I heard her say— " Hollow and cold." The farmer gives when crops are good, Because the markets warm his blood : The traveller 'scaped fi'om field and flood, Endows the Poor ; The dying miser sends his mud. To make Heaven sure. A lover with his hoped-for bride (Her parents being close beside) Drew forth his purse with sleek-faced pride. Rattling my wood : All day I felt a pain in the side. He was " so good." The Captain fresh from sacking towns, My Jiumble claim to pity owns ; The .Tnsfice on his shilling frowns ; But, worst of all, Arch -hypocrites display their crowne Beside my wall. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. J< '> There came a little child, one day, Just old enough to know its way, And, clambering up, it seem'd to say " Poor lonely Box !" Gave me a kiss — and went away With drooping locks. I have to play a thankless part ; With all men's charities I smart, But those who give with a child's heart. From pure fount sprung : — The rest I take, as on the mart ; ^ Wise head— still tongue. LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. JOHN GREENLF.AF WHITTIER. FROM " LUCY HOOPER.' Farewell ! A little time, and we Who knew thee well, and loved thee here, One after one shall follow thee As pilgrims through the gate of fear, Which opens f)n eternity. 276 GEMS OP THOUGHT Yet siliall we cherish not t)ie less All that is left our hearts meanwhile ; The memory of thy loveliness Shall round our weary pathway smile, Like moonlight when the sun has set — A sweet and tender radiance yet. Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty, Thy generous scorn of all things wrong — The truth, the strength, the graceful beauty Which blended in thy song, — All lovely things by thee beloved, Shall whisper to our hearts of thee ; These green hills, where thy childhood roved- Yon river winding to the sea — The sunset light of autumn eves Keflectiug on the deep, still floods. Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves Of rainbow-tinted woods, — These, in our view, shall henceforth take A tenderer moaning for thy sake ; And all thou loved of earth and sky, Seem aaored to thy memory. AND FLOWERS OP FANCY. 377 MEMORY AND HOPE. CHARLES KEN 'ORTHT, BORN AT MANCHESTER. rN SEPTEMBER 1773, DIED IN THE SAME CITY, JULY 3], 1850. HIS EPI- TAPH IN RUSHOLME CEMETERY IS A VERY PLAINTIVE ONE, NAMELY : " HERE SLUMBERS SORROW'S CHILD." Memory and Hope were given to ble.ss, But, ah ! they only pain and grieve me ; The one looks backward, to distress. The other forward, to deceive me. My days of youth, of love, and joy, 'Mid Beauty's charms and grandeur's glitter. Memory reviews them with a sigh ; Remember'd bliss makes grief more bitter. Hope to the future points, — and smiles, And tells of bliss and bowers enchanting Each day the Flatterer me beguiles. Still aches my heart, some dear thing wanting. My yesterdays could I forget. Nor fondly hope for bliss each morrow. Life's boon I might enjoy — nor let The passing hour be blanched with sorrow. 278 OKMS OF THOUGHT A PETITION TO TIME. BKYAN WALTER PROCTER. FROM "ENGLISH SONGS," lS32. Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently, — as wg sometimes glide Through a quiet dream ! Humble voyagers are we, Husband, wife, and children three— (One is lost, — an angel, fled To the azure overhead !) Touch us gently. Time ! We've not proud nor soaring wings : , Our ambition, our content, Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are we. O'er Life's dim unsounded sea. Seeking only some calm clime ; — Touch us gently, gentle Time ! AND KhOWKHS OV FANCY. 279 MINGUILLO. PROM " ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS, HISTORICAL AND ROMANTIC," TRANSLATED BY J. G. LOCKHART. Since for kissing thee, Minguillo, My mother scolds me all the day, Let me have it quickly, dai-ling ! Give me back my kiss, I pray. If we have done aught amiss, Let's undo it while we may. Quickly give me back the kiss. That she may have nought to say. Do — she keeps so great a pother, Chides so sharply, looks so grave ; Do, my love, to please my mother, Give me back the kiss I gave. Out upon you, false Minguillo ! One you give, but two you take ; Give me back the two, my darling ! Give them, for my mother's sake. 280 GEMS OF THOUGHT NEVER DESPAIR FROM " VOICES FOB PROGRESS, AND OTHER POEMS," BT THOMAS FURSTER KEK, 1853. Never despair ! though dark sliadows surrouud thee, Let not thine heart be oppress'd with the glooui ; Remember, though failure to-day may have found thee, To-morrow, success may thy pathway illume ! Never despair ! though long suffering and weary ; Look forward with faith to the future's bright morn ; And despite thy dark prospects, all lonesome and dreary, Fortune, at last, may thine efforts adorn. Never despair ! though the task long begun Seems more than thy heart's strength can carry thee through ; Perseverance may tell thee, long ere thou hast done, That thy strength is full strong if thou'rt willing to do ! Never despair ! like the coward and craven, Who carp o'er the ills which they else might evade ; Nor rest till thou reacheth the goal and the haven. And snatch the bright honours which hope long dis- play'd ! AND FLOWERS OP FANCY. «8i Never despair ! though dark shadows surround thee, Let not thine heart be oppress'd with the gloom ; Eemember, though fadhm'e to-day may have found thee, To-morrow, success may thy pathway illume ! NORA'S VOW. SIR WALTER SCOTT. FROM "SELECT MELODIES Off SCOTLAND." Hear what Highland Nora said : "The Earlie's son I will not wed, Should all the race of Nature die. And none be left but he and I. For all the gold, for all the gear. And all the laws both far and near. That ever valour lost 6r won, I would not wed the Earlie's son." "A maiden's vows, (old Galium spoke,) Are lightly made and lightly broke ; The heather on the mountain's height Begins to bloom in purple light ; The frost-wind soon shall sweep away That lustre deep from glen and brae, Yet, Nora, ore its bloom be gone, May blithely wed the Earlie's son." 282 GKMS OF THOUGHT "The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest ; The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, Ben Cruachan fall, and crush Kilchurn : Our kilted clans, when blood is high, Before their foes may turn and fly ; But I, were all these marvels done, Would never wed the Earlie's son." Still in the water-lily's shade Her wonted nest the wild swan made, Ben Cruachan stands as fast as ever. Still downward foams the Awe's fierce rivei ; To shun the clash of foeraau's steel, No highland bi-ogue has turn'd the heel : But Nora's heart is lost and won, —She's wedded to the Earlie's son ! AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. i^'-i THE IVY. A BALLAD. JOHN CHiilSTOPHEli, ffREDEEICK VON SCHILLER, BORN AT MARBA(H, IN W JRTEMBERG, NOV. 10, 1759, DIKO IN NORTHERN GERMANY, MAT 9, 1805. Ou ! a merry old stave for tbe Ivy brave That mantles the ruin'd wall ; And he climbeth the steep of the castle keep Till he waves o'er the tui-rets tall. He rooteth hira fast, against the blast, Aud laughs at the cold wind's moan ; He scorueth to fear at the winter drear, That decketh him then in his brightest gear. So a merry old stave To the Ivy brave, That changelessly flourishes on ! A stripling tree, just sprung had he. Five hundred years agone, When the young fair girl of a belted earl Train'd his limbs o'er the crannied stone. 284 GEMS OF THOUGHT To shelter her bower in the noontide hour, When the summer fiercely shone. But joy will share itself with care — She died, but the tree grows greenest there. So a merry old stave To the Ivy brave, That changelessly flourishes on ! He spreadeth the pride of his green-shoots wide, ' O'er the chapel's roofless pile ; He loveth the haunt where the monk's grave chauut Once roll'd through the pillar'd aisle. Baron and knight, and lady bright. Sleep below 'neath the sculptured stone, And nothing is seen with life, I ween, But the tree that moui-neth o'er what hath been. So a mei-ry old stave To the Ivy brave. That changelessly flourishes on ! In his twenty-second year Schiller wrote his tragedy of " The Robbers," which at once raised him to the foremost rank among the dramatists of his country. His "Ballads" are reckoned among the finest compositions of their kind in any language. Maunder' s Treasury, AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 285 POOR JANE'S LAMENT. JANUARY SEARLE (GEORGE SEARLE PHILLIl'S). An, vvell-aday ! that thou should'st prove So false to thy true hearted Jane. I loved thee, Robin, my false love ! And broken hearts ne'er love again. When first we met by Dungeon-wood, That skirts the bloomy crossland moor, I thought that thou wast kind and good — That thou would' st love me evermore. For, kneeling ou the purple heath. When thou did'st clasp my hand in thine, Thy vows seem'd truthful as the breath Of the pure heavens that truthful shine. And when we wander'd 'mongst the trees, And sunny shadows, towards the town, 1 scarcely heard the birds and bees. Or saw the mosses, green and brown. 286 GEiMS OF THOUGHT All things conspired to lure my sense, Aud charm my trusting heart away : I gave that heart iu innocence, To rue the gift, to rue the day. Oh sad, sad day ! oh, fatal gift ! Which to thy keeping I resign'd ; For thou hast left me all bereft, Heart-broken, hopeless, mad, and blind. 1 cannot rest. I sing no more AVhilst plying at the dreary loom : My songs of joy, of love, are o'er ; My life is weaving for the tomb. O, silent tomb ! I long to rest ^yith thee for ever from my pain ; i'ake, oh ! take me to thy breast. And quench my aching heart and brain. TUK BIRD OF PASSAGE. SIR BEVis OF Hampton, from tuk ' litehaky G4ZETTE." AwAK ! Rway ! thou Summer Bird, For Autumn's tuoaning voice is heard. In cadence wild Jiiid deepening swell, Of \\'inrr>r's stern apjuoach to tell. ANirFLOWERS OK FANCY. 287 Away ! for vapours, damp and low, Are wreathed around tlie mountain's brow ; And tempest-cLmds their mantles fold Around the forest's russet gold. Away ! away ! o'er earth and sea, Tliis land is now no home for thee ! Arise ! and stretch thy soaring wing. And seek elsewhere the smiles of spring ! 'J'he waniiuiei' now, 'vith pinions spi-ead, Afar to brighter climes has fled, Nor casts one backward look, nor grieves For those sere groves whose shade he leaves. Why should he grieve ? tlie beam he loves Shines o'er him still where'er he rov^. And all those early friends are near Who made his Summer-home so dear. Oh ! deem not that the tie of birth Endears us to this spot of earth ; For wheresoe'er our steps may roam, If friends are near, that place is home ! Ko matter where our fate may guide us, ]f those we love are still beside us ! 288 GEMS OF THOUGHT THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, BORN AT HANS PLACK, CHELSEA, IN 1802, DIED AT CAPE COAST CASILE, OCTOBER 16, 1838. The muffled drum roU'd on the air, Warriors with stately stej) were there ; On every arm was the black crape bound, Every carbine was turn'd to the ground ; Solemn the sound of their measured tread, As silent and slow they followed the dead. The riderles.s horse was led in the rear, There were white plumes waving over the bier ; Helmet and sword were laid on the pall. For it was a soldier's funeral. — That soldier had stood on the battle-plain. Where every step was over the slain ; But the brand and the ball had pas.s'd him by, And he came to his native land to die. 'Twas hard to come to that native land, And not cla.sp one familiar hand ! 'Twas hard to be number d amid the dead, Or ere he could hear his welcome said ! AND BLOWERS OF PANCV. 281) But 'twas something to see its clifis once more, And to lay his bones on his own loved shore ; To think that the friends of his youth might weep O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep ! The btigles ceased their wailing sound As the coffin was lower'd into the ground; A volley was fired, a blessing said. One moment's pause, — and they left the dead ! I saw a poor and an aged man. His step was feeble, his lip was wan : He knelt him down on the new-raised mound. His face was bow'd on the cold damp ground, He raised his hea,d, his tears were done, — The Father had pray'd o'er his only Son ! THE SHADOW. THoMaS GASfEY. FROM " CALTHORPE, OP. PAIXEN FORTDNES." 1821. I SAW the black shadow pursuing my track, " Advance ye or swiftly, or slow," He seem'd to say angrily, " Close at your back I'll follow, wherever you go." 290 GKMS OF THOUGHT Flight proved unavailing.— To face him, at last I tui-n'd, in a petulant whim ; Then shrinking from me, he retreated as fast As ever I bounded from him. » Ah, now," exclaim'd Mirth, "henceforth govern'd by me Dismiss weak regret and despair, And banish vain terrors ; for do you not see That impuaent shadow is Care ? Delighting irresolute mortals to chase. Retreat, he comes daringly on ; But meet him with laughter, it alters the case, The coward is glad to be gone." THE RKTKOSPECT. FUOM " POKMS, BY P. M JAMKS," 1821. I wouLi') not live life o'er again. For all its joys, to share its pain : Life's springs and pastimes tempt ine not. To wish its cares again my lot. What though youth's devious course hath been, A cliequer'd yet a cheerful scene ! Our pleasures to the world are known. Our silent griefs are all our own ! AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. L'Dl 'Tis Bweet to view, from sheltei-ing bower. The high-arch'd rainbow span the shower ; But he who still must 'bide the storm, Cares little for the rainbow's form. When memory seems to obey the will, She fails to cull the good from ill ; But true alike to joy and woe. She calls them both, her power to show. Else in the eventful vale of life. Are scenes with joy and beauty rife ; Thoughts of imagination rare, And forms as lover's fancies fair ! These from life's troubles could we take, Their influence heaven on earth would make ; The charm that dwells with death would fly, For who, with these, would wish to die ? "Mr. James, (not the celebrated novellist) we under- stand, adds another to the catalogue of bards belonging to the Society of Friends. Not aiming so high as Bernard Barton, or J. H. Wiffen, he has struck a very musical chord, and seems gifted with those feelings which consti- tute the poet." 292 tiliMS Ul«^ THOUGHT TO A FLY LOITERING Ni^AR A SPIDER'S WEB. WILLIAM REID. FKOM "THE CITY MUSB." Hasten, hasten, little fly, Pass yon artfnl tissue by ; Tduch it not, it is a snare — Rise upon thy native air ; Give not hessitation breath — Shun the netted web of death. See beneath the ambuscade Schemes of murder darkly laid; There the cunuing spider lies. Gloomy foe of thoughtless flies ! Cruel with suspense it waits, Fix'd as chance preponderates, Watching thy adventurous liuibs. As the sunny wall thou climbs, Wandering with exploring eye, Seeking sweets that hidden lie. Little know'.st Aou, witless thing. What a heedless step may bring. Pleasure thus arrays her charms, Rapture kindling in her arms. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 293 Rosy uectar's subtle tide — Rich in golden channels, glide ! Lavighing flowers, enwreath the cup ! Giddy mortal, drain it up ' Now dissolves the potent spell, Changing into loathsome hell ; Fell remorse and racking pain Gnaw the vitals, fire the brain, Darkening hope and withering thought — Poison rankling in the diaught — Gather on the thicken'd breath Emptied in despair and death. Such is folly's destiny ! As with man, it is with thee : If, alas ! thou luckless stray. Reckless of the fatal way. Then, poor fly, thou liv'st to know Indiscretion ends in woe. jy4 GEMS OF THOilOliT THE LAND WHICH NO MORTAL MAY KNOW. JOHN AT.LEN WALKER. Oh ! where are the eyes that once beam'd upon me ? And where are the friends I rejoiced once to see ? And where are the hearts that held amity's glow? They are gone to the land which no mortal may know ! When shadows of midnight descend o'er the plain. How drear is the path of the way-faring swain ; Yet drearer and darker the road I must go, Ere I -rest in that land which no mortal may know ! Yet pilgrims who roam through the glooming of night, Still hail the bright beams of the dawn-coming light; And though the approach of the morniug be slow, Its hope-kindled ray seems to lessen their woe : And thus when the tear-drop of sorrow I shed, And bend uie above the cold tomb of the dead, A ray of the future diffuses its glow, Aud T look to the land which no mortal may knoWi AMI! Kl.OWEBS OP FANCY. 'Ji'J SONG. Olii Border air — "My good Lord .Tohn." THOIiAS PRINGLB, BORN AT BLAIKLAW, ROXBURGHSHIRE, JANUARY 5, 1789, MED IN LONDON, DECEMBER 5, 1834, BURIKD IN BUNHILL FIELDS. Our native land^our native vale, — A long and last adieu ; — Fai-ewell to bonny Teviot-dale, And Cheviot-mountains blue ! Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, And streams reoown'd in song ; Farewell ye blithesome braes and meads, Our hearts have loved so long. Farewell ye broomy elfin knowes Where thyme and harebells grow ; Farewell ye hoary haunted howea O'erhung with birk and sloe. The battle mound — the Border tower That Scotia's annals tell ; — 2 J 6 GEMS OF THOUGHT The martyr's grave — the lover "s bower, To each — to all — farewell ! Home of our hearts ! — our father's home — Land of the brave and free ! The sail is flapping on the foam That bears us far from thee ! We seek a wild and distant shore Beyond the Atlantic main ; We leave thee to return no more, Nor view thy cliffs again ! But may dishonour blight our fame, And quench our household fires. When we, or our.^, forget thy name. Green island of our sires. Our native land — our native vale, — A long, a last adieu ; — Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale, And Scotland's mountains blue We copy the above touching little ballail from the album of a friend, whei'e it was written by its author a few days before he left for the new colony at the Cape of Good Hope. Mr. Pringle was the editor of the first vo- lume of Blackwood's Magazine, as well as the first three volumes of Constable's new series of the Scot's Magazine, For several years he was editor of Friendship's Offering. He is also the author of a volume of poems, entitled the Autumnal Excursion, and of a series of African Sketches in prose and verse. — Literary Gazette. ANO FiiOWKRS OF FANCY. 297 THE GRAVE OF KORNER. ilKS. HEMANS (FELICIA DOHuTHEA BRUWNE), BuRN IN LIVERPOOL, SEPTEMBER 25, 1793, UIED MAT 16, 1835, BDEIED IN ST. ANN Js'sCHIJ RCH, DUBLIN. Gruen wave the Oak for ever o"er thy rest ! Thou that, beueath its crowning foliage sleepest, And, m the stillness of thy country's breast, Thy place of memory, as an altai-, keepest ! Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was pour'd. Thou of the Lyre and Sword ' Rest, Bard ' rest, Soldier ! -By the Father's hand ! Here shall the Child of after-years be led, With bis wreatVi-offering silently to stand In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead. Soldier and Bard ! — For thou thy path hast trod . With Freedom and with God ! The Oak waved proudly o'er thy burial-rite ! On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore thee, A'l-d with true hearts, thy brethren of the fight Wept ;i,s they vailed tlieir drooping banners o'er thee, 298 GKMS OF THOUOHT Ami the deep guns with rolliug peals gave tokeu, That Lyre and Sword were broken ! Thou hast a hero's tomb ! — A lowlier bed * Is her's, the gentle girl, beside thee lying, The gentle girl that bow'd her fair young head, When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. Brother ! true fiiend ! the tender and the brave ! She pined to share thy grave. Fame was thy gift from others — but for her To whom the wide earth held that only spot — — She loved thee ! — lovely in your lives ye were, And in your early deaths divided not ! Thou hast thine Oak — thy trophy — what hath she ? Her own blest place by thee. It was thy spirit, Brother ! which had made The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye, Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye play'd, And sent glad singing through tlie free blue sky ! Ye were but two ! — and when that spirit pass'd Woe for the one, the last ! Woe, yet, not long ! — She linger'd but to trace Thine image from the image in her bi-east ; Once, ouce again to see that buried face But smile upon her ere she went to rest ! Too sad a smile ! — its living light was o'er, It answer'd hers no more. The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, The home too lonely whence thy step liad tied ; AND FLOWEHS OK FANCY. 2D9 What then was left for her, the faithful -hearted ? Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead ! Softly she perish'd — be the Flower deplored Here, with the Lyre and Sword ! Have ye not met ere now ? — So let those trust, That meet for moments, but to part for years, That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust, That love where love is but a fount of tears ! Brother ! sweet Sister ! — peace around ye dwell ! Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell ! " Korner joined Lutzow's volunteers. His fate is well known. Young and handsome, a poet and a hero, loving, and in the full assurance of being beloved, with all life's fairest visions and purest affections about his head and heart, he perished — the miniature of "Toni" being found within his bosom, next to the little pocket book in which ho had written the Song of the Sword — the fiist shattered }iy the bullet, which had found his heart, the latter stained with his blood." Mrs. Janiieson. 300 GEMS OK THOUGHT SPKOTATEN OF A DUTCH PORT. •lOOST VAN DEN VONnEL. TRANSLATED BY JoHN BOWKING. Infant faii-est — beauty rarest — Who repaifest from above ; Whr.se Rweeb smiling, woe-beguiling, Lights us with a heavenly love. Mother ! moui-n not — I return not — Wherefore leai'n not to be blest? Hern^en's my houie now, where 1 roam now— I an angel, and at rest. Why distress thee? Still I'll bless thee— Still caress thee, though I'm fled ; Cheer life's dullness — pour heaven's fulness Of bright glory on thy head. Leave behind thee thoughts tliat bind thee — Dreams that blind thee in their glare ; Lf>ok before thee, round thee, o'er thee — Hoaven tnvitf-j Hifo — T jmi iIutp ' AM) KLOWKKS OF FANCY. SUl LINES ON THE LOSS OF A SHIP. FROM "the buccaneers, AND OTHER POEMS," BY JOHN MALCOLM, 1824. Her mighty sails the breezes swell, And fast she leaves the lessening land, And from the shore the last farewell Is waved by many a snowy hand ; And weeping eyes are on the main, Until its verge she wanders o'er ; But, from the hour of parting pain, That bark was never heard of more ! In her was many a mother's joy, And love of many a weeping fair ; For her was wafted, in its sigh. The lonely heart's unceasing prayer ; And, oh, the thousand hopes untold Of ardent youth, that vessel bore ; Saj% were they quench'd in waters cold ? For she was never heard of more ! T 302 GEMS OF THOUGHT When oa her wide and trackless pnth Of desolation, doom'd to flee, Say, sank she 'midst the blending wrath Of rackiug cloud ;uid rolling »tia ? Or, where the land but mocks the eye, Went drifting on a fatal shore ? Vain guesses all — her destiny Is dark — she ne'er was heai-d of more ! The moon hath twelve times changed her form. From flowing orb to crescent wan ; 'Mid skies of calm, and scowl of storm, Since from her port that ship hath gone ; But ocean keeps its secrets well, And though we know that all is o'er, No eye hath seen — no tongue can tell Her fate — she ne'er was heard of more ! Oh ! were her tale of sorrow known, ' Tworo something to the broken heart ; The paugs of doubt would then be gone, And Fancy's endless dreams depart : It may not be ! — there is no ray By which her doom we may explore ; We only know she sail'd away, And ne'er was seen nor heard of more ! AND FLOWEUS OF FANCY. 303 THE LAKE. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. The last pale light was on the sky, That comes when summer sunbeams die ; An amber wave, with just a surge Of crimson on its utmost verge ; And, spread beneath, like a green ocean. With not one single wave in motion. Stood a thick wood ; then far away. Dark outlined in the sky's clear gray. Rose mountain-heights, till, to the eye, They gloom'd like storm-clouds piled un high. Upon the other eastern shore Grew, in hght groups, the sycamore — Gay with the bright tints that recall How autumn and ambition fall ; Alike departmg in their hour. Of riches, pride, and pomp, and power. And in their shadow the red deer (Irazed as they had no hour of fear ; As never here a bow was drawn. Nor hunter's cry rose with the dawn. 304 GEMS OV THOUGHT Near, like a wilderness of bloom. Waved the gold banners of the broom — Light as the graceful maiden's shape, And sunny as the curls that 'scape From the blue snood with wiiich her care Has had such pride to braid her hair. The Lake was that deep blue, which night Wears in the zenith moon's full light; With pebbles shining through, like gems Lighting sultana's diadems : A little isle laid on its breast, A fairy gift in its sweet rest. There stood a convent once — bright eyes Wasted their light, soft lips their sighs. Oh ! who can say how much each cell Has known of youtti and hope's farewell — Of midnight vigil, when each prayer Laid all the burning bosom bare, Of those who bow'd not down to sleep,. Of those whom they alone saw weep ? Or it might tell of those who sought The peacefulness of holy thought — The bi-oken heart, the bleeding breast. That turn'd them to a place of rest. All is forgotten : there is not More than trace to mark the spot So holy once ; just a staiu'd stone, Broken, and with graj' moss o'ergrown ; A fragment of a shatter'd wall ; One fallen arch ; and these are all. Wild roses, with their summer glow, Are tenants of the island now ; Upon the graves of those who were Once lovelv as themselves. AND FLOWERS OF FANCV. 305 THE VANISHED STAR. WILLIAM HARPER. The night was dark, the wind was loud. The ghostly clouds went fleeting by, When, turning on my couch, I saw A lonely star was in the sky. And thus methought : — My Mary, thou Wast e'er to me in sorrow's night, When loud the storm, and dark the clouds, A ruling star, a guiding light. But thou art gone ; the night is dark, On cloudy wings the tempests fly ; There is no light within my heart, — The star has faded from the sky. 306 GKMS OF THOUGHT THE DP:A.TH of the FIRST-BORN. AL.VBIC ATTILA WATTS. FROM TIU: " LITKHAUY SOUVENIR." 1825. Mt sweet one, my sweet one, the teavs were iu my eyes When first I clasp'd thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble cries ; — • For I thought of all that 1 liad borne as I bent me down to kiss Thy cherry checks anrl sunny brow, my first-born bud of bliss ! I turn'd to many a withei-'d hope, — to years of gi'ief and pain, — And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flash'd o'er my boding brain ; — I thought of friends, grown worse than cold, of pei'secut- ing foes, — And I ask'd of Heaven, if ills like these m7(3f mar thy youth's repose. I gaz'd upon thy quiet face — lialf blinded by my tears — 'Till gleams of bliss, imfelt before, came brightening on my fears, — ANIJ FLOWKHS OF FANCY. 307 Sweet rays of Lope that fairer shone 'mid thi cloiuls of gloom that bound them, Ab stars dart down their loveUest light when midnight skies are round them. My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er, And a father's anxious feai-s for thee can fever me no more; And for the liopes — the sun-bright hopes — that blossom'd at thy birth,— They too have fled, to prove how frail are cherish'd things of earth ! 'Tis true that thou wert young, my child, but though brief thy span below, To me it was a little age of agony and v.-oe ; For, from thy first faint dawn of life thy cheek began to fade, And my heart had scai'ce thy welcome breathed ere my hopes were wrapt in shade. Oh the child, in its hours of health and bloom., that is dear as thou wert theu. Grows far more prized^more fondly loved — in sickness and in pain ; And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope was lost. Ten times more precious to my soul — for all that thou hadst cost ! Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watch'd thee, day by day. Pale like the second bow of Heaven, as gently waste away ; 308 GKMS OF THOUGHT And, sick with dark foreboding fears we dared not breathe aloud, Sat, hand in hiind. in speechless grief to wait death's coming cloud. It came at length ; — o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering fast, — And an awful shade pass'd o'er thy brow, the deepest and the last ; In thicker gushes strove thy breath, — we raised thy droop- ing head, — A moment more — the final pang — and thou wert of the dead ! Thy gentle motiier turn'd away to hide her face from me, And munnnr'd low of heaven's behests, and bliss attain'd by thee ; — She would have chid me that I mouru'd a doom so bless'd as thine, Had not her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild as mine. We laid thee down in thy sinless rest, and from tiiine infant brow Cull'd one soft lock of radiant hair — our only solace now, — Then placed around thy beauteous corse, flowers — not more fair and sweet — Twin rose-buds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy foet. Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou. With all the beauty of thy cheek — the aunsiiine of thy l)rong. Earth's glow and burnisli in your eyes, Ye gaze upon a paradise : AMI FLOWERS OF FANCY. 321 For you the day hatli a radiant car, And steeds of fire, which shower Mfar, From their burning hoofs, our golden light : And chastely beautiful the night Puts on her sable stole and smiles. While the pale Queen-moon and the starry isles Look love, and sing in their choired spheres Till the flowers are trembling with Nature's tears ! Are the flowers fair in their dewy dreaming ? Are the streams pure on their moss-beds gleaming ? Are bird-voices sweet in pleaisanfc green places ? Is there soul in the smiles of our human graces ? Why bare the great Mother this lavish birth ? 'Twas for you, ye living of the Earth ! FRIENDS. James Montgomery. Friend after friend departs; Who hath not lost a friend? There is no unioji here of hearts That finds not here an end ; Were this frail \\ orld our final rest, Living or dying none were blest. 322 GEMS OF THOUGHT Beyond the flight of time, — Beyond the reign of death, — There surely is some blessed clime Where life is not a breath ; Nor life's affections transient fire. Whose sparks fly upward aud expire ! There is a world above. Where parting is unknown ; A long eternity of love, Form'd for the good alone ; Aud faith beholds the dyiug here Translated to that glorious sphere ! Thus star by star declines, Till all are past away ; As morning high and higher shines To pure and perfect day : Nor sink those stars in empty night, But hide themselves in Heaven's own li^ht. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. ''''I' SONG, FROM " FANNY." FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. Young thoughts have music in them, love And happiness their theme ; And music wanders in the wind That hills a morning dream. And there are angel voices heard In childhood'a frolic hours, When life is hut an April day Of sunshine and of showers. There's music in the forest leaves, When summer winds are there, And in the laugh of forest girls, That braid their sunny hair. The first wild bird that drinks the dew From violets of the spring. Has music in his song, and in The fluttering of his wing. 324 GKMS OF THOUGHT T5nt the inusiu of young thoughts too .soon Is faint, and dies away, And from our morning dreams we wake To curse the coming day, And childhood's frolic hours are brief, And oft, in after years, Their n)emory comes to chill the heart, And dim the eye with tears. To-day the foi-est leaves are green ; They'll wither on the morrow ; And the maiden's laugh he changed, ere long, To the widow's wail of sorrow. Come with the winter snows, and ask Where are the forest-birds ; The answer is a silent one, More eloquent than words. EPIGRAM. KROM " LE KAMELET MODNDI," BY QOUELIN. The gay, who would be counted wise, Think all delight in pastime lies ; Nor heed they what the wise condemn. Whilst they pass time — Time passes them. AMP f'i.OWERS op FANCY. 325 BALLAD. R. R. FROM THE "LITEHAUY GAZKTTE." Sweep on, ye winds, my love ye bear To distant climes, o'er dangerous seas, Where Nature strives, with effort rare, Man's wild, inconstant mind to please. Rise, favouring zephyrs, rise for her, With watchful care My fair one bear, For every wave Has been the grave Of some ill-fated Mariner ! Where those watch-towers rise sublime, Those on which the white spray's tost, There in summer's sunniest time, There the proudest bark was lost. Long time did Fate her frown defer. But giant strength Was tired at length. And every wave Became the grave Of some ill-fated Maiiner ! U 326 GEMS OF THOUGHT The sails are spread to catch the wind. In memory lives my love's last vow ; Adieu ! Adieu ! to Fate resigu'd, I scorn to weep or murmur uow. May gentle zephyrs rise for her. And fleetly bear My faithful fair. O'er every wave That marks the grave Of Bome ill-fated Mariner ! THE CROW. ■WILLIAM HA.11K1S0N AINSWORTU. FUUiM " MANUHESTEB POETKY," 1838. W. U. AINSWOBTH WAS BORN IN KINioy. AND FLOWKRS OK FANCY. 327 The carrion crow hath a dainty maw, With savoury pickings he crammeth his craw ; Kept meat from the gibbet it pleaseth his whim, It never can hanrj too long for him. The carrion crow smelleth powder, 'tis said, Like a soldier escheweth the taste of cold lead ; No jester or mime hath more marvellous wit, For wherever he lighteth he maketh a hit. Caw ! Caw ! the Carrion Crow ! Dig ! Dig ! in the ground below ! THE DEAD TRUMPETER. THOMAS. K. HERVET. FROM " FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING.' 182^. Wake, soldier ! — wake ! — thy war-horse waits, To bear thee to the battle back ;■ — Thou slumberest at a foeman's gates ; — Thy dog would break thy bivouac;— Thy plume is trailing in the dust, And thy red falchion gathering rust ! Sleep, soldier ! — sleep ! — thy warfare o'er, — Not thine own bugle's loudest strain 328 GF'MS OF THOUGHT Shall ever break thy slumbers more, With summons to the battle- plain ; A trumpet-note more loud aud deep, Must rouse thee from that leaden sleep ! Thou need'st nor helm nor cuirass, now, — Beyond the Grecian hero's boast, — Thou wilt not quail thy naked brow, Nor shrink beneath a myriad host, — For head aud heel alike are sound, A thousand arrows cannot wound ! Thy mother is not iti thy dreams, With that wild widow'd look she wore The day — how long to her it seems !— She kiss'd thee, at the cottage door. And sickeu'd at the sounds of joy That bore away her only boy t Sleep, soldier !— let thy mother wait, To hear thy bugle on the blast ; Thy dog. perhaps, may find the gate, Aud bid her home to thee at last; — He cannot tell a sadder tale Than did thy clarion, on the gale, When last— and far away— she heard its ling.^rint; echoes fail ! AND FLOWl'JHS OK KANt)Y. THE ISLAND OF ATLANTIS. REV. GEOEGE CROLY. FROM THE " POKGET ME NOT," 18'2(i. Oh thou Atlantic, dark and deep, Thou wilderness of waves. Where all the tribes of earth might sleep In their uncrowded graves ! The sunbeams on thy bosom wake, Yet never light thy gloom ; The tempests burst, yet never shake Thy depths, thou mighty tomb ! Thou thing of mystery, stern and drear, Thy secrets who hath told ? — The warrior and his sword are there, The merchant and his gold. There lie their myriads in thy pall Secure from steel and storm ; And he, the feaster on them all, The cankerworm. 2 u 330 GEMS OF THOUGJIT Yet on this wave the inouutain's brow Once glowed in morning beam ; And, like an arrow from the bow, Out sprang the stream ; And on its bank the olive giove. And the peach's luxury, And the damask rose — the nighthird's love Perfnmed the sky. Where art thou, proud Atlantis, now ? Where are thy bright and bra\-e ? Priest, people, warriors' living flow ? Look on that wave ! Crime deepen'd on the recreant land, Long guilty, long forgiven ; There power uprear'd the bloody hand. There scoff'd at Heaven. The word sent foith — the word of woe — The judgment-thunders peal'd; The fiery earthquake blazed below ; Its doom was seal'd. Now on it<9 halls of ivorj' Lie giant weed and ocean slinio, Burying from man's and angel's eye The land of crime. AND FL'iWiMW (IF FANuV. MIDNIGHT HOUR. FROM " OFIES, REFLECTIVli AND HISTORICAL," BY RICHARD PORTjER HEWITT, 1831. MR. HEWITT, WHO WAS BORN AT CHESTER, DIED IN MANCHESTER, SEPIEMBER 1, 1847, AN ISOLATED AND DISAPPOINTED MAN. Whilst mortals rest their weary heads. The moon her mild effulgence sheds, With silver tips each distant tower, And silent is the midnight hour. cold pale orb, beneath whose view How many drink the cup of rue ! How many grief-woi-n accents pour Their sorrows to the midnight hour ! Now hoary autumn's leaf-strewn plain Again annoimces winter's reign ; Once more the youthful year is paft, With deeds to utter darkness cast. 332 GEMS OF THOUGHT Vain creature of a summers day ! Man's generations pass away, Like leaves of the autumnal morn, Or grain beneath the sickle shorn. Then snatch, as brief as fleeting breath. Each pleasure from the jaws of death ; As some sweet pipe, deep in the bower, Breaks softly on the midnight hour. Enough of pain for life to bear ; — Enough of bliss for death to dare ;— With manly resignation wait The final hour assign'd by fate. NAPOLEON'S GRAVE. The fonowinj.' lines, aildrcsscd to the French nation on their proposing to remove Napoleon's remains from St. Helena to France, arc from the pen of the Rev. H. F. Lyte. Disturb him not ! he slumbers well On his rock mid the western deep, Where the broad blue waters round him swell. And the tempests o'er him sweep. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 333 Oh ! leave him where his mountain bed Looks o'er the Atlantic wave. And the mariner high in the far grey sky Points out Napoleon's grave ! There, midst three mighty continents, That trembled at his word. Wrapt in his shroud of airy cloud, Sleeps Europe's warrior lord : And there on the heights .still seems to stand At eve his shadowy form, — His grey capote on the mist to float, And his voice in the midnight storm. Disturb him not ! though bleak and bare. That spot is all his own ; And truer homage was paid him there Than on his hard-won throne. Earth's trembling monarchs there at bay The caged lion kept ; For they knew with dread, that his iron tread Woke earthquakes where he stept. Disturb him not ! vain France, thy clime No resting-place supplies, So meet, so glorious, so sublime, As that where thy hero lies. Mock not that grim and mouldering wreck ! Revere that bleaching brow ! Nor call the dead from liis grave to deck A puppet-pageant now ! » Born iu a time when blood and crime Raged through thy realm at will, ,"j3i GEMS OF THOUGHT He waved his hand o'er the troubled laud, Aud tlie storm at ouce was still. He rear'd from the dust thy prostrate state, Thy war -flag wide unfurl' d, Aud bade thee thunder at every gate (^f the capitals of the world. And will ye from his rest dare call The thunderbolt of war, To grin aud chatter around his pall, And scream your " Vive Ic gloiric ?" Shall melodrauiic obsequies His nonour'd dust deride ? Forbid it, human sympathies ! Forbid it, Gallic pride ! Wliat ' will no withering thought occur, No thi-ill of cold mistrust, How empty all this pomp and stir Above a little dust ? Aud will it not your pageant dim, Your arrogance rebuke. To see what now remains of him Who once the empires shook ? Then let him rest in his stately couch Beneath the open sky. Where the wild waves dash, and the lightnings flash, And the stoi'ms go wailing by. Yes, let him rest ! such men as he Are of no time or place ; 'I'hey live for ages yet to be, — They die for all their race. AND FLOWKHS OF FANCY. 335 " Exhumation of Napoleon. — Wbeu, by the hand of Dr. Guillard, the satin sheet was raised, an indescribable feeling of surprise and affection was expressed by the spectators, most of whom burst into tears. The Emperor himself was before their eyes ! His features, though changed, were perfectly recognised — the hands perfectly beautiful — his well-known costume had suffered but little, and the colours were easily distinguished. The epaulettes, the decorations, and the hat, seemed to be entirely pre- served from decay. The attitude itself was full of ease; and but for the fragments of the satin lining, which co- vered as with a fine gauze several parts of the uniform, we might have believed we saw before us Napoleon still extended on a bed of state. Geuei-al Bertrand and M. Marchand, who were present at the interment, quickly pointed out the difierent articles which had beeji deposited in the cofiBn, and in the precise position which they had previously described. It was even remarked, that the left hand which General Bertrand had taken up to kiss for the last time before the coffin was closed up, still remained slightly raised." — Newspaper Paragraph, November, 1840. When the remains of Napoleon were removed from St. Helena, they were followed to France by the old serjeant of the Guards who had stood sentry over them for nearly twenty yeai's ; ha was cheered on his landing v^'ith all the grateful enthusiasm which his devotion merited. 336 OEMS OF THOUGHT BALLAD. silt KijBKET AYTON, SECRKTARY TO THE SCOTTISH QUEENS, MAEY AND ANNE. FROM " THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND, ANCIENT AND MODERN." I no confes.s thou'rt smooth and fair, Aud I might liave gone near to love thee ; Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak had power to move thee : But I can let thee now alone, As worthy to be loved by none. I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, I'hy favours are but like the wind That kisses every thing it meets : And since thou can with more thnn one, Thou'rt worthy to be kisa'd by none. The luDi-ning rose, that untoucli'd stands, Anii'd with her l)rier8, how sweetly smells ! AND FLOWERS OP FANCY. 337 But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands, Her sweet no longer with her dwells ; But scent and beaut;f both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one. Such fate, ere long, will thee betide, When thou hast handled been awhile, Like sere flowers to be thrown aside ; And I will sigh, while some will smile. To see thy love for more than one Hath brought thee to be loved by uoua POETS. J. A. G. FROM THE " LITERARY GAZETTE." PoKTS of old, when Love inspired. Warm, naked Nature drew ; They saw her glowing charms — were fired, And sang of all they knew. Not so their sons — a modest band ! Each, strong in virtue, draws A lucid veil, with decent hand. And paints her thi-oiigh the gaure. X 338 GEMS or-' Tii(>i'r4irr PUFF OF A SELLER OF EAR OIL FOR DEAFNESS. ANONYMOUS. It's not for me, and indeed I know it, To puif my own oil off, and blow it ; But it is the best, and time will show it. There was Mrs. F. So very deaf That she might have had a percussion cap Knock'd on her head without hoarin.a; it suap ; Well, I sold her the oil, and the very next day She heard from her husband at Botajiy Bay. THE LAUREL. F. P. H. The Laurel takes an age to grow ; And he who gives his name to fate Must plant it early, reap it late ; Nor pluck the blossoms as they spring, So beautiful, yet pei-isbing. AND l-'i.OWKRS OF FANCY. ■'•59 AN INDIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE WATER SPIRIT. JlliNRY OILl'IN. FROM "MEMORY; THE SCEPTIC ; ANI> OTHER POEMS," 1837. " And as the stars shone in the heavens they worhippetl the spirit of the waters." Indian Traveller. Sweet spirit of the calm untroubled waters, With what unfeign'd delight I view thee here ; Bright as the fairest flower of Persia's daughters, Fleet as the fawn and timid as the deer. And now I see thy sylph-like form ascending, Amid the brightness of the silvery spray ; And as in rapture I am o'er thee bending. Thy form of radiance shrouds the god of day. And now again I see thee on the billow, , And once again I view thee on the blast, — Careering on the hghtuing ; witli thy pillow, The eternal thunder-cloud, behind thee cast. 3i0 GEMS OF THOUGHT I see thee rising from the depths of ocean, Sporting in triumph on the billowy foam ; Whilst each tumultuous wave, each wild commotion, Wafts thee still nearer to thy own bright home. And now thou'rt fled ! yet sHll the pleasing vision Hovers around me with a i-adiant gleam ; But, oh ! the splendour of each new transition, Fadas like the fleeting phaiitDm of a dream. Great spirit ! whom I worship and adore, Thou art my guide and my director hci u ; I long to join thee on a hapf)ier shore. With the bright spirit of the waters clear, To sing thy praise. THE REMEMBKANCR. ANONYMOUS. FKOM " HUSBAND HUNTING, OU THE MOIIIER AND DAUGUTEUS," 1825. Come to my heart, thou pledge of love ! And while with life its pulses move, In absence, peril, far or near, Couie to uiy heait, and rest thee here ! My days of youth are gone and past, ATv manhood's houj- is nvercast; AND FLOWERS Ol'' FANCY 341 My later destiny may have A wanderer's life; a stranger's grave ; But whether eyes of love shall weep Where thy pale master's relics sleep ; Or whether on the wave or plain, This bosom shall forget its pain ; Yet whei-e I rove, or where I fall. To me thou shalt be all in all. Come to my heart ! When thou art nigh, The parting hour is on mine eye ; I see the chesnitt ringlets roll'd Round the brisrht forehead's Grecian mould, The ruby lip, the pejacil'd brow, The cheek s delicious April glow, The smile, a sweet and sunny beani Upon life's melancholy stream ; The glance of soiil, pure, splendid, high — Till all the vision wanders by, Like angels to their brighter sphere ; And leaves me lone and darkling here ! 34:2 Gr<:Ms of thought THE SEPTEMBKR FROST. DAVID MACBETH MOIR. FROM " THE LEGEND OF GENE- VIEVE, WITtl OTHER TALES AND PUEMB ; BT DELIA.' 1825. Within a wood I lay reclined, Upon a dull September day, And listen'd to the hollow wind, That shook the frail leaves from the spray. I thought me of its summer pride, And how the sod was gemm'd with flowers. And how the river's azure tide Was overarch'd with leafy bowers. And how the small birds caroll'd gay, And lattice-work the sunshine made, When last, upon a summer day, I stray'd beneath that woodland shade. And now !— it was a startliTig thought, And flash'd like lightmng o'er the mind,— That like the leaves we pass to nought, Nor, parting, leave a track behind ! ANU FLOWKRS oK FAI\'CV. 343 Go— trace the church-yard's hallow'd mound, And, as among the tombs ye tread, Read, ou the pedestals around, Memorials of the vanish'd dead. They lived like us — they breathed like us — Like us, they loved, and smiled, and wept ; But soon their hour arriving, thus From earth like autumn leaves were swept. Who, living, care for them ? — not one ! To earth are theirs dissever' d claims ; To new inheritors have gone Their habitations, and their names ! Think on our childhood — where are they, The beings that begirt ws theu ? The Lion Death hath diagg^-d away By turns, the victim to his deu ! And springing round, like vernal flowers, Another race with vigoui' burns. To bloom awhile, -for years or hours, — And theu to perish in their turua ! Then be this winti-y grove to me x\n emblem of our mortal state ; And from each lone and leafless tree, So wither'd, wild, and desolate, This moral lesson let me draw, — That earthly means are vain to fly Great Nature's universal law. And that we all must come to die ! However varied, these alone Abide the lofty and the less, — Remembrance, and a sculptured stone, A gieen jii-ave and foi-getfulness. i>44 GKMS OP THOUGHT A LOVER'S BALLAD. MARIA JANli JEWSBURY. FKOU "THE AMULET," 1831. She's in my heart, she's in my thoughts. At midnight, iiioni, and noon ; December's snow beholds her there. And there the rose of June. I miver breathe her lovely name When wine and mirth go round, But, oh, the gentle raooulight air Knows well the silver souud ! I care not if a thousand liear When other maids I praise ; I would not have my brother by. When upon her I gaze. The dew were from the lily gone, The gold had lost its shine. If any but my love herself Could he;ir me call her mine ! AND FLOWIillS OK FANOK. 345 THE FORGOTTEN ONE. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. FROM "THE KEEtSAKE," 1831. I HAVE no early flowers to fling O'ei- thy yet earlier grave ; O'er it the moi'ning lark may sing, By it the bright rose wave ; The very night-dew disappears Too soon, as if it spared its tears. Tho\i art forgotten ! — thou, whose feet Were listen'd for like song ! They used to call thy voice so sweet — It did not haunt them long. Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth — How could they bear their lonely hearth ! There is no picture to recall Thy glad and open brow ; No profiled outline on the wall Seems like thy shadow now ; They have not even kept to wear One ringlet of thy golden hair. 2 X 346 GEMS OF THOUGHT When here we shelter'd last appuars But just like yesterday ; It startles me to think that years Since then are past away : The old oak tree that was onr tent, No leaf seems changed, no bough seema rent. A shower in June — a summer shower, Drove us beneath the shade ; A beautiful and gieeiiwood bower The spreading branches made : The rain-drops shine upon the bough, I'he passing rain — but where art thou ? But I forget how many showers Have wash'd this good oak tree. The winter and the summer hours, Since I stood here with thee : And 1 forget how chance a thought Thy memory to my heart has brought. 1 talk of friends who once have wept. As if they still should weep ; I speak of grief that long has sli'i^t, As if it could not sleep : I mourn o'er cold forgetfulness — Have I, myself, forgotten less? I've mingled with the young and fair, Nor thought how thei'e was laid One fair and young as any there, In silence and in shade : How could 1 sec a sweet mouth shine With smiles, and not remember thine ? ANi/ KLO'WKKS ijf FANCY. O-il Ah ! it is well we can forget, Or who would linger on Beneath a sky whose stars are set, On earih whose tiowers are gone ? For who could welcome loved ones near, Thinking of those once far more dear. Our early friends, those of our yoiith i We cannot feel again The earnest love, the simple truth. Which made us such friends then : We grow suspicious, careless, col(i ; We love not as we loved of old. No more a sweet necessity. Love tDiist and will expand. Loved and beloving we must be, With open heart and hand. Which only ask to trust and share The deep ah'eclions which they bear. Our love was of that early time. And now that it is past, It breathes as of a purer clime Than where my lot is cast : Mv eves fill with their sweetest tears In thinking of those early years. It shock'd me first to see the sun lihine gladly o'er thy tomb — To see the wild flowers o'er it run In such luxuria.'it bloom : Now I feel glad that they .-,hould keep A bright sweet watch above thy slet^p. 348 GKMS OF THUL'GHT The heavpii whence thy nature came Oiilv recall'd its own : 'Tis Hope that tiow breathes out thy name, Though borrowing Memory's tone : I feel. this earth could never be The native home of one like thee. Farewell ! the eaily dews that fall Upou thy grass-grown bed Are like thy thoughts that now recall Thine iiuag^' from the dead : A blessing hallows thy dark cell — 1 will not stay to weep. Farewell ! THE TENDER PASSION. EHZABEl'H WII.LbSFOHl) MILLS. FROM "SYBIL LEAVl.S ; POEMS AND SKETCHES." 1826. Thky said I must not sing of love — I threw my lyre away; For oh ! I could not wake one tone Without that dearest lay. 'Twas sti'an'.,'e to bid a woman's heart Forbear its lovelier-t power : They might as well tell Nature's liand It must not rear a flower. AND FLO WICKS OF FANCY. 349 They might as well forbid the sky To give her forms of light, — • Tell forms of light tbey must not shine Upon the clouds of night. The flowerets they are nature's own, And stars the midnight seek ; And Love his sweet untrauquil rose Has thrown on woman's cheek. ' Tis vain to fly from destiny. For all is ruled above ; Nature has flowers, and night iias stars, And woman's heart has love. And if I must not sing of love, Throw, throw the lyre away ; For oh, I cannot wake one tone, Without life's dearest lay. STANZAS. THOMAS K. HEBVEy. FROM " PKIENDSHIt's OFFERING,' 1826. For me — for me, whom all have left, — The lovely, and the dearly loved, — Froru whom the touch of time hath reft Tlie hearts that time had proved, 350 GEMS UF THOUGHT Whose guerdon was — and is — despair, For all I bore — and all I bear ; Why should I linger idly on, Amid the selfish and the cold, A dreamer — when such dream* are gone As those I nursed of old ! Why should the dead tree mock tlie spring, A blighted and a wither'd tLing ! How blest — how blest that home to gain. And slumber in that sootLing csleop. From which we ncsver rise to pain, Nor ever wake to weep ! To win my way from the tempest's roar, And lay me down on the golden shore ! Mr. Hervey w»s born on the banks of the Cart, near Paisley. He is the oldest of his family by his father's second marriage, and was brought to Manchester by his parents wliilst yet an infant. He resided in that town for many years, and served a clerkship to the law. Subse- quently ho resided luid studied two years at Cambridge. He entered at the Bar, and has served (he terms necessary to qualify him for that profeii.-iou, but he was ue\er " called." Mr. Hervey has for some years resided chiefly in Loudon. He was editor of the Atlienceum for a length- ened period, and retired from that office only a few mouths ago, when he v>a3 succeeded by Mr. W. H. Dixon, also a ]yj- inch ester p jet. AND FLOWmiS OP FANCY, 351 I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. THOMAS HOOD, BORN IN LONDON, IN 1798, DIED IN TBE SAME CITY, MAY 3, 1845, BtJRIED IN KENSA.L-GREEN CEMETERY. Well, I confess, I did not guess A simple marriage-vow Would make me find all women-kind Such unkind women now ! They need not, sure, as dhtant be As Java or .Japan, — , Yet every Miss reminds me this — I'm not a single man. Once they made choice of my base voice To share in each duet ; So well I danced, I somehow chanced To stand in every set : They now declare I cannot sing. And dance on Bi-uin's plan : Me draw ! — me paint — me anything ! — I'm not a single man ! 352 «l''i^l« "1^'' THOUGHT Once I was ask'rt advice, and task'd "What works to buy or not, And " would I read that passage out I so admired in Scott ?" They then could bear to hear one read ; » But if I now be^au, How they would snub, "my j^retty page," I'm not a single man ! One used to stitcli a collar then. Another hemm'd a frill : I had more purses netted then Than I could hope to fill. I once coidd get a button on. But now I never can, — My buttons then were bachelor's— I'm not a single man ! Oh, how they hated politics Thrust on me by i)apa : But now my chat— they all leave that To entertain naamma. Mamma, who praises her own self. Instead of Jane or Ann, And lays "her girls" upon the shelf — I'm not a single mau ! Ah me, how strange it is the change, In parlour and in hall, They treat me so, if I but go To make a morning call. If they Had hair in papers once, Bolt up the stairs they ran; AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 3o3 They now sit still in dishabille — I'm not a single man ! Miss Mary Bond was once so fond Of Romans and of Greeks, She daily sought my cabinet, To study my antiques. Well, now she doesn't cai-e a dump For ancient pot or p;m : Her taste at ouce is modernized — I'm not a single man ! My spouse is fond of homely life, And all that sort of thing; I go to balls without my wife. And never wear a ring : And yet each Miss to whom I come As strange as Genghis Khan, Knows by some sign, I can't divine, — I'm not a single man ! Go where I will, I but intrude, I'm left in crowded rooms. Like Zimmerman on Solitude, Or Hervey at his Tombs. From head to heel, they make me feel Of quite another clan : Comp U'd to own, though left alone, I'm not a single man ! Miss Towne the toast, though she can boast A nose of Roman line, Will turn up even that in scorn Of co!iipliinents of mine : 3.H GKMH i)\<' TlldliOlIT She should have seen that I have been Her sex's partisan, And really married all I could — I'm not a single man ! ' Tis hard to see how others fare, Whilst I rejected stand, — Will no one talie my arm because Tiiey cannot have my baud ? Miss Parry, that for some would go A trip to Hindoslan, With me don't care to mount a stair — I'm not a single man ! Some change, of course, should be in force, But surely not so much — There may be hands I may not squeeze, But must I never touch ? — Must I forbear to hand a chair, And not pick up a fan ? But I have been myself pick'd up — .I'm not a single man ! Others may hint a lady's tint Is purest red and white — May say her eyes are like the skies, So very blue and bright, — / must not say that she has eyas, Or if I so began, I have my fears about my ears, — I'm not a single man ! AND FLOWlMiS OF FANCY. 3 •'•'> I must, confess I did not guess A simple raarriage-vow Would make me fiud all women-kind Such unkind women now : — I might be hash'd to death, or smash'd By Mr. Pickford's van, Without, I fear, a single tear — I'm not a single man ! THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. BliVAN WALTER PROCTER. PROM " ENGLISH SONGS.' How many Summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine ? Time, like the winged wind When it bends the flowers. Hath left no mark behind. To count the hours ! Some weight of thought, thoiigli loth. On thee he leaves ; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves ; 3^)0 GEMS OF THOUGHT Some fears,— a soft regret For joys scarce kuowu ; Sweet looks we half forget ;— All else is flown ! Ah ! with what thankless heart 1 mourn and slug ! Look, where our children start, liike sudden spring ! With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme, Tliey tell how much I owe To thee and Time. THE GOLD SEHKl^RS. WALTER R. CASSELS. PROM "EIDOLuN, OR THK OOUKSK OF A SOUL; ANll OTHER POEMS," 1850. Ever onward sweep the Nations, Marchiug with a mighty train. Prince and peisant, youth and maiden, Toiling, straggling o'er Life's plain ; Turning from the land that hore them, From the loving ties of old, AND FLOWERS OP FANCY. 357 Still to wander, weary pilgrims, O'er the wide worM jifti'v j^old. Little reck they of the dangers, Little reck they of the woes, Urged along by strong endeavour, Heedless both of friends and foes : Gazing on the shadow moving At their sides till sun hath set, Ever whispering to their spirit, " Courage ! we will grasp it yet !" Over plain and over mountain, — Rocks their zeal c:in ne'er resist, TTp the rugged heights they clamber Till they perish in i he mist ; Down the steep and pathless hollows Blindly falling as they speed. Calling still with dying accents On their fellows to take heed : Over stream, and trackless ocean. With the storm-cloud hatching nigh, Ever waiting there to thunder At the bidding of the sky : Tossing on the angry billow. Heart and soul beset with fear. Yet with longing all unshaken. Onward tln-niigh the blast they sit'er : 358 GEMS OF THOUGHT Over marsh, and saudy desert, Sinking 'neath the scorching sun, Hopeless, weary, madly thirsting. Slowly dying, one by one : Leaving many a bone to whiten By the wayside, and to tell By mortality's drear tide- marks, How its surges rose and fell : Through the spring, and through the summer, When the flowers are on the lea ; Through the autumn when the blossoms Fade and wither drearily : Through the chill and ghostly winter When the year is in its shroud. And corrujjtiou preys on Nature, Stooping fiercely from its cloud : Through the light and through the darkness, Through the raiu and through the snow, Striving onward without restiug, Seeking gold above, below ; In the earth, and in the water, In the rock, and in the claj'^, Gathering up the saudy beaches, Searching, sifting them away ; Never resting, but with spirits Hagur, breathless to attain, AND FI.OWKHS OF FANCY. 3-')9 Rvemiore they hurry forward To their purpose o'er life's plain ; With their garments waxing olden, And their sandals wearing out. And the sinews growing weaker That once bore them up so stout : Witli the viaion ever dimmer To discern the chei-ish'd prize, Till at length upon his travail, At each step some pilgrim dies ; His glazed eye still feebly turuinec E'en in death unto the goal That yet glimmers far beyond him. The life-haven of his soul. * But a stalwart phalanx presseth Onward still with hearts serene. Strong in faith and steadfast courage, Meeting toil with dauntless mien : Working out their primal mission Through the calm and through the blast, Gathering fitness for the future From the Present, and the Past. Thus enduring, thus pursuing, Foster' d by a mighty hand. Through all dangers of the travel, Come they to the Golden Land ; — 360 GEMS OP THOUGHT Find the treasures they are seeking Richly pour'd into ther breast; Toil and danger ever tinish'd Now they sweetly take their rest ; With the light of priory shining From the Godhead on their souls, Whilst above them the broad banner Of Eternity unrolls. CONFESSION. KOSA. FROM THE " LITERARY GAZETTE. Nay, holy father, conio not near, The secrets of my heart to hear ; For not to mortal ear I tell The griefs that in this bosom swell, The thoughts, the wishes, wild and vain. That wander through this burning brain. Frail fellow-being ! why should I Before ihee kneel imploringly ? 'Twere worse than madness to believe Man can his brother-worm forgive, < »r yield unto the contrite one Tliat pcafo which comes from T-Toa\on alone. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 361 No ! let me spend my vesper hour In commune with a higher Power : The workl shut out, I'll lowly bend To my Almighty Father, Friend ! To Him for mercy I'll appeal. To Him my inmost soul reveal : He knows the heart that He has made, By each alternate passion sway'd, And can forgive it ; for He knows Its wants, its weakness, and its woes. By His protecting pardon blest. How svveetly might I sink to rest. And sleep. His sheltering wing beneath, Though 'twere the last dark sleep of death ! LINES SUGGESTED BY THE SIGHT OF A BEAU- TIFUL STATUE OF A DEAD CHILD, MRS. ALARIC A. WATTS. FROM THE " LITEHARY SOUVENIR," 1831. I SAW thee in thy beauty ! bright phantom of the past ; r saw thee for a moment — twas the first time and the last; And though years since then have glided by of mingled bliss and cai'e, I never have forgotten thoe, tlion fairest of the fair ! Y 3(i2 OEMS OF THOUGHT I saw thee in thy hfvu'^y ' i^'ioii wort graceful as the fawn, When, in vory wautouness of glee, it sports upon the lawn ; I saw thee seek the mirror, and when it met tliy sight, The very air was luusical with thy hurst of wild delight ! I saw thee in thy beauty ' with thy sister by thy side — She a lily of the valley, thou a rose in all its pride ! I look'd upon thy mother — thei'e was truunph in her eyes, And 1 trembled for her happiness — for grief had made me wise ! I saw theo in thy beauty, with one linnd among her curls — The other, with no gentle grasp, had seized a strint!ii>i- or tlie child. I saw thee in thj' beauty ! and a tear came to mine eye, As I presw'd thy rosy cheek to mine, and thoiight even thou could'st die ! Thy home was like a summer bower, by thy joyous pre- sence made ; But I onlv rdii- th(> sunshini', and T fdl alone the shade ! T see thee in thy beauty I for there thou seem'st to lie In slumber resting peacefully ; but, oti ! the change of eye That still si-reiiity of brow — thosi^ lips that breathe no more, Proclaim thee but a mocki ry fair of what thou wert of yore. 9i' AND FLoWKIIS OF FANCY.'* 'Ad'S I see thee in thy beauty ! with thy waving hair at rest, And tby busy little tiiigers folded lighfiy on thy breast : But thy merry dance is over, and thy little race is rim ; And the mirror that reflected two, can now give back but one. I see thee in thy beauty ! with thy mother by thy side — But her loveliness is faded, and qnell'd her glance of pride ; The smile is absent from her lip, and absent are the pearls. And a cap, almost of widowhood, conceals her envied curls. 1 see thee in thy beauty ! as 1 saw thee on that day — But the mirth that gladden' d then thy home, tied with thy life away : I see thee lying motionless upon the accustom'd tioor — But my heart hath blinded both mine eyea^-and 1 can ;-e« no more ! TO MY DAUGHTER, ON HER BIRTH-DAY. JOHN BALL. FROM " THE FESTIVE WREATH," 184'2. Hope of the future, pledge of promise past ! Of Love's choice gifts, the loveliest and the last ; For thee 1 string my lowly lyre again. And hail thy uatal day with soul-pour'd-straiu. 364 ^ GEMS OF XliOUGllT How foudiy hatli youug Time, with golden wing, Fann'd thy biiglit form, as zephyr fans the spring ! And brought each bursting beauty into birth, Like flowers that bloom to bless God's beauteons earth No touch of sorrow, and no trace of blight, Have left their impress on thy brow of light ; But losy health hath rounded thy fair face. With look of innocence, and smile of grace. This added year hath taught thy little feet, With tripping glee, each well-known step to greet. And lisp thy parent's name with warbling word, Sweet as the music of the midnight bird. God-giveii ciiild ! in beauty's form array'd — A folded fiovverot in the lowly glatle — Oh, may tny mind expand each passing hour, In stainless gloi-y, as such wilding flower. This day, to heaven a seraph-wing shall bear A fatiier's blessmg and a mother's prayer ; And oh, may God shed o'er thine every day The light that never fades - pure Virtue's ray ! AXD FLOWERS OF FANCY. JiOO SONG. tUUM THE " REMAINS OF THE LATE REV. CHARLES WuLFB." Go, forget me - why shcjuld sorrow O'er that brow a, shadow fling ? Go, forget me — and to-moi-row Brightly smile and sweetly sing. Smile — though I shall not be near thee ; Sing — though I shall never hear thee May thy soul with pleasure shine Lasting as the gloom of mine. Like the sun, thy presence glowing. Clothes the meanest things in light And when thou, like him, art going, Loveliest objects fade in night. All things look'd so bright about thee, That they nothing seem without thee, By that pure and lucid mind Earthly things were too refined. Go, thou vision wildly gleaming, Softly on my soul that fell : 2 Y 366 GEMS OF TiluiJUliT Go, for me no longer beaming — Hope and Beauty, fare ye well ! Go, and all that once delighted Take, and leave me all benighted, Glory's burning — generons swi 11, Fa'jcy and the poet's shell. TWILIGHT WITH T!!E FAIRIES. EMMA ROBERTS. A FAIRY grot, and a fairy lute, A fairy bark to float over the tide. When the winds are hui?h'd, and the waters mute, And the sun has sunk to his ocean bride. How joyous it is to sit within That elfin cave with its crystal .spars, While the glitti'Hng waves come dancing in. As they catch the light of the gleaming stars ' How joyous to list to the fairy song Winch swells o'er that broad and tranquil sea — While Nereid voices the notes prolong, Wifh their wild and thrilling minstrelsy ! AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 3<)7 Joyous it is iji our fairy boat, When dolphins sport on the trackless main, Like viewless spirits of air to float. And steer to ovir sparry grot again. Joyous it is with the fairy crew To share the feast so daintily spread — To quaff the honied and rainbow'd dew, And sip the perfume from roses shed. Oh ! when will the twilight hour arrive, With its my.stic sounds and its mystic sights ! For who in this dtill cold world would live, When fairy land offers such strange delights ? DEATH AND THE WORLD. MRS. FLETCHER (MARIA JANK JEWSBUKY), DIED OF ASIAl IC CHOLERA, OCTOBER 3, 183.3, WHILST ON HER WAT FROM SHOLAPORE TO BOMBAY. I CALL the world a gay, good world, Of its smiles and bointies free : But Death, alas ! is the king of this world, And he holds a ccrave for me. 368 GEMS OF THOUGHT The world hath gold — it is bright and red ; It hath love, aud the love is sweet ; And pi-aise, like the song of a lovely lute ; — But all these with Death must meet. Death will rust the gold, and the fervid love He will bury beneath dark mould ; And the praise he will jaut in an epitaph, Written on niai'ble cold ! THE NIGHT l»F THE NECKAR. FROM " THE KElirSAKE," FOR 1828. Neckar, night is on thy stream, Have the stars forgot to gleam ? 'Tis the purple month of June, Where has twilight fled so sooa ? Never was a deeper shade On thy wave by winter laid. And the breeze that now was clinging To thy flowers eternal springing ; And the .sound.s that on it stole, Lulling all the sense, the soul : Where are they ? Dark, chill, and strong, Sweeps the sudden gale along. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. .'iGU Neckar, thy pellucirl wave Loved these blossom'd banks to lave ; Liugering, like an infant's play, On its joyous summer way : Now that smooth and silver tide Bursts a turrent wild and wide. Hark ! a fearful melody ! Swells it from the earth, or sky ? Like the sound of troubled sleep, Joy might at its anguish weep ; Yet, as rolls its wondrous flow. Mirth might mingle with the woe. Now upon the waters dance Flashes of the helm and lance; Now emerging shapes are seen, Robed in silk and jewell'd sheen ; Proudly follow'd, on the tide Walk a chieftain and his bride. And upon the river's breast Seems a miglity pile to rest, Rich with sculptures old and quaiut. Gilded martyr, marble saint ; While beneath its copins dim, Sounds of holy chanting* swim. See ! a gleam above them plays ; Now it reddens to a blaze ! From the altar where they kneel Bursts a sudden clas'h of steel : Hark ! the wild, soul -piercing cry Lips can give but once, and die ! 370 GKM.S OF THOUGHT All is still ! In blood and ashes, Seen across the sinking flashes, Leaning on his sabre bare, Stands a figure of despair, He who fired that holy hall : Now he has his vengeance — all ! What is reeking by his side ? Ashes, that were once a bride : What is blackening on the floor ? 'Tis a brother's bosom-gore ! Terrors on his vision rise : Murderer ! tliou hast had thy prize ! As decays the final spark, Forms are flashing through the dark, Shapes of giant fang and liinb : Down he sinks, and all is dim. He is gone ' that parting ban Never came from mortal man ! Ever, till the endless night, Shall the lost one wing liis flight; Forced in tenfold pangs to gaze On the pomp, the blood, the blaze. At the hour the deed was douc, Neckar, while thy stream shall run ! AND FTiOWlOiiS OF FANCY. 371 LORD BYRON'S LAST VERSES. ' Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move : Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love. My days are in the yellow leaf, The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone. The fire that in my bosom prej's Is like to some volcanic isle : No toreb is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile. The hopes, the fears, the jealous care, Tlie exalted portion of the pain. And power of love I cannot share. But wear the chain. But 'tia not here, it is not here. Such thoughts should sliake my soul, nor now- Where glory seals the hero's bier. Or binds his bi-ow. 372 GEMS OF THOUGHT The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece around us see. The Spartan borne upon his shield Was not more free. Awake not Greece ! — she is awake ! Awake my spirit ' — think through whom My life-blood tastes its parent lake — And then strike home. I tread reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood — unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regret thy youth, why live ? The land of honourable death Is here ; up to the field, and give Away thy breath ! Seek out — less often sought than found — A soldier's '.rave for thee is best : Theu look around, and choose thy ground. And take thy rest. Missolonghi, January 22, 1824. On this day I complete mv 36th year. Byiion. AND FI.OWKIJSS OF t^ANCY. 373 A WORD TO THE FEW. MALCOLM Ross. FROM "THE CITY MI'SE." The world is not wholly deserted By man who is frieudly to man ; The feto, we might say, are bad-hearted ; The many do good when they can. Deceit does not walk in our streets Where'er we encounter their thiong, Though the 'evil eye' doubts all it meets— We will think so, although we be wrong. If we prove, in our search for subsistence, To meanness we never can bend. We will find such a one in existence. Perhaps when least look'd foi- — a friend. Abuses lie mostly within. And these are worse, far worse to cure ; Be true to yourself, and you win — Be false, and to lose be as sure. ' Z 374 GEMS OF THOUGHT The spirit of freedom increases As man seeks his welfare in peace ; The moment that jealousy ceases, That moment will comfort increase. Then think not the world is your foe. And if you be arm'd with the right. The wrong you may suffer, well know, Will sooner be bronpjht to the light. THE TWO FOUNTAINS. THOMAS MOOKE. PROM "EVENINGS IN GREECE," 1827. I SAW, from yonrler silent cave, Two fountains running side by side, The one was Memory's limpid wave. The other cold Oblivion's tide. " Oh Love !" said I, in thoughtless dream, As o'er my lips the Lethe pass'd, " Here, in this dark and chilly stream, Be all my pains forgot at last." But who could bear that gloomy blank, Wliere joy was lo.st as well a.s ]iiuii ' Quickly of Memory'.s fount I drank, And brought the past all back a(j,ain ; AND FLOWEUS OF FANCY. 375 And said, "Oli Love ! \vhate"er my lot, Still let this soul to thee be true — Rather than have one bliss forgot, Be all my pains remember'd too !" Thomas Moore was born in Dublin, May 30 (accordiup; to another authority. May 28), 1780; he died February 26, 1852, at Sloperton Cottage, near Devizes, Wiltishire ; and lies interred iu the ueighbouring village chiirchyard of Bi'omhaui. TIME. ANONYMOUS. FROM "HOUSEHOLD WOillJS.' The heart may live a lifetime in an hour, And well embrace A lifetime's energy, and strength, and power, Within that space. W'c do it wrong, Time by one rule to reckon ; For by our state — As our stern feai .s dcLer, or fond hojtes beckon- Should it bear date. 376 GKMS OF THOUGHT A minute's agony appears a day ; Years of delight Seeiu, traced by memory, having pass'd away, Transient as light. With Love Tiuie flies, Hate makes it linger ; Says youth, "Be past!" Age, pomting to its sands with eager finger, Murmurs, " Too fast !" "ECCE HOMO !" (SUGGESTED BY CAKLO DOLCI'S PICTURE.) ISABELLA VABLET (MRS. G. L. BANKS). FHOM " IVY LEAVES," 1844. " EOCE Homo !" Ye who glide, Ii4 Life's state-barge, down Plcasute's tide, Cast your purple robes aside, Lift Wealth's gold-eiiibroider'd veil, Furl soft Luxury's silken sail ; — Look upon tbat forehead pivle, — On that mocking garment's woof. And confess the mute reproof ; — AND PI.OWKRS OF FANCY. 377 Ease outspreads your downy bed, — Where might Jesus rest his head ? For you?' sins a Saviour died, — Erring mortals, vanquish pride ! " Ecce Homo !" Ye who press The tear-steep'd couch of wretchedness, Eack'd with pangs of sad distress, — Ye who tread life's thorny road, Bow'd by misery's weary load. Bleeding 'neath oppression's goad, — Learn to bear, as He hath borne, Wrong, and suffering, aud scorn; — Mark his agonizing throes, Mark his persecuting foes ; Let the Man of Sorrows' pain Murmuring discontent restrain. "Ecce Homo'" Ye who swell With passion's tumult, hard to quell, Hither turn, and rage dispel ; — Ye who, stern of heart and mind, Cherish memories unkind. Seeking vengeance, madly blind, — View Him, injured and oppress' d, W^hile His enemies He bless'd, — View Him, tortured unto death, Blessing with his latest breath ; — And as ye would seek to live. Learn of Jesus to forgive ! 378 CillMS IJI' XHOUGHT 1NFA.N0Y. REV. liUBKliT MuNTiiUMERY. A CHILD boside a niotliei' kneels, W'itU eyed of holy love, Ami fain would lisp the vow it feels To Him enthioned above. Tliat cherub gaze, tliat- stainless bri>\v So exquisitely fair ! Who would not be an infant now. To breathe an infant's prayer ? No sin hath shaded it< young heart, The eye scarce knows a tear ; ' ris brij^ht enougli from earth to part, And grace auotiier sphere ! And I was once a happy thing, Likg that which now I see ; No May-bird, on ccstafic wing. More beautifidly freo : AND FLOWERS OP FANCY. 379 The cloud that bask'd iu noontide glow, The flower that danced and shone — All hues and sounds, above, below, Were joys to feast upon ! Let wisdom smile — I oft forget The colder haunts of men. To hie where infant hearts arc met, And be a child again : To look into the laughing eyes. And see the wild thoughts play, While o'er each cheek a thousand dies Of mirth and meaning stray. Oh ! manhood, could thy spirit kneel Beside that sunny child. As fondly pray, and purely feel. With soul as undefiled — That moment would encircle thee With light and love divine ; Thy gaze might dwell on Deity, And heaven itself bo thine ! 380 GEMS OP THOUGHT THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. You took me,. William, when a girl, into your home and heart, To bear in all your after-fate a fond and faithful part; And tell me have I ever tried that duty to forego, Or pined there was not joy for me when you were sunk in woe ? No : I would rather share your tear than any other's glee. For thougli you're nothing to the world, j'ou're all the world to me. You make a palace of my shed, this rough-hewn bench a throne, There's sunlight for mc in your Hiuiles, and music in your tone ; I look upon you when you sleep — my eyes with tears grow dim, I cry, " Oh Parent of the Poor, look down from heaven on him ; Behold him toil from day to day, exhausting strength and soul ; Uh look with mercy on him, Lord, for thou canst make him whole !" AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 381 And when at last relieving sleep has on my eyelids smiled, How oft are they forbade to close iu slumber by our child? I take the little murmurer that spoils my span of rest, And feel it is a pai-t of thee I lull upon my breast. There's only cue return I crave, I may not need it long. That it may soothe thee when I'm where the wretched feel no wrong : I ask not for a kinder tone, for thou wert ever kind ; I ask not for less frugal fare, my fare I do not mind ; I ask not for attire more gay, — if such as I have got Suffice to make me fair to thee, for more I murmur not. But I would ask some share of hours that you on clubs be- stow, Of knowledge which you prize so much, might I not some- thing know ? Subtract from meetings amongst men each eve an hour for me, Make me companion of your soul, as I may safely be. If yoii will read, I'll sit and work ; then think when you're away, Less tedious I shall find the time, dear William, of your stay. A meet compauion soou I'll be for e'en your studious hours. And teacher of those little ones you call your cottage flowers : And if we be not rich and great, we may be wise and kind, And as my heart can warm your heart, so may my mind your mind. " The above admirable lines, by an American lady, a member of the Society of Friends, lately appeared in the 2 z 382 GKMS OF THUUGHT Sunday Times. Wc. arc told that the poem was found iu the cottage of a tippling gardener iu the United States, and that it had not only won him from the noisy tap-room to his own domestic hearth, but that the judicious distri- bution of this poem in the proper locales did real good, for the argument was understood, and went home to the hearts of every tippling American who either heard or read it." THE NEGRO'S REFLECTION. JOHN JON KS. FKOM " HOME, AND OTHER POEMS," 184). Has the white man, whom our vigour Daily keeps in pomp and state, Aught beyond his pride and rigour, To confirm him truly great ? 0, that I could see some wonder Done by this pretended god ! Can he wake the sleeping thunder, Or restrain it with his nod ? Can his voice control the ocean, When huge billows lash the strand ? — When hills tremble with commotion, Will they cease at his command ? AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 383 When the face of morn is bright'ning Can he quench you fiery star ? — Can his arm arrest the lightning Can it check the atrial war ? Would the flames or waters spare him. More than Afric's sable crew ? — Would the liou pause to tear him, Though he boast a whiter hue ? Is he never prone to sickness, — Does he claim no soothing care ? Is his soul exempt from weakness, — Dwells no imperfection there ? Does he not, like Negroes, startle At the awful frown of death ? — Is his body found immortal, — Does it not resign its breath ? Yes ! he's frail as those he urges ! — Men, who to his yoke conform. Rouse ! — remember when he scourges, That he's but a fellow-worm i ;i84 GEMS OF TITOtJiJIIT LINES ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON, JOHN MALCOLM. FROM " THE BUCCANEER AND OTHEtt POEMS," 1824. He's gone ! the glorious spirit's fled ! Tlie minstrel's strains are hush'd and o'er, And lowly lies the mighty dead Upon a far and foreign shore. Still as the harp o'er Babel's streams, For ever hangs his tuneful lyre, And he, with all his glowing dreams, Quench'd like a meteor's fire ! So sleeps the great, the young, the brave. Of all beneath the circling sun, A muffled shroud — a dungeon-grave— To him — the Bard, remain alone. So, genius, ends thy blazing reign — So mute the music of the tongue, Which pour'd but late the loftiest strain That ever mortal sung. Tut-musiug on his early doom, Methinka for him no tears should be, AND FLOWERS OF FANCY, 385 Above whose bed of rest shall bloom The laurels of eteruity. But oh ! while glory gilds his sleep, How shall the heart its loss forget ? His very fame must bid it weep, His praises wake regret. His memoi'y in the tears of Greece Shall be embalm'd for evermore, And till her tale of troubles cease, His spirit walk her silent shore. There e'eu the winds that wake in sighs, Shall still seem whispering of his name ; And lonely rocks and mouuiains rise His monuments of fame. But where is he ? — ye dead — ye dead, How secret and how silent all ! No voice comes from the narrow bed — No answer from the dreary pall. It hath no tale of future trust. No morning beam, no wakening eye, It only speaks of " dust to dust," Of trees that fall — to lie. " My bark is yet upon the shore," And thine is launched upon the sea. Which eye of man may not explore, Of fathomless Eternity ! Perchance, in some far-future laud We yet may meet — we yet may dwell ; If not, from off this mortal strand, Immortal, fare thee well ! 38G GEMS OF THOUGHT BALLAD. MRS. CHARLES GOEE. He said my brow was fair, 'tis true ; — He said mine eye had stolen its blue From yon ethereal vault above ! Yet still — he uover spake of love. He said my step was light, I own ; He said my voice had won its tone From some wild linnet of the grove ! Yet still — he never spake of love. He said my cheek look'd pale with thought, He said my gentle looks had caught Their modest softness from the dove ! Yet .still — he never spake of love. He said that bright with hopes divine The heart should be to blend with mine ; Fix d where no stormy passions move ! Yet .still — he never spake of love. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 387 He said — but wherefore should I tell Those whisper'd words I loved so well ? Could I reject — could I reprove While still he never spake of love ? THE LOST BRIDE. MRS. FLETCHER (mISS JEWSBURY). Beneath the Indian waters. Where rocks of coral sleep, One of the West's bright daughters Is gone down to the deep. For isles beyond the billow She sail'd in bridal glee, And now she makes her pillow In cold caves of the sea. The couch where she reposes Is many a monster's lair ; And, for wi-eaths of summer roses, The sea-weed wraps her hair ! Bright coral rocks are round her. And where she bleeps are pearls ; But her mother, if she found hei', Would not know her raven curls. i^S «EMS OF THOUGHT Now other ships glide over, Where one as strong went down, Bearing many a youthful rover, Who fear'd no tempest's frown ; With gold and glad hearts laden, A thousand barks may be, Yet bear no brighter maiden Than the one deep in the sea ! ON THE DEATH OF WEBER. J. E. PLAN CHE. Weep ! — for the word is spoken, — Mourn !— for the knell hath knoU'd The master chord is broken, And the master hand is cold ! Romance hath lost her minstrel : No more his magic stiain Shall throw a sweeter spell around The legends of Almaine ! His fame had flown before him To many a foreign land : His lays were .sung by every tongue, And harp'd by every hand. AND FLOWKRS OF FANCY. 38'J He came to cull fi-e.sh lam-els, But Fate was in their breath ; And turu'd his march of triumph Into a dirge of death ! 0, all who knew hiai loved him ! For with his mighty mind He bore himself so meekly — His heart it was so kind ! His wildly-warbling melodies — The storm that round them roll — Are types of the simplicity And grandeur of his soul ! Though years of ceaseless suffering Had worn him to a shade, So patient was his spiiit, No wayward plaint he made. E'en Death himself seem'd loath to scare His victim pure and mild, And stole upon him gently, As slumber o'er a child ! Weep ! — for the word is spoken, — Mourn ! — for the knell hath knoU'd The master chord is broken, The master hand is cold ! 390 GKMS Ol'' THOUGHT YOUTH AND AGE. SAMUEL TATLOK OOLI'RIDGE. B'R )M "THE BIJOU," 1828. Verse, a breeze, mid blossoms straying, Where Hope cliugs feeding like a bee, Both were mine ! Life went a-Mayiug With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was yoiuig ! When 1 was young ? — Ah, woful when ! Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then ! This house of clay not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flash'd along : Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore. On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar. That fear no spite of wide or tide ! Nought cared this body for wind or weather, When Youth and T lived iu't together. Flowers are lovely : Love is flower-liko ; Fi"iendship is a sheltering tree ; O ! the joys that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old ! AND FLOWRRS OF FANCY. 391 Ere I was old ? — Ah, woful ere, Which tells me Yo\ith's uo longer here ! Youth ! for years so many and sweet, ' Tis known that thou and I were one ; I'll think it but a fond conceit — It cannot be tliat thou art gone ! * Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd, And thou wert aye a masker bold ! What strange disguise hast now put on, To make believe that thou art gone ? 1 see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this alter'd size ; But springtide blossoms on thy lips. And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! Life is but thought ; so think I will That Youth and I are housemates still. Dewdrops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve ! Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve. When we are old : That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking leave ; Like some poor nigh-related guest. That may not rudely be dismiss'd, Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile. After the publication of "Youth and Age" in The Bijou, it was much altered and lengthened by the author. These improvements I have adopted from Chambers's Cy- clopedia of English Literature. 392 (4 1- MS OF THOUGHT SATURDAY AFTERNOON. NATHANIEL PAllKKR WILLIS, BoKN AT PORTLAND, IN MAINE, JANUARY 20, 1807. I LuVE to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray ; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, And makes his pulses fly. To catch the thrill of a happy voice. And the light of a pleasant eye. I have walk'd the world for fourscore years, And they say that I am old ; That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, And my years are well-nigh told ; It is very true — it is very true — I'm old, and I "bide my time;" But my heart will leap at a scene like this. And I lialf renew my prime. Play on ' play on ! I am with you there, In tiie midst of your merry ring ; I can feel the thrill of the daiing jump, Anl the rush of the breathless swing. AND KliOWKRS OF FANCY. 393 I hide with you iu the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smother' d call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall. I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go. For the world, at best, is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low ; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail Tn treading its glo.miy way ; Aud it wiles my heart from its dreariness. To see the young so gay. STANZAS. FROM "poems," by WILLIAM STANLEY ROSCOE : 1834. An angel in the realms of day Foi'got her heavenly birth, Irapell'd by Pity's gentle voice To walk the suffering earth. To pour a thousand streams of bliss, — To still the weeping storm, — To fill the vvoi'ld with light and love, — Slie came in Harriet's form ! 3U4 fiEMS OF THOUGHT USE OF PHRENOLOGY. ANONYMOtJS. PROM THE "LITERARY GAZETTE.' Away with all doubt and misgiving, Now lovers must woo by the book — There's an end to all trick and deceiving, No men can be caught by a look. Bright eyes or a love-breeding dimple No longer their witchery fling; That lover indeed must be simple Who yields to so a silly a thing. No more need we fly the bright glances, Whence Cupid shot arrows of yore ; To skulls lot us limit our fancies, And love by the bumps we explore ! Oh, now we can tell in a minute What fate will be ours when we wed ; The heart has no pas.^ion within it That is not engraved on the head. The first time T studied the science With Jane, and I cannot tell how, 'Twas not till the eve of alliance I caught the first glimpse of licr lnow. AND FLOWERS OP FANCY. 395 Casuality finely expancling, The largest I happen'd to see ; Such argument's far too commanding, Thought I, to be practised on me. Then Nancy came next, and each feature As mild as an angel's appears ; I ventured, the sweet little creature, To take a peep over her ears : Destructiveness, terrible omen. Most vilely developed did lie ! (Though, perhaps, it is common in women, And hearts may be all they destroy.) The organ of speech was in Fanny ; I shudder'd, 'twas terribly strong ! Then fled, for I'd rather than any Than that to my wife should belong. I next turn'd my fancy to Mary — She swore she loved nothing but me ; How the look and the index could vary ! For nought but self-love did I see. Locality, slyly betraying In Helen a passion to roam, Spoke such predilection for straying. Thought I — she'll be never at home. Oh ! some were so low in the foreliead, I never could settle my mind ; While others had all that was horrid In terrible swellings behind ! At length 'twas my lot to discover The finest of skulls I believe. 396 GEMS OF THOUGHT To please or to puzzle a lover, That Sj)urzheim or (Jail could conceive. ' Twould take a whole year to decipher The bumps upon Emily's head ; So I said, I will settle for lifo here, Aud study them after we're wed. GOD BLESS YOU ! MKS. KLIZA S. CKAVliN GHEBN. " God bless you " — kind, familiar words ! Before my eyes the letters swim ; For — thrilling nature's holiest chords — j\Iy sight with fond regret grows dim. God bless you ! closes up each page Traced by the well-beloved of yore ; Whose letters still, from youth to age, That fondly-anxious legend bore. I heeded not, in earlier days, The import of that j'earning pi-ayer ; To me 'twas but a kindly phrase, Which household love might freely spare. But now that grief strange power affords, III those love-hallow'd scrolls I find Those earnest, pleading, sacred words. With all life's tenderness entwined. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 397 Now thou art gone, (ah ' dark above Thy gravestone floods the winter rain), And all the old, sweet housfhold love. Fades into memory's silent pain. On earth for me no human heart. Again will breathe those words divine ; But, sainted soul ! where'er thou art, Thy angel-pleading still is mine. SONG. PHOM LODEK's Ol'KIiA, " I'ltANClS THE FIKST." Oh ! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt, Where a child at the feet of my mother I knelt, Where she taught me the prayer, where she read me the page, Which, if infancy lisps, is the solace of age ; My heart, 'mid all changes wherever I roam, Ne'er loses its love for the old house at home. 'Twas not for its splendour that dwelling was dear, 'Twas not that the proud or the noble were near ; O'er the porch the gay wild rose aud woodbine entwined. And the sweet-scented jessamine waved in tlie wind; Yet dearer to me than proud turret or dome Were the halls of my fathers, the old house at h"iiit». 308 GEMS OF THOUGHT But now the old house is no dwelling for lue^ The home of the stranger henceforth it shall be, And ne'er will I view, nor roam as a guest, O'er the evei-green fields which my father possess'd : Yet still in my slumbers sweet visions will come, (){ the days that are pass'd, and the old house at home. ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. LEIGH HUNT, BORN AT SoUTHGATE, IN MIDDLESEX, OCTOBER 19, 1781. Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold ; Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold : And to the presence in the room he said, " Wliat writest thou ?" The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord. Answer' d, " The names of those who love the Lord." " And is mine one ?" said Abou. " Nay, not so ;" Replied tlie angel. Abou spoke more low. But cheei-ly still ; and said, "I pray, thee, tlien. Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." AND FLOWRRS OF FANCY. 3 93 The angel wrote, and vauish'd. The next nis^ht It came again, with a great wakening light. And shew'd the names whom love of God had bless'd. And lo ! Ben Ad hem's name led all the rest. CASTLES IN THE AIR. PAVXD HOLT. PROM "A LAY OP HERO WORSHIP, AND OTHER POEMS," 1850. Delusions in the garb of truth, Idealisms passing fair, Dreams of the hopeful heart of youth, Ye fairy Castles in the Air. How bright and beautiful ye rise. Full beaming on our youthful view, In the glad light of sunny eyes. Ever romantic, "ever new." Ye are the freshness and the bloom Of life, ere life is tinged with sorrow, When there is not one thought of gloom To cloud the prospect of to-morrow. 4(Kj GEJIS OF THOUGHT How fair to youth's glad eyos ye seem, Euchantecl gardeus, fairy bovvers, And ladies' eyes, that softly beam Through casements of the glittering towers. The sun of hope is o'er you playing, All bliTO and cloudless is your sky. Fairies and nymphs are round you straying. And all is redolent of joy. But the cold world its legions sends Of cares and toils and griefs and pains, Before their power your beauty bends. Your ruius strew the atrial plains. Ye pass away, ye pass away, Ye leave tlie spirit cold and dull, And we look round with vain assay For visions of tlie beautiful. And Time, stern Time's relentless hand, Desolates all your airy piido. Like records written in the sand Erased by the advancing tide. Some that it took long years to rear And beautify from moat to tower, Are .itripp'd of glory by a tear, And perish in a single hour. Friendships, affections, early love, Pleasures and fancies bright and fair. Too oft in time's progression prove But baseless castles in the air. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 401 But hearts there are that still keep dreaming, That still retaiu your sweet control, That dwell as in a world of seeming, In very ecstacy of soul : Hearts that go dreaming on through life Amid a cloud of fantasies. Enduring much of pain and strife By stumbling on realities. Such liearts are few, yea, passing few. These dreams in most with youth depart. As the Sim scorches up the dew. Time dulls the freshness of the heart. And manhood comes, and all are gone. All wither'd by its grief and care ; We look around, and see not one Of youth s gay castles in the air. And then a dreary blank succeeds, And we feel lone and empty-hearted. While the sad soul in secret bleeds For fairy happiness depart d. At last there comes a calmer hour, Again the spirit is employ' d. Fantasy is replaced by Power, And wisdom fills the mental void. But "Life hath nothing half so sweet," And Life hath nothing half so fair, In all the after joys we meet, As Youtli'a bright Castles in the Air. 3 A 40J aKMs- OF TIluUGilT LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. i'KKCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, BORN AT FIELD TLACK, SUS6KX, AUGDST 4, 1792, DROWNED BY THK SINKING OF A BOAT IN THE BAY OF SPEZIA, JULY 8, 1822. The fountaius mingle with the river, A nd the river with the oceau ; The winds of heaven mix for ever With a aweet emotion. Nothing in the world is single ; All things, by a law divine, In one another's being mingle, — Why not I with thine See tlic uioiiutains kiss high heaven. And the waves clasp one another; No leaf or flower would be forgiven, If it disdaiu'd to kiss its brother : And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss tlie sea, — What are all these kissings worth If thou kiss not me ? AND FLOWEIiS OF FANCY. I'.l.'i THE PAST AND THE FUTURE. ROBERT SOOTUEY. My days among the dead are pa^t : Around me I behold. Where'er these casnal eyes ai'e cast, The mighty minds of old : My uever-failiug friends are they, With whom 1 converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe ; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been dedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the dead ; with them I live in long-past years ; Their virtue love ; their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears ; And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with a humble mind. 404 GEMS OF THOUGHT My hopes are with the dead ; auon My place with them will be ; Aud I with them shall travel on Through all futurity ; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish with the dust. " The above verses were communicated by the late Poet Laureate to Sir Egerton Brydges. They were intended to be interspersed, with others, in his 'Colloquies on the Progress aud Prospects of Society ;' but this design was abandoned, and they remain a fragment." — /S'crap Book. TITF. ALBATROf-S. GEOROE WILKINSON Oh ! wild is the flight of the Albatross sailing His range mid the skies, over mountain aud wave. Like a spii-it immortal, his might never failing. On wings of creation his God only gave : Through the storm in its wildness. The blackness of uigbt. Or the evening of mildness, Unchanged is his flight ; He reudeth or rides on the clouds through the air, Like the Loril of that untrodden wilderness there. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. -1 Oo Where the red sun in blazing his eye never quails, Nor shrinks from the lightnings the earth tltat hatli riven ; And he mingleth the cry of his wrath as he sails With the thunders that roll through the arches of heaven ; And the hope of the wayward For ever hath fled, When he wails o'er the ocean His knell for the dead, For the waves will not rest, or the wind soften down, While there's fire in his eye, or fear in his frown. Is there aught upon earth like the Albatross ? With a soul as free and fetterless, — With a spirit as wild and uustain'd by the dross Of the world and its kindred wretchedness ? An eye never sleeping. Or dim'd by a tear, A heart never weeping, A breast without fear, That would range fi'om its earth-bed the deep vault whieli lies 'Neath the glory eternal, whose light never dies ? Long life to his wide-spreading pinions be given ! No bound ever cross him mid ocean and sky ; Like the spii-it of freedom descending from heaven. The soul that is noble responds to his cry. Will the blight of creation Ere fall on his plume ? 400 GEMS OF THOUGHT Will the wild breeze waft o'er hi in The breath of the tomb ? Will he die ? who shall not ? be the ocean his bed ! Where the Albatross sleepeth in peace with the dead. THE BATTLE OF NASEBY. h. D. FROM "TAIT'S MAGAZINE." Hard by the source of Avon, When the great heart of June Is full of blood, and beating To Love's most loving tune. A deafening shout of triumph The atmosphere divides ; And lo ! there come with Cromwell Seven hundred "Ironsides." No more about to-morrow Is heard, in doubt and fear ; The victory and the victor Seem both already here. That morrow with its sunshine Upon two armies rose, AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 4U7 Wliose pride lay quench'd and prostrate In blood, before its close. In vain impetuous Rupert Broke wounded Treton's wing ; And vain all loyal valour In presence of the king. For outraged men had gather' d Round England's boldest son — The somewhat more than monarch, The man of Huntingdon ! The sou, an English mother Might well be proud to bear, Who fought the fight of freedom. And conquer'd every ivliere. It was on this high moor-ground, in the centre of Eng- land, that King Charles on the 14th of June, 1645, fought his last battle ; dashed fiercely against the New-Model army, which he had despised, till then ; and saw himself shivered to ruin thereby. ' Prince Rupert, on the King's right, charged up the hill, and carried all before him ;' but Lieutenant-General Cromwell charged down-hill on the other wins:, likewise carrying all before him, — and did not gallop off the field to plunder. Cromwell, ordered thither by the Parliament, had arrived from the Association two days before, ' amid shouts from the whole army :' he had the ordering of the Horse this morning. Prince Rupert, on returning from his plunder, finds the King's Infantry a ruin ; prepares to charge again with the rallied Cavalry ; but the Cavalry too, when it came to the point, ' broke all 408 GICMS OF THOUGHT asunder,'— never to re-assemble more. The chase went through Harborough ; where the King had already been that moniiug. when iu an evil liour he turned back, to re- venge some surprise of an outpost at Naseby the night before,' and gave the Rouudheads battle. The Parliamentary Army stood ranged on the height Fitill partly called Mill Hill, as in Rushworth's time, a mile and a half from Naseby ; the King's Army on a par- allel Hill, its back to HarbcJrough, with the wide table of upland now named Broad Moor between them ; where in- deed the main brunt of the action still clearly enough shows itself to have been. There are hollow spots, of a rank vegetation, scattered over that Broad Moor ; which are understood to have once been burial mounds ; some of whicli have been (with more or less of sacrilege) verified as such. A friend of mi le has iu his cabinet two ancient grindei'-teeth, dug lately from that ground, and waits for an opportunity to i-e-bury them there. Sound effectual grinders, one of them very large, which ate their breidcfast on the fourtee ith moi-uin-c of Juno two hundred years ago, and, except to b^' clenched once in grim battle, had never work to do more in this world ! — Thomas Cviu.Yr.K. AND FLOWRRS OF FANOY. 40i) TREES. ANONYMOUS, Ye bless the earth with beauty. Laughs not spring To see youi' emerald leaves peep from the night Of their dark wintry cells, into the light Of the war Ji gleaming san^hine ? Trees, you bring. Over the deserts of far seas, the wing Of many a sweet-voiced bird, whose weary flight From you, was taken ere the snow lay white Upon your leafless branches. How they sing ! What gushes of delight they pour around. When once again, within their siimmer home, They smooth their ruffled plumage ! Oft the sound Of your green, murmuring boughs, the Vinds, that roam The wide earth, love to wake My blessing be On him who plants upon the earth a tree. 2 ti 4 i GEMS OF THOUCJHT THE M\iN OK HKREAFTER. PIERKE-JEAN DE BERANOER. TRANSLATEn BY HKNRY GLASSyoRD BELL. BEllANGER WAS BORN IN PARIS, AUGDST 19, 1780. They'll talk of his glory for many a day, Our children will name him when we are away ; No shory but his will the cottage contain, And the peasant will tell it again and again. At night, round their grandame the young will be found — "Speak of him," they will say. "for there's joy in the sound : Speak of him, for yon lived ere his bright star had set, And, mother, his country is proud of him yet." " My children, he jiass'd, many long years ago. Through this village of ours : — twas a beautiful show To see him surrounded by princes and kings. Who were glad in those days to come under his wings ; He wore a small hat and a mantle of gray. And, seeing me gazing, he bade me ' good day ;' — T trembled — ' ^ond day, my dear,' said he again. " He spoke to you. mother —he spoke to you, then ?" AND FLOWERS OF FANCY, 41 i " Next year 'twas my fortune at Paris to see For him the whole nation hold gay jubilee ; Heaven gave him a son, and he came forth elate To pledge at the altar his son to the state ; His queen, and his court, and all Europe were there, And shouts of ' God bless him !' made joyful the air ; He bow'd to the people, and smiled to his queen" — " We envy you, mother, that day and that scene !" " But war came again, and our troops seem'd to yield, Although he at their head, as of old, took the field ; < )ne night some one knock'd, and I open'd the door — Holy saints ! 'twas himself who walk'd over the floor : His escort was small — he seem"d troubled and worn, But still on his brow there was triumph and scorn ; He sat himself down in that old oaken chair" — " Ha ! mother, say ou ! did the hero sit there ?" •' I am hungry !" he cried ; " so the table I spread, And gave all I had, some weak wine and brown bread ; He dried his wet clothes, then grew drowsy and slept — I sat in a corner the whole night and wept ; Starting up at the dawning, he call'd out - 'Advance ! Under Paris we yet shall seek vengeance for France !' The cup that he drank from was homely and old'' — " You still have it, mother— a relic worth gold I" " A relic, indeed ! But he went to his ruin. That crown Which a pope had thrice bless'd, from his proud head fell down : Far away on a rock it was said that he died, But France on her love and his greatness relied ; -i I 2 GEMS OF THOUGHT For many a day we believed he would come — He was deep in our hearts — we were watchful and dumb ; But he never retnrn'd, and our tears flow'd at la^-t.'" " God blesses the tears, mother, shed for the pa«t !" MOONLIGHT. ROBEIIT ROSE, A WEST INDIAN OV COLOUR, DIKD .TUNIC 19, 1849, AUED 43 YKAHS. Oh ! could I keep my spirits to this flow, And from the world and all its jar recede ! The noisy I'evel, where danced smiling Woe, That made the hearts of Pleasure's victiniR bleed, H;is vanish'd from the silent noon of night ; .'.nd now I feel, beneath the placid moon. As if an angel would direct my flight Up to yon sparkling realms : and oh, how soon Eiu-h wayward passion-wave has simk to rest, As if the time weie come, when to yon home H. mns of enfranchised saint.s announced me blo.^t, — • As if, though not death freed, there I might roaiu,- But no ! a thing of clay — the zephyrs near Jlemind my sense, my soul is prison'd here. AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. 413 KING EDWARD. ROBERT ROSE, THE BARD OF COLOUR. FROM THE "MONTHLY MAGAZINE." King Edward march'd to Scotia bold, Id pomp aud pride of war. With banners to the wiud unroU'd, He moved, — a baleful star ; And like a lion in liis might, He i-ush"d unto the deadly fight. Great Solway's billows kiss'd his feet ; The plumed troop around Heard not its murmuring echoes sweet, Drowu'd in the battle's sound. Amid the cannon's thundering din, Where Deaf.h did the chief triumph win. Hundreds of stern, courageous men Gasp'd 'neath his iron sway ; There, life's brief " threescore years and ten," /'inticipated they, — Biting the dust, mid parents' moans, Aud widows' tears, and orphans' groans. 414 GEMS OF THOUGHT There he, — the valiant, great, and proiul King Edward found his grave, — Thy sand, fair Solway, was his shroud, His death-dirge sang thy wave. One man's ambition slew an host, — Oh, God ! — yet lie was mouru'd the most. TO THE STORM. ROBERT KOSE. Thou mov'st while Nature rocks beneath thy sway, All fetterless aud furious on tiiy way ; At the commotion of the boiling deep The mariner from ocean-cradled sleep Is startled, at the cold dark dead of night, While ftxroff friends nmse on hnn in atfriL'ht ; And yet hope cheers him on — stej;n joy is there, Tiie might of mountain-waves in wrath to > are. I pify more the wanderer, on shore, Unfriended, shivering at the rich man's door. Who hears the noise of merriment within, Rivalling the storm nnnily in its din ; Who, in his wretchedness, no kind one nigh. Groans in deep anguish, and then turns— to die. AND FLOWERS <3P FANCY, 415 MORNING. ROBEllT ROSE. FiMJM "THE CHAPLI';T," 1.S41. Weeping in dew-drops for the sun's delay, Mark yon fair flower reclining in tlie shade : But morn's waked eye-lids fling a lustre gay O'er its coy beauty, type of modest maid. Aurora trippeth o'er the velvet lawn, To nature's God ascends the matin lay. O'er verdant pastures speeds the playful fawn. And gladly hails the mantling blush of day ; Man is as joyous in hope's happy hour, Ere furrow'd is his brow by care or age ; His opening lot like yon fresh budding flower, His fancies pictured on life's golden page : Lo ! now the day-king uioun's in glory bright, And all things waking spring to life and light. It is worthy of remark, that Robert Rose was the first, and for some time the only person, who bought a copy of "Festus," when that wonderful poem was published in Manchester. The printer of the book was a curious cha - racter, and when informed of the tardy sale, he sought out the purchaser, and congratulated him on his superior and singular taste. 41G GKMS OF THOUGHT ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT. REY. WILLIAM O. B. PEABODT, BOUN AT BXETKR, NEW HAMPSHIRE, IN 1799. And this is death ? how cold and still, And yet how lovely it appears ; Too cold to let the gazer smile, But far too beautiful for tears. The sparkling eye no more ia bright, The cheek hath lost its rose-like red ; And yet it ia with strange delight I stand and gaze upon the dead. But when I see the fair wide brow, Half shaded by tlie silken hair, That never look'd so fair as now, When life and health were lai ghing there, I wonder not that grief should swoU So wildly upward in the brea^'t•. And that strong passion once rebel Tliat need not, cannot be suppress d. AND FLO WEBS OF FANCY. 417 I wouder not thac parents' eyes, In gazing thus, grow cold and dim, That burning tears and aching sighs Are blended with the funeral hymn : The spirit hath an earthly part. That weeps when earthly pleasure flies ; And heaven would scorn the frozen heart That melts not when the infant dies. And yet why mourn ? That deep repose Shall never more be broke by pain ; Those lips no more in sighs unclose ; Those eyes shall never weep again. For think not that the blushing flower Shall wither in the churchyard sod ; 'Twas made to gild an angel's bower Within the paradise of God. Once more I gaze — and swift and far, The clouds of death and sori-ow tly, I see thee, like a new-born star, Move up thy pathway in the sky : The star hath rays serene and bright, But cold and pale compared with thine ; For thy orb shines with heavenly light, With beams unfailing and divine. Then let the burthen'd heart be free, The tears of sorrow all be shed, And parents calmly bend to see The mournful beauty of the dead ; 2 c 418 GEMS OF THOUGHT Thrice happy, that their infant bears To heaven no darkening stains of sin ; And only breathed life's morning airs Before its evening storms begin. Farewell ! I shall not soon forget ! Although thy heart hath ceased to beat, My memory warmly treasures yet Thy features calm and mildly sweet. But no ; that look is not the last ; We yet may meet where seraph-s dwell, Where love no more deplores the past, Nor breathes that withering word — farewell ! THE PILGRIM CHILD. ANONYMOUS. A BTRANGER child, oue winter eve, Knock'd at a cottage maiden's door ; " A pilgrim at your hearth receive — Hark ! how the mountain-torrents roar !" But ere the latch was raised, " Forbear !" Cried the pale parent from above ; " The Pilgrim child that's weeping there. Is Love !" AND FL0W1SR;S oF FAi\X'Y, 419 The Spring tide came, and once again, With garlands crown' d, a laughing child Knock'd at the maiden's casement pane, And whisper'd " Let me in," and smiled. The casement soon was open'd wide — The stars shone bright the bower above ; And lo ! the maidens couch be.-side Stood Love ! And smiles, and sighs, and kisses sweet. Beguiled brief Summer's careless hours ; And Autumn, Labour's sons to greet, Came forth with corn, and fruit, and flowers But why grew pale her cheek with grief ? Why watch'd she the bright stars above ? Some one had stolen her heart — the thief Was Love ! And Winter came, and holies and fears Alternate swell'd her virgin breast ; But none were there to dry her tear^, Or hush her anxious cares to rest. And often as she ope'd the door, Roar'd the wild torrent from above ; But never to her cottage more Came Love ! 4 20 GEMS OF THOUGHT HAD I THE TUN WHICH BACCHUS USED. Had I the tun which Bacchus used, I'd sit on it all day ; For, while a can it ne'er refused, He nothing had to pay. I'd tain the cock from morn to eve, Nor think it toil or trouble ; But I'd contrive, you may believe. To make it carry double. My friend should sit, as well as I, And take a jovial pot ; For he who drinks— although he's dry— - Alone, is sure a sot. But since the tun which F^acchus used We have not here— what then ? Since god-like toping is refused, Let's drink like honest men. AISTD FLOWKR8 OF FANCY. 4l'l And let that ciiurl. old Bacchus, sit — Who envies him his wine? While mortal fellowship and wit Make whiskey more divine. 'i'hp. above sonsr, one almost worthy of Anacreon him- self, is from Mr. Crofton Crokers, "Popular Songs of Tre- Innd." Tt is the production of the late Richai-d Alfred Milliken, of Cork. %* The followiu<,' is the last verse of •' The Bucket." omitted at page 103. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips ! Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-cover'd bucket which hangs in the well. 3 C 422 GEMS OF THOUGHT A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES. MKS. HEMANS. Blkssings be round it still ! — that gleaming fane, Low in its mountain-glen ! — old mossy trees Narrow the sunshine through the un tinted pane, And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze, The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas, Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone, There meets the voice of psalms ; — yet not alone For mansions lulling to the heart as these, I bless thee midst thj^ rocks, grey house of pra\ or ! But for their sakes that unto thee repair From the hill-cabins and the ocean shore : Oh ' may the fisher and the monntainiier Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear, Within thy lowly walls for evermore ! AND FLOWKKS <)l'' FANCY. 423 THE PARROT. A DOMESTIC ANECDOTE. THOMAS CAMPBELL. FROM THE "NEW MONTUIA' MAGAZINE." The deep affections of the breast, That heaven to living things imparts, Are not exclusively possess' By human hearts. A parrot from the Spanish main, Full young and early caged came o'er, With bright wings to the bleak domain Of MuUa's shore. To spicy groves where he had won His plumage of resplendent hue, His native fruits, and skies, and sun, He bade adieu ! For these he changed the smoke of turf — A heathery land and misty sky. And turn'd on rocks and raging siu-f H'.^ golden eye. ■124 GEMS OF THOUlUlT But petted in om- climate cold He lived and cltattei-'d many a day ; Until with age, from green and gold, His wings grew grey. At last, wlien blind and seeming dumb, He scolded, laugh' d, and spoke no more, A Spanish stranger chanced to come To MuUa's shore. He liail'd the bird in Spanish speech ; The bird in Spanish speech replied ; Flapp'd round his cage with joyous speech, Dropp'd down and died. This incident, so strongly illustrating the power of me- mory, of association in the lower animals, is not a fiction. The author heard a many years ago in the Inland of Mull, from the family to whom the bird belonged. STANZAS. JOHN KEATS, BORN IN LONDON, OCTOBER 29, 179;!, !>li;u AT i:i;MK, IIKCKMHEU 27, 18'20. In a drear-nighted Decembei-, Too liappy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity : AND FLOWERS OF FANCY. i^i^ The uorth cannot undo them, With a sleety whistle through them ; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime. In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook. Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look ; But with a sweet forgetting. They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time. Ah ! would 'twere so with many A gentle boy and girl ! But where there ever any Writhed not at passed joy ? To know the change and feel it, V\'hen there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steel it, Was never said in rhyme. 12C> GEMS OF THOUGHT THE VOICE OF CHRISTMAS. Wvitten after hearins the church bells ring the Old Year's knell, ami the New Year's welcDine. Bl' THL KiJU'OU. What music wakes the midnight air ? The voice of mirth— the tongue of prayer ; What mean those sounds so blithely given ? They speak of earth, remind of heaven. They breathe the warning breathed of ohl To thoughtless hearts now wrapp'd in mould ; The truth, forgot as soon as told, That time with life resistless flies — Earth's meteor shooting to the skies ' They tell the tale that daunts the brave— Another year salutes the grave ; And youth and age, and hope and fear. Are crush'd, for death has triumph'd here. Yet Joy laughs loudly o'er the bier. And mocks the mourner and the tear : ^ " Why do ye droop, by grief disinay'd ? CoDie forth, the sun shall gild the shade AND FLOWKitS Vi-' FANCY. 4-2i Ami hope reveal her beauteoiis form, Bluss'd rainbow of the mental storm ; Why do ye weep for pleasures flown ? Lo ! here I reign, and Joy's your own ; Let music thrill through festive hall, And fairy feet like whispers fall." And why, in truth, should bright eyes weep For treasures buried in the deep ? Oi- why those earth-ties fruitless mourn That never can to earth return ? Thus reason's philosophic power Would pluck the sting from sorrow's hour ; Would banish with convincing tone, The sigh that spring's unheard, unknown ; But reason yields to nature's aim. And thought to feeling's stronger claim. Thus fitful, like some wandering bird, Or whispering leaf, by soft winds stirr'd, The Voice of Christmas will be heard. Hail, misletoe ! bless'd emblem fair. Thy presence seals the death of care ; How sweet thy fate, to charm the yoviug, And bloom an evergreen in song. For, time long past, the druid bard High held thee in hie soul's regard ; Still in our own more polish'd day, Thou minglest with the poet's lay ; And ages hence the minstrel choir Shall laud thee with celestial fire, Pure touchstone of the heart and lyre ! Yes. whilst the mind can deeply feel. Thus will the harp deep thoughts reveal ; 428 GEMS OF THOUGHT. Despite the change of scene or clime, Despite thy envious touch, old Time. Ye fairy elves, with gladsome brow, Who trip it 'neath the sacred Dough ; Ye amorous youths, with graceful mien, Who mingle in that aylph-like scene ; May thus your hours, ye fair, ye brave, Flow changeless as the ocean wave. Nor catch one shadow from the grave ! But should you mark the vacant chair. And memory, battling with decay, Triumphing over death's stern sway, Bring back some once-loved image there, — Let not your bliss be dash'd with fear. Nor dim your bright eyes with a tear ; The dead beneath the crumbling mould, Are stored like vmforgotten gold ; They wear, 'tis hoped, their heavenly gem. And Christmas fondly speaks of them. Whene'er my towering soul, at last, From this frail tenement hath pass'd, From time into eternity. Say, Christmas, wilt thou speak of me ? FIN/S. W. F. Pratt, Stokcsliy, Yorkshire. 1 his book IS DUh, on the last date stamped below. illH. LD»URl 7taK ^ upwK 10M-11-50(2555)470 REMINGTON RAND - 20 3 1158 00560 062 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL UBRARY^FAQLIT^^^^ AA 000 297 944 l PR 1175 P9Ug