'^Mm^m^^Md Ih'W*'. THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES THE WEDDING BELLS, OTHER POEMS. LONDON : GEORGE WOOD FALL AND SON, ANGEL COURT, SKINNER STREET. THE WEDDING BELLS; OTHER POEMS. THE REV. GODFREY EVERTH, M.A. VICAR OF CHRISHALL, ESSEX. " neque adhuc Varo videor nee dicere C'inna Digna." Virgil. Eel. ix. 35. LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 1849. TO MRS. BENYON, OF CULFORD HALL, IN THE COUNTY OF SUFFOLK, THE FOLLOWING POEMS ARE WITH THE SINCEREST ESTEEM AND REGARD INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. PAGE The Wedding Bells 1 The Cavalier 95 to an early bluebottle 100 To Memory 103 Lines .104 The Emigrant's Farewell 105 Lines 108 The First Rose of Summer 109 Lines 110 Lines Ill Lines 112 Lines (written on hearing a young lady sing " The Little Plough- boy") 113 Lines 115 To Time 116 Lines 118 Ma Colleen dthas crootheen nameoe 119 On a Drop of Ink 121 To-MoRROW 123 To a Quakeress 125 To THE Swallow 126 LoTE 128 Vlll CONTENTS. PAGE The Two Doves 130 Lines 136 MiSTHER O'DowD 137 Lines 1,40 Lines 141 Lines . 143 Lines 145 Lines 146 On an Infant 147 Lines 148 Lines 150 Lines . 151 Lines 153 Lines 155 Lines 156 Lines 157 Sonnets 159 To Faith 179 To Hope 181 To Charity 183 Lines 186 Lines 187 Lines 188 Lines 190 Lines 192 Lines 194 Lines 196 THE WEDDING BELLS. " Hi motus animorum, atque hac certamina tanta, Pulveris exigui jactu compressa quiescunt." ViRG. GrEORG. iv. I. Listen ! it is the chime of wedding bells, That comes through th' intervening woods at ev'n Scarce heard ; and, with alternate falls and swells, Vibrates and floats amid the azure Heav'n. How musical ! and what a tale it tells Of nuptial promises received and giv'n ; Glad hearts, and glowing smiles, and dancing eyes, Extatic hopes, and airy gaieties. II. Alas ! the very bell that now spreads wide A tale of joy and triumph, soon shall tell A different stoiy of the selfsame Bride. The marriage-lay and death-strain in that bell ; The merry peal and dolorous toll abide. There 's rapture now in every fall and swell ; There 's anguish, grief, and woe in every toll That soon shall sound o'er the departing soul. B THE WEDDING BELLS. III. How doth the fancy, the wild truant, play, And, like th' Italian vision in the sky*, Behold the pleasures of the wedding-day ! — Its festival, and joy, and harmony ; Its lively dance, and jests, and bright array ; Its gay attendance in the livery Of love ; relations, friends, and comrades pressing Around with gratulation, gift, and blessing. IV. How doth she trace the nuptial train and bride Keturning from the church o'er scattered roses ! As, with a blushing face that turns aside To look on friends, she bashfully composes Her downcast eye, and checks her maiden pride. Whilst he, as the sweet ceremony closes, Steals from her lip the first consenting kiss, That seals her only, and for ever, his. V. How happy she appear 'd ! for 'twas a place And hour to make the brightest yet more bright. The virgin modesty that rosed her face Was kindling with the brilliance of delight : Yet, with the prettiest struggle full of grace, Kepress'd the joy that was too infinite To be conceal'd, but would escape, and fly In sun-gleam glances from her tell-tale eye. * The Fata Morgana. THE WEDDING BELLS. VI. The tremulous motion of her lips betray 'd The smile within, whilst they no smile might wear ; Yet, the half-check'd expression warmly play'd Around their dimpling corners sweetly fail'. 'Twas bashfulness delay 'd, and scarce delay 'd The laughter lurking so divinely there ; Or, catching some congratulating face, Shining bewitchiugly in all its grace. VII. In every movement, every look there reign 'd A hesitating loveliness, that spoke Of happiness deep-felt and scarce restrain'd. That still, by turns, o'er every feature woke. Now on her cheek the blushing joy remain'd ; Now lay upon her lip ; now richly broke, Like morning, from her upraised eye, that hid, Too soon, the light with its too modest lid. VIII. Oh ! could the rapture of that joyous hour For ever last, and those bells ring for ever ! But e'en in bliss regret asserts her pow'r, For there be dear ones yet from whom to sever. Beetles as well as birds are in the bow'r. Her eyelid yet hath with a tear to quiver. And, ere the glad peal of that merry bell Be o'er, intrudes that saddening word — farewell. B 2 4 THE WEDDING BELLS. IX. Farewell ! The carriage hides the married pair. More tears than smiles she hurries from her home, And the glad Bridegroom's first and earliest care Is his Bride's tears to brush off as they roam. And so a twisted chain well link'd they bear Of sweets and sorrows, as across the foam They pass, to wander out the honey-moon — That little month, which glides away too soon ! X. The Alps are visited, or th' Apennine ; The great Saint Bernard, stopping scarce to view it ; And where the Carthaginian turn'd the wine Of half the world to vinegar, and threw it In torrents o'er the rocks, perchance they dine, Admiring what a formidable cruet Was Hannibal's, but not that he look'd sour On Lombardy, seen from his Alpine tow'r. XI. Careless meanwhile though o'er the Cottian side* Of th' Alps he pass'd, or over the Pennine, They pause, in fancy, to behold the pride Of the long march, as the laborious line * There have been hot disputes amongst critics respecting the point at which Hannibal descended the Alps. Livy says it was on the Cottian — Polybius on the Pennine side. This has employed the pen of learned writers, and I know not whether the contention is decided yet. THE WEDDING BELLS. Climbs the huge mountain-fastnesses, untry'd Before of man ; or argue, as they dine, Upon his fate, descending from on high. To gain: five battles, and to lose an eye*. XII. The stem relentless enemy that swore, E'en in his infancy, eternal hate, And deadly enmity to all that bore The Roman name, came now, led on by Fate, To quench his hot indignant wrath in gore, And shake the pillars of that haughty state. That he would from their bases tear, although Himself were crush'd amid the overthrow. XIII. Down like a tempest from the Alps he pour'd His force upon the devastated plain. Insatiate Slaughter, with her bosom gored. Cheer 'd on the van, and Slaveiy clank'd his chain. Whilst watchfully the hungry vulture soar'd Above, or stoop'd to gorge upon the slain. And still, where'er his foot had pass'd or stood, Or sandal press'd, their prints remain'd in blood. * The battles of the Ticinus, Trebia, Thrasymene, the battle against M. Mercurius Rufus, near Geryon, and Cannae. THE WEDDING BELLS. XIV. And surely Rome, the terrible and stern, Had cause to quail before his angry eye, Who slew her captains, made her consuls turn To flight, and scatter'd her best chivalry. Beholding, too, her strongholds yield or burn ; Her genius quell'd, and the Numidian nigh Her very senate house and sacred fane : And her own Jove his thunders grasp in vain. XV. E'en Rome herself perceiving all at stake, Her sun in blood descending to its set ; The rout at Thrasymene's deadly lake ; And Cannae's carnage more abundant yet — E'en Rome, who would not bend and could not shake. Might still a space her conquering pride forget. And learn an humbling lesson. — But her fate Was not to fall, for envy kept her great. XVI. Yes, 'twas the envious factions of Carthage, As much as her own energy and pow'r. That saved imperial Rome, and, ere that age Had pass'd, brought on th' exterminating hour, When Scipio's valour, and the Legion's rage, O'erthrew the rival city, temple and tow'r Levelling, and overwhelming in the fall, Th' ignoble herd that crippled Hannibal. THE WEDDING BELLS. XVII. It was their niggard malice, and their hate, That perill'd all things, so they might betray The man they fear'd because he was so great ; That, after Thrasymene's slaughtering day, Tum'd Hannibal from the triumphal gate, E'en on the point to climb the sacred way. And mount the Capitol, and proudly doom His conquer 'd slaves, and fix the fate of Rome. XVIII. But for that factious enmity, in spite Of the Dictator's courage, or delay. The toweling eagle from her haughty flight Had headlong fall'n. But of his full array Defrauded, with the will and wish to fight. Thwarted and check'd at home, chafing he lay Inactive, when he could have moved so well. Rome rallied and suiwived, and Carthage fell. XIX. So to Mont Blanc, that giant mountain high, In whose bleak lap, 'mid stonns and tempests fell, Was nui'sed the hardy infant Liberty. And, from her rocky cradle snatch'd by Tell, Baptized at Kusnacht, and, with purpose high, Confirm'd at Nancy, she long loved to dwell In the Helvetian fastnesses, and roam With the bold Switzer o'er his mountain home. THE WEDDING BELLS. And thus from scene to scene following their guide, Tracing the steps of Coxe, or Addison, And twenty thousand travellers beside, They wander till the nuptial tour be done, But linger at Lausanne, where Gibbon vied With Tacitus and Livy, and outrun Their glories on the glorious Leman lake. Then through belle France their homeward journey take. XXT. Thrice happy Gibbon, having at thy call, Familiarly, the sages of old days, Catching the wealth their gracious lips let fall. Like the sweet juice that in the summer rays From the ripe grape exudes ; and still from all Winning th' aroma of their learned lays, And kneading it to honey rich and rare — Oh ! had no lingering Iron intruded there ! XXII. Thrice happy in thy little paradise. That o'er the beauties of the Leman lake Open'd a brilliant prospect to thine eyes ! How, many a heart hath ached, and still shall ache, T' obtain what Fortune to so few supplies, And yet supplied to thee, the pow'r to take Thy course as Fancy her fair colours spread, And follow where thy native genius led. THE WEDDING BELLS. ij XXIII. No livelihood to earn, no chain to wear, No daily toil of body or of brain. Whose necessary, dull, recurring care. Still from the loved pursuit, the loved in vain, Drags the unwilling mind to bend, and bear The hated taskwork, the accustom'd bane Of life, whose slow sad friction, day by day, The spirit breaks, and eats the heart away. XXIV. No fears lest one short hour of flowers and fruit, Stoln from the torment of the blistering oar, And giv n to the one darling, dear pursuit, That Nature's self had strengthen'd in thy core — No matter what, the pencil, pen, or lute — And long restraint had made thee love the more. Should its own punishment too duly bear ; And the brief pleasure bring a length of care. XXV. And oh ! how difficult it is, whene'er The natural yearning swells, to tear aside The thoughts from that fair theme, that seems to bear The heart upon its wings ; and though denied. Rejected, silenced, still returns to share The mind with a glad smile, which who could chide. And not indulge ? 'Tis so bewitching sweet, The sourest Stoic could find no retreat. B 3 10 THE WEDDING BELLS. XXVI. Oh ! it is sad to see a brilliant mind, Bright with the flame of genius and of wit, To uncongenial drudgery confined, Blunted, and broken by pursuits unfit. Tis in the shafts o' the heavy wain to bind The generous Arab that scarce owns the bit ; Wringing his noble limbs, and graceful heel, Strain'd by the sore weight of the lumbering wheel. XXVII. But, when wealth is not thus profusely shed, Happy ! who hath his heart in his profession, And loves the labour that supplies his bread, His application bringing no depression ; Being with no sick hesitation wed ; Link'd to no slow and sluggish retrogression ; But cheerfully commenced, continued steadily, Ended unwearied, or resumed as readily. XXVI IT. His daily work to him is daily pleasure. Keeping his body in its vigour still. And his mind occupying in due measure. All his pursuit hath, or of art or skill, Exciting him in labour, as in leisure, Sufficiently, and not beyond his will. He 's like a ready lute, whose tuned strings be Always prepared for song and harmony. THE WEDDING BELLS. 11 xxrx. Thrice happy Gibbon, as the denizen Of this vain world, having thy wish and way ; An ample competence, an eloquent pen, Thy wiitings praised, thy conversation gay. Or grave repeated, sought, admired by men. But oh ! unhappy though all these, all they Were thine — were thy admirers — were thine own — In the one want that nothing could atone. XXX. Oh ! that that rich and splendid work of thine. Where all the colours of the rainbow met To shed their brilliance o'er the chaste design, Purple, and green, and gold, and violet — Where every figure with a touch so fine Is finish'd, though an hundred there be set — Oh ! that it had from that one stain been free ! How happy were it for the world and thee ! Or else, perhaps, a longer tour they take. And from the land of mountains capp'd with snow, The pine-girt valley, and the stormy lake, To the warm suns of Italy they go ; Where liberal Nature gaily seems to shake Exuberant beauty upon all below. And every town and village, flood and fell. Hath its own wild and wizard tale to tell. 12 THE WEDDING BELLS. XXXII. Perhaps they follow Fabius' march, and see How wisely by his provident delay He saved his country, and preserved her free. Or through the Caudine Forks pursue their way, Where the proud Samnite stood triumphantly, Scorning his Immbled enemies' dismay. Or to the hill-lock'd vale of carnage dread, Where the throng'd legions and their consul bled. XXXIII. Perhaps they visit Naples, the bright land So oft defiled with violence and gore ; The prey and spoil of the usurping brand The Norman, th' Angiovine, or Swabian bore ; The crafty Ferdinand with furtive hand. Defrauding Louis of the wreath before Snatch'd at by Charles, and won, and lost as soon. His brief reign ending almost with the moon ^. xxxiv. It is a lovely land, its glorious bay. The queen of waters, glittering in the glow 0' the sun, that with exhilarating ray Shines, as he did shine centuries ago, * The Normans, the House of Anjou, and the German Emperors by turns overcame Naples, and Avore the crown of the Two Sicilies. Charles YIII. of France conquered and lost Naples in the short space of a few months, and Ferdinand, the Catholic, of Spain, defrauded Louis XII. of France of that fine kingdom, and retained it. THE WEDDING BELLS. 13 On the same sensual, indolent, and gay, And soon-excited people, who might know Freedom as gracious as their skies or waves ; But still the lazy can be nought but slaves. XXXV. Or if chafed into action for a time. Some Guise, or Masaniello at their head '^, They congregate in robbery and crime. The noble spirit evaporates ; instead. Pleased with their story-teller's daily rhyme. Their snow-chill'd water, vintage games, and bread. Their tarentella, and their maccaroni, The patriot sinks into the lazzaroni. XXXVI. Strange that in all the loveliest lands and best. The fairest, fruitfulest, and most inviting, The people always should be most unbless'd ! Ever, as if their native riches slighting. The poorest, vilest, dirtiest, laziest. Still self-degraded, and in filth delighting. Half fed, half clothed, scarce shelter'd, not half taught ; Willingly ignorant, and good for nought. * Masaniello's fortunes are notorioug. The Duke of Guise, great- grandson of Francis of Guise, stot before Orleans by a Calvinistic gentleman in 1563, headed the Neapolitans, who revolted from Spain in 1647, but was seized and imprisoned in Spain. 14 THE WEDDING BELLS. XXXVII. Yes, 'tis a lovely land ! Howe'er may shine The rest o' the world, it scarce can find its fellow. And, then, w^hat contrasts on its face combine ! The dark and light, the austere and the mellow. Land of the red volcano and the vine ; The buried city and of Punchinello — His birthplace, and his cradle, and his home. And his deliciae howsoe'er he roam. XXXVIII. Silent and solitary, dark and deep Beneath the lava-flood that overspread Her baths and palaces, and bound in sleep, Pompeii lies, the city of the dead. Where dreary Desolation loved to keep Her reign unwitness'd, and un visited ; Till, by a blow of th' axe at random made. Her lost, her long-lost buildings were display'd. XXXIX. Down from Vesuvius rush'd the fiery tide Sudden and hurried, with its burning wave Whelming the peopled cities in their pride. The noble, and the peasant, and the slave. Each where he stood in the hot deluge died. The house, street, theatre, one common grave. No safety, no escape ; so rapid came O'er those devoted towns the flood of flame. THE WEDDING BELLS. 15 XL. The reveller at his feast ; in her bright room Retired, the haughty and the high-born maid, Surprised amid her luxury and perfume ; The warrior on his watch, gi'asping his blade ; Down in the cellar's deep and vaulted gloom The slave ; and, by the fire himself had made, The cook; and, with an agonized hold. The miser clutching his dear worshipp'd gold. XLI. 'Twas darkness at mid-day — darker than night — Save from the mountain when the fitful shower Of flame shot round its glare, and ghastly light, Worse than the blackness of that terrible hour ; — Then the hot glowing ashes, in their flight. Fell thick as autumn-rain on house and bower ; And awful sounds ran underground, and broke Bellowing, and thundering 'mid the fire and smoke. XLII. 'Twas dai'kness at mid- day — darker than night — A deep and dismal silence ruled the hour. Then growl'd again the tempest in its might. Bellow 'd, and howl'd, and threaten'd to devour. Till in the murky east no longer bright, The dusky morning rose — but temple and tower Were gone — the vanish'd city lay defaced; And all around a bare and smoking waste. 16 THE WEDDING BELLS. XLIII. Oh, Heav'n ! it was a fearful sight to see Such sudden desolation overspread The scene of merriment and revelry ; Such horrid gloom, such sullen silence shed On every haunt of jollity and glee. All still, all joyless, all consumed, all dead. No sound, no sight, not e'en a wreck to show That a whole city lay entomb 'd below. XLIV. 'Twas but a moment, and the harp and lyre Resounded, and the dancer's feet beat time, And swell'd the voices of the joyous quire. And loud applauding laughter cheer'd the mime. The next, and the o'er whelming stream of fire Had silenced all, and in its burning slime Buried the multitude, untuned the lute. One stifled shriek — one groan — and all was mute. XLV. Death undistinguishingly gorged his prey, And grasp'd the population in his might. Meantime the wild eruption swept away The proud and peopled city from the sight ; Covering its loftiest roofs, and from the day Snatching its bowers and gardens of delight. This moment all was life, and stir, and sound — The next, the town was one wide burial-ground. THE WEDDING BELLS. 17 XLVI. Silence, deep, frightful silence brooded o'er The lonely scene. Yet, for a time, mankind Would with a chilling shiver sick and sore, And with a trembling voice and awe-struck mind. Point out where the gay city stood before. But fainter grew the knowledge where to find The fatal spot, till none remain'd to tell Nor where Pompeii stood, nor how it fell. XLVII. And still, as through the solitude you go, The solemn signs of former life appear Unmoved, as they stood centuries ago. Though Time hath o'er tliem swept full many a year, The very ruts o' the wheels remain to show The busy traffic of the charioteer. And still th' inscription o'er the shop displays The manners or the mirth of ancient days. XLVIII. There every object on all sides is rife With melancholy musings on the past ; The veiy stillness whispers yet of life, And its warm throbbings check'd and overcast. Its aspirations, hopes, and joys, and strife In their strength stifled ; and, with power to last For ages, in their mid-flood forced aside. Chain 'd, and o'erthrown, and crush'd, and petrified. 18 THE WEDDING BELLS. XLIX. Oh ! what an awful homily we hear From those mute stones, that falls upon the heart Resistless, more than on th' admiring ear The eloquentest preacher's voice and art. Thoughtful and slow, emerging from that drear And desolate scene of death, do we depart, To lose the saddening, the autumnal yellow Of our reflections with gay Punchinello. L. Policinella — Punch ! Where lives the wight Who hath not heard of that time-honour 'd name, The very infant lisps with pure delight? What corner of the world doth not proclaim His glory, whom the tongues of old unite With the boy's laughing lips to praise ? Whose fame Hath lived, and shall live till the fatal day. When all things, even Punch, must pass away ! LI. Who hath not stay'd, nor thought the deed misdone, Though bound on some most politic affair, To listen to his drollery and fun, Whilst " Laughter holding both his sides " stood there? And still with each new accident, or pun, Mirth shouted merrily, and even Care Wreathed his sad mouth to an approving smile ; And the glad audience crow'd and roar'd meanwhile ! THE WEDDING BELLS. 19 LII. Punch, lauded evemvhere in east or west ! Glorious and great wherever he appears ! But his own birthplace Naples he loves best. There squeezes his most comical of tears ; There smiles his funniest smiles; his liveliest jest, His heartiest laugh bestows, that he that heai's, Catching th' infection of that cachinnation, Laughs till he weeps — laughs to intoxication. LIII. Applauded, sought wherever he hath been, Not to know Punch argues ourselves unknown. In fact the sun and moon have spots, and e'en Shakspeare and Homer faults ; but Punch alone Is perfect, ever faultless and serene. He cannot be improved, and spot hath none. Punch, the supreme to kuXov of cajoleiy. Punch, the true beau-ideal of all drollery. LIV. But hark ! the cry is up — from street to street Flies the report th' excited city o'er, The very infant's lisping lips repeat. Instant from palace, hall, and hovel, pour The madd'ning multitude with hurrying feet, Until they meet, and mingle on the shore. To marvel, and to gaze — for now the Fay Morgana works her wonders o'er the bay. 20 THE WEDDING BELLS. LV. Lo ! where her fairy fingers in the sky Have sketch'd with nicest skill, and colours bright, The fairest pictures to attract the eye, Dipping her pencil in the rainbow's light. See where her gorgeous hues and imagery Burst sudden on the captivated sight, Till every rosy cloud, and all the air. And th' azure heaven th' enchanting touch declare. LVI. Instant the visionary wonders rise. Extensive plains nibbled by flocks of sheep ; And palaces with bowers and balconies ; And castled piles with tow'r and donjon-keep. Contending armies march across the skies. Columns and arches, and woods dark and deep Are seen ; and here the shepherd tunes his reed, And there the horseman hastes with furious speed. LVI I. Meantime the waters of the bay below Repeat the glittering objects in the tide ; Where trees, and avenues, and gardens glow, And barques at anchor lie, and vessels glide ; Or the glad harvest, or the vintage-show Appears, and all in vivid colours dyed, Splendidly beautiful — crimson or green. And more than Nature radiant and serene. THE WEDDING BELLS. 21 LVJII. The silent people hang upon the sight MaiTelling, with eyes and faces that display Surprise, and admiration, and delight. Till as th' aerial vision melts away. And the gay pageant fades, and all the bright And glittering objects in the skies and bay Are lost, the buzzing murmurs, and the sound Of scarce suppress'd applause, fly busiest round. LTX. Then suddenly loud exclamations swell Of gratified desire, and deep amaze. A miracle ! they shout, a miracle ! iVnd still upon the clouds and waters gaze. Though scarce a shadow now remains to tell Of the proud spectacle that no more plays Upon them ; but the calm wave rolls to shore. And the blue Heav'ns are tranquil as before. LX. And now one farewell look, one parting gaze Eound that enchanting region ere they go ; And o'er that splendid landscape, that displays All that the water or the land can show Of grand or beautiful, deserving praise And admiration, slumbering in the glow Of that bright hour, when all in earth and Heav'u Is brightest, and mid-day looks down towards ev'n. 22 THE WEDDING BELLS. LXl. Round from Vesuvius, with its forked head Wreathed with a crown of smoke and vapours gray, Through which the fitful flashes, streaming, shed A lurid light, as o'er the mount they play ; Or, shooting upward, angrily and red. Throw their reflection o'er the ruddy bay. E'en to Sorento's town — and all between Magnificently rich, a glorious scene. LXII, Vineyards and oliveyards, and vale and hill, And terraced paradises, halls and bowers ; The lofty monastery, dark and chill ; Saint Elmo's castled steep, and frowning tow'rs ; The shining cape, and gardens that distil And spread their perfumes from a thousand flow'rs. In all the rare variety of light And shade — awfully dark, or dazzling bright ! Lxni. E'en to the Mole, and that most lovely bay That mirrors the gay city in her pride ; Whilst o'er its undulating waters play Those radiant beams reflected from the tide. Tinging its distant billows far away With purple — but, as nearer shore they glide, Brightening to sunny blue tbe waves unfold. And break in silvery showers and liquid gold. THE WEDDING BELLS. 23 LXIV. And jet oue last and lingering look — one more, With reverential eyes on Virgil's tomb, With his own laurel bower'd and grotto'd o'er. There let the Psestan rose for ever bloom. And many a pilgrim, visiting the shore, Admiring come with incense and perfume. To please the poet's shade, and to repeat His magic numbers in his last retreat. LXV. A pilgrimage, oh, how much better made To the great bard, the soft, and the sublime, Than those to battle-fields too duly paid. The blood-stain 'd scenes of carnage and of crime. Or questionable shrines, or bones decay'd Of saints, who were sad sinners in their time. A pilgrimage where splendid worth reposes. To wreath the minstrel's grave with kindred roses. LXVI. So run the pair through many a storied place, Where Florence still her Medici reveres ; Or sad Ravenna, France's sore disgrace Betrays ; or Milan sighs o'er bygone years ; Or yet Ferrara boasts her royal race ; Or Venice, lady of the sea, appears Still seated on the waves, where once she sail'd, Throned on her princely gillies, and prevail'd. 24 THE WEDDING BELLS. LXVII. And though, in solemn mockery, still she weds The Adriatic ; like a barren bride, Of her own lord forsaken, now she sheds The bitter tears of deep offended pride. Dogeless, degraded, she no longer spreads Her conquering navy o'er the ocean tide. But, cribb'd in her dark gondola, deplores Her ruined commerce and deserted shores. LXVIII. The glory of Saint Mark's is fall'n — and so, The happy pair that seek no mournful sights, No darkling scenes of loneliness and woe To neutralize their nuptial fresh delights. Passing the Bridge of Sighs unsighing, go Where Doria to his Genoa invites. Its marble palaces that crown the foam Visit, and hurry to imperial Rome. LXIX. Rome, by th' ambition of the many raised. And by th' ambition of the few o'erthrown. Those conquering that their country might be praised And fear'd, the world's unquestion'd regent known. These by the idol, whereupon they gazed, Dazzled, for their mere interest alone. To Rome the Consuls gave her golden crown : Sylla and Caesar help'd to pull her down. THE WEDDING BELLS. 25 LXX. The former an austere and iron race, Whose pride and passion solely was to see Rome great, and powerful, and supreme of place ; From th' avarice of selfish cravings free, Careless of wealth, nay— even of disgrace — So that their eagles might soar gloriously, The wide earth their dominion and their home — Watch'd, toil'd, endured, and fought, and bled for Rome. LXXI. Brave but corrupt the latter — brave alone — The patriotic spirit once so bright. Waning and flickering, and at length unknown, Not for their country, but themselves would fight. Pluck'd from her brow her crown to wreath their own. Nor cared what clouds should overshade or blight The pride of Rome, so that themselves might reign, And hold the world in their own proper chain. LXXII. Rome the renown'd, the great in right or wrong ; The place of ruins and of recollections ; Peopled with shadows of the past, that throng. As mourning o'er the spot of their affections. Their fall'n palaces — the scene of song, Of tombs and trophies, and of sad reflections, Where musing melancholy loves to dream Of other days, by yellow Tyber's stream. 26 THE WEDDING BELLS. LXXIIl. There not the living multitude we trace, But their forefathers of antiquity. 'Tis not the dwindled and degenerate race That shame their brave and hardy sires we see ; But in the forum Marius' threatening face Frowns stern, and Tully thunders proud and free. Still Pompey in the Capitol the prize Beceives, and Csesar in the senate dies. LXXIV. Still round the Palatine the pompous train Of triumph, passing tlie triumphal gate, Descends into the forum, and again Mounts to the Capitol in solemn state, To adore their thundering Jove, who forged the chain That in the adamantine links of fate Bound the wide world, fetter'd, and overcome. To the proud chariot-wheels of conquering Kome. LXXV. 'Tis on the Roman ruins that we gaze. And to the mighty minds of men that made Those ruins glorious, stamping their own praise On arch and column, too secure to fade. E'en now, along the broad and crowded ways The consuls pass, the eagles are display 'd, And up the Pincian or Esquilian climb Pompey or Caesar, with their train sublime. THE WEDDING BELLS. 27 LXXVI. But not on Rome alone, though more than all The place of ruins, with a shadowy race Of aiiy shapes, that rise at fancy's call — All Italy in ruins lies : each place, Town, village, hill, and wood, and waterfall Breathes of the past, retains the marks and trace Of earlier times, whose broad shade o'er her lies, And half conceals the present from our eyes. LXXVI r. But, as I think I did suggest before, The happy pair, unwilling to bestow On the gray relics of the days of yore Their time, or trouble, delayed not, to go With a loquacious cicerone o'er His antiquarian catalogue and show ; Or moralize on things where moralizing In a new-married couple were siu'prising. LXXVIII. But who could in th' eternal city be, Even for one short week, and not survey Her relics of bygone antiquity? To study them would wear a year away Not idly spent, and yet leave much to see. But a quick glance upon her proud decay And shattered stateliness the hastiest eye Could scarce refrain to cast while passing by. c 2 2& THE WEDDING BELLS. LXXIX. Yet some they saw. The massive buildings old, Worthy of Roman hands, and rear'd to last As long as the imperial name should hold Its influence, and men revere the past, Or look with admiration on the bold ; Or backward on that mighty people cast A glance of awe and wonder, whilst beholding Their long-predicted power and pride unfolding. LXXX. They saw the Colosseum, that, of yore, Could in its huge circumference contain, And from its hundred vomitories pour A nation, as the shows were done, again, When Suburb and Saburra floating o'er Their scum, like the o'erflowings of a drain, The rancid crowds, upon a holiday, Throng'd there to see the gladiators play. LXXXI. There, as they gazed around with curious eye, Fancy could all but hear the roar subdued, Like the hoarse billows as the storm draws nigh, That burst from the impatient multitude ; Or see imperial Caesar, throned on high, Nod his assent, and the thumbs turn'd for blood ^ ; * " et verso publice vulgi Quemlibet occidunt, populariter." — Jrrv. iii. 36. When the people wished the victorious gladiator to put his opponent to THE WEDDING BELLS. 29 And the last sobs and agonies of death, As the poor Retiarius gasp'd for breath. LXXXII. Caesar, with all the thousands that survey'd, And they that fought, and they that vauquish'd there, That cast the bloody net, or grasp'd the blade. Or spared the trembling wretch, or would not spare ; Races and generations that forbade. Or granted mercy, and sat there to share The savage sight, are pass'd like rolling waves, And centuries have settled o'er their graves. LXXXIIJ, Still, though neglected, there the ivy climb, Though they that rear'd and fill'd it are no more — Spite of the chill and crumbling touch of Time ; Spite of the brazen throat of war that tore Its pillar'd pride, and stateliness sublime. Yet shed its stones a moonlight softness o'er ; The lofty pile remains severe and gray, In the magnificence of its decay. LXXXIV. Still, as the eye accustom'd to control, Th' authority of its commanding gaze Retains, though age, or indigence hath stole, Or dimm'd the fire of its serener days, death, they made a sign to him to do so by clenching their hands, and holding or turning the thumb upwards. )0 THE WEDDING BELLS. But ne'er subdued what it reflects, the soul — The Colosseum in its fall displays Its wonted majesty, and claims, sublime, The awe and admiration of all time. LXXXV. Then the Pantheon — a majestic sight ! In whose enchanted circle all that 's fair, Graceful, and grand, and beautiful, and light. Are gather'd. Long they lingered, mourning there Time's devastations, that obscures the bright, And crumbles into dust the rich and rare. But more the barbarous mischief that defaced Rome's proudest monuments, and laid her waste. LXXXVI. Time hath done much to level and confound The glory of old Rome, but man still more. Shattering whate'er antiquity hath crowned, With parricidal violation sore. What centuries had spared, upon the ground Casting — what centuries cannot restore — Dilapidating with a pilfering hand, And niggard heart, the glories of the land. LXXXVII. How many monuments of human art. In the dark ages of the past o'erthrown, Have fall'n and perish'd with th' ambitious heart That framed them, unrecorded and unknown ! THE WEDDING BELLS. 31 How many monuments that still impart Delight and admiration yet shall own The wrecking hand of time, and perish too ! They thought — and left the old Rome for the new. LXXXVIII. They visited the Vatican, the place Of the all-ruling potentate, who roll'd Around his temporal crown the brighter grace Of spiritual power ; and, uncontroU'd Himself, controll'd all, reigned o'er all his race — Forging a chain of adamant, to hold Body and soul ; compelling by the spell, And triple bond of heav n, and earth, and hell. Lxxxrs:. The Vatican, where humble, small, and slight, Yet slow, and silently though slight, and small — Like a tall column that some warrior's might Records, grows stone by stone, the pedestal, And then the shaft, that daily gains in height, Till on the summit shines the golden ball, Or stands the finish'd statue —hour by hour. To great, to over-growth, rose papal power. xc. Through its wide chambers and precincts they paced, Where that supreme authority and power Were plann'd, and nursed, and strengthen'd,till they placed The Pope on high, and made all monarchs cower. 32 THE WEDDING BELLS. Deeming him first, and happiest, who was graced With th' envied blessing, or the goklen flower The holy father gave — thrice lost on whom His fulminating thunders roll'd from Rome*. xci. Thus in those halls, with various pontiffs grew, Like a broad oak that overtops the wood, Th' absolute rule, that trampled down, and threw The nations into shadow, and subdued All lands, till kings, with awe and reverence due, A trembling and a tributary brood. Their stirrup held, adored, or, like a slave, Stood shivering in the cold till they forgave. XCII. Old Rome could overthrow the proud, and fling Her fetters round the chosen of mankind. Dragging th' humiliated crownless king Before her senate. She could bruise, and bind. But for new Rome it was reserved to bring The nations on their knees, t' enslave the mind, And stamp the firm belief upon the soul, That it was sin to question her control. * The Golden Kose was a mark of the Pope's respect or approbation, usually sent to crowned heads, having been previously blessed. Such a rose was sent to Henry VIII., after the publication of his book on the Seven Sacraments, against Luther. THE WEDDING BELLS. 33 XCIII. For her it was reserved bj force, or art, As either her stem purpose suited best, Fettering the hands, or in the awe-struck heart Insinuating as a god-sent guest ; Bj all that threats or blessings could impart, To found, and root her throne within the breast — Till those that loved the least, yet dreaded more. And riveted the gyves that wrung them sore. xciv. Silently grew the power, silent and slow, E'en as the Ice-plains of the Arctic main, That scarce resist the waters as they flow At first ; till, daily gathering strength, they gain Supremacy, confine the waves below. And bind the struggling billows in their chain. Ocean subdued lies powerless and oppress'd ; And fathoms downward sinks to sullen rest. xcv. Meanwhile — though theirs perhaps were not the years To indulge in solemn thought, or study high — Rather to acquiesce in what appears. Contented with what simply meets the eye, Or daily sounds in the incurious ears ; With scarce one speculating hov.^ or why; No glancing to the future for the fruit. Nor burrowing in the past to find the root. c 3 34 THE WEDDING BELLS. XCVI. Yet still they judged that Rome in rest or rule, E'en from the seedling to the spreading tree, The consular, the imperial, was the tool Wherewith Heav'n work'd its will on land and sea. Fang'd like the pard, but bridled like the mule ; Guided, and goaded through antiquity — E'en while her self-will did what it deem'd best, In her own way — to perfect Heaven's behest. XCVII. Yet still they judged Rome papal, like the shoot. That when that lofty tree was lopp'd and hew'd, Burgeon'd, and sprung forth from the ancient root. And in its turn became itself a wood, Was but the fashion 'd instrument to suit The latter times, its edge and strength renew'd — Which having done its task shall not be found ; And Rome, like Babylon, be but a sound. XCVIII. And then, to show that they had really been At Rome, they buy some samples of virtu, Modern antiques, most probably I ween, Look on the sculpture, cast a hasty view On many a building and time-honour'd scene ; And, scampering over all both old and new. They leave th' eternal city as they found it, With all its charms and recollections round it. THE WEDDING BELLS. 35 XCIX. And happily they went ; for, had they stay'd Only a few months longer, they had seen Rome, the close borough, a republic made, And fiU'd vdth. democratic spite and spleen. The popular Pope, unpopular, betray 'd, Imprison 'd by the multitude unclean, His friends assassinated in his sight, xlnd he himself compell'd to furtive flight. c. The spirit of democracy, unchain'd, An unaccustom'd liberty had found In France, and gathering strength, and unrestrained, And mischievously active, with a bound Had overleap'd the Alps, and grasp'd, and gain'd The ascendant through the madding realms around, Lashing to frantic rage the excited mind — Quick, deadly, hot as the Sirocco wind. CI. Sudden, and swift, and fierce from man to man, From town to town, and on from land to land. Maddening, the exasperating demon ran ; Rousing the angry heart, arming the hand, Denouncing, and subjecting to the ban All legal rule, habitual command, And just authority, and spurning down. And trampling on, the ermine and the crown. 36 THE WEDDING BELLS. CII. Where hitherto the subject had obey'd, He vex'd and stung the multitude, till, crazed, And wild, they seized the brand, and bared the blade. Where opposition was not, there he raised ; Where struggling into life, imparted aid ; Stirring the smouldering embers till they blazed, And flamed to conflagration, and destroy 'd All wisdom had erected, or enjoy 'd. cm. All Europe shook, and trembled at the tread Of that exterminating spirit base. Malice, and Hate, and Violence rear'd their head. And Anarchy, and Murder, in the place Where'er he came, and Peace and Quiet fled. Age lost its reverence. Innocence its grace ; All that was honourable was o'erthrown — The slave and convict held the power alone. CIV. There too the demagogue, who lives on plunder. And thrives where'er confusion thrives, arose To lead the mob, and hurl his lying thunder Against the great and good who would oppose. Till Law, and Eight, and Peace lay stifling under The ruins that o'erwhelm'd them in the close ; And Outrage, and Rebellion, Fraud, and Force Reign 'd dominant, and slew without remorse. THE WEDDING BELLS. 37 CV. Where'er excuse was needed, he supplied A iengthen'd roll of injury and wrong, Of rights withheld, and liberty denied, And stera rapacity indulged too long ; And tyranny, and luxuiy. and pride — Till Turbulence, too willing, grew too strong. And justified her rage by the desire To regenerate, what yet she set on fire. cvi. That injuries there were, and popular right Check'd, or refused, and absolute control Too rudely urged and exercised ; and might Too oft its own lawgiver ; and the goal Of honour from the million lock'd up quite ; And harsh oppression that might grind the soul ; And knowledge sternly hid, who could deny ? Let them that perpetrated this reply. CTII. That was their fault, and let them bear the lash ; But who would have the scor2non-sco\irge applied? Or, where reform might gently change, the rash And revolutionai-y knife divide And mangle ; and democracy down-dash And desecrate ? Who would shield Fraud or Pride ? Who would not wish that all men should be free ? But Licence must not outface Liberty. o8 THE WEDDING BELLS. CVIII. Because the peasant badly till'd his ground, Who wishes that Vesuvius should explode, And scatter its hot lava all around. Confusing field, and farm, and tilth, and road? Licence hath tiger's fangs, and should be bound. But th' evil spirit, 'scaping, hath bestow'd Strength on his talons, on his fangs fresh power, And let him loose to ravage and devour. cix. That juggling spirit forces and defrauds. On language binds new meanings as best suits His purposes ; and to the old records Of Time or loose or lying sense imputes. All that is loving lingers in his words ; But they are foul beneath, and, like those fruits That by the dead sea grow, a pulp unkind And bitter hide within a crimson rind. ex. He talks of brotherhood— but 'tis in ill ; Of Liberty — 'tis licence he would gain ; Equality — 'tis pulling down until You reach himself; and there he would remain With no superior, but inferiors still To' obey, respect, or serve. He breaks the chain Wherewith society himself would bind ; Not that wherewith he manacles mankind. THE WEDDING BELLS. 39 CXI. What is Fraternity ? The kindly heat That gently hums within a hrother's heart, Reflecting its mild warmth, and influence sweet On all. 'Tis genuine friendship void of art. 'Tis unity of soul, where many meet. Like sunheams to a focus brought, t' impart Strength to some holy purpose with one mind, One hand. 'Tis multitudes by love combined. CXII. And what is Liberty ? 'Tis, open-brow'd, Freely and fearlessly to meet mankind. 'Tis to think candidly, and speak aloud The thought, nor dread lest star-chambers should bind Your tongue, the same at home as in a crowd. The Toice unchain'd, unmanacled the mind. 'Tis to enjoy what skill or toil hath won, Unvex'd — to overbear, and cringe to none. CXIII. What is Equality ? It is a name Society knows not. Equal we 're all. As creatures ; but, as citizens, the claim Is false. Th', Almighty looks on great and small Impartial. Law, his shadow, does the same. But, as man lives with man, 'twere to miscall, On the same level to raise each, where place. Power, talent, wealth exalt us, or debase. 40 THE WEDDING BELLS. CXIV. Kingdoms would fall were all men on one grade, Nor could society exist like ours Below, unless some ruled and some obej'd. Nature hath trees, and shrubs, and weeds, and flowers. Mountains, and hills, and vales, and sun, and shade. Humility will bend where pride o'erpowers. There 's no equality on earth, unless 'Tis that of following truth and righteousness. cxv. But this the juggling spirit doth not mean. He would but hide tli' offensive with the sweet, And throw fair names o'er thoughts and things unclean ; Covering with roses what the very feet, If seen, would shun, disgusted with th' obscene. Who sympathize not with him, he would cheat To sympathy. The devil little cares, So he trap victims, what may be his snares. cxvi. But, with that democratic spirit base, What is Fraternity ? 'Tis to partake In quarrel, crime, dishonesty, disgrace, And with a cold and selfish heart forsake Your friend, when danger stares him in the face. In bloodshed, robbery, or oppression, make His hand your instrument ; and then betray, To save or to appropriate the prey. THE WEDDING BELLS. 41 CXVII. What is that filthy spirit's Liberty ? It is to be constrain'd yourself by nought , Yet lay constraints on all. It is to be Amenable to none, in act or thought ; And yet make all amenable to thee. To do what you desire, not what you ought; And, unrestricted by rebuke or rule. Drink, dice, deflower, be villain, knave, or fool. CXVIII. If such his meaning and construction be Of Liberty, and holy brotherhood ; What other sense unto Equality Can he attach but one as wrong and iiide '? Tis, where he needs it, a community Not in rank only, but in power, wealth, food. All that is yours being his — all that s his own. His absolute, exclusively, alone. He means that other men should undergo The toil, whilst he the profit takes, or shares. Should spin, or weave, or dig, or plough, or sow, And gather all the field or furrow bears — Ready, nay bound all he wants to bestow : Whilst nor his time, nor travail should be theirs. His questionable, strange equality Enchants the drone, but little suits the bee. 42 THE WEDDING BELLS. CXX. But steady strength and order Heav'n bestows, And the fiend hates — and where true freedom dwells, And each his duty and position knows, Each under each, placed like a peal of bells, With none subservient, like the serf, to close The chain, and th' equal law o'er all — what else But opposition open, or conceal'd. Can we expect from hearts too proud to yield ? cxxr. Hence, partly from the pride of high and low, That or despises, or that hates to bend. Would no denial, no superior know — Part from prerogative that would contend For tribute long-possess'd, which yet none owe ; And stubborn, strong resistance that would rend The web it might untangle, would it wait. And work with patience, and not irritate — CXXII. The democratic fiend obtains success ; And, having once to due resistance brought The rival interests, he proceeds t' impress All that the mind inflamed, or th' angry thought, Of violated rights, or waywardness. Would firmly seek, or would deny when sought, On the contending ranks — till words to blows Arise, and wrath and blood are in the close. THE WEDDING BELLS. 43 CXXIII. That gain'd, he triumphs ; squatting down, and viewing The mischief caused by him, that few escape : The anguish, and the labour, and the ruin. Grinning and gibbering like an angry ape. Or, where the deeds of death and hell are doing, Shouting, and struggling in a fiercer shape, Behind the barricades he takes his station. Or fills the battle-field with devastation. cxxiv. Oh ! for some pitying spirit to hurl him thence, In th' adamantine foldings of his chain. Fettering his devilish fraud and violence ; And, in his dungeon trampling him again. To the huge staple rivet the off'ence ! And, possibly, as the rude hurricane Of deadly vapours puiifies the air, E'en the fiend's onslaught may its blessing bear. cxxv. He hath through Europe pass'd, and everywhere Brought terror, tears, the agonizing cry. The frantic death-struggle, and mad despair. Ranging the soldiers' volleying musketry Against the stubborn crowd, resolved to dare Th' extremes of peril, and destroy, or die — The pike, the club, the pebble, and the chain — Whatever haste can snatch, or force obtain. 44 THE WEDDING BELLS. CXXVI. But to this happy Island of the Free, But to our own dear hearths and homes, our own Dear country, the sole land of liberty, He hath not come. He hath spared that alone. The revolutionary rivalry Of civil discord here hath scarce been known. Nor here hath neighbour against neighbour stood : Nor the streets run down red with kindred blood. cxxvii. Sweet Heav'n ! it was thy Providence that stay'd The bloody fiend, and turn'd his wing aside. 'Twas thy protection, and thy ready aid, E'en though he hover'd over us, and tried — Tried thrice to swoop upon his quarry, made The effort vain. Thy goodness quell'd his pride. And Peace, compelFd around the world to roam Homeless, led here, and made this isle her home. CXXVIII. This was thy work, sweet Heaven ! — and now what praise. Or what thanksgiving can thy love express, That not for our deserts, or righteous ways, But for thine own mere loving-kindliness, Preserved us when the earth was in a blaze ? Oh ! be propitious still, and guard, and bless ; And, if the madness of the time should e'er Tempt us to tumult, pacify, and spare. THE WEDDING BELLS. 45 CXXIX. All this, indeed, was yet to come, and they Stay'd not to see such unexpected sights As throng upon us in the present day ; And feverish patients see in dreams o' nights. Where, all accustom'd order giving way, The solemn with th' extravagant unites ; Th' absurd links ^^ith the terrible, and gore And carnage follow the buffoon before. cxxx. But we are conversant with such strange things As raise the hair on end, and make us shake With fear for what the coming minute brings. Seeing society around us break ; The wreck of kingdoms, and the flight of kings ; Justice asleep, and violence awake ; And the rude rabble uppermost, and schooling, Scourging, or scoffing those that should be ruling. cxxxi. The sordid and the base on high — the great, The good, and worthy undermost ; and still, Th' antagonistic muscles of the state, That should together work, and with one will, And for one end, by rivalry and hate Parted, consenting only but to kill. Peace full of sores, and order one contusion ; And th' earth brimfull of wild fire and confusion. 46 THE WEDDING BELLS. CXXXII. These are the sights we witness all around. Unusual scenes, and awful threats severe That echo o'er us with the trumpet's sound, And to our bibles drive through faith, or fear. Whate'er in ancient prophecy is found. Of the last times making us fancy near. The trials, and the terrors, and the tears That come with or precede the latter years. cxxxiri. But these the muse with reverence leaves aside. Trembling, and apprehensive lest her touch Hath trespass'd upon holy things denied : Or busied with th' allow'd, perhaps, too much, Hath inadvertently the pure allied, And mingled with the common ; crown and crutch Coupling, and Aaron's bells, so sweet of sound. With the shrill pipe or ruder bugle drown'd. cxxxiv. Then hurrying, as your English travellers use — All English travellers in this agreeing. As if their only business were to lose As little time as possible in seeing Men, manufactures, manners, cities, views ; Or their supreme wish and endeavour being Back to the starting spot to win their way, With the least interruption and delay. THE WEDDING BELLS. 47 cxxxv. Why not ? Is any place so sweet as home ? Or any dinner like their own roast beef? Or any customs, wheresoe'er they roam, So natural as theirs? But first, and chief, In Paris, Petersburgh, Vienna, Piome, And all the country round, it stirs their grief To find no fox-hounds, nor old port, nor stout — Things that a man can scarcely live without. cxxxvi. Besides, what Englishman, however fain, Could of his island prejudices quite Denude his heart, or purify his brain ? Who does not know that Britain 's the delight Of gods and men ? The regent of the main ! The gem and glory of all lands, in spite Of its damp climate, fogs, and varying weather, And all its faults and failings put together ? CXXXVII. Who does not know that in that favour 'd isle Justice sits throned, and Liberty bears rule, Though Whigs and Tories mutually revile, Each deeming each a knave — at least a fool? Who does not know what cheerful comforts smile Around the Englishman's fire-side at Yule ? Who does not know, in short, that England 's full Of all that 's good and gracious for John Bull ? 48 THE WEDDING BELIES. CXXXVIII. John Bull, who, lovingly, go where he will, Carries his country with him. To Peru Or Greenland bears his prejudices still, His habits, customs, and amusements too ; And Leicestershire, Hyde Park, or Ludgate Hill Would find, or make, in the' old world or the new. Hear something English everywhere, and ev'n Be John Bull ever in earth, hell, or heav'n ! CXXXTX. And long may he the prejudice retain. That deems straightforward honesty the best ; And social faith the fairest social chain ; Virtue a friend, and Truth a household guest ; Deems selfishness, and fraud, and falsehood vain ; And his own country bless'd, and to be bless'd, So long as she adores the favouring power, That made her what she is — the earth's best flower. So, through the Netherlands, where Voltaire view'd Nought else but wild ducks, and canals, and boors, " Canards, canaux, canaille," a sarcasm rude. Whose quaint alliteration still endures. But they look'd round them in a gentler mood On industry, that gradually ensures Success, and pours, at length, o'er lands forlorn. The luxuries of Amalthea's horn. THE WEDDING BELLS. 49 CXLI. They saw rich pastures sedgy streams among, Cover "d with herds, that stray 'd the meadows through, Aud echoing with the early milkmaid's song ; And busy towns with trade that echoed too ; But with delighted triumph linger'd long On the decisive field of "Waterloo, Where the insatiate conqueror, conquer 'd, fled, Careless so he was safe, though thousands bled. CXLTI. Nor wonder, if in one short month, or two, So far they travell'd, and so much they view'd. Not perfunctorily, nor yet pass'd through Unleisurely the Alpine solitude. And the Italian towns ; at Waterloo Linger'd — and where 's the Englishman but would ? — And, careless of the wind, recross'd the stream Of ocean, since they went by rail and steam ; CXLTII. Steam, the great wonder-worker, the sublime. And certain instrument to civilize The world, bind land to land, and clime to clime ; Link man to man in sweetest charities ; Th' estranging prejudice of space and time, x\nd creed o'ercome, or soften as it flies ; Amalgamate and mingle mind with mind, And in one family unite mankind. 50 THE WEDDING BELLS. CXLIV. This is its holy work, and this, although Opposed and interrupted, and decried, Shall yet be done. Though blood meantime may flow, And bigotry, and wantonness, and pride Wrestle, and rage, and madden, still the foe From infancy shall in the friend subside ; And tribes at enmity for centuries cease To hate, and rival nations mix in peace. CXLV. This is its holy work, and it shall fly. Prospering, and still to prosper, over sea. And land, and wilderness, and mountain high, On its swift pinions bearing amity ; Till universal love, with laughing eye. In the far stranger shall a brother see ; No more his customs scorning, nor his face. But welcome him with a heart-kind embrace. CXLVI. Meantime, where'er th' idolaters display 'd Their vicious rites impure, and worship vain^ In tower or temple, mountain-top or glade ; Where'er the bigot bore his torturing chain. Or Mussulmans their oft ablutions made. The Lord of Lords shall vindicate his reign ; Where'er the steamer comes, the house of pray'r Shall rise, and Christianity dwell there. THE WEDDING BELLS. 51 CXLVII. Down shall the rabble rout of idols fall, Like Dagon broken in the midst, no more To rise ; with all their trumpery, and all Their cheating lies, and savage thirst for gore. And, liberated from the gyves that gall The soul, mankind in freedom shall adore Th' incarnate, the redeeming God, and know None other name to trust in here below. CXLVIII. And see, with an anticipating eye, Crowding the bridge that Heav'n hath built for them, Methinks through distant clouds I can descry The Tribes returning to Jerusalem ! From eveiy land and climate, shore and sky, Where Pride could scoff, or Exile could condemn ; From east, west, north, and south, o'er sand and foam. Mountain, and sea, the banish'd hasten home. CXLIX. Numerous and thick as the bees swarm in spring, Thronging, the railroads and steam-vessels groan With the mix'd multitudes they homew^ard bring, Not now with stern eye and insulting tone, Angry, and mocking their anointed king, But worshipping, and praising Him alone, And mourning bitterly, and weeping sore For the unnatural rage indulged before. D 2 59 THE WEDDING BELLS. CL. Yes, the dark, dreary niglit of their rejection, And servitude, and sufferings o'erpast, With many a joyous throb, and sad reflection, In their own land they congregate at last. With many a deep and solemn recollection, The aged labouring yet ; and fair, and fast, All hope, and haste, and buoyancy the young, To kiss the land whence their forefathers sprung, CLI. Hark ! to the shout, the weeping and the pray'r, The praises and the acclamations loud. As, in the misty distance rising there. The holy city breaks upon the crowd ! Hark ! to the cries of triumph that o'erbear The penitential sobs, to be allow'd Once more, absolved, to visit that dear place^ Desired and loved through ages of disgrace. CLII. Henceforth restored to favour, and again Of th' holy family, to root and grow. Like the true olive in their native plain. They come, the heralds of God's love below As in their unbelief no ensign vain. In their conversion and devotion, so No doubtful sign, and miracle to prove God's truth, his anger, and redeeming love. THE WEDDING BELLS. 53 CLIII. Oh ! for the ecstasy that he shall feel, Who lives to see that great and glorious day, When Heav'n descends on earth to help and heal The world, and God shall reign, and man obey. Meantime, the eager eye of Faith may steal A forward glance where future glories play, And in the railroad and the steamer find Heaven's instruments t' unite and bless mankind. CLIV. And travelling, most certainly, is pleasant, And seeing foreign lands and foreign faces, And foreign company from peer to peasant ; And, in remarkably romantic places, Eating their coarse brown bread or steaming pheasant, Gives to the matrimonial embraces A zest; and to the novel joys of marriage Adds novel sights, seen from a new post-carriage. CLV. Yes, travelling, no doubt, is gratifying, Especially where you prudently take time, And do not make the tour of Europe flying ; But pause, and seek, and study the sublime ; Not with the straws upon the surface lying Content, but anxious for the pure and prime, With the wise cock o' the fable, turn the soil. Till the bright glittering gem rewards your toil. 54 THE WEDDING BELLS. CLVI, The very novelty that charms the eyes, Or wakens and invigorates the mind, And still to curiosity supplies Fresh food ; the never-failing hope to find ; The activity required to gain the prize ; The little difficulties left behind ; The passing on from place to place ; the view, At every stage, of something strange or new. CLVir. The valley with the early dewxlrops wet Traced, and the green or storied spots you meet The mountain climb 'd at sunrise, or sunset. And all the gorgeous scenery at its feet ; . The Alpine bridge, the forded rivulet. The morning's glad anticipations sweet ; The milky cud of memory chew'd ere night — These are the traveller's guerdon and delight. CLVIII. Then all the useful information gained ; The fair and elegant acquirements made ; The knowledge sweetly gleaned and well retained ; The minds contrasted, and the men surveyed ; The prejudices soften'd or restrained; Forbearance learn'd, and Charity display 'd; i\.nd all the treasured recollections dear. That shed delight o'er many a distant year. THE WEDDING BELLS. 55 CLIX. Those pleasant recollections trifle-bred, With scarce an effort of the memory kept ; Or deeper rooted, and to persons wed Beloved, or sunny spots — that having slept Silent as untouch"d lute-strings, ambushed Deep in the mind, as if o' the sudden swept From their concealment, from long slumbers start To life, and sing and revel round the heart. CLX. A word, a sound, a scent, a sight, a look, Or some remote resemblance of a place ; A print, a line, or sentence in a book — Sometimes without apparent cause to trace. Up, like a scared bird from its leafy nook, Bounds Memory, and the circumstance, the face, The spot unseen, un thought of long, is there Before our eyes, as real and as fair. CLXI. And doubtless these are sweet, and he is blessed, Who, with the inclination, hath the power To rove the wild world over, or to rest, The wish indulging of the passing hour. But where stern Fortune hath withheld the best, Plucking the leaf, although denied the flower, 'Tis pleasant to read voyages, and roam At second-hand, by proxy, and at home. 56 THE WEDDING BELLS. CLXTI. 'Tis pleasant roving, and 'tis pleasant writing, The traveller recording all lie found Of persons, places, time, and toil inviting, And, at his leisure, every inch of ground Retracing. And the reading is delighting. In the straight circle of one's homestead bound, Such volumes draw the expatiating mind Abroad, howe'er the person be confined. cLxiir. Thej, like the optic glass, bring distance near, And open up the breathing world before us ; Lap as amid the roses of Kashmere, And fling the oriental sunshine o'er us. What we have not known, both to eye and ear. Brightly present ; to what we have, restore us, While, through the telescope which they provide, x\nd point, we view the earth from side to side. CLXIV. Hail to the travellers since they write for me, Kind-hearted voyagers ! That I may know All that they know, and see whate'er they see, O'er distant waves, and foreign lands they go. Where other stars and other climates be ; Enduring burning suns and arctic snow, Compass the earth, and then, returning, write Their wanderings, purposely for my delight. THE WEDDING BELLS. 57 CLXV. 'Tis sweet to follow those adventurous men, Explore the Ganges, Rhine, or Amazon ; Climb the high Pique, descend Bovino's glen, Watch loud Niagara his falls o'errun ; Search green Tinian or savage Kerguelen ; Trace Petra's chisell'd rocks and valley dun ; And still, indulging in one's easy chair. Be lightly wheel'd round with them everywhere. CLXVI. Come, trim the lamp, and bring my slippers here, And heap the fuel til] the flames prevail ; And give me Anson, Byron, Cooke, Dampier, That I may with them o'er the ocean sail. 'Tis my delight, howe'er the vessel veer. To wear with her ; and in the calm or gale To clew, or strike sail, as the vex'd waves foam. Or blue sea sleeps — yet feel myself at home. CLXVII. And yet, methinks, the bridegroom and the bride, Without the bustle and the bore of travel. Might just as happily at home abide, And there the silken marriage clue unravel. Though that were vulgar ; and 'twould hurt their pride To walk, in safety, on their own smooth gravel. Instead of climbing rugged roads and rocks ; And getting sundry falls and divers knocks. D 3 58 THE WEDDING BELI-S. CLXVIII. Still 'tis a matter, after all, of taste ; Rather of fashion, whosoe'er begun it ; One who had, doubtless, time and cash to waste ; Or marrying, and repenting when he had done it, As often happens with things done in haste, To soften down the evil, or to shun it, Wander'd through unknown lands — but, to my mind, 'Twere better had he left his wife behind. CLXIX. Yet that in decency he scarce could do. Besides, abroad, whilst sharing his attention Between his spouse and Heaven knows what, or who, There was some chance, by ways one scarce need men- tion. Nor guess, nor yet foresee, nor yet eschew, Beyond all notion, thought, or comprehension. That his dear wife might from the crowded deck Be swept, or on the mountains break her neck. ci>xx. Not that I mean this as a general case ; Far be it from me to hint so rash a thing. But, if the origin we could but trace, It might be found the fountain-head and spring, Why your young couple seek a distant place, Their money in outlandish hands to fling. But 'tis the fashion, howe'er it might rise. And foreign inkeepers esteem it wise. THE WEDDING BELLS. 59 CLXXI. So says the heretic in nuptial matters, Not I, who ne'er imagined such a thing. 'Twould do for your old bachelor, who flatters His celibacy when he darts a sting In matrimony, which he sourly scatters With satire or abuse. But I would bring All that is laudatory, and repeat x\ll that is complimentary and sweet. CLXXII. For, if 'tis sweet to travel, 'tis most sweet To travel in the sweetest of society, With whom, e'en in retirement and retreat. Thrice happy, you are happier in variety : Without whose smiles your bliss were incomplete : With whom, beyond all chill or contrariety, Your joys were more than doubled, and your woes, And toils, and troubles lull'd into repose. CLXXIII. Fair was the maiden, but the wife is more ; And, certainly, ere yet familiarity Hath breathed upon th' enchantment shining o'er The soft companionship of wedded charity — Ere love, long gazing, ceases to adore, But, still detecting nothing of disparity, Nor showing aught of cold, begins to blend. By slow degrees, the lover with the friend. 60 THE WEDDING BELLS. CLXXIV. In that fair season where the wife is still The clear, the idolized, the charming bride, And the new-married pair have but one will : But for themselves no wandering thought beside. Whilst yet endearment and indulgence fill Their hours, and rapidly the moments glide, Alone with one another ; each concluding The very best friend's presence half intruding. CLXXV. Surely 'tis most allowable to fly Common acquaintance, whose mere looks repress The loving glance of a confiding eye ! The whisper'd kindness, or the stol'n caress. And better 'tis than choicest company, To wander in delicious loneliness Through distant lands together ; and to gaze On lovely scenery in those golden days ; CLXXVI. Scenes for a painter's or a poet's eye, Where Byron or Salvator all the day Might gaze enraptured, and ne'er satisfy Their sight, and to his canvas this convey Or that, with all a poet's ecstasy Describe the wild, magnificent, or gay ; Vales that delight, and torrents that appal, " Stealing and giving beauty " to them all ; THE WEDDING BELLS. 61 CLXXVII. Scenes where the poet and the artist stray As in congenial places ; the green wood, The lonely glen where the bright waters play, The ^nde-spread down, the mountain solitude. And the wild shingly beach and billowy bay Nurse and supply their fancy with its food ; Till o'er the brightening canvas th' artist throws Their colours, and the bard's description glows. CLXXYIII. These be their native haunts ; and they are sought As naturally by them as the flower Is by the bee because 'tis honey-fraught. Here, too, they seek their sweets, and find the power That adds a grace to skill, a strength to thought, And where the sun shines, or the tempests low'r, Mark th' ever-varying tints and shades that rest Upon the vale, or tinge the mountain's crest. CLXXIX. These be their realms. The person and the place Agree ; for Nature rules in both serene, And stamps quick admiration of the grace She liberally scatters o'er the scene, Upon their hearts. What o'er the outward place She works with rougher charms, reflects within With softer beauty, and transfers the bright Or gloomy there with mellowing shade and light. 62 THE WEDDING BELLS. CLXXX. Oh ! for the awful feelmgs, the surprise, The joy, the inexpressible delight That in the spirit burns, when the glad eyes Eest on some noble landscape, and the sight Drinks the successive glories as they rise Above, below, around, on left and right ; And still new combinations are descried ; And still new beauties start on every side. CLXXXI. Hence while the scene is on the mind impress'd, And the admiring spirit works and glows, Fresh from the mint of the rapt poet's breast. Across his page the fine description flows. Hence, 'mid the scenery where he loves to rest. Inspired, the artist o'er his canvas throws His soul, and with creative genius gives Form and expression, till his picture lives. CLXXXII. Hence Shakspeare, with a master's touch, displays Boon nature, howsoe'er her beauties rise. Thomson her graces catches as she strays ; And Byron brings the torrent to your eyes. Hence, too, Salvator's faithful brush betrays Her rude magnificence in earth and skies : And, with the softest tints that art bestows, Poussin imparts her peace and her repose. THE WEDDING BELLS. 63 CLXXXIII. The finest scenery loses half that 's fair Or fascinating when beheld alone. But oh ! how rich it looks when she is there ! Her notions still uniting with thine own, Of all that 's beautiful in earth or air : Her smile bestowing on the dull, dark stone Of the rough rock a brilliancy that flies Around, wherever she directs her eyes. CLXXXIV. And, then, how pleasant, when th' enraptured sight Lingers on torrent, lake, or waterfall ; The mountain fastness or the giddy height; Romantic glen, or tower, or castled hall — T' exclaim " How beautiful, how grand, how bright ! " And know she looks on, and agrees with all ! Upon my word, 'tis such enchanting bliss, That I will say no more of it than this — CLXXXV. Than only this, that 'tis — but Nature speaks — Ten thousand pities we have not the power To swell those joyous moments into weeks, Those weeks to months — nay, every precious hour To years ; and ever have, what nature seeks So painfully, love in the full-blown flower, And pleasure sweetly warbling on the tongue; And, in a word, remain for ever young. 64 THE WEDDING BELLS. CLXXXVI. For ever young and hopeful, and delighting In all that is delightful, all that 's pure. Exposed to nothing baneful, bleak, or blighting. Life a mere paradise, a cynosure. No foe, no fear, no follies, nor no fighting ; No coldness to lament, no grief to cure ; No envying, emulation, debt, denial — This world no scene of suffering, nor of trial. CLXXXVII. And 'tis a mighty gratifying notion ; A mighty pretty notion, passing sweet ! But in this world, where all things are in motion, From the quick pulses in heart, hands, and feet, The glorious sun and moon, and stars and ocean, Down to the worthless dust upon the street — Where everything or rises, falls, or flies. Progresses, moves, — this Providence denies. CLXXXVIII. And wisely — for, if we could realize That splendid vision, that would still renew Joy in the heart, and pleasure in the eyes — What would it be at best, if it were true ? What but a pleasant exile in disguise ? A lingering where the moth and rust eat through ? A feeding, not on angels' food, but leaven ? A long estrangement from eternal Heaven? THE WEDDING BELLS. 65 CLXXXIX. Fair is this world, but Heaven is fairer still. And we, who were not for this earth intended Alone, where poisons with perfumes distil, And something foul with all things fair is blended Designedly, that mere earth might not fill Our hearts, or with it all our hopes be ended, Are often forced to feel the wringing fetter, That we may gaze beyond to something better. cxc. So youth decays and withers, whilst we cry, " 'Tis pity we cannot be always young." And love, and health, and pleasure fade and fly, E'en whilst their names sound sweetly on our tongue. And all around us droops, and seems to die ; Not that we may be scorch'd, or scotch 'd, or stung, But taught to trust and strive ; and, having striven In hope, to look up anxiously to Heaven. CXCI. Oh ! who that reads God's word or works aright Would cry, " 'Tis pity we should e'er grow old; But still be young, and revelling in delight." In such delight as earthly blessings hold. Knowing he hath a fair home, warm and bright, To which all bright and warm is dull and cold On earth. A home that can but be secured By him that, like his Saviour, hath endured. 66 THE WEDDING BELLS. CXCII. They go, and tliey return — and time goes too. And or in childbed, sickness, or in woe, And often whilst the marriage-dress is new, Sudden, or wasting silentlj^ and slow, And with a second, and more sad adieu, She falls — and that same bell — 'tis even so, Resumes its voice, but with a different tone — Solemn, and mingling with the sob, the groan. CXCIII. They go, and they return — and though their tour Was passing pleasant, as all tours must be, Where, of his true and treasured heart secure. Love leads, and beckons to Felicity ; With all that 's grand t' inspire, or fair t' allure ; Still, as the white cliffs swell'd above the sea, Distant, and scarce emerging from the foam, How their pulse throbb'd to gaze once more on home cxciv. And still, the nearer they approach 'd, the more Each well-known object, each familiar place — The road-side path, the tall elms hanging o'er The turnpike-gate, the boor's inquiring face, And recognising bow, oft seen before. But never with such pleasure — nay, to trace The very milestones, as each to the eye Told home was drawing nigher, and more nigh, — THE WEDDING BELLS. 67 CXCV. All this was of domestic, dear delight, Heart-full. But more, as climbing the last hill. The skirts o' the hamlet open'd on their sight; And in the evening sunshine, calm and still. With its gilt vane fix'd south, at rest, and bright ; The spire o ertopp'd the trees ; and then the mill Rose, with its small stream's huddling w^aterfall ; And then the village, and park-gate, and hall. cxcvi. Home ! Whose heart doth not throb at the mere sound? And dance and leap with pleasure at the sight Of the dear place that gathers and holds bound, In its gold circlet treasured, the delight Of all familiar intercourse hath crown 'd, And all domestic comfort knows of bright ? The place of intimate endearment blest : The downy pillow of endearing rest. CXCVII. Home ! where the man throws joyously aside, With his court-dress and sword, the stiff disguise, And harsh constraint that fashion, caution, pride, Or forms force on him in the stranger's eyes. And unrestricted, all himself, untied, Untrammell'd and unbound, his bosom lies Open and unsuspicious, frank and free ; And his words are his thoughts, whate'er they be. (38 THE WEDDING BELLS. CXCVIII. Home ! where so many pleasant trifles be — Each acceptable, and all, more or less, Forms or ingredients of felicity. There Ease reclines, and Mirth forbears t' repress Th' immoderate laughter echoed back by glee. And quiet-eyed Content and Happiness, Those cherub twins, lie nestling amongst roses ; x\nd full security the breast uncloses. cxcix. Home ! where the best affections richest grow, And all-confiding trust is the completest; Where full indulgence soonest exhausts woe, And joy, by love shared and prolong'd, is sweetest. Home ! a diminutive paradise below ; The sunniest, shadiest, nearest, nicest, neatest ; And an anticipated Heaven, supplying All that is soothing, soft, and satisfying. cc. There, as the skylark drops into her nest. There drops the weak and weary heart betray 'd, Whom a bad world hath worried and oppress'd. And finds sure comfort in its silent shade ; There lulls its throbbing sorrows into rest ; There bathes its wounds, and soothes its hopes decay 'd; Shuts out th' intrusive crowd, and shakes aside Its fret, and tastes the peace too long denied. THE WEDDING BELLS. 69 CCI. There, as the foot-sore labourer repairs His strength, when Sunday spreads the sacred page ; Or the returning traveller stops, and shares Refreshment, ere he enters his last stage ; Ambition brings his disappointed cares. Manhood his toils, his aches decrepid age. All that have been deluded — suffer 'd — striv'n. Repose a space there, between earth and Heav n. CCTI. There, latest and reluctant, drugg'd with gold, Or ruin'd, all his speculations vain — Comes sleepless Merchandise, infirm and old. Having exhausted life, and soul, and brain. In calculating schemes of bought and sold; Travail and watchings, cark and care for gain — Till, as the mendicant or millionaire, Wearied, he seeks one hour of respite there. CCITI. Each, as their years increase or strength decays, Or grace a light hath o'er their spirit cast, Retiring there, regret their wasted days, And in seclusion become wise at last ; Reject the toys that once secured their praise ; And, turning to the Future from the Past, At home for that far better home prepare ; And sweetly sink to gentle slumbers there. 70 THE WEDDING BELLS. CCIV. Oil, who bath ever linger'd long from home But bears its miniature within his breast, As of an absent friend, where'er he roam, And still recurs to that delicious nest, Where, like the honey in the honeycomb, All his best thoughts and recollections rest ; Full of th' accustom'd charities that please — Whose very pebbles are acquaintances ; GOV. And who, returning, though not long away, Nor distant far, but hath not, with an eye Of eager recognition, glad and gay, Hail'd every object as he passes by? Trifles, that to none others would convey Aught, and are scarcely noticed, gratify His bosom, that associates every sight And sound there with some dear one, some delight. ccvi. There stands an ancient tree, whose roots peep out 0' the river's bank, and dip into the tide. 'Twas there his childhood hid, and, with a shout Of jocund haste, betray 'd where he would hide; 'Twas there his boyhood, half desire, half doubt, First trusted to the stream ; and then, with pride, Rivall'd a brother in the watery race, Or stay'd the swift boat in that favourite place. THE WEDDING BELLS. 71 CCVTI. Here is a broken gate, decay 'cl and old, Where, in his boyhood, he so often swung, And where, in his maturer days, he told That sweetest tale the hesitating tongue Can tell, or the delighted ear can hold, And to a maid as loving and as young Breathed the delicious secret long conceal 'd So anxiously, so tremblingly reveal'd. CCVITI. But why dilate? The well-accustom'd eye Descries in every turn, and nook, and place, Marks that recall to busy memory Some scene or circumstance it loves to trace ; There hears a voice, and almost would reply; Here ever meets some loved and loving face. Amid familiar scenes like these to roam Is joyous, for all whispers, " Thou 'rt at home." CCTX. Then the first sound that welcomed her again Was the same merry bell and jocund chime That rang so gladly o'er the marriage train. And to the wanderings of her wedding time So sweetly bade God speed. Beyond the main That music in each fair and foreign clime Oft echoed in her ears, and now once more Met her, returning to her native shore. 72 THE WEDDING BELLS. CCX. And still she heard those friendly bells repeat The merry tone and gratulating peal, When her first-born press'd to her, to complete Her wedded joys, and her maternal weal. And still their murmurs sounded soft and sweet, When Providence, her happiness to seal, A second blessing in a second child Bestow'd, and on her girl the mother smiled. CCXL Two children, the fond parents' urgent pray'r, Whose love believes their little hearts must hide All the best virtues that can nestle there — As the green bud holds the vermilion pride Of the fuU-blossom'd rose, that scents the air Of June. E'en like the flower, as they decide, The child new beauties gaining whilst maturing ; The young bud promising, the bloom alluring. CCXII. 'Tis the too willing and too sweet mistake Of the maternal bosom to foresee Her child the excellent creature she would make ; Rather than what the ripening man shall be. When all the passions in their strength awake, And the heart feels its own infirmity. When the thorn, hardening, sharp and sharper grows- Then sharpest, when most beautiful the rose. THE WEDDING BELLS. 73 ccxiri. Oh, that the doting mother's prophecy- Were ever true ; nor she too oft beguiled, Whilst gazing with a too indulgent eye ; Or that the seraph fled not with the child. But she herself must toil to verify Her own predictions. She must tame the wild. The angry calm, the vicious check, th' impure Eeprove, confirm the weak, the strong secure. ccxiv. She, as the Diver plies his busy art. And in the dark gulph finds his costly prize, Must search into the depths of the young heart, And, from the close recesses where it lies. Bring up the pearl, and skilfully impart Its polish, cleanse all its impurities. Make its improving beauties brighter still, And, all she fondly prophesied, fulfil. ccxv. And now the Bride, the gay and gladsome, priding Herself on rout and revel, dress and beauty. Gently into the soberer wife subsiding, Busied herself in her domestic duty, Tn the calm precincts of her home abiding — Not as the swallow, for its insect booty Abroad flies all the day — but fix'd at rest. As the hen fondly broods upon her nest. E 74 THE WEDDING BELLS. CCXVI. And still she listen 'd, as at fall or spring 0' the year they rang at intervals ; and still The chime pass'd o'er her gay and triumphing ; Loud in the valley, melting o'er the hill. And, really, tis a very pretty thing, At morn, or ev'n, to hear their music fill The tranquil air, and catch the vaiying note, As it swells near, or faintly dies remote. CCXVII. But oh, the changes of this changing scene, Where we ourselves, and ours, and all around Are in perpetual change ! Are and have been, The two prevailing points that hedge and bound Our vision and experience — sad, serene. Joyous, unhappy, young, old, cross 'd or crown 'd, The different phases of our lot, that ne'er Bests at high tide nor low — at foul nor fair. CCXVIIT. E'en while her travels she talked o'er, and spoke Of perilous storms by sea, and scenes on shore ; And told how gloriously the morning broke Around the Wetterhorn ; and how their oar, Dipp'd in the Leman lake, with every stroke Their glittering sparkles from the waters bore ; At evening dash'd the wavelets into light ; Or dripp'd with ruddy ruby-drops at night. THE WEDDING BELLS. 75 CCXIX. E'en whilst of Alpine journeyings she told, Climbing the Great Saint Bernard ; and the race Of hardy dogs sagacious, quick, and bold The fainting Traveller in the snow to trace And scent, and save him perishing -svith cold ; Or of the glaciers, and that icy place. Where never thaw was known from eldest time — Chillingly bare, and terribly sublime. ccxx. E'en whilst delightedly she loved to tell Of Rome, and all its glories and its pride — x\nd its Laocoon — and a soft glance fell Of love upon the infants at her side — Where th' artfully wrought stone express'd so well The two boys' feeble struggles ere they died ; And th' agonizing father's throes to break The twisted folds of either deadly snake ; ccxxi. Or of th' Apollo Belvidere, that stood Magnificently scornful, proudly fair; Or the stern Gladiator in his blood ; As in the fierce convulsions of despair He died t' amuse the Roman multitude ; Or beautifully bashful, shape and air Perfect, the Venus, shrinking, sought to shade Charms that the mere attempt to hide display'd. E 2 76 THE WEDDING BELLS. CCXXIT. E'en whilst indulging in the recollections That on her memory linger'cl to the last — Like th' amethystine tints, and rich reflections, The summer sunset's golden glories cast Upon Mont Blanc — those shadowy connections Between the palpable present and the past. That o'er us throw the light of bygone days, Fainter, but fair, from their expiring rays. CCXXIII. E'en thus, and then, delightedly recalling Those happy times, the change came o'er her head, And gradually she felt the shadow falling. And now she sigh'd, and now a tear she shed, As with anticipations more appalling She for the living fear'd, or wept the dead. Whilst the glad bell, that had so gaily rung, Changing its note, spake with a sadder tongue. ccxxiv. And first the deepening tone, although it fell Upon her heart, fell lightly, and she sigh'd Her brief regret away ere yet the bell Had scarcely ceased. But as relations died, And the dear friends of childhood loved so well. Long known, the girl, the Maiden, or the Bride, More sensibly she felt that heavy tone. And in her friends' death all but wept her own. THE WEDDING BELLS. 77 CCXXV. So change came quickly following change, until Heavier that bell beat on her heart, as day By day her own strength 'gan to wane, and still Waned faster, and the hectic flush that lay Upon her cheek — the treacherous glows that kill Gently, and smilingly lead on decay — Tinged her pale brow with red ; and then the bell Seem'd, as it toll'd, her own near fate to tell. CCXXVT. And change came following change, until, at last, The dear companion of her life, with whom She wander'd ere a sorrow frown'd t' o'ercast Her joys, or shed one taint upon their bloom : With whom she talk'd so sweetly of the past — Sudden, in health, was hurried to the tomb. Then did that bell speak daggers, and the toll Fell crushingly, and deadly, on her soul. CCXXVII. We in our bosoms our tormentors bear. And of our own hearts coin our griefs, and grow Within ourselves the brambles and the care That fret our lives away ; for we bestow On trifles consequence, make mockeries share The nature of realities, and throw Round the poor beetle's horns, though blunt and weak. The power to wound us like the vulture's beak. 78 THE WEDDING BELLS. CCXXVIII. A fool's neglect, a boy's impertinence ; A word, look, motion, misinterpreted ; A mere fond fancy void of consqeuence ; Th' unfounded, false reports the vulgar spread ; Things without substance, likelikood, or sense, We suffer o'er our happiness to shed A poison, or a gloom, or passing shade — All the mere creatures we ourselves have made. ccxxix. This is our folly, and, it may be, part Of the stern trial we must undergo ; So that, where there 's nought real t' oppress the heart. We make a grief, direct the feeble blow, And give it strength with self-tormenting art. No wonder, then, that what is truly so Heart-rending, or heart-scalding, we increase, Prolong, nor suffer it to give us peace. ccxxx. Yet there are sorrows sickening and severe : Disease, want, slavery, poverty, and pain ; Still more the loss of those we loved too dear. There is the violent bursting of the chain That bound us to the world ; and when we hear Those lips' last sighs that ne'er shall sigh again. And see those eyes for ever closed, that ne'er Gazed on us but with love, 'tis hard to bear. THE WEDDING BELLS. 79 CCXXXI. Eacli mournful knell, each lingering sound renew'd The languid Widow's anguish and dismay, As from the window her sick eyes pursued, Unwillingly, the funeral array; As full in sight, between the church and wood That skirted the grave-yard, it wound its way, Till, as the antique porch it enter'd slow, She looked her last on him she loved below. CCXXXII. And oh ! how deep and dismal is the tone, At solemn intervals repeated slow. Knelling for the departure of a soul. That was our treasure in this world of woe ! Though he himself be now past griefs control, How heavily, as with a sensible blow, It beats upon the ear, and seems to part, With every long-drawn tone, the shuddering heart ! CCXXXIIT. And now the bell was hush'd — the lingering sound Sank slowly into silence, deep and drear ; And the cold weight of stillness so profound Was more intolerable to her ear Than the hoarse passing bell, and breathed around An inexpressible and heavy fear ; An anxious and impatient dread, that heaved Her heart in throbs, which tortured, not relieved ; 80 THE WEDDING BELLS. CCXXXIV. For now she knew the grave received its trust. She seem'd to hear the prayer that sanctifies, And whispers o'er the relics of the just, And whilst it yields triumphant death his prize, Ashes with ashes mix'd, and dust with dust, Points to the cross of Hope amid the skies, That, like the night-star o'er the troubled wave. Sheds a bright beam of glory on the grave. ccxxxv. Then backw^ard roved her memory, to gaze On many a scene wherein her heart had fed On the sweet honey of those happy days, When first she smiled consenting on the dead, And wanton'd in the laughing sun that plays. In brilliance, around mutual love, and led The joyous hours along in rosy twine, Till earth seem'd paradise, and life divine. ccxxxvi. Then came the hours when love on love arose, And her dear children murmur'd on her breast ; Whose weakness roused the tenderness, that glow^s So warm and well o'er them it loves the best ; The sweet maternal labour that bestows The soft, and quiet pleasures of the bless'd. And the hush'd watchfulness, so still and deep, That gazes on an infant's rosy sleep. THE WEDDING BELLS. 81 CCXXXVII. She thought upon the day when first she smiled, And placed them in their Father's eager arms, And how he glanced on her from either child, And seem'd in them to seek and see her charms ; And the caress that followed, and beguiled Her soul, too glad t' anticipate alarms ; Then only living to a Mother's pride, And the confiding passion of a Bride. CCXXXVIII. Then crowded on her many a happy day. When, leaning on his arm, in bliss profound, They watch 'd, and smiled upon their infants' play. And kiss'd their lips, and smooth'd the locks that crown 'd Their snowy brows. But that had pass'd away — And now the gloom of nightfall thicken'd round. It was too much — she shudder'd to compare The cloudy Present with a Past so fair. CCXXXIX. It was too much. Weary and weak before, This sorrow, with accelerated power, Hurried the rapid malady that wore Her life away, and hasten'd to devour Her wasting heart. And now yet more and more She droop "d, and languished like a fading flower; Her strength sank visibly ; her panting breath. Though quick, was heavy with approaching death. E 3 82 THE WEDDING BELLS. CCXL. And then, with wandering looks and troubled thought, She turn'd her weak head and unsettled eye From face to face, scarce knowing whom she sought. For sense would oft-times fail, and memory Would drowse, as with a smile so sorrow-fraught, That more than tears it touch'd, and a sad sigh From the heart's depth, she niurmuringly would say, " Why does my husband stay so long away?" CCXLI. Then hesitatingly, and slowly waking To the dark truth that press'd upon her brain — Then would she burst into a loud heart-breaking Lament, an agony of tears and pain. Sobbing, and e'en as in an ague shaking. Till, by the effort overcome, again To fitful sleep she sank, o' the sudden shivering At intervals, her lips or eyelids quivering. CCXLIl. This could not last. The fits that shook her frame, The frequent swoonings and the want of rest ; Th' unconquerable grief that nought could tame. And she too much indulged, too loud express'd, Soon perfected their work, and overcame The feeble sufferer, gasping, and oppress'd. And dying fast. Still, life reviving rose, As if to bless her children, at its close. THE WEDDING BELLS. 83 CCXLIII. This last, worst agony was still to come. She felt it was, and dreaded it ; but, though She knew that parting hour with them must numb The fainting springs of life — e'en if 'twere so, She could not bear to pass away quite dumb To the last links tl^at bound her yet below — Those likenesses of her dear lord, and e'en Look'd eagerly for that heart-breaking scene. CCXLIV. She was supported upon pillows, where She lean'd her heavy head. The darkling room Was voiceless with the silence of despair. Beside her flowers were scatter 'd, whose perfume Revived her, whilst they purified the air. Her friends were gather 'd round her in the gloom Of deep regret, that makes the soul its prey. When we see youth and beauty pass away. Drooping and weak, but patient in decline, She lay unmurmuring, lovely in decay. Her snowy neck was shrunk ; the blush divine, The alabaster tint had died away. Her polish'd bosom, that fair faultless shrine Of a pure heart, had wasted, and the play Of spirit, shining o'er each feature, now Was quench'd, and languish'd on her cold damp brow. 84 THE WEDDING BELLS. CCXLVI. Her arms had dwindled piteously, and high The blue veins, wandering o'er their whiteness, rose. Yet her thin hands retain 'd their symmetry, Fair as the Ermeline, or Alpine snows. Her slender fingers, drooping, seem'd to lie Upon her breast in beautiful repose, Long and transparent, and the polish 'd nail. So rosy once, scarce tinged, but dull and pale. CCXLVTI. She had been beautiful : she was so still; For, though her cheeks were faded, and her face Was pallid, and its living warmth was chill, There linger'd yet a melancholy grace And softness, showing what she had been, till Disease intruded into beauty's place ; A slight suffusion o'er her brow that run. Like twilight blushing with the setting sun. CCXLVIII. The beauty of expression still was there. And play'd around her lips, whose faded glow Was like the sweet carnation, when the air Of autumn nips it, and it withers slow. 'Twas sweetly pitiful, resign'd, and fair ! And her black tresses, wandering down below The braid that bound their crisped tendrils boon. Lay like a cloud across the summer moon. THE WEDDING BELLS. 85 CCXLIX. But still her eye was full, though 'twas not bright, Nor quick, as it had been to wake desire. Its dark orb floated still in lovely light, All tenderness and sadness, where the fire Of health and hope had melted, and the sight Had left this earth to gaze on something higher. Yet, when her glance upon her children fell. It beam'd with language and with love too well. CCL. She took them to her heart, and as she took To her embraces those she loved so dear, Whilst yet her hands in her deep anguish shook, She fixed a mingled glance of hope and fear, A dumb, beseeching, deprecating look. That lingered sadly tremulous through a tear, On Heav'n — a prayerful glance — then faintly smiled. And sorrowfully gazed on either child. CCLI. Resting their smooth cheeks on her pallid face, Like roses on a drooping lily-flower, They lay at rest in the well-known embrace. Oh, who had not wept in that mournful hour, To watch her dim eyes labour to retrace Their features through her tears, that like a shower Fell on them, and her wan cheek flush and glow, And instantly turn pale again with woe. 86 THE WEDDING BELLS. CCLTI. Then with convulsive sobs of grief she press 'd Both to her heart, that swell'd their hearts beneath, And nestled them against her throbbing breast, And kiss'd their lips, inhaling their sweet breath. Fainting with love and anguish, she caress'd. Whom equally with Heav'n she prized in death; And, whilst she glanced on them, her bursting heart Shudder'd to think how quickly they must part. CCLIIT. And still she smother'd them in strict embraces, And strain'd them to her as she would unite Body and soul, and on their baby graces Gazed steadfastly, absorb 'd in that sad sight. Then, never satisfied, their brows, their faces. Their eyes, their necks she kiss'd with sick delight ; Wreathing her pale hands in their golden tresses. And breathing out her life in their caresses ; CCLIV. Sobbing so deep, as every sob would break The heart it tore with agonizing pain ; Whilst in her throat it choked, and seem'd to shake Her frame to dissolution. Yet again. As if indulgence could nor soothe, nor slake Th' insatiate love that throbb'd in every vein, On the dear babes she fix'd her lips and face, And stifled them in one prolong'd embrace. THE WEDDING BELLS. 87 CCLV. She spake not, turu'd not, but intently gazed As she would drink them into her heart's core. Yet once she brush'd aside the tears that glazed Her sight, and scalded ere they trickled o'er. And once a supplicating look she raised To Heav'n, whose fainting anguish would implore Some rest, some respite, but, e'en more than rest, Abundant blessings on the babes she bless 'd — CCLVI. Bless'd with her dying lips, that scarce obey'd Her will, but stammering, struggling, and with pain, In almost inarticulate sounds convey 'd The interrupted prayer, and whispers vain, That now to choking silence sunk, or made A violent effort, and, in language plain, Gush'd forth ; in smoth'ring spasms subsided wild ; And swell'd once more, and sobb'd, " My child, my child." CCLYII. So sunk her head upon her children, where She murmur'd in a soft unearthly somid, As if her disembodying soul were there. A thrill shot sudden through her friends profound ; A throb of fear, of pity, of despair Pass'd o'er their hearts. Instinctively around The bed they throng'd to witness her last breath, And smooth the struggles of reluctant death. 88 THE WEDDING BELLS. CCLVIII. Now, as she shed the burning tears of dole, The children wept, they knew not why, and wound Their little arms about her neck, and stole Sad kisses from her cheeks, and sobb'd profound. Then anguish struck its arrows to her soul. And sinking gently, and half turning round, Upon her eyes' desire she strove to raise One last, last look of pity and of praise. CCLIX. But death was in that look, which seem'd to say, " Souls of my soul, and must we, must we part ? And must I leave ye thus a helpless prey. And unprotected to the world's bad art? What will ye do when I am snatched away ? And how that thought strikes daggers to my heart. That fatherless I leave ye in your weakness. To those whose love, compared to mine, is bleakness. CCLX. " Who now shall soothe your sorrows on her breast ? Or read your wishes in your angel-eyes ? Or kiss your little troubles into rest ? And smile upon your smiles, and idolize The lips that fondle her, and build her nest In the soft bosoms she alone can prize ? Oh ! who, when I have left this world of strife, Would sacrifice for you her heart and life ? " THE WEDDING BELLS. b\) CCLXL But they were frigbten'd at her eyes o'ercast ; Her features fixing in the rigid chill Of death ; her breast that heaved and sank so fast. She feebly struggled with that mortal thrill, And strove, at least, to feel them to the last. It was too much — her broken heart lay still. One deadly shiver, one convulsive throe, And she was cold to them and all below. CCLXII. But yet a tremulous motion slight — so slight, It scarce could be detected, seem'd to fly Across her fingers languidly and light, Where on her children they lay droopingly, As if that touch yet stay'd the rapid flight Of consciousness, there last she seemed to die. And there, though sight was quench'd, and breath had pass'd, Life lingered longest, and departed last. CCLXIII. There lay she beautiful in death — her eyes' Dim light was quench'd, and sunk in dark eclipse. But still the anguish of her dying sighs Appeared to quiver on her parted lips, That gently droop'd in sorrow s sweetest guise. And, as the dew from evening roses drips, A tear still slowly linger 'd down her cheek, That spoke, when nature could no longer speak. 90 THE WEDDING BELLS. CCLXIV. But Still those innocents, who little knew That death had snatch 'd their dearest friend away, Clung to her bosom. Loud their sorrows grew When she return 'd not the caress, but lay Deaf to their cries, nor answer'd, nor withdrew The arms that twined them round, whose heavy clay Burthen'd their snowy necks, and loosely press'd Senseless and chill on either throbbing breast. CCLXV. And closer still they clasp 'd her neck, and caught Her vesture, when the nurse would disentwine Their arms, disjoining life and death, and thought To calm the anguish she would undermine. By whispering them their mother slept ; but nought Their clamorous grief could soothe them to resign. At length, compassion tore them from the dead, Ah ! little conscious what a friend had fled ! CCLXVI. Loud was their grief, but transient, and soon heal'd — A sudden gale that stirr'd the mountain lake ; A thunder cloud that pass'd across the field. Exhausted quickly in a fiery break. They to the joys that health and childhood yield Reverted keenly, eager to awake Accustom'd sports and pastimes, and forgot. In those that were, the pleasures that were not. THE WEDDING BELLS. 91 CCLXVIT. A little time their full hearts sobb'd ; they cried For the dear mother they should see no more ; They call'd to her, and wept when none replied ; They watch'd in silence at her chamber door, And crept upon the bed in which she died, Until forgetfulness arose to pour Its balm upon their sorrows, and again They smiled like sunshine after vernal rain. CCLXVIII. Sweet is the buoyancy of childhood, sweet Its heedlessness that never dwells on pain, Nor, as maturer sufferers, flies to meet Misfortune, nor reflects on it again, But always in its fitful feelings fleet. And careless to conceal, or to restrain Its little passions, weeps or laughs meanwhile — Its tears for ever brightening to a smile. CCLXIX. And hark ! The funeral bell ! and now again. Fancy, aroused by that deep solemn call, Beholds the Hearse, and Pall, and mournful train. And up the churchway-path pursues them all ; Hears the choked sob, sees the tear shed in vain. And listens to the clods that dully fall On the lower 'd coffin, till the bell is o'er. That now for her shall peal and knell no more. 9'2 THE WEDDING BELLS. CCLXX. Oh ! Death, how terrible art thou ! and how Thou wring st the spirit from her resting-place, Quenching the light of life upon the brow, And crushing all expression from the face ! The eye that laugh 'd, and spoke, and thought, is now Dull and unconscious ; whilst thy fingers trace The first faint lines of cold corruption, where Heaven's brightness had been glass'd till thou came there. CCLXXI. Oh ! what a change from all the quick and fine, The animating grace of fire and thought, Where hope would kindle, and where love would shine, Where all was living, all with language fraught, And mortal beauty brighten'd to divine ! Oh ! what a change ! How soon and rudely wrought ! Oh ! what a shadow o'er the sunshine spread ! What shade, what silence settled there instead ! CCLXXII. In all too plainly seen, how strongly seen In youth, in w'oman, and in loveliness ! There the dim contrast most will intervene. Where life and death seem'd distant — where the tress Still floated in luxuriance —where the mien Retain'd its smiles and bloom, the rosy dress Of Health and Hope, and whilst the laughing eye Swam in its fulness, fire, and brilliancy. THE BEDDING BELLS. 93 CCLXXIII, There thou art doubly seeu, and deeply felt. Thy silence is more awful, and more chill. And she this moment that could glow, or melt, Is now a shape all uninspired with will : Cold even to the blow that thou hast dealt : Voiceless and dull, insensible and still. Affection, passion, love, hope, all forgot. They were this moment, and the next are not. CCLXXIV. " Oh ! Death, how stem and terrible thou art ! "' The man, anticipating anguish, cries, " Tearing the last loved, best beloved, apart." " Oh ! Death I " the Christian, full of faith, replies — " How soothingly thou fall'st upon the heart, Shedding the sweetest slumber on the eyes ; Healing the bitter pangs this world hath giv'n, And gently stealing us from earth to heav'n." CCLXXV. Not as that gaunt, revolting shadow blind Thou com'st, that Superstition wont to trace. Inflicting vengeance, fierce to bruise and bind ; But as an angel, with a smiling face, Sweetly compassionate, and brightly kind ; And with a soft, encouraging embrace. To cheer, and lead us through the gloom that lies Between this world andthat above the skies. 94 THE WEDDING BELLS. CCLXXVI. Not the grim messenger of wrath, to wring Life from the spirit savagely ; but mild, With Heaven's own precious healing on thy wing, As a fond mother to her darling child. That to its little sufferings would bring Comfort and instant ease, until, beguiled, It sinks to sleep and silence on her breast. Fit Herald of the Lord who loves us best. CCLXXVII. Saviour and Lord, so let thy Herald be In my last hour to me, displaying Heav'n, And guiding every glance and thought to thee. I would not from the earth be rudely riv'n In terror ; but withdrawn confidingly. Calmly, and conscious of my sins forgiv'n For thy sake — glad, and glorying in my death ; And thy dear name upon my latest breath. 93 THE CAVALIER. 'TwAS a proud Cavalier that, released from the tomb, Came to visit the home of his Fathers once more ; That he left in its strength, and its pride, and its bloom, Ere the reign of his mild martyr'd monarch -svas o'er. And he leap'd full of joy from the grave -where he slept, And eager his house and his hearth to recall ; And to witness the state his posterity kept In the broad lands around their Baronial Hall. But two centuries now had elapsed since they bore him To the tomb of his ancestors, scutcheon 'd and crown'd ; And raised the tall marble and monument o'er him, And scatter'd the bust and the epitaph round. And he little suspected the changes, the sore And the sorrowful changes that Time, in his range Through the world, had, since that day, recorded in gore : And what havoc and anguish attended each change. 96 THE CAVALIEK. But he came to the place where his home had once been, With its gatehouse, and gardens, and turrets, and towers, And yew hedges, and terrace commanding the scene, And its deer-park, and loud clock repeating the hours. And beheld — what beheld he? — Nor building, nor bower, Nor huntsman, nor porter, nor manciple there : Not a deer, not a dog, not a fountain nor flower, But all silent and lonely, neglected and bare. Where the park with its oaks and its avenues stood ; Where the house with its oriels and chimneys had been ; Where the gardens had blossom'd, and budded the wood. And the bower and the bowling-green spread out between ; Where the stag was enlarged, or the brocket was slain, And the hawk and the heron had soar'd out of sight ; Where the Earl had fared forth at daybreak w4th his train, And the Countess continued her revels all night ; All was silence and solitude, strange and unknown. 'Twas a long levell'd field, where the furrow appear'd. Not a fragment remain'd — not a stick, not a stone, To point out the spot where the hall had been rear'd. E'en the trees had been felFd, and the roads were plough'd o'er. Not a sign of a dwelling was left, not a trace. And, of all the gay crowds that had met there before, There was none but a boor to give life to the place. THE CAVALIEE. 97 Shock 'd and stunn'd at the change, the distress'd Cavalier Stood mute ; till, at length, in his anguish he cried — " My manhood and infancy ne'er were pass'd here ! This can ne'er be the home where my forefathers died ! For of all so familiar and common to me, I recognise nothing wherever I roam : Not a path, not a hedge, not a post, not a tree. To remind me that here was my house and my home." Yet it u-as the same place, though the change was so great That its lord was a stranger amid his domain. Where his high race so long had maintain 'd their proud state ; But where none of his lineage should e'er inile again. Xot a scion was left of his stock to display His bearings and blazonry, quarterings and crest. E'en his name, so far-famed, had, at length, passed away ; And he sigh'd *' Let me back to the place of my rest." And he sigh'd " Oh ! world, world, is this all thou canst 9 Is the stem I had deem'd so deep-rooted o'erthrown ? Is my very name dead to the peasants that live ? And my Hall — e'en its ruins dispersed and unknown ? Then farewell to my pride ; for if this may be so. It were best in the grave undisturb'd to remain, Than wander forgotten where hundreds should know — And so let me return to my silence again." F 98 THE CAVALIER. And how often, alas ! like the sad Cavalier, We, too, would revisit the dearly-loved home Of our youth, time and trials but render more dear. And fond memory recals, howe'er devious we roam ; How we turn to those scenes where the unperturb'd hours Of our childhood so sweetly and quietly run — As some smooth water gently glides onward through flowers — And we grew, as the ripening peach grows in the sun. How we long to revisit the spot, that, so bright And so beautiful. Fancy, o'er Memory shining, Portrays : and expect to find all its delight. All its freshness and loveliness still round it twining. But we come — and how changed ! for the Stranger hath been To alter, to lop, to remodel, to raze. The tall lime in the lawn is cut down, and the scene — Oh! how changed from the scene of those sunsliiny days! And e'en if the place may no difference declare. And the trees and the buildings that sheltered the child Be the same — here the dovecote, the summer-house there — Ah ! where are the kind eyes and dear lips that smiled ? " The friends of my youth, oh ! where are they ? " we cry ; And Echo still answers " Where are they?" in vain; Till, saddening, we turn from the sight with a sigh Of regret, and go back to our silence again. THE CAVALIER. 99 How should it be otherwise ? 'T is not the place That hath aught in itself, be it lovely or wild. 'T is because it reflects back a beautiful face, Or returns the dear voice of a parent or child. 'T is because though they 're lost, that their shadows rest there, That we still seek the spot, though 't were best to re- frain. For each object too mournfully murmurs " They were," And we sadly turn back to our silence again. F 2 100 TO AN EAELY BLUEBOTTLE. Theee are that hate your noisy hum, And vex'd, and fretted when you come, Destroy you with remorseless thumb, Bluebottle. But for my part, so do not T. Though buzzing round my head you fly Booming, I welcome you. And why ? Bluebottle. Marry ! because there 's in your noise To me a cheerful, cheering voice, That seems to say revive, rejoice — Bluebottle. That speaks of the delicious May, And the long shining summer day ; Blue skies, and flowers, and leaves, and play. Bluebottle. TO AN EARLY BLUEBOTTLE. 101 And twilight through the hve-long night ; And early sunrise pure and bright ; And earth one green scene of delight ; Bluebottle. And many a sweet and rural stroll By river's side, through copse and knoll — By quiet bay, or fretting shoal. Bluebottle. And mountains climb'd with footsteps slow, Till the rich prospect bursts below. Burnished with sunset's yellow glow ; Bluebottle. And angry tori'ents visited, That chafe and foam awhile, and spread Wearied, and slumber in their bed. Bluebottle. And the light-hearted laugh and jest. And welcome toil, and happy rest At mid-day in some peasant's nest — Bluebottle. And many an unknown spot explored, Scenes of the cowl, the cross, the sword ; And the cool shade, and festive board — Bluebottle. 109 TO AN EARLY BLUEBOTTLE. Poor viands made by hunger sweet, Brown bread, new milk, a grassy seat, And a rill tinkling at one's feet — Bluebottle. And dear companionship of friends, Or one with whom begins and ends All hope, save that which heavenward tends — Bluebottle. Poor insect, while your noisy flight Can raise such visions of delight, Of joyous holidays and bright, Bluebottle. Buzz as you list, and fearless come. Your head is sacred from my thumb ; Eke its appurtenance your — [Hiatus maximus valde dejiendus). Bluebottle. But warn'd of one thing, take good care. Blow not my meat — blow not. — Beware — Or thou shalt die the death, I swear, Bluebottle. 103 TO MEMORY. Oh ! Memory, thou 'rt always surrounded with sadness. A tear or a sigh 's thy companion for ever. Thou 'rt sorrowful even recording our gladness ; And retracing our woes, thou 'rt compassionate never. There 's regret in thy smile that is mournfully sweet ; There is heart-breaking anguish and pain in thy weeping. And th' afflictions that would, w^ert thou absent, retreat, Kemain bitterly wringing the soul in thy keeping. Oh ! why w^ert thou given to perpetuate sorrow ? To recal the fair pleasures long vanished away ? From the years that are gone still too busy to borrow Some sharp thorn to wreathe with the flowers of to-day? Thy employment is still to remind the complaining Of love unrequited, hopes cross'd, or o'ercast ; And to deepen the cold lengthening shadows remaining ; To throw o'er the present the pangs of the past. ]04 LINES. Since thou art gone long months have pass'd, And still, alas ! I seem To think thou wilt return at last : And still thj death 's a dream. Yet wherefore should I deem it strange That one in whom the leaven Of this world never was, should change This sordid earth for heaven. Why should I deem it strange that death Should pass o'er such as thou ? Or that an early crown of faith Should garland thy young brow ? Rather 't were strange if here, unbless'd, Thou hadst sustained the rod. God takes them first wliom he loves best : And thou wast prized of God. 105 THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. Farewell, my dear countiy — my country, farewell. Sweet scenes of my childhood, glen, mountain, and dell, I leave ye, I leave ye for ever, and part From the land of my fathers, the home of my heart. From the tombs of my sires, and the church where they pray'd, Where the waters of Heaven were dropp'd on my head ; From the trees so well known, and the fallow and plough. And the vale whose mere dust is so dear to me now — Fare ye well, lake and torrent, brae, woodland and bum — We shall never — shall never — ah I never return ! To the land of the stranger, beyond the wild wave, I wander to find me a desolate grave. To the land of the stranger, unbless'd and unkind, Unlink'd with remembrance or hope in my mind. To the cold friendless spot where, unloved and unknown, I shall languis?! unpitied, and labour alone. With not e'en a mark to recal, as I roam, One thought of my country, some resemblance of home ! Fare ye well, lake and torrent, brae, woodland and bum — We shall never — shall never — ah ! never return ! F 3 106 THE emigeant's faeewell. How sad is the exile's harsh fate, pluck'd away From his dear fatherland where he yearns still to stay ; From all that is loved, or is lovely and bright ; All that glows round his heart ; all that comforts his sight. Scenes from childhood familiar to soul and to eye ; Smiling faces, kind friends — it were better to die. It were better to die than to cross the salt foam. And leave, heartless and hopeless, his dear native home ! Fare ye well, lake and torrent, brae, woodland and burn — We shall never — shall never — ah ! never return ! But poverty wrings us from Scotland, and tears Our feet from the land of our love and our prayers ; From the warm cheerful ingle that blazed when the snow Lay white on the hills and the valleys below ; From the fresh summer fountain, the green leafy shade ; From the land of the tartan, the claymore, and plaid ; From the hearths of the fair, the kind-hearted, and brave ; And casts us, reluctant and sad, on the wave ! Fare ye well, lake and torrent, brae, woodland and bum — We shall never — shall never — ah ! never return ! But hark ! to the signal, and see ! o'er the side Of the vessel the pendant floats proudly and wide. The boat 's on the beach, and the captain 's on shore — Sweet sounds of the pibroch I shall hear ye no more. Adieu, friends and neighbours — oh ! yet let us kneel, And kiss the dear land, and weep one last farewell. THE emigrant's FAREWELL. lOT Farewell once again, fare thee well, blessed shore — We are torn from thy bosom — we shall see thee no more ! Oh ! farewell, lake and torrent, brae, woodland and bum — We shall never — ah ! never — no never return ! 108 LINES. Like the light bird of summer, ever Spreading her wandering wing to stray, Our good resolves are quick to sever. Eager to part and speed away. Attracted by the truth, a minute They fix — as on her nest on high, The swallow, fondly glancing in it, Then shoots again into the sky. 100 THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER, 'T WAS the first rose of summer, the brightest and best. 'T was the first rose of summer she wreath'd in my breast, Heaven-scented, the fairest as first of its kind. And rich with the promise of others behind. "And, sweet girl," I exclaim'd, " as this flower and the stem Thus grow out of each other, be our hearts like them. May thine like the blossom its fragrance impart ; And mine like the stalk bear that beautiful heart. " And oh ! in the hour — for there will come an hour. To scatter the leaves of this delicate flower — When the stem must its redolent burthen resign — Ere that hour comes to sever thy dear heart from mine — As the rose by some soft-handed virgin is taken, Its stalk undecay'd, and its blossom unshaken — May we, stem and blossom, be plucked in one even, By the finger of God, for the garland of heaven." 110 LINES. The letters of an absent friend Are like the scent of hidden flowers ; Unseen, their fragrant breath they send : The sweetness of their soul is ours. 'T is thus long-left, and far away, Friendship or love will strive t' impart The fervour words can scarce convey — And o'er the paper pour their heart. Unseen, the fragrance and the glow That warm'd their spirit as they wrote, Through each expression seem to flow, And steal from heart to heart remote. Oh ! how delightful 't is to trace The blessings absent friendship show'rs ! Its spirit floats around the place, Like the sweet scent of hidden flow'rs. in LINES. The setting sun how bright and slow It sinks, as with a parting smile, And leaves that light and lovely glow To linger on the wave awhile. It is sweet sadness to pursue The dipping orb's descending pride. And watch the soft and roseate hue Melt gently from the darkling tide. 'T is sadly sweet to watch the eyes That shine upon us as we part ; Whose light upon a tear-drop lies, And glows up melting from the heart. Oh ! what moist radiance seems to dwell In the kind orb with setting ray ; As silently it bids farewell. And sorrowfully turns away. lis LINES, I WILL not say that thou art dead — In thee too much o' the angel lay ; It could not be so grossly shed — Thou didst not die, thou pass'd away. Thou didst but gently shake apart The heavenly from the earthly leav n, That was just scatter'd o'er thy heart, And it was bright and pure for heaven. When the gay, vivid, glossy plumes Fall from the bird of paradise, How soon her gorgeous neck resumes Its pride, and glitters to the eyes. So when the glory left thy brow, Lovely for lovelier was but given. Thou wast earth's brightest — thou art now Magnificently bright in heaven. 113 LINES ■WRITTEN ON HEARING A YOUNG LADY SING " THE LITTLE PLOUGHBOY." Bless'd be those lips and their soft art, That sweetly overcome My sorrows, and lead back my heart To infancy and home. And bless'd be that beloved air, So intimately known ; That breathes of scenes and things so fair. And hours so long since flown. It is the very air and song That oft mine ear beguiled, Wherewith, if slumber linger'd long, My Mother lulFd her child. And I can never hear it now, But instantly arise The place, the lute, that anxious brow. And those maternal eyes. 114 LINES. There sat she in a summer's ev'n ; And whilst the lovely star, Soft as herself, was bright in Heav'n, She touch 'd her light guitar. And still she touch 'd the chords, and still Her face turn'd to me, rosed With a glad mother's glow, until My heavy eyelids closed. And still upon that watchful face, And the dear hand that raised The melting music through the place. Delightedly I gazed. And still the sounds I sought to hear. Till sleep had o'er me pass'd ; And gently dying on mine ear, The music sunk at last. And now — for since then years have run Their course, how sad and lonely — Of many an air I know but one. The Little Ploughboy only. But that, whenever heard, beguiles My heart to Home afar, Where still my Mother sits and smiles. And wakes her light guitar. 115 LINES. How sweetly sorrow or regret On Beauty's face appears, When comfort, half a stranger, yet Smiles gently through her tears, 'T is like the weak and watery light That on an April day Shines through the shower, serene though slight, And promises fair May. 116 TO TIME. Oh, Time, Time, how thou glid'st away, Year after year unseen, Unmark'd, until, as we decay, We find that thou hast been. Not till we see thy fruits and flowers. Some dropp'd, and withering some — Do we compare the by-gone hours Of life, with hours to come. Then, with the greater portion past, We think of what shall be ; When a long life contracts, at last. To a brief memory. Then with the Past and Future too, The Present learns to cope : That by Remembrance kept in view ; And this discern 'd by Hope. TO TIME. 117 Alas ! could we be earlier wise, And as Time speeds away, His rapid footsteps watch and prize, And still improve to-day ! 'Tis sad when our converging years, As in a focus placed, In memory seem to meet through tears — Too late to find the waste. 'T is sad to think on what hath been. Lost in the distance far : Gone, like the pearl th' Egyptian Queen Dissolved in vinegar. Oh ! how we blame the careless pride That let those years elope ; And from Eemembrance turn aside Sadly, to look for Hope. 118 LINES. I LOVE in Summer-time's sun-showers To wander by the river's side, That some tall elm-tree overbowers, And watch them passing o'er the tide. Each drop its little eddy makes, As it falls dimpling in the river. Kissing the surface it scarce wakes : Then, with its circlet, melts for ever. How like the petty poor vexations, That, with a momentary smart That stirs, and scarcely stirs, the patience, Pass often o'er the human heart ! Each, as 't is lightly dropping o'er it. Just tingles on the pulse, but ne'er, As Hope still sheds her sun before it. Leaves aught like an impression there. 119 MA COLLEEN DTHAS CROOTHEEN NAMBOE*. My heart 's \vith the days that shall never Return to enliven me more — But I thought they would shine on for ever, Nor dream 'd they so soon would pass o'er. Oh, how sweet it was then to stand gazing On the meads where the blue waters flow, And behold the liine quietly grazing. And Ma Colleen dthas crootheen namboe. How brightly the sunshine gleam'd o'er her ! But, methought, 't was less bright than her eye, That shed brilliance and pleasure before her. And pour'd life upon all that pass'd by. She sang, for her heart was all lightness, And her cheek was the rose in its glow. And I felt nought could equal the brightness Of Ma Colleen dthas crootheen namboe. * My pretty girl milking her cow. 120 MA COLLEEN DTHAS CROOTHEEN NAMBOE. There was none but delighted to hear her ; None but bless'd her — so gentle, so fair — With a kind smile for all that came near her, And a soft word for ever to spare. The very kine hasten'd to meet her To be milk'd, with a gratified low. 'T was a sweet sight. Ah, none could be sweeter Than Ma Colleen dthas crootheen namboe. Oh, had I been suffered to cherish, And fondly watch o'er my young bride — But ere winter, when all fair things perish, She droop'd, she was death-struck, she died. And now, nor the mead nor the river. That once pleased me, can pleasure bestow Where I vainly gaze round, and shall ever, For Ma Colleen dthas crootheen namboe. 191 ON A DROP OF INK. How strange is all we do and think : How strange is Life in every part. Who would suppose a drop of Ink Could e'er perpetuate the heart? And yet the heart dissolves to thought : Thoughts with expressions love to link. And words are, joy or folly-fraught, Immortal in a drop of Ink ! Th' expansive hope, the sense all-seeing, Fear, feeling, love, and passion sink (Those glittering bubbles of our being), Or swim in one small drop of Ink. That sunbeam, Shakspeare's heart, the flame Of Homer's soul, to this could shrink. And Petrarch's love, and Milton's fame, Float downwards on a drop of Ink. 122 ON A DROP OF INK. Worth, genius, inspiration, thought — All that o'erflows the bright heart's brink, Die with us, unless they be caught, And mingled with a drop of Ink. Thus, like the shining insect chain'd In th' amber dew it came to drink. Hearts shall remain, and have remain 'd. Preserved in one small drop of Ink. 123 TO-MORROW. When disappointment, care, or sorrow Upon the heart like lightning fall, How fondly we look on to-morrow — As if to-morrow would cure all. It comes — but yet the deep-ploughed fuiTow Still lingers there— the pangs delay. Once more we vainly trust to-morrow Will heal the scars of yesterday. Yet still deceived, still hope Ave borrow From that whose vanity we know : Providing nothing for the morrow, Though nought the mon'ow can bestow. Deluded long my whole life thorough ; Though late, let reason wake at last. Too cautious now to trust to-mon'ow : Well-taught by many a morrow past. G 2 124 TO-MORROW. But future weal from present sorrow Let me extract, contrite, forgiv'n ; Treasuring to-day as if to-morrow Should never come, or come in Heav'n. 125 TO A QUAKERESS, Thou art so unpretending dress'd ; So pure, so spotless is thy vest, Metliinks thy laundress, lovely Quaker, Is Cleanliness of neatest glance ; Thy handmaid, simple Elegance ; And Modesty thy mantua-maker. 126 TO THE SWALLOW. Thou twittering, glancing, wanton Swallow — Through the sunshine what glittering treasure Do thy delighted pinions follow, Thou harbinger of spring and pleasure ? Thy fleet wings dart thee o'er the sallow, With notes of joy upon thy tongue : Or lightly brush the sparkling shallow : Or bear thee to thy darling young. Now, sporting with thy glad yoke-fellow. Thou soar'st beyond the sight away : Now, where the beams of Morn lie yellow On the tree-tops, I see thee play. And when the sun sinks in the billow, Thou happy Bird, thou wilt depart, Drowsy with merriment, to pillow Thy head where thou hast stored thy heart. TO THE SWALLOW. 127 Alas ! although thj life be narrow, 'T is long enough since 't is all joy. And Fortune bless thee from the arrow, And hand that would that mirth destroy ! Though here one day and gone to-morrow, Where'er thou art, thou 'rt full of glee. Thy spirit is too light for sorrow : The weight of that thou leav'st to me. 128 LOVE. With a light frown upon his brow, And pouting lips, and trailing dart, " I want some other plaything now " — Love whimpered — " Let me have your heart. He kiss'd my mouth, and stroked my cheek, And round my neck his soft arms stole, Shading me with his tresses sleek ; Until he crept into my soul. So conquer'd by his baby art. Charm 'd with his childish wilfulness, Alas ! I gave him up my heart : He took it with a warm caress. Then leaping from my arms, the boy, As he survey 'd it o'er and o'er, Cried laughing, " Here 's a pretty toy ! But you must never have it more." LOVE. 129 At first with tenderness he play'd, And treasured it with anxious pride. His baby fondness soon decay 'd : 'T was slighted next, then cast aside. I stoop'd to pick it from the ground — " No, no," said he, '* not thus we pail ; The plaything 's mine." And, with a bound, He trampled rudely on my heart. 130 THE TWO DOVES. " subito coramota columba Ciii donms et diilces latebroso in pumice nidi, Fertur in arva volans." ViRG. ^NEID, V. 213. Sequester'd in the coolness of a wood — In that luxurious kind of solitude Where loneliness is not, or never felt ; Nor the waste feelings of the heart that melt In vain, t' exhale like dew upon a weed, Whilst the pined soul is desolate indeed — But where retirement, always calm and holy, With its serene delicious melancholy, And the pure rest no angry passions shake. Floats on the heart like swans upon the lake ; 'jMid the green foliage of an ancient heech, Two turtle-doves, each all the world to each, Had built their nest, and hung their bridal bower, And still — when Hesper led the morning hour, Or the bright sun was shining at his noon, Or the fair handmaid of the rising moon THE T^'O DOVES. l3l Walk'd unaccompanied along the sky, Like a young bride with dewy, downcast eye — Still the soft voice of either faithful dove In broken murmurs said, " I love, I love." Still he awoke the echoes of the wood, " Life of my heart, how sweet is solitude ! " And still from mossy bank, or leafy tree, She answer'd, " Solitude is sweet with thee." Alas I how is it in this wayward life, The very wantonness of bliss brings strife ? And they whose wishes are in all things bless'd, At last grow weary of the purest rest ? Is it that a corrupted heart defiles The veiy balm that would restore its smiles, And, bearing poison in itself, can ne'er Wring from its veins the burning juice of care? But so it is with birds as well as men : ' Let me but satisfy this wish,' and then — ' Oh ! if I could but have this one desire. This only one, what more could I require ? ' He has it. Ere the joy of conquest 's o'er. He longs for one thing — only one thing more. Thus still neglecting what he has, and hot. Fretful, and restless for what he has not. The sleepless friction of hope, fear, or doubt Wears the full heart away, till it wears out ; And Death, his wishes and his toils to close, Digs the dark grave in which he must repose. 133 THE TWO DOVES. Yet the fond wretch at times can moralize ; Like me, on paper seem uncommon wise. And still, like me, in long pursuits waste youth — 'T is an odd world, my masters, that 's the truth ! What art thou. Pleasure ? The delighted dove, Bless'd with retirement, leisure, mutual love ; Yet felt th' unconquerable wish to roam, And saw the mist descend on happy Home. But how to break th' intention to his mate ? '* If she should weep — perchance be obstinate ! If Jealousy should enter in her heart ! 'T were better stay, or secretly depart. But then her fears ! She might expire with terror ! How bitterly should I lament my error ! I 11 tell her carelessly, as time allows." So, with a careless smile upon his brows, He said, one day — " Well, this is charming weather, I wish that we could take a jaunt together ; But since that must not be, dear love, for fear The summer smile should melt into a tear, I 'd better take advantage of the season ; A lovelier time one can't expect in reason. It seems, upon my conscience — to be sure — As if 't were made on purpose for my tour. How pleasantly a week will slip away ! And now all nature is alive and gay. The skies are blue — to smiles the waves are curl'd — And then 't is quite as well to see the world." THE TWO DOVES. 133 When Husbands to their listening Wives impart A wish they 're anxious should not wound their heart, Fearing their soft reproaches, to console And soothe, they always use the rigmarole. But she replied, " Alas ! what wouldst thou do ? Ah ! wouldst thou leave me ? — at this season too ? Than absence what can be a deeper woe ? But I alone shall feel it. Thou wilt go Wandering from field to field, from wood to wood ; But who shall comfort me in solitude ? Oh ! what shall soothe my loneliness and me ? My dreams will all be full of fears for thee. Whene'er I see a hawk or kite above, How shall I tremble for my absent love ! How will my fancy represent thee still. Wearied, a-hungry, hurt perchance, or ill. And when, at evening, I attempt to rest. How shall I think, oh ! where finds he a nest? And whilst, from habit, I shall coo good night To one who is far distant from my sight. And see the place where thou wert wont to sleep. How shall I turn aside my head to weep ! " Be sure these sweet reproaches pierced his heart : But yet he felt determined to depart. And " weep not, love," replied, "nor fret for me. I cannot linger long away from thee : A week, or less, will more than satisfy My curious wish to see a foreign sky. 134 THE TWO DOVES. Then turning homewards with an eager wing. And more desirous, after wandering, To visit thee, and this retirement bless'd, How shall I drop delighted in my nest ! Home will appear yet happier than before ; And for that short secession please the more. He that secludes himself, and ne'er goes out. Will want, at last, a theme to talk about." " Has that been so with us?" she murmur'd. " Nay, It has not been, but still, you know, it may. At all events, 't will be variety For you to hear the wonders I shall see. How shall we talk down many a summer's sun, . And still the tale shall be again begun. Whilst I shall ever be untired to tell. And you to hear a tale that runs so well. 'There,' I shall say, 'when wandering, I have been' — And then describe the beauties of the scene — ' From that calm lake I drank ; and in that field I feasted ; in that elm I lay conceal'd : Such and such things befel me, and although I deem'd them fretful, now I think not so.' E'en dangers then, if dangers should befall, In rest 't will be delightful to recall : Whilst thou shalt feel deep interest in them all ; Nay, fancy thou wast there, till what to me Was good or ill, is good or ill to thee." He said, and lest her tears should overthrow His resolution, plumed his wings to go ; THE TWO rovEs. 135 Kiss'd her, consoled her, bade farewell full-hearted, Nay, shed a tear liimself, and so departed. But mark the sequel. Self-will seldom thrives. Hear this all ye who disobey your wives ! Short was his absence, and yet long before 'T was pass'd, he found good reason to deplore. And oft he wish'd amid the toil and strife, " Oh that I had but listen'd to my wife ! " The rain, the hail upon his plumage beat. He found no shelter from the mid-day heat. The net enthrall'd him now, and now the Kite, The Hawk, the Vulture, stopp'd his homeward flight. And last a Schoolboy, worse than hail, or rain. Or Kite, or Hawk, or all the feather'd train, Aim'd a huge pebble at him where he stray'd. And dried his ruffled plumage in the shade. Then trailing his bruis'd leg and wounded ^ing, Half dead with thirst, and fear, and suffering, Flutteiing and limping, to his quiet wood He went, and gain'd, at length, his solitude. There his loved helpmate while she sooth 'd his woe. Yet gently murmur'd — " Love, I told you so ! I guess'd, alas ! I guess'd how it would be ! Indeed you should have listen'd, love, to me." 136 LINES. The centre of gravity sometimes o'ertlirown, One's solemnity — all that one has upon earth — Comes toppling down headlong and flat like a stone, And dashes amid the bright waters of mirth. Thence it strews such a sweet and a sunshiny shower Of laughter all over the lips and the heart, Saturating them both, that we laugh by the hour — Till those dewdrops of joy are exhaled, and depart. Alas ! how delightfully Time glides away. When the spirit resigns itself wholly to pleasure — To that unconstrain'd merriment, thoughtless and gay, That bounds in the pulse scarce with motive or measure. Like the Nard's precious balm it anoints the light soul, And cools and refreshes the scarr'd wounds of sorrow, Till gladness luxuriates beyond all control. And the bosom is sparkling and bright — till to-morrow. 137 MISTHER O'DOWD. OcH, hone! then, I ne'er can forget him, The cratur, ould Misther O'Dowd, Who 'd have carried me off, would I let him, But, troth, he was never allow'd. Sure, he swore he w^as dying widout me — And he 'd lived long enough to do so. But he always was sighing about me. Ma Colleen dthas crootheen namboe. His words were so gay and so clever, They would blister and bum on the fire. But the lips they came over were never The lips, then, that I could admire. And, musha, the fine things they towld ! I was young, I was purty, you know. But, agra, 't was himself that was ould ! Wid his Colleen dthas crootheen namboe. 138 MISTHER o'dOWD. It was he that would watch and purshue me, When I went to the field wid my pail. All the time I was milking he 'd woo me ; And all the way home he 'd bewail. He said I was cruel. He vow'd That my pockets wid gold should o'erflow, If I would but be Misthress O'Dowd — And his Colleen dthas crootheen namboe. But to have a stale man for a lover, Sure it never came into my brain. Though he sigh'd he was quite kilt all over. By my hard-hearted pride and disdain. Did he think that my heart could be bow'd By his bother, like trees by the snow? Och! be aisy, then, Misther O'Dowd — Wid yer Colleen dthas crootheen namboe. So the more that he blather'd of marriage, The more I kept milking my cow ; Or said — for I would not disparage — Sure, it is not convanient just now. If it 's marriage you mane, I 'd be proud — But, Moryagh ! I was quizzing, you know. Och, get out o' that, Misther O'Dowd, Wid yer Colleen dthas crootheen namboe. MISTHER ODOWP. 139 Did that old piece of bogwood discover Anything in my heart that would hold Such a lame, lean, lank, leather-faced lover, That he pestered me thus wid his gold? Did he think that I had in the crowd, Ne'er a bachelor, that he talked so ? Bad cess to ye, Misther O'Dowd, Wid yer Colleen dthas crootheen namboe. But at last he almost made me crazy. When I still refused him and his pelf. So says I to him, " Arrah, be aisy, And get a wife ould as yerself. Go, and trot after Grandmother Judy, Though, faix, e'en my granny would know A dried Haake from a fine fresh Puldoody ! Wid yer Colleen dthas crootheen namboe." Wid that he look'd at me as sour — And bother'd and blather'd so loud — And tunder-and-turf'd by the hour! Divil's cure to ye, Misther O'Dowd. Now wasn't he a sweet youth to woo me? But, sure, wheresoe'er he may go. There 's another I 'd wish to sing to me, Ma Colleen dthas crootheen namboe. 140 LINES. I LOVE to wander through the Wood, Listening the babble and the brawl The brooklet, in its petulant mood. Utters impatiently to all ; Scolding its banks, the pebbles chiding, And dipping branch that overbowers- Clamorous, and querulously gliding, And scuffling with the very flowers. Yet it is flowing in the sun ! Yet are its waters fresh and free ! But 't is like many a prosperous one, That chides with his prosperity. Peevish, unsatisfied, unkind — Showing that happiness was ne'er In outward things, but in the mind ; And all our blessings centred there. Ul LINES, In Infancy, how lovely fair The page of Mem'ry lies. There 's not a blemish to impair Its lustre to our eyes. Some delicate records, short and slight, Of joys scarce pass'd away; Some pretty picture of delight ; Some sketch of yesterday. As Boyhood, and as Youth unfold, Love, Pleasure, Hope divine, All traced in characters of gold, Upon its surface shine. Yet inattention seems to fling Some few spots, faint and rare. Scarce noticed, and just tarnishing A letter here and there. 142 LINES. But as stern Manhood ripens fast, Darker the page appears, With sad memorials of the past, Half blotted out with tears. Records, as with a trembling hand, And throbbing bosom traced, Of disappointed love expand — Joys lost, or hopes misplaced. Till, as age falls upon the heart, That bright page, once so gay, Too thickly writ on every part, And stain 'd, and worn away, Shows little of th' attractive hue, The snowy whiteness pure. That shone on it when it was new — But how should they endure? Each year hath from its brilliance caught Something of sweet and fair : Each year hath its affliction brought. For Sorrow to note there. And still the sad memorial grows, As the bright tints decay. Till Death a glance across it throws, And tears it quite away. 143 LINES. Listen how that summer shower Falls lightly pattering on the tree, And with the green leaves of the bower Dances to its own minstrelsy. There is a cool refreshing sound, Whene'er the dripping foliage shakes, In every little leap and bound Each gay and prattling di'oplet makes. Hark, how from leaf to leaf they run, Dallying with each; and as they fall. Glittering aijd laughing in the sun, See how they leave a kiss with all. Whilst every happy bud and bloom Delightedly their charms renew, And breathe rich odours and perfume, T' attract those flattering drops of dew. 14:4 LINES. 'T is sweet i' the sultry hours to see The sparkling sun-shower lightly rise, Bathing the tinkling leaves o' the tree, And scattering freshness as it flies. 'T is like the rest the spirit borrows, The gladness lips we love impart. When smiling on our little sorrows, They gently wash them from the heart. 145 LINES. There 's something in the stilly night, When silence sleeps in earth and sky, And all that 's dark, and all that s bright, Is dumb below, is mute on high, That hath a s\Yeeter tongue to me Than all the s\\eetest things of day; And in its voiceless harmony Utters far lovelier things than they. The songs of mom are to the ear : Earth 's in the best that they impart. But in the solemn silence here, Heav'n sinks, and settles round the heart. The saintliest sound the day bestows, The softest breath from sea or sod, Hath something mortal in its close : The stillness here is all from God. 146 LINES. Poor Mary, Time, methouglit, would pass O'er thee as over flowers; And in the sunshine hold the glass That measured thy glad hours. And then, methought, so mild and meek Would move his silken plume, 'T would only fan thy lovely cheek Into a fresher bloom. But, oh ! how fondly I relied That Time would gentle be — Who threw the glass so soon aside, To whet his scythe for thee. 147 ON AN INFANT. Heke sleeps one whose set and rise Was a sun-glint in our eyes. Scarcely lent to us awhile ; Only long enough to smile ; Then recall'd in haste, for fear She should ever shed a tear. Just sufficient time was giv'n To see Earth, and speed to Heav'n. U8 LINES. The world is harsli on every side, And ever waking to dispute. The lip of Scorn, the eye of Pride, The tongue of Malice ne'er lie mute. There 's no forbearance 'neath the moon ; But I will like the silkworm be. And wrap my heart in the cocoon, The rich cocoon of Poetry. There, nestling, it shall sweetly lie. Hived in its honeycomb from sight, Cover'd with its bright canopy, And bower'd and buried in delight. There, shelter'd from the world, and, still Deaf to its calumny and wrong, Fancy shall every moment fill With sweets, and it shall live to Song. LINES. 149 Then let the World go as it choose — Though friends should sleep while foes awake To misinterpret, or misuse, And Bigotry her banners shake — No matter — T '11 escape them soon. For I will like the silkworm he, And wrap my heart in the cocoon, The rich cocoon of Poetry. 150 LINES. I SAW thy tomb and did not weep. It had been sin in me With murmurs to disturb thy sleep, Or shed a tear for thee. Oh, not for thee resumed, not riv'n ; Like a sweet sunbeam fair, Absorb 'd again in its own heav'n. To shine for ever there. I would not weep— perchance 'twere right To triumph that the chain That curb'd thy spirit in its flight Is burst so soon in twain. But though I know the better part Is thine, and thou art free, I cannot find in my sad heart. But not to weep for thee. 151 LINES. Thy heart, my Child, is like a lute Trusted to its silk cover's keeping, Untouch'd, untuned, unstrung, and mute. With all its gentle music sleeping. Yet presently, from its light case Withdrawn, its shining chords unbound, And tuned, and touch'd with skill and grace, 'Twill break into luxuriant sound. That the musician "s hand shall wake To harmony, and strike with art. A lighter hand, I trust, shall shake The slumbering music from thy heart. From its unconsciousness, the Lord Unbinding it, with gradual care Touching and tuning every chord. Shall softly stir the sweetness there. 152 LINES. By a light finger wander 'd o'er, Oh, what delicious notes the string 0' the dumb lute round it learns to pour On th' ear ne'er tired with listening : But by God's finger taught t' impart The melody Himself hath giv'n — Oh, the rich warblings thy young heart, My Child, shall sweetly shed to Heav'n. 153 LINES, If from a Monarch's hand we take A gift, though trifling it may be, 'T is, for the royal giver's sake, Treasured, and guarded watchfully. Not for its own intrinsic worth. But for the favour that supplied, 'Tis prized above all else on Earth — 'Tis view'd with joy, 'tis shown with pride. Oh, could we thus appreciate Thy precious gifts in their degree, And learn thy largesses to rate. Not for themselves, sweet Lord, but Thee — How would the meanest comfort rise ; The least indulgence seem divine ; The slightest thing become a prize, Because Thou gav'st, and it is Thine. H 3 154 LINES. If the mere baubles Kings bestow Are casketed because thus giv'n, Their donor named with a proud glow — Why rather not the gifts of Heav'n? Lord, let me so thy bounty take, So value all on sea or sod Thou giv'st, for their great Giver's sake — And deem them rich, because from God. The gold the regal mark that bears, Though small its weight, its value less, When once th' imperial brow it wears, Gains tenfold from that high impress. E'en thus, though common as the air. The veriest mite by Mercy giv'n, Is to the Christian rich and rare. Because it shows th' impress of Heav'n. 155 LINES. The wild Bee in tlie summer hour That wanders in the sun, And, murmuring, flies from flower to flower, But fixes upon none — If chance some flower of rare perfume She finds, whose sweets excel, She settles on that breathing bloom, And sinks in its rich bell. Long wandering thus, my vagrant heart Had every pleasure tried. Tasting such sweets as they impart, And putting them aside. Till to a brighter object shown, God's grace serenely giv n. It settled, constant there alone, Absorb'd, and bathed in Heav'n. ]56 LINES. The pulse is beating in my heart Like a sweet chime of merry bells, Whose quick notes some glad news impart ; Whose music some fair wedding tells. And still th' electric pulse is ringing — Was never joyous peal so gay ! And still my happy heart is springing, Like a young fawn all life and play. How should it not, when I am told, By Him who cannot use deceit, Such glorious things, such news of gold. So jich, so musical, so sweet? How should it not, when Christ the Lord Proclaims its sins, through Faith, forgiv'n? And draws it by the silken cord Of everlasting love to Heav'n ! 15T LINES. When summer flowers on hill and dale Shut up their dainty bells, And nightingale to nightingale Her warbled story tells : When stars are shining in the skies, And glow-worms on the ground, And the marauding owlet flies His solitaiy round — When timid hares come forth to play, And dews serenely fall, And bats pursue their winged prey, And silence broods o'er all : Then let my lips distil with prayer, To supplication giv'n — And the last sound that lingers there, Be full of praise to Heav'n. 158 LINES. When chanticleer crows loud and shrill, And birds and beasts awake, The lowing cattle on the hill. The swan upon the lake : When th' antler'd stag forsakes his lair, Her hive the busy bee, The butterfly is in the air, The squirrel on the tree — When birds their madrigals retune. Their matin-songs renew. And th' early woodman's clouted shoon Are moist with morning dew : Then let my lips distil with prayer, To supplication giv'n — And the first words that kindle there , Be full of praise to Heav'n. 159 SONNETS. More honour 'd in his banishment from Rome By the degenerate multitude that bore The Roman name, without the Roman core, Than his recall to such a sordid home — 'Twas better Cicero should dwell, or roam Far from the venal city. Who would pour Th' extracted honey in its cells once more, When slugs and vermin had possess'd the comb ? How should the rich-voiced orator declaim Of patriotism where honesty was cold ? And from the Consul, once an honour'd name, To the Plebeian dregs all hearts were sold ? Why should the nightingale her song intrude, Where the foul vulture bathes his beak in blood ? 160 SONNETS. II. Athens, with Caesar's fortune struggling, sped As all that had refused the Roman sway ; And falling, at the Conqueror's mercy lay. *' The living Athens hath offended," said Caesar, " but is preserved by the dead." Oh, how the good and great outlive their day Of life, and to remotest times convey The honour o'er illustrious actions spread. Peisistratus, and Pericles, and he Sumamed the Just, and that surpassing sage. And those first mighty minds of Poesy — Wise men, and warriors slumbering many an a Yet interposed to soften and to save. 'Twas Virtue's voice, heard awful from the grave. SONNETS. 161 III. E'en as the drop of poison or perfume, Attar or acid pour'd into a bowl, That curdles and coagulates the whole With venom, or breathes fragi'ance through the room. So there 's a drop of gi'aciousness or gloom, That, shed into the heart, delights the soul, Or subjugates it to the sad control Of sorrow : is, at once, its bane or bloom. There is a drop of Heav'n, and one of Hell ; Receive whiche er thou wilt, or grace or guilt. For thou may'st choose — do homage or rebel. But still, be sure, as this or that is spilt Upon thy deathless spirit, it shall be Ever all sourness or suavity. 162 SONNETS. IV. I HOLD thee in my memory, loveliest one, And, like a relic in its crystal shrined, Bear thee about for ever in my mind. To thee my thoughts, unchanging, backward run, And those fair days, whereof thou wast the sun : When thy most gracious lips would smile so kind. And breathe the rich tones that would sweetly bind All hearts to thee. But thou wast meant for none. Yes, I remember thee, dear saint — but, oh, The difference between memory and sight ! 'Tis like the second rainbow, without glow, Feeble, and faint, and dull beside the bright And beautiful original that shines. A faithful copy, but in languid lines. SONNETS 163 At mom my shadow follow'd me, and speeding With meek assiduous duty where I stray'd, Stray 'd too, as one that waited and obey'd. Whilst of th' obsequious parasite unheeding, I scarcely marked the slave that I was leading. But ere the evening came, the upstart shade Had changed positions — all respect decay 'd — And was no longer following, but preceding. Alas, methought, 'tis thus our sins at first Fawn on us, follow us with feign'd respect, Till by allowance to presumption nursed, They claim companionship, compel, direct, And with authority at last precede ; Whilst we, in our turn, follow where they lead. 164 SONNETS. VI. Night is retiring towards the West away, And lingering Twilight at th' accustom'd hour Comes from her secret and sequester 'd bower, Softly, as one scarce waken'd, to delay Her kinsmaid, Silence, and entreat her stay. Still, as she follows where the vapours lower, She gently half unwreaths the folded flower, And warns the lark of the approaching day. Along the wood she moves, nor tarries long : For o'er the waves a streak of misty white Appears ; and here and there a twitter'd song Of th' earliest birds is faintly heard, till light Strengthens, and from the barn the shrill cock crows, And Twilight passes as the heifer lows. SONNETS. 165 VII. Love lived in a neat cottage in a vale, O'er which he taught the light luxuriant vine To climb, and train 'd the fragrant Eglantine. There would he sing all day, and when the pale Moon rose, sat listening to the nightingale, Happy as Mu'th and Joy, who laugh and shine, Could make him — till, as runs this tale of mine, Came Poverty, to weep and to bewail. She stopp'd before the door, then enter'd there ; Linger'd, and fix'd her seat upon the hearth. Ah ! for the mist she breathed on all was fair ! And first Joy shrunk, and then retired with Mirth. And Love, whom Poverty with clouds o'ercast. Through his own lattice window 'scaped at last. 166 SONNETS. VIIJ. Dear Lady, when I look back on the hours That in the sunshine of thy kindness pass'd ; And with the bleak shades that have overcast Mine after-life, and drench 'd my soul in showers, Compare them — their rude brambles with thy flowers — How fondly then, my heart, how fond and fast Turns unto thee, and flies to thine at last ; As birds, in rain, flock to their leafy bowers. Thou ever wast the friend, the sweet, sincere, The soft, the soothing, the maternal friend — What wonder, then, my heart should hold thee dear? Or, as the oriental trees that bend Their boughs, and strike root where their leaves recline, Should gently bow, and root itself in thine ? SONNETS. 167 IX. Faith, Hope, and Charity, the sisters three, Their little shallop circumspectly guide Through the rude tumult of the weltering tide. Faith holds the helm, and steers across the sea ; Hope labours at the oar ; and Charity Now gathers in the sail, now spreads it wide, As o'er the billow's flashing top they ride, And shun the breakers, and the shoals a-lee. S^Nift bounds the bark along the wave afar, Leaving its light track on the sparkling foam. Whilst Faith steers ever by the Eastern Star, Hope sings her sweet song of approaching home, And Charity cheers on with holy glee. Thus heav'nward speed these gentle sisters three. 168 SONNETS. X. Silence in a Cathedral loves to dwell. And where the storied windows dimly throw Their shadowy light upon the tombs below, In the lone aisles she seeks to sit, and spell Of heavenly themes, and subjects that excel : By the high altar, or the pillar 'd row. Whose heavy shafts a twilight gloom bestow Ere evening, meditates her canticle. Methinks, as leaning on the gothic screen, Her holy stillness falls upon my heart Dew-like, and with an awful thrill serene. Her voiceless whispers and dumb hymns impart A solemn throb, an heavenward turning there — And my soul joins in her devoted pray'r. SONNETS. 161 XI. Oh ! what sweet sunshine upon Childhood lies ! The very sorrows that its errors bear, Are like the tiny mists the flying Hare Strikes from the thawing earth, that lightly rise In a thin haze, and follow as she flies ; Yet gleam in the autumnal sun, and ere She gains her form have melted into air. Slight are those sorrows— soon exhaled in sighs. The little hopes that in that joyous hour Of life spring up in us, and drop away, Are but the scattering of the leaves o' the flower We sought to pluck too carelessly, and they — As these, when fall'n, their beauty still retain — Though cross 'd, in memory gracefully remain. 170 SONNETS. XII. Come, look at the World's glory at its height la Alexander crown'd, and deified ; The Earth too narrow to supply his pride ; Persia the scene of one triumphant fight; Egypt and Syria crouching, or in flight. Then let thine eye pass gently down the tide Of Time, nor on his successors abide. Till Perseus' mourning robes arrest thy sight. The last of Alexander's line —the last Of many a mighty King of Macedon, Who, in the common gaol where he was cast Expiring, leaves a miserable son To earn his bitter bread, and weep his doom, As a poor working lawyer's clerk in Rome. SONNETS. 171 XIIT. By chance a soft-eyed, gentle, meek Gazelle Amid a company of Asses stray 'd. And though she shrunk and shudder'd as they bray'd, Yet she bore Tsith them tolerably well. Not they with her — who soon began to tell The faults which, if they could not see, they made. For still where talent hides them if surveyed, Stupidity strives e'en the unseen to swell. How short her ears are ! Lord, how unlike ours ! Then really 'tis a sight to see her feed : She won't touch thistles — not she — nought but flowers. And what a Yoice ! A delicate squeak indeed : She would not bray, forsooth ! — But that surpasses Her strength. No, no, she could not bray like Asses ! I 2 172 SONNETS. XIV. I look'd upon a moss-rose in the hour When roses blow most beautiful and bright, And loveliest blush to Summer's golden light — When their green leaves are greenest, and embower The boughs, and spread to the consummate flower — And nearest where the bloom and stem unite. Beheld one brown, sere, wither'd leaf, the blight, Or canker had consumed, or timeless shower. This is the world's prosperity, I sigh'd. And ever thus, where Earth and Life impart Their choicest gifts, and richest joys abide. One brown, sere leaf lies nearest to the heart — Some care, some sorrow, as a foil to show How near to human bliss is human woe. SONNETS. 173 XV. Friend of my youth and manhood, fare thee well ! By many a pleasant recollection bound, And many a kindly thought my heart around, Whereon it was delightful once to dwell. As calling them from Memory's secret cell, And sweetly dreaming of the past, I found Each rising recollection pleasure-crown 'd ; For thou lived in them vocal, visible. But oh ! how has thy death changed all, and made The pleasantest the bitterest now : for thou Art in them still, but silent, suffering, dead. And all those happy recollections now, That bound thee to my heart, and still that bind, Have dropp'd their roses, and are thorn-entwined. 174 SONNETS. XVI. Oh ! how serene she sleeps, how calm and still ! Closing her innocent heart up, as a flower Closes its bright leaves in the evening hour — Shutting its sweetness in itself, until The Sun, returning o'er the eastern hill, Bids it untwine, and scent amid its bower. Beautiful Maid, thou too hast lock'd thy dower Of richness up, as the night dews distil. How silently, how peacefully, how deep Thou slumberest ! with the morning to resume Thy life, and break the stillness of thy sleep. Whilst thy young heart, expanding into bloom. Shall drop its sweetness, and those opening eyes Laugh in their loveliness like glad sunrise. SONNETS. 17i XVII. He did die young. But yet he pass'd his hours In th' honied sweets of Poetry, and pour'd His soul amid the fancies he adored ; Crowning his heart with more luxuriant flowers Than bud and bloom in oriental bowers. Now with the skylark toward the sun he soar'd ; Xow \\dth the bee lavish 'd his precious hoard ; Making a Paradise this world of ours. And so he slept. Is 't not a greater blessing To pass in summer, like the pluck'd moss-rose, All its ripe fragrance and bright leaves possessing, Than linger on, and wither in the snows'? He dies mature, who lives sufficient long To sing, and leave his heart behind in song. 176 SONNETS. XVIII. To see our friends drop round us, and bewail Th' irreparable loss ; and sigh, and shed A vain and bitter tear upon the dead, Is the sad toll and tribute they entail Upon themselves, who would pursue the trail Of Time, and live when Life's best joys are fled. O'er many a well-known grave the aged tread. Ere to their own they come ; and weep and quail, And die, alas ! how oft, in those they prize, Ere they themselves in solitude consume. For still a part of the cleft spirit dies, As those we love are gather'd to the tomb. Those friends of youth that cling around the heart, And bear its breath away as they depart. SACRED PIECES, I 3 179 TO FAITH. Oh! Faith, thou comforter, God-giv'n, To cheer the suffering as they roam, For ever pointing towards Heav'n, And looking to thv promised home — Thou, -where the clouds are thickest spreading, Canst see the sunbeams they disguise ; And though thy feet on earth be treading, Thy heart is still in Paradise. Thou, from thy glowing face reflecting The glorious country of thy birth. Art ever busily connecting Both states, and linking Heav'n to Earth. Still to the sunny Future living. Anticipating distant bliss. Breathing of new delights, and gi\^ng The joys of coming worlds to this. 180 TO FAITH. Oh ! Faith, the penitent and sorrowing Tliy sweet and stedfast friendship know ; From thy confiding gladness borrowing Courage in pain, and hope in woe. Angelic harbinger of Heav'n, There still my wandering thoughts recall Till what thou promisest be giv'n, And God the Lord be all in all. 181 TO HOPE, Oh ! Hope, thou brightest child of Heav'n, That hearest sunshine in thy smile, That o'er the wretch most sorrow-riv'n Sheds brilliance, though he weep meanwhile — Thou, when th' unfeeling world 's distressing, From anguish gatherest comfort still ; And in the dreams of future blessing Forgett'st the sting of present ill. Thou, like the needle ever turning To the far-distant unseen Pole, Art coming happiness discerning. Where other worlds remotely roll. Though Earth be round thee, Heaven 's before thee. Whilst, lightly treading on the sod, Thou 'rt gazing on the blue skies o'er thee. Straining to catch a glimpse of G od. 182 TO HOPE. Angel of this uncouth world, giv n Upon its bleakness to bestow Something of Paradise, of Heav'n — Brightest and best of things below — Be with me still, and let me borrow Thy buoyancy, thy lightness share — Anticipating bliss in sorrow — And on my death-bed, be thou there. 183 TO CHARITY. Sweet Charity, celestial guest, Fairest of all the Sisters three, That visit Earth to sing of rest, Aud herald Immortality — Thy smile encourages and cheers. And, as the sun i' the dewdrop lies, There is a brightness in thy tears Reflected down from Paradise. Thou with the weeping weepest, sharing Their woes, and comforting the breast That faints beneath the pangs 't is bearing As thou smil'st cheerful with the bless'd, Pitying great faults, extenuating The failings thy forbearance hides : Enduring still, and sweetly waiting Till Wrath relents, and Hate confides. 184 TO CHAKITY. E'en on the thankless thou bestowest Thy love ; and when the rude revile, Or persecute, thou only showest Thy patience with a gentle smile. Liberal and lowly, meek and kind, Thou never breath'st the bitter jest. And when the World would blame and grind, Thou 'rt anxious to believe the best. Hope, like the oriental bird That floats, 'twixt Heav'n and Earth, on high, And Faith, that looks for bliss deferr'd, Confidingly in God, shall die. But thou, immortal and sublime, Shalt ever live — to whom is giv'n A life unlimited by Time, And boundless as eternal Heav'n. Sweet Charity, how often here Thy violated feelings smart, Beholding evil with a tear. And crime with a beseeching heart. Thou takes t mockery with a smile ; Returnest injury with a prayer ; Forgiving when thy foes revile ; And when they suffer, thou art there. TO CHAKITY. 185 Benignant Maid, th' unfeeling Earth Oft makes thy gentle spirit sore ; But the bright regions of thy birth Hereafter shall requite, restore. There pure celestial love shall be, Be all in all, for God is love. And everlasting Charity Triumph, enthron'd in Heav'n above. 186 LINE S. My God, if thy corrections be In mercy only giv'n ; If tribulation be the key T' unlock the gates of Heav'n : If the sad tear, the suffering sigh Of penitential sorrow, Must bathe the heart, and wash the eye Clean for the glorious morrow -- Oh ! then, howe'er the flesh rebel, Howe er the Man repine, His murmurs by thy judgments quell, And make him wholly thine. Indulgent as Thou art to spare, Withhold not Thou the rod ; Though sharp, its fragrance will declare 'T is in the hand of God. 187 LINES. The Bow, God's promis'd sign, glows o'er the main. Arching the waves that in its brilliance play. 'Tis but the Sun reflected on the rain, Whose falling drops are for a moment gay. 'Tis thus, methinks, with all that 's fair and bright In this vain world — with every pleasure here. 'Tis but a smile that throws its dewy light Upon the kindling sadness of a tear. Yet in that banner of th' Almighty One, Unfolded in the firmament on high, There 's full assurance that the glorious Sun Shall ever shine triumphant in the sky. Yet in our mingled and imperfect bliss, There is a sweet, though silent prospect giv'n, That if on Earth the smile and tear may kiss. There shall be nought but a glad smile in Heav'n. 188 LINES. Oh ! Lord, what is there I can brmg, The free-will offering of my love, Of all the Summer, or the Spring Displays in Earth, or Heav'n above ? If I should strip the breathing bowers ; And where thy grassy altar meets The sunshine, bury it with flowers, And hide it with collected sweets — If from the forests and the folds I should select their choicest store ; Dive for the pearl that Ocean holds, The gems it scatters on the shore : If the bright ruby I should bring, Or dig the diamond from the mine ; With every richest, rarest thing, I should but give Thee what is thine. LINES. 189 If like the eagle I could rise Towering, and floating in the air, Mark every star that lights the skies. And choose the hest and brightest there — Nay, could I borrow from the sun, Where brilliantly he shines alone, His fairest beams ere day be done, I should but offer Thee thine own. There's nothing, then, that I can give. 'Tis Thou, sweet Lord, that must bestow The love that burns, the thoughts that live, Thy righteous Spirit with its glow. Where all is thine, I can impart Alone what Thou 'st already giv'u. But, oh, take Thou this feeble heart. And in it pour Thyself — thy Heav'n. 190 LINES. Oh ! Lord, how sweet it is to steal My thoughts from this vain world away, And meet with thee in prayer, and feel That Thou art with me whilst I pray. How sweet it is to burst apart From all that is not Heav'n, and be In mind and spirit, soul and heart, Alone, and undisturb'd with Thee. But, ah ! how seldom can I gain That blessed liberty at last ; Or altogether 'scape the chain That binds me to the world too fast. If some few links at times be loose, And I delight in being free, How soon the weightier bonds reduce My strength, and bear me down from Thee. 191 If for some minutes — for some few Brief minutes — and, alas I how rare — Absorb 'd in soul and spirit too, I lose myself in fervent prayer, How soon the wandering of the heart, Most fickle still where it should be Most firm and fix'd, returns t' impart Its mists, and snatch my thoughts from Thee. How soon, though bathed in Heav'n awhile, How unresistingly my mind Returns to all that 's vain and vile, And seeks the Earth it left behind. Sweet as it is to be in prayer, And at Thy glorious throne adore, Scarce does th' intrusive world pass there, But it commands my thoughts once more. Dear Lord condemn me not, but spare Th' unwilling sin I fain would shun ; The wanderings of my thoughts in prayer. The mingling Heav'n and Earth in one. Oh ! spare, and give me grace and strength, That, as the ivy clasps the tree, In its devotions so, at length, My heart may twine itself round Thee. 199 LINES. Oh ! Lord, be Thou my Comforter. Sweet Lord, my Comforter Thou art. And when the throbs of anguish stir, Thou still'st the tumult in my heart. Thy love lies on me, like the day On the tired dove's returning wing, "Whose smooth plumes, burnish'd in the ray, Rest glittering in the sun of spring. Thy mercies, oft unvalued, yet Breathe round me like the ocean air, That, ere the sultry day be set. Comes landward, cooling all things there. Fanning my soul, they softly come Across me with refreshing sighs ; Composing as the soothing hum Of bees, where bubbling waters rise. LINES. 193 As Cherith's brook ran sparkling, though Through all her rivers Israel, Scorch 'd by the heat, had ceased to flow, And warbling rose, and tinkling fell : E'en so, though all that Earth supplies Of sweet be snatch'd from the distressed, Thy comforts still for ever rise Revivingly, and full of rest. No heart so parch 'd they will not heal ; No anguish they cannot allay. Lulling the sharpest pangs we feel, And sweetly soothing them away. Still o'er the troubled breast they roll, Like the rich sounds of David's lute, That dropp'd on Saul's afflicted soul. Till all its agonies were mute. No lips so loved, no voice so sweet. Are like those heavenly whispers fair. That round the wearied spirit meet. And gently tell it Thou art there. Lord God, be Thou, then, evermore My consolation ; still with me Be present ; breathe my Spirit o'er. For there 's no Comforter like Thee. 1U4 LINES. Lord, look upon me. Tn Thy sight This feeble heart of mine shall shine. One look will make it burning bright ; One glance, if that fair glance be Thine. Its darkness Thou canst overpower, And gild and glorify its gloom — As day-spring beaming on a flower, Expands and tints its opening bloom. Silent am I, and slow to tell Thy wonders, or Thy truth proclaim ; All Thou hast done, and dost so well ; Or herald Thy most glorious name. But look upon me, and the glow Of heavenly courage shall be mine : My lips with praise shall overflow ; My tongue shall drop with words divine. LINES. 195 Alas ! forgive me, that so long I linger, and sit sadly mute. When Thy name should inspire my song, And Thou shouldst live along my lute. Yet look on me, and every string, Flashing with fervour, shall record What my rapt spirit shall loudly sing — Thy mercies, all-redeeming Lord ! K 2 196 LINES. Lord, if Tliou wert on earth again, As Mary her rich ointments shed, I also would my perfumes drain In fragrance on Thy sacred head. I also would, with tearful eyes. Thy gentle looks of mercy meet, Breathe at Thy knee repentant sighs, And with my tear-drops bathe Thy feet. But since Thou art no more below, And I would still my cares control. Accept, Lord, what I cmi bestow, The offering of a contrite soul. The droppings of the bruised reeds Fall sweetest from the wounded part ; And godly sorrow, when it bleeds, Bleeds purest from a broken heart. LINES. 19' Take my repentance, then, oh, take, And be propitious to my prayer. Thy spirit in my bosom ^ake, And shed Thy choicest influence there. Lord, Saviour, heal me with Thy touch, Pour round me hope — breathe o'er me heav'n ; Give me the power to love Thee much, For I have much to be forgiv'n. G. Woodfall and Son, Printers, Angel Court, Skinner Street, London. ERRATA. Page 35, stanza 99, line 7, for fiieuds lead friend. 55, stanza 161, line 3, for wild read wide. 128, first line of second stanza, insert a comma after So. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Alleles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-50m-4,'61(B8994s4)444 THE LIBRARY tWiVERSITY OP CALI PR U699 E96w University of California, Los Angeles L 005 781 321 4