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JO 
 
 THE DREAM OF LIFE 
 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY JOHN MOULTRIE 
 
 11 
 
 LONDON 
 
 WILLIAM PICKERING 
 
 1843 
 
V\026 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The first and longest Poem in the present 
 Volume was written at intervals in the course 
 of the two last summers. The others are, for 
 the most part, of an earlier date ; — many of 
 them, indeed, having been composed pre- 
 viously to the publication of my former volume. 
 In the series which (perhaps too ambitiously) 
 I have entitled ' Lays of the English Church/ 
 it was my original design to produce, if I 
 could, a succession of Poems, founded upon 
 the Epistles and Gospels of our Anglican 
 Liturgy, which might supply what seems to 
 me a desideratum in our popular hterature ; 
 — a volume which might be, in some degree, 
 to general and unlearned readers what ' The 
 Christian Year' and other works of that fine 
 school are to persons of cultivated and imagi- 
 native minds. The plan was not long very 
 rigorously adhered to, and the attempt ulti- 
 mately abandoned, as (by me, at least,) im- 
 practicable. The portion now published, and 
 extending from the first Sunday in Advent to 
 
 9564L43 
 
IV ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Ash Wednesday, contains all the pieces which 
 were written, with the exception of one, which 
 seemed disproportionately long, and otherwise 
 out of keeping with the remainder of the 
 series. 
 
 In the Poem of ' The Dream of Life,' I have 
 introduced (what from the nature of the sub- 
 ject I could scarcely avoid) various sketches 
 of real character, the originals of some of 
 which are still hving, and others will be 
 locally (a few, perhaps, generally) recognised. 
 With regard to these, it has been invariably 
 my object and endeavour to communicate to 
 the mind of my reader the impression of my 
 own pleasant and kindly and, very often, affec- 
 tionate recollections. I have done my best 
 (such as that is) to make my portraits worthy 
 of their originals. If in any instance, failing to 
 effect this, I shall be found to have produced 
 a less agreeable likeness than was intended, 
 I shall much regret — what I cannot plead as 
 an excuse — the clumsiness of the artist. 
 
 Rectory, Rugby, I. M. 
 
 Easter Monday, 1843. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Page 
 
 Book I. Childhood 1 
 
 II. Boyhood 37 
 
 III. Youth 73 
 
 IV. Manhood 105 
 
 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 First Sunday in Advent. 
 
 From the Epistle 143 
 
 From the Gospel 145 
 
 Second Sunday in Advent. 
 
 From the Epistle 146 
 
 From the Gospel 148 
 
 Third Sunday in Advent. 
 
 From the Epistle 148 
 
 From the Gospel 150 
 
 Fourth Sunday in Advent. 
 
 From the Epistle 152 
 
 From the Gospel 153 
 
 Christmas Day. 
 
 From the Epistle 155 
 
 From the Gospel 157 
 
 St. Stephen's Day. 
 
 From the Epistle 159 
 
 From the Gospel 161 
 
 St. John the Evangehst's Day. 
 
 From the Epistle 164 
 
 From the Gospel 167 
 
VI CONTFNTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Innocents* Day. 
 
 From the Epistle 170 
 
 From the Gospel 177 
 
 The Sunday after Christmas. 
 
 From the Epistle 179 
 
 From the Gospel 181 
 
 The Circumcision of Christ. 
 
 From the Epistle 185 
 
 From the Gospel 188 
 
 The Epiphany. 
 
 From the Epistle 190 
 
 From the Gospel 193 
 
 First Sunday after the Epiphany. 
 
 From the Epistle 198 
 
 From the Gospel 203 
 
 Second Sunday after the Epiphany. 
 
 From the Epistle 215 
 
 From the Gospel 217 
 
 Third Sunday after the Epiphany. 
 
 From the Epistle 220 
 
 From the Gospel 221 
 
 Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany. 
 
 From the Epistle 223 
 
 From the Gospel 224 
 
 Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany. 
 
 From the Epistle 228 
 
 From the Gospel 231 
 
 Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany. 
 
 From the Epistle 231 
 
 From the Gospel 233 
 
 Septuagesima Sunday. 
 
 From the Epistle 237 
 
 From the Gospel 242 
 
 Sexagesima Sunday. 
 
 From the Epistle 246 
 
 From the Gospel 247 
 
CONTKNTS. Vll 
 
 Quinquagesima Sunday. 
 
 From the Gospel 249 
 
 Ash Wednesday. 
 
 From the Epistle 252 
 
 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Canto 1 257 
 
 II 275 
 
 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 Stanzas. Written in the Isle of Arran 293 
 
 Our Wedding- Day ! 296 
 
 Inscription for a Bust of the late Winthrop Mackworth 
 
 Praed 299 
 
 Hymn for the opening of a Church Organ 299 
 
 Sonnet I. New Year's Day 300 
 
 II 301 
 
 III 302 
 
 IV. Written in the Highlands 302 
 
 V. LochRanza 303 
 
 VI. To my infant Daughter 304 
 
 VII. To my youngest Child 304 
 
 VIII 305 
 
 IX 306 
 
 X. To the Authoress of" I watch'd the Heavens" 306 
 
 Stanzas. To the same 307 
 
 Lament for the Doon 310 
 
 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 I. Euthanasia 319 
 
 II. The Song of the Kettle 342 
 
CORRIGENDA. 
 
 Page 82, line 3 from bottom, /or " sturdy" read " spirit's." 
 103, line 5 from bottom, /or " brigbt-eyed " read " beau- 
 teous." 
 138, line 9 from bottom, ^br " well " read " mucb." 
 138, line 6 from bottom, /or " years" read " days." 
 183, line 14, /or " virgin's" read " virgin." 
 
 281, line U,for " which" read " whom." 
 
 282, line 6, for " worthier" read " daintier." 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO MY PARENTS. 
 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy." 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Once more among* my earliest haunts ! — once more 
 
 A solitary man, from home delights 
 
 Familiar, and the sounds of childish mirth. 
 
 And sweet endearments of connubial love, 
 
 Secluded for awhile ; — beneath the roef 
 
 Which shelter'd me in childhood, and which still 
 
 Shelters my parents* age, for some few days, 
 
 A welcome guest, I sojourn. Years long past, — / 
 
 The pleasant spring, and seed-time of my life, — ! 
 
 Revisit my mind's eye, with all their train 
 
 Of youthful thoughts and feelings, by these scenes 
 
 Mysteriously revived. Nor meets me here 
 
 One outward token from that newer world 
 
 Of cares and duties, fears and hopes and aims, 
 
 Sorrows and joys, in which I live and move, 
 
 A husband and a parent. Far away, 
 
 On the green banks of her beloved Doon, 
 
 My wife imbues our children's opening minds 
 
 With love of Caledonia's hills and glens ; 
 
 Meanwhile inhaling, near her native coast. 
 
 From the bold mountains, and the breezy sea, 
 
: THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 "New health anjl-v.igour, — by her childhood's friends, 
 • \jl I,; ; As»i jby tn4ae,.svrrrounded. So complete 
 Is thus my separation from all cares 
 Domestic and parental, that almost, 
 Methinks, by strong imagination led, 
 I might forget the two and twenty years 
 Of life, long since mature, which time hath stolen, 
 Since I, as boyhood melted into youth, 
 Bade sad farewell to Eton's long loved shades, 
 And these fair scenes together; — might forget 
 What all those years have made me, — what rich gifts 
 Their course hath brought, — what cares those gifts 
 
 produce, — 
 And be once more the dreaming, brain-sick boy 
 That then I was. And what if I give scope 
 To memory's pensive rovings ? — What if now, 
 In this calm interim between the calls 
 Of active duty and of worldly care, 
 I bid my heart keep holiday, — forget 
 The Present and the Future in the Past, — 
 Live o'er again my long departed years 
 In tranquil meditation, — and perchance, 
 Comparing what I was with what I am. 
 Amidst that multitudinous array 
 Of thoughts and feelings which have come and gone, 
 Discern, in twilight gaze, the embryo state 
 Of what is now my being?— Haply thus 
 My time may not be lost; — Not for myself. 
 Nor for some gentle spirits, who may find, 
 Nor scorn to learn, a lesson from my lay. 
 
THE DREAM OF MFE. 
 
 Such as all records of Man's life in%ht teach. 
 
 Dim and mysterious to the dreamer's eye, 
 Retracing the first gleams of consciousness, 
 Is Infancy and Childhood's fairy-land. 
 Scarce through the glory, as of other worlds, 
 Enveloping its outline, is discern'd, 
 At intervals distinctly, here and there, 
 A streak of clear reality, — some fact, 
 Or feeling, or sensation, — some event 
 To Childhood's eyes momentous, and thenceforth 
 Indelibly inscribed on Memory's page, 
 Only with life to be expunged. Even here, 
 Surrounded, as I am, by objects fraught 
 With old associations, and none else — 
 Wandering, at will, through old familiar rooms. 
 And gazing on old hills, and fields, and lanes, 
 And human forms, the first I ever knew, 
 And faces which I loved ere I could speak — 
 Even here, my first remembrances of life 
 Seem dim and distant. Scarce at intervals. 
 Events and epochs, few and far between. 
 Stand forth in clear relief; — acolour'd frock, — 
 A picture-book replete with marvels strange 
 To young imagination ; — a quaint tale 
 Told by my grandam ; — my first cloth pelisse, 
 With rows of glittering buttons all ablaze, 
 The envy of my infantine compeers ; 
 And mix'd with these, at times, a tender gleam 
 Of somewhat (whether fantasy or love 
 I know not,)— a strange instinct lighting up 
 
6 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 My heart beneath the glance of woman's eyes ; — 
 
 A sense of beauty and mysterious power, 
 
 By beauty wielded, stirring to its depths 
 
 The soul of man, while he is yet a child. 
 
 So fares the world within ; — around me crowd 
 
 Familiar objects ; — our old nursery stands 
 
 Unalter'd, save that now it bears no trace 
 
 Of infantine or childish tenantry ; — 
 
 Cradle, or crib, or tiny chair, or store 
 
 Of scatter'd toys, or window fenced with bars, 
 
 Or fire-place, guarded close from rash approach. 
 
 By lofty fender. Time's relentless march 
 
 Hath made strange havoc with the furniture 
 
 Once consecrate to childhood's mimic sports. 
 
 The chairs which, yoked and harness'd, served as 
 
 steeds 
 To whirl us, on imaginary cars, 
 In pomp and pride of glorious coachmanship. 
 At length have disappear'd through slow decay ; 
 Their wood-work fractured, and theirhorsehair seats 
 Worn bare by long attrition. Many a year, — 
 Yea, far into my manhood's lusty prime. 
 They stood where they were wont, and seem'd to bear 
 A charmed life. In sooth, I could have named 
 Each individual courser, — told the marks 
 Which once distinguish'd, to our childish thought, 
 The chestnut from the grey, the bay from brown ; — 
 Which to each several brother was assign'd. 
 His own especial property; — which work'd 
 As wheeler, — which as leader. All are gone, — 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 7 
 
 The Steeds, and they who drove them. Many a 
 
 change, 
 Within doors and without, hath changed the face 
 Of the old dwelling, e'en within the span 
 Of my remembrance. Casements, which sufficed 
 The vicars of a less luxurious age, 
 First from the old stone frontage disappear'd, 
 Supplanted by broad panes. — A few years pass'd, 
 Riches increased, and lo ! a pile arose 
 Of bright red brick, with slate cerulean roof'd, 
 Encroaching on the garden, and but ill 
 Consorting with the grey, time-mellow'd stone, 
 To which 'twas wedded. On the study's site, 
 Somewhat extended, straightway there appear'd 
 A gay and gilded drawing-room, o'er which. 
 Piled, stoiy above story, tier on tier. 
 New bed-rooms tower'd, in ample space and height 
 Mocking the old and humble vicarage. 
 With pride we mark'd the building, as it grew, 
 (I and my brothers) deeming that at last 
 Our mansion should eclipse the squire's itself. 
 And we be counted greater than the squire. 
 Yet when the work was finish'd, and we dwelt 
 Like nobles, as we deem'd, — methinks, we found 
 Small compensation in our ceiled state. 
 For old associations swept away 
 With our abolish'd play-room — for the fall 
 Of shrubbery laurels, underneath whose thick 
 And sun-proof foliage we were wont to frame 
 Our mimic houses, with inventive skill 
 
8 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Arranging and imagining ; — nor lack'd 
 
 To those umbrageous mansions aught that taste 
 
 Or ingenuity of modish art 
 
 Might fashion, or caprice of luxuiy 
 
 Deem needful for convenience. Banquet-halls 
 
 Were there, with banquets spread, from time to time, 
 
 Of sugar'd cakes and gingerbread, served up 
 
 On fragments of crack'd china; Drawing-rooms 
 
 Well furnish 'd, and adorn'd with stately couch. 
 
 And ottoman and sofa, soft repose 
 
 Inviting and prolonging ; closets cramm'd 
 
 With household stores; kitchen and scuUeiy range, 
 
 With culinary implements complete ; 
 
 And overhead, among the thickleaved boughs, 
 
 Our verdant dormitories. Oh ! how well 
 
 Wrought then imagination, by strange art, 
 
 Enduing her creations with what seem'd 
 
 Most absolute reality. Our sports 
 
 To us were scarcely sports, but still appear'd 
 
 Our gravest occupations. — In our world, 
 
 (That fairy world created by ourselves), 
 
 We lived and had our being. All day long, 
 
 (Our tasks once ended) how we toil'd and toil'd 
 
 At that fantastic architecture ! — how, 
 
 Absorb'd, and reckless of all outward thins-s, 
 
 We shaped and moulded our whole dream of life 
 
 To match our habitation ! Our desires 
 
 Roam'd not beyond that garden's narrow bounds. 
 
 There was our universe. — Reluctantly 
 
 We left its pastimes for a daily walk 
 
THE DREAM OV LIFE. 9 
 
 Through the green fields and pleasant shelter'd lanes 
 
 Of this delicious region ; for, in us, 
 
 The sense of beauty, with majestic forms 
 
 And glorious hues investing hill and wood, 
 
 As yet was undevelop'd, and it seem'd 
 
 Dire interruption of important toil 
 
 And business which allow'd of no delay, 
 
 To force us from our fair ideal realm 
 
 E'en to the pleasures of reality. 
 
 A nd yet, from time to time, strange pleasures came ; 
 Some by succession of the seasons brought, 
 Or revolution of the calendar ; 
 Some at uncertain epochs, racier still 
 Because unlook'd-for. First, the spring produced 
 Its primrose tufts and constellated stalks 
 Of cowslip, which, with eager chase, we sought, 
 And strung together into fragrant balls ; 
 Or (proud of such unwonted usefulness) 
 Heap'd for the flowery vintage. Summer shone 
 (Summer seem'd then all sunshine, and as yet 
 Asthma was not) on fields of new-mown grass, 
 And us among the haymakers. Ah me ! 
 The raptures of that season ! — with what pride 
 (Our tiny rakes and pitchforks in our hands) 
 We follow'd, with the rest, the mower's track, 
 And spread the levell'd crop beneath the sun ! 
 At noon, with what keen appetite we shared 
 The rustic luncheon, — feasted to the full, 
 Beside some hedge, on piles of bread and cheese, 
 And from its wooden flagon quaff 'd the beer. 
 
10 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Listening meanwhile to tale and homely jest, 
 Pass'd round by jovial peasants. Then, at eve, 
 When the day's toil was ended, home we rode 
 In the returning waggon, — joy of joys ! 
 The world hath now none such. With autumn 
 
 came 
 The village wake, and (if remembrance serves) 
 The fair, with stalls of tempting gingerbread, 
 And glittering toys, and shows majestical ; 
 While, (for 'twas then the stirring time of war) 
 Recruiting sergeants gaily to and fro 
 Paraded, to the sound of drum and fife. 
 Their colours and cockades. To us they seem'd 
 Almost like gods of war, and oft our hearts 
 Beat high, to think how blest a fate it were 
 To fight old England's enemies, and die 
 Victorious on some well-won battle-field. 
 
 'Twas then that on the Nation's startled ear 
 Burst the glad news of naval victory, 
 Sadden'd by Nelson's death. Those news awoke, 
 Methinks, in me, my first ideal sense 
 Of warlike triumph, of heroic deeds. 
 And glory by a nation lost or won. 
 Then first I felt that 'twas a noble lot 
 To be a Briton ;-— then, with earnest heart. 
 Rejoiced at England's joy, and wept her griefs, 
 A patriot five years old. Some nameless fears 
 Had stirr'd my soul already, when I heard 
 (What then was widely bruited in men's mouths) 
 Of near invasion, of impending strife, 
 
 i 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 11 
 
 And danger and defeat. The might of France 
 
 Was, to my heart, a dark, mysterious thought. 
 
 More hateful from the vagueness of alarm 
 
 With which 'twas blended, and my midnight dreams 
 
 Would oft reverberate Napoleon's name. 
 
 Dreadful as Dsemogorgon's. Oft, in sleep, 
 
 I heard the thrilling cry, '* The French are come," 
 
 And straightway through the street, in long array, 
 
 With shout of hostile triumph, with deep roll 
 
 Of drum, and peal of trump, and clang of arms, 
 
 Battalion on battalion, host on host, 
 
 Defiled the invading myriads ; — Britain's fight. 
 
 Men said, was fought and lost, and she was now 
 
 In bondage to her foes. Ere long the scene 
 
 Grew darker ; in my father's house appear'd 
 
 Strange faces, — heralds by the victors sent 
 
 To cite my parents to the judgment seat, 
 
 And haply to the scaffold. In that fear 
 
 Grim and perplex'd, the bonds of sleep were burst, 
 
 And I, in agony of tears, awoke ! 
 
 Such terrors, waking or asleep, were mine, 
 
 Till news of victory came : — oh, then at once 
 
 My breast was lighten'd. Ne'er shall 1 forget 
 
 The fervour, the wild frenzy of delight. 
 
 Which, when the news first reach'd our little town, 
 
 Thrill'd through its English heart. That week had 
 
 seen 
 A daughter born into my Father*s house ; 
 And, I remember, in my Mother's room 
 W^e stood, and from the silent window gazed 
 
12 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 On bonfires blazing in the street, and crowds 
 
 Of villagers and peasants round the flame 
 
 Promiscuously group'd. — The ruddy light 
 
 Flash'd fitfully on faces bright with joy, 
 
 And forms in active motion. To the sky 
 
 Rockets, from time to time, in fiery track 
 
 Soar'd, blazed, and, bursting, scatter'd, high in air, 
 
 Bright showers of stars ; while ever and anon, 
 
 From the near steeple, our six bells rang out 
 
 Their loud and lusty changes, — now in notes 
 
 Harmoniously attuned to concord sweet 
 
 With the deep stream of joy in every heart, — 
 
 Now mimicking, with simultaneous clang, 
 
 The cannons' deafening roar. At intervals, 
 
 From every quarter, musket-shots were heard, 
 
 Followed by shout, and cheer, and loud huzzah ! 
 
 From congregated throats. The nation's voice, 
 
 Even among us, arose from Earth to Heaven 
 
 In chorus of exultant jubilee, 
 
 Yet with religious fervour not unmix'd, 
 
 Nor thankless to the God of victories 
 
 For triumph thus bestow'd. — Men's warlike pride, 
 
 By recollection of their hero's death, 
 
 Was soften'd and subdued. It was a night 
 
 Greatly to be remember'd. With our dreams, 
 
 When we, with hearts untired, reluctantly 
 
 Had gone to rest, the tumult of the street 
 
 Still mingled, and awoke a phantom world 
 
 Of imagery in the mysterious depths 
 
 Of Childhood's spirit, shedding wondrous gleams 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 1^ 
 
 Of glory on the visions of the night. 
 
 Since then have five and thirty years flown by, 
 
 And boyhood, youth, and early manhood pass'd, 
 
 With all their changes ; yet even now a peal 
 
 Of merry village bells recalls to mind 
 
 The raptures of that night, and conjures up 
 
 The ghosts of thoughts and feelings, in my heart 
 
 Long buried ; — thus w ith joys of rustic life — 
 
 A birth, a wedding, or a festival. 
 
 Associating the glories of the Past. 
 
 I was not born ambitious ; — never long'd 
 For honour to be won by warlike deeds, 
 Nor wish'd myself a hero ; — else, methinks, 
 The atmosphere of war, in childhood breathed, 
 Had fed such fancies bravely, and perchance 
 Made me unlike, in all things, what I am. 
 For scarce a village in old England, then. 
 But dared heroic enterprize. The threat 
 Of near invasion had awoke all hearts 
 To simultaneous valour. Peasants beat 
 Their pruninghooks and ploughshares into swords ; 
 And pale-faced artisans forsook the loom 
 And shuttle, to encumber their spare limbs 
 With the grim garb of war. The smith exchanged 
 His hammer for a halberd. Tailors, fired 
 With martial ardour, from the shop-board leap'd. 
 And let their needles rust, to grasp the spear 
 With fingers which of late the thimble wore. 
 Shortwinded, pursy men forgot their fat 
 And scantiness of breath, in tight-drawn belt 
 
14 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Bracing" their bulk abdominal, to serve 
 
 As lusty volunteers in some new corps 
 
 Raised for the nonce. We too, albeit the least 
 
 Among Britannia's thousands, furnish'd forth 
 
 Our sixty musqueteers — a gallant band 
 
 In uniform complete ; — to me they seem'd 
 
 A host invincible, prepared to hurl 
 
 Napoleon from his throne. Sublime they shone 
 
 In scarlet regimentals faced with green ; 
 
 Their military caps by towering plumes 
 
 Surmounted, while their burnish'd firelocks flash'd, 
 
 Like lightning, in the sun, with bayonets fix'd, 
 
 Bristling in bright array. The squire himself, 
 
 Forsaking for awhile his mimick war 
 
 With birds and beasts, and buckling on his arms. 
 
 Was proud to be their captain. Next in rank, 
 
 Nor less in arms illustrious — passing then 
 
 Life's vigorous prime, and by his portly shape 
 
 And peaceful air, less fitted, as it seem'd, 
 
 For martial prowess than luxurious ease, 
 
 Our neighbour, the attorney, took the field. 
 
 Him, not unfit at social boards to shine, — 
 
 A man of easy humour and frank mirth, — 
 
 Sluggish withal, and simple as a child 
 
 In this world's ways, had fortune's wild caprice 
 
 First doom'd to be a lawyer, and next thrust 
 
 Into the full accoutrements of war 
 
 And regimental lace. Alike unfit 
 
 Was he for scarlet, and for chancery suit ; 
 
 Alike unskill'd in pleadings and in war ; 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 15 
 
 In deeds of arms and deeds of law alike 
 Ill-graced and awkward ; for his nature, pure 
 And harmless as the dove's, could never learn 
 The serpent's wisdom ; — gentle as the lamb, 
 He lack'd the lion's valour. — He was formM 
 For upright acts of honest friendliness, 
 For charity and bland good neighbourhood, 
 Not for the tumult of the battle-field. 
 Or trickery of the law-court. Mild, sedate, 
 His usual air; — few were the words he spoke, 
 And slow his utterance; but when friend met friend 
 Around his hospitable board, and wine, 
 After the fashion of those ruder days, 
 In circling brimmers flow'd, — oh, who was then 
 His match for fun and frolic ? Then his eye 
 (Dull and professionally grave before) 
 Twinkled and gleam'd with humour;— then (all care 
 For formal rules of etiquette cast off) 
 His mirth ran riot in wild, boylike freaks 
 Of unrestrain'd extravagance. But now, 
 Silent and grave, beside his corps he march'd ; 
 And if, — when cups were sparkling on the board 
 Of absent friends, while he, on full parade. 
 Did active service, — nature would at times 
 Grow weary of manoeuvres manifold, 
 Marchings and counter-marchings, mimick-fights, 
 Retreats and charges, ambuscades, assaults. 
 Volleys of awkward musketry, and balls 
 Shot wide of targets, — he, with noble pride 
 Of self-control, repress'd all outward signs 
 
16 THE DREAM OF LITE. 
 
 And tokens of impatience, — proud to be 
 In Albion's cause a martyr. Him of late 
 I mark'd, an aged man, well-nigh fourscore, 
 Still, in the parish church, his wonted seat 
 Maintaining, and himself but little changed 
 In all these years from that which he appear'd 
 When first I knew him ; — undiminish'd still 
 His lusty bulk, — un wrinkled still his brow, — 
 Unspectacled his nose ; — yet Death's grim shades 
 Must soon be closing round him, and the friends, — 
 The boon companions of his earlier days, — 
 His comrades in the field and at the feast, — 
 Have, one by one, departed from his side. 
 And dropp'd into the grave. His housekeeper 
 (For never hath he worn connubial yoke). 
 Large as himself, and rosy, and rotund. 
 The despot of his house, hath gone the way 
 Appointed for all flesh ; — his well-fed steed 
 Hath vacated the true prebendal stall 
 In which he lived to eat, asthmatic long 
 And martyr to repletion ; — his lank pair 
 Of greyhounds (sole lank things in all that house) 
 Sleep, with their old companion, side by side, — 
 Their last course run and ended. Be their lord's 
 Decease, when it shall come, as calm as theirs, 
 But not, like theirs, uncheer'd by Christian hope 
 Of immortality and endless bliss. 
 
 With him there march'd, as ensign of the corps, 
 A tall, spare man, his kinsman, some ten years 
 His senior, whose high forehead, siiver'd o'er, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 17 
 
 At fifty-five, with eighty winters' snow, 
 Assumed, beneath his feather'd, fierce cock'd hat, 
 A veteran aspect ; — yet a peaceful man 
 Was he, and had, in Gloucester's busy vales, 
 Been bred a manufacturer. The mill, 
 Embosom'd yonder between wooded banks, 
 Was built, and many years possessed by him ; 
 Till, with an ample store of this world's wealth. 
 He and his wife, with none to be their heirs, 
 (For theirs had ever been a childless home) 
 Retired to spend their calm decline of life 
 In affluent ease and leisure. Twenty years 
 Were they our next-door neighbours. As a child, 
 I well remember, when the parsonage 
 On rare occasions oped its festal doors 
 To guests invited, how, amidst the throng, 
 His was the gravest face, the stateliest step, 
 The hoariest head ; with what a solemn grace 
 He at quadrille or whist would take his seat. 
 Confronted with some bulky dowager, 
 Or spinster of threescore. The dark brown coat, 
 White waistcoat, breeches of demurest drab, 
 And hose of spotless cotton, (for as yet 
 Silk was, with us, a luxury only known 
 To clergymen and squires,) the polish'd shoes 
 Of rustic make, and thicker than need was, 
 Still dwell in my remembrance. On his arm 
 Hung his good-humour'd partner, all bedight 
 In finery, such as fifty years before 
 Had shone in metropolitan saloons. 
 « c 
 
18 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Herself unbraced by the accomplishments 
 
 Of modish education, and, in truth, 
 
 What some call vulgar, but, beyond her peers, 
 
 From all vulgarity of soul exempt ; — 
 
 Kind-hearted, full of charity, unchill'd 
 
 By niggard thrift, — for all the neighbouring poor 
 
 Prompt ever both to spend and to be spent ; 
 
 Alike unfit to hear and to repeat 
 
 The scandal of the tea-table. They lived 
 
 (She and her mate) a blameless, peaceful life, 
 
 Through fifty years of wedlock, till at last 
 
 Disease, in cancerous shape, assail'd the wife, 
 
 Marring her features, and extending wide 
 
 Its fibres through her flesh. — For some few years 
 
 She pined and wasted, with assiduous care 
 
 Still tended by her husband, whose whole life 
 
 Was so entwined with hers, that, when she died, 
 
 The old man's heart seem'd broken. — From that 
 
 hour 
 He never cross'd the threshold of his door, 
 Save when he went to church, — but sat and sat 
 Beside his lonely hearth from morn to night ; 
 Now poring o'er his Bible, — now absorb'd 
 In dreamy thought, — his eyes suffused with tears, — 
 His heart with her whom he had lost, — in Heaven. 
 Nor sought he other company ; though oft, 
 When friends or neighbours came to visit him, 
 He would converse in no uncheerful tone, 
 Nor close his heart to sympathy with those 
 Who sympathized with him. Some habits, form'd 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 19 
 
 In happier days, — some customs, shared with her, 
 He still retain'd ; — still every Sunday eve 
 (The service done) he with his kinsman dined, 
 Whose jovial humour, soften'd now by years, 
 Was, in his presence, temper'd to a grave 
 And reverential sadness : — each with each 
 Held soothing fellowship, till life's frail thread 
 At last, in one, gave way. His race is run ; 
 His story told ; — he rests with her he loved. 
 
 A melancholy joy, in truth, it is. 
 When half a life has fled, to see once more 
 Places long loved ; — to mark how Nature's face 
 Remains unchanged, — how little Art has wrought 
 Of transformation in insensate things. 
 While human forms familiar — men who lived. 
 Thought, felt, rejoiced, and sorrow'd, hoped and 
 
 fear'd. 
 Hated and loved, in time's relentless flight. 
 Have been, by generations, swept away. 
 Like shadows, from the earth. But sadder still, 
 Methinks, the alteration wrought by age 
 In those who yet remain. These thirty years 
 A house hath scarce been built, a tree cut down, 
 A new shop open'd, — scarce a public-house 
 Been deck'd with a new sign, or changed as yet 
 Ought but its owner's name, in all this street. 
 The castle ditch alone, (last remnant left 
 Of feudal recollections,) hath indeed 
 Long since, by hands barbarian, been plough 'd up 
 And planted with potatoes ; its rich shade 
 
20 THE DREAM OE LIFE. 
 
 Of beeches levell'd, and the fair alcove 
 
 Which crown'd its spacious bowling-green, pull'd 
 
 down. 
 Nought else seems alter'd, save the face of man ; 
 But that, how strangely ! Yesterday I pass'd 
 An infant school-room, echoing to the hum 
 Of children's voices on their tasks intent ; 
 And, through the open window, could discern 
 The features of their mistress. 'Twas a face, 
 Almost the first which Memory, looking back 
 Through forty years, remembers to have loved ; — 
 The face of one long since our nursery-maid, 
 The beauty of the village. Around her 
 Our young imaginations fondly clung, 
 And, in her features, seem'd to recognize 
 The bright ideals of our fairy tales 
 Mysteriously embodied. In our eyes, 
 She was the princess Eglantine, adored 
 Of Valentine and Orson ; — we the twins 
 Contending for her hand. The Sabra she 
 Who loved St. George of England, and by him 
 Was lost amidst the forest ; then straightway 
 Protected by a lion. She alone 
 Seem'd gentle Graciosa's living type, 
 Through depths unknown of trouble and distress, 
 Still constant to her Percinet. — Nor lack'd 
 Our spite a fitting representative 
 Of old malicious Grognon, — that foul hag 
 Who persecuted beauty, youth, and love, 
 For very ugliness. Her, to the life, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 21 
 
 We found depicted in a spinster sour, 
 
 The despot of our nursery ;— one whose tried 
 
 And unimpeach'd devotion to her charg^e 
 
 Compensated, in fond parental eyes, 
 
 For all her inborn crabbedness ; who ruled 
 
 With undisputed, arbitrary sway 
 
 The rising generation, and the risen ; 
 
 Queen'd it supreme o'er mistress and o'er maid ; 
 
 And thus, by rigour of tyrannic rule, 
 
 Combined in close-knit league against herself, 
 
 Us and our pretty play-mate. In revenge 
 
 Of WTongs, supposed or real, her we named 
 
 Witch, ogre, wicked fairy, goblin, imp. 
 
 Giantess, evil genius, Afrit, goule, 
 
 And whatsoever abhorr'd and hateful thinsr 
 
 Imagination of the East or West 
 
 Hath ever bodied forth. And yet, in truth. 
 
 Much cause had we to love her, could the love 
 
 Of children be obtain'd by honest zeal 
 
 Apart from gentleness ; — and if sometimes 
 
 She yielded to infirmity, — if years, 
 
 Approaching to threescore, had fail'd to quench, 
 
 In her, the wish to be a wife, and thus 
 
 Made her too oft the dupe of needy men, 
 
 Seeking not her but hers, and furnish'd food 
 
 For laughter even to us, — be that forgot 
 
 In the remembrance of her faithful life 
 
 And melancholy death. For, — after years 
 
 In strict discharge of anxious duty spent, 
 
 Worn out at last by the incessant fret 
 
22 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 And fever of a spirit ill at ease, 
 
 And, haply, vex'd by our perversity 
 
 Almost beyond endurance, — she resolved 
 
 To quit our parents' service, and retire, 
 
 On the small savings by long labour earn'd, 
 
 To end her days in peace ; — then changed her mind. 
 
 Through love for us and ours ; — again resolved, — 
 
 And yet again repented ; — till at last. 
 
 Wearied by what, in her, appear'd caprice, 
 
 Our parents lost all patience, and resolved 
 
 She should indeed depart. Thenceforth no more 
 
 She lifted up her head, nor could regain 
 
 Her full command of reason : — from her home 
 
 She wander'd and return'd not: — in the end. 
 
 After long, anxious search, her corpse was found 
 
 Beaeath the Severn waters. 
 
 But the maid, — 
 The dark-eyed heroine of fairy-land, — 
 How hath her fortune sped ? Alas ! her tale 
 Is one of kindred sorrow. Long ago 
 (So long that I can scarce remember when) 
 She married ; and had he, to whom she gave 
 Her hand and heart, been worthy of the gift. 
 Might now have held her head above the crowd 
 With decent self respect : — alas ! he proved 
 A drunkard and a brute. Soon ruin came. 
 And gaunt-eyed famine stared thera m the face : 
 Her children proved rebelhous, and she lived 
 A broken-hearted woman, struggling still, 
 In unsubdued nobility of soul, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 23 
 
 With care, and want, and sorrow ; till at length 
 Compassion and respect for her meek worth, 
 From those whom she had served in early youth, 
 Made her the mistress of that infant school 
 Where yesterday I found her ; — but alas ! 
 How should a wounded spirit, such as hers, 
 Bear up against her task ? — what energy, 
 In her, remains to vary and sustain 
 Perpetual sallies of exciting sport. 
 And stimulative eflfort ? — how should she, 
 Whose heart is bleeding for her husband's sin, 
 Her offspring lost, her home left desolate — 
 How should she feel the interest, here required, 
 In children not her own ? With listless air 
 She sits, in dull, mechanical routine. 
 Dragging along her weary load of tasks ; 
 Dispensing vain rewards and punishments ; 
 Dispirited and jaded by the sound 
 Of voices which she heeds not; till the clock. 
 With wish'd-for stroke, announces her release, 
 Emancipating from ungrateful toil 
 The teacher and the taught. — Thus Life's romance 
 Begins and ends : — its moral, — that our world 
 Is, was, and, till redemption's closing day. 
 Must evermore remain a vale of tears. 
 
 Yet there are spots of sunshine even on Earth ; — 
 Green islands in the desart, which the sands 
 Entomb not, nor the tempests overwhelm : — 
 Spots which, long cherish'd in our heart of hearts. 
 Then, after many years revisited. 
 
24 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 We find still fresh and fragrant. Yonder lane, 
 Which, — from the church-yard gate commencing, 
 
 skirts 
 The school enclosure and the castle ditch, — 
 Leads, in the space of some two hundred yards. 
 Beside a lonely cottage, from the path 
 Divided by a wicket. It was once, 
 (Far within my remembrance,) the abode 
 Of a kind aged couple, who, when years 
 Had made the man unfit to earn his bread 
 At that mechanic craft which he had learnt 
 And practised, as a builder, all his life, 
 From business and its cares at length withdrew. 
 Surrendering to a son-in-law their trade 
 And daily occupation. In their home, 
 The latter with his wife, their only child, — 
 (Themselves, in middle age, a childless pair,) 
 Came to reside ; and though her husband seem'd 
 To some a vain and consequential man, 
 The frank and noble nature of his wife 
 Made more than full amends for what appeared 
 Deficiencies in him. There seem'd to rest 
 A blessing on that house ; — Content was there. 
 And filial duty, with connubial love 
 Holding, in one warm bosom, constant sway, 
 And spreading through the home in which it dwelt 
 Perpetual sunshine. Between them and us 
 (The cottage and the vicarage) grew up 
 A friendship, such as we had sought in vain 
 Beneath less humble roofs. Nature had set 
 
 J 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 25 
 
 On that old man and woman, at their birth, 
 The seal of true gentility, which they 
 Transmitted to their daughter. Oft in her, 
 When other sources fail'd, was found advice 
 And consolation, sympathy and help, 
 Amidst those worldly troubles which must fall 
 On rich and poor alike. Full oft was she 
 The confidante of sorrows, to no ear 
 But hers entrusted ; and, for us, whose age 
 Reck'd of no nice distinction between ranks, 
 But clung to kindness, wheresoever found. 
 With instinct true and keen, — in all the world 
 There was no heart like hers. Day after day. 
 In pairs or singly, — sometimes all at once, — 
 We stole from home, to prattle and to play 
 In that old cottage and the timber-yard 
 Adjacent. I shall never, while I live. 
 Forget the old man's cheerful countenance. 
 Lit up with gleams of humour, as he sat 
 And welcomed us in his accustomed seat 
 Within the chimney corner ; — his broad jests, — 
 His cordial fun, — his brown, close, curly wig. 
 His straight blue coat with monstrous buttons 
 
 starr'd, — 
 His nether garments, plush or velveteen, — 
 The sky-blue worsted stockings on his shanks, — 
 The buckles in his shoes. His busy wife. 
 Unbroken by the weight of fourscore years, 
 Meanwhile, with ceaseless footsteps, roam'd about, 
 And plied her household tasks, with ready tact 
 
26 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Assisted by her daughter, and by us 
 Impeded sorely ; — yet they never lost 
 Patience or kindness, but still bore our freaks 
 And follies with a spirit imperturb'd ; 
 Nor wearied of such pert impertinence 
 As would have wearied Job. On baking-days. 
 Which we by instinct knew, their batch contain'd 
 (Nor ever fail'd) one smoking cake for us, — 
 One smoking, butter'd cake ! — ^Their cider-press 
 Ream'd with rich draughts for us ; — their garden 
 
 teem'd 
 With gooseberries and currants, which to us 
 Yielded unstintingly their luscious juice. 
 We were the lords of all that fair domain, — 
 Too oft, perhaps, the tyrants. Time roU'd on ; 
 We left the place and country, — nor return'd. 
 Till thirteen years had pass'd. The old man then 
 Had, in the ripeness of full ninety years, 
 Been gather'd to his fathers ; and his wife 
 Slept with him side by side. The cottage still 
 Shelters the younger pair, who, in their turn, 
 Themselves have sunk into the vale of years ; 
 And to our children are, what once, to us, 
 Their parents used to be. Nay, so robust 
 Their age appears, that haply they may see 
 Another generation. To their house 
 Our steps still daily turn, when we renew 
 Our visits to the neighbourhood, and still 
 They welcome us as they were ever wont, 
 And spoil our children with as right good will 
 
THE DREAM OF LIEE. 27 
 
 As once they spoil'd the parents. All remains 
 Beneath that roof unchang-ed ; — upon the shelves 
 The clean, white rows of plates, and in the midst, 
 One of green wedgwood, still uncrack'd ; above 
 The chimney-piece, its old abundant store 
 Of tin and pewter, amidst which appears 
 (Chief ornament) a glittering brazen cross, 
 Which, fifty years ago, the husband bore. 
 Surmounting the blue staff, on festal days, 
 Borne by the members of the Friendly Club. 
 The wife (except that threescore years and ten 
 Have silverM o'er her hair) continues still 
 The same in form and feature. Age hath tamed 
 The loftier spirit of her partner down ; 
 Who, when I visited their cottage last, 
 Was reading, with a fix'd, abstracted look. 
 The Olney hymns. To me it seems as though 
 That couple and the world must live and die 
 Together ; and whene'er their humble roof 
 Shall shelter other tenants, 'twill be time 
 For me to close, for ever. Memory's book, 
 And cease to think on scenes and days gone by. 
 
 With feelings different far, yet not unmix'd 
 With melancholy interest, I behold 
 Yon square-built house, by jealous walls and gates 
 (Enclosing, in its front, a spacious court,) 
 Shut out and barricaded from the street. 
 A proud, aristocratic Hall it seems, 
 Not courting, but, discouraging approach, 
 Save from a favour'd few. For many a year 
 
28 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 That house hath been to me a place forbid, — 
 Impervious, inaccessible. And yet 
 Few are there with remembrances more rich 
 Of young enjoyment in my thought combined ; 
 Enjoyment brief, but pure. 'Twas long the home 
 Of one with deepest sorrow conversant ; 
 A wife and mother, o'er whose later years, 
 Blameless, yet broken-hearted, be a veil 
 Of reverential silence drawn by me. 
 Her elder sons and daughters had grown up 
 Almost to youthful prime, while I was yet 
 A boy unbreech'd, — the youngest, some few years 
 My senior; — we could scarce be playfellows. 
 And yet were oft companions. 'Twas to them 
 A dignified delight to guide our sports, 
 And teach us new ones ; — to protect and aid 
 Our tender age ; — and well did they discharge 
 Such duty, self-imposed. On Sunday noons, 
 As we return'd from church, we never fail'd 
 To greet each other in the street, — and then, 
 To us, it was the proudest joy on earth 
 To be invited, (as full oft we were,) 
 To end the day with th^m :— at will we roam'd 
 Around their spacious garden, and at will 
 Wander'd, with them, about the fields at eve. 
 Until the sun had set : — then, to beguile 
 The twilight hours, the book of Common Prayer, 
 Adorn'd with wondrous prints, was summon'd in ; 
 And sometimes hymns were sung, which still, me- 
 thought, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 29 
 
 Sounded most sweetly from that Lady's lips. 
 
 So pass'd our Sunday blameless ; nor alone 
 
 Our Sunday, — for on week-days too we met 
 
 Not rarely, nor with stinted intercourse ; 
 
 Until between our parents discord fell, 
 
 From pastoral duty faithftjlly perform'd, 
 
 And marr'd our old companionship. — Not ours 
 
 The fault, — and yet to us the fruits it bore 
 
 Appear'd most bitter. I remember well, 
 
 The evening when (all prospect being* past 
 
 Of reconciliation) our young friends 
 
 Came, at their father's bidding, to our house, 
 
 To bid their last farewell. A sad one 'twas ; 
 
 And, from that time, a strange unnatural state 
 
 Of separation between house and house 
 
 For years and years continued. We, became 
 
 The village Capulets and Montagus ; 
 
 Yet all save one — (the master of one house) 
 
 Most anxious for re-union ; — nor, perhaps. 
 
 Could his sole pleasure (e'en had he so will'd) 
 
 Have ended all communion between those 
 
 Whom inclination join'd. From time to time 
 
 We met and talk'd together ; — it befell. 
 
 Day after day, by strangest accident, 
 
 That they and we both walk'd at the same hour, 
 
 Both hit on the same walks. As years pass'd on, 
 
 And youth began to dawn, those walks assumed 
 
 A more romantic air. Love-rhymes were writ, 
 
 And assignations made, and duly kept. 
 
 With more deliberate purpose : — then commenced 
 
30 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 The nightly serenade, — the moonlight stroll ; 
 And, but for some disparity of years, 
 Perchance the hostile houses had not lack'd 
 A Romeo or a Juliet. — 
 
 Those wild days 
 Have long been over, and the grave hath closed 
 Above both wife and husband ; yet even now 
 Dark sorrow seems to brood upon that house, 
 Enwrapping it in gloom — through which appear 
 Gleams, not, I trust, delusive, of that light 
 Which shineth more and more to perfect day. 
 
 But all, too long this retrospective mood 
 I cherish, — with a fond garrulity 
 Babbling, at life's full noon, of morning dreams. 
 'Tis time I should awake : — and yet each spot 
 Around me teems with recollections, such 
 As I would fain indulge. There's nought so mean 
 And insignificant in all this place, 
 But is endued with power to strike some chord 
 Of old associations. Yonder barn, 
 Secluded from the street a little space, 
 And in no wise distinguish'd outwardly 
 From others of its class, was once to me 
 A scene of strange enchantment ; for a troop 
 Of strolling players built up beneath its roof 
 Their rude and rustic theatre. Till then 
 The drama was, to us, an unknown world, 
 Save that when last our family had gone 
 To visit the metropolis, (a rare 
 And wonderful occurrence) we all went 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 31 
 
 To Sadler's Wells and Astley's. Ne'er a^ain 
 
 Was such intense illusion to beguile 
 
 Our senses and our souls as seized us then. 
 
 We were at once translated from this world 
 
 Of sober daylight to a fairy realm, 
 
 Mysteriously existing in the midst 
 
 Of human habitations, yet from all 
 
 Distinct and self-compact, by human laws 
 
 Ungovem'd, and to rules conventional 
 
 Of human custom unamenable. 
 
 The theatre itself appear'd to us 
 
 A palace of enchantment, — its gay tiers 
 
 Of gilded boxes semicircular — 
 
 Its mirror'd columns — its glass chandeliers, — 
 
 The central lustre, by some means unknown, 
 
 But necromantic, as appear'd to us. 
 
 Drawn up into the ceiling, and again 
 
 Descending to its place — the row of lights, 
 
 With sudden blaze emerging from the floor, — 
 
 The dark green curtain, veiling from our sight 
 
 An unknown world, mysterious, — the first note 
 
 Prelusive of the tuning orchestra, 
 
 Soon bursting, with sublime and swelling crash, 
 
 Into full concord of harmonious sound, — 
 
 The rising of the curtain, all at once 
 
 Disclosing to our sight transcendent scenes 
 
 Of brilliancy and bliss, surpassing all 
 
 Our young imagination e'er had dream'd 
 
 Of fairy-land — our fairy tales themselves 
 
 (For so it chanced) no longer by the mind 
 
32 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Imperfectly received, but to the eye 
 
 Reveal'd distinctly — Beauty and the Beast, 
 
 Tom Thumb, and Cinderella, by strange art 
 
 Converted from mere phantoms of the thoug"ht 
 
 To visible realities — all this 
 
 Was, to our minds, a new creation, fraught 
 
 With glory from some brighter world derived. 
 
 The very orange-women seem'd to us 
 
 Scarce of this earth, — scarce earthly. Such had 
 
 been 
 Our earliest joys theatrical : but now 
 The full illusion was, in part, to cease ; 
 And nature, stripp'd of pomp and circumstance, 
 To supersede enchantment. Small and low, — 
 Hung round with tapestry of worn out scenes. 
 And, by a thin partition, into pit 
 And gallery scarce divided — its whole band 
 One solitary fiddle — sometimes two, — 
 Its stage cribb'd, cabin'd, and confined — with few 
 And paltry decorations, — dresses, scenes. 
 All suited each to each, — that theatre 
 E'en at first sight, gave warning, by its looks. 
 That histrionic art within those walls, 
 Apart from all appliances and means, 
 Must, by its strength or weakness, stand or fall. 
 Yet there did mimick talent, with all aid 
 Of outward show dispensing, in our hearts 
 Awaken childhood's earnest sympathies. 
 There we rejoiced with them that did rejoice, 
 And wept with them that wept; — there learnt to feel 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. S3 
 
 The dignity of Virtue in distress, 
 And with her triumphs sympathize; — there grieved 
 For Woman's bitter wrong, and burnt with zeal 
 Heroic to avenge it. Were such thoughts 
 And feelings sinful all ? In sober truth, 
 When I review those hours, I deem them not 
 Mispent or useless ; — and if riper years, 
 Instructing me more fully in the lore 
 Of good and evil, have reveal'd a world 
 Of mischief in the stage, — if I forbear 
 To breathe its dangerous atmosphere, or soil 
 My priestly garments with the taint it bears, — 
 Such sacrifice I grudge not, but exult 
 With thankfulness that I have better joys 
 To gladden me on Earth : — but then no doubt 
 Or dim misgiving e'er had cross'd my mind ; 
 No dark suspicion of inherent guilt 
 Estranged me from its magic : — all the ill 
 (If ill there was) by me was unperceived ; 
 The good, I think, remain'd with me : — some 
 
 thoughts 
 And feelings were develop'd, which perchance. 
 In after years, have sway'd my inner man 
 With no unwholesome influence ; — some power 
 Was given me to perform my task on Earth. 
 
 Fair valley, verdant pastures, gentle stream 
 Winding along thy bold and wooded banks. 
 With most melodious murmur ;— noble hills. 
 Mountains almost, o'ershadowing, with your dark 
 And craggy grandeur, scenes than which our isle 
 
 2 D 
 
34 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Can scarcely boast more beauteous ; — tranquil 
 
 town ;— 
 Grey, venerable Church, with steeple white 
 Up tapering- to the dim and distant sky ; — 
 Church in whose gothic aisles I first beheld 
 And join'd, as childhood could, the solemn forms 
 Of Christian worship; — thou, too, noble Hall — 
 Crowning yon wooded hill in gorgeous state 
 Of architectural magnificence ; — 
 Hall long deserted, and, for many a day, 
 Connected in our fancies with dark tales 
 Of Romish priestcraft, — visited sometimes. 
 And view'd, by me and mine, through all thy suites 
 Of empty rooms and mouldering furniture. 
 With somewhat of a superstitious awe ;— 
 And, last and dearest, my paternal roof. 
 Not yet — not soon, I trust, to pass away. 
 With this frail life's continuance, from the pair 
 Whom still it shelters ; — each and all, farewell ! 
 There is no spot in all that span of earth 
 By me best known, to which with livelier grief 
 I speak that parting word, than this wherein 
 Ye congregate and crowd upon my sight. 
 And yet, for me, is Britain studded o'er 
 With spots to memory dear, — and some almost 
 As beautiful as this. E'en now I go 
 To join, in haunts which I have loved for years. 
 Those whom I love still better : — nothing loth. 
 And yet with swelling heart, I take my leave 
 Of this sweet region, in my inmost heart 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 36 
 
 Cherished through life, revisited with joy 
 Still fresh, still pure as ever ! — not for long, 
 Not, as I trust, for many tedious months 
 I now depart : — Home of my earliest years ! 
 My heart's first home !— once more — farewell ! fare- 
 well ! 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 BOOK II. 
 BOYHOOD. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO MY CHILDREN. 
 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 Upon the growing boy. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 BOYHOOD. 
 
 My sons — and ye especially, my first 
 
 And second born, whose years already pass 
 
 That term which to the schoolboys dignity 
 
 Advances, for the most part, your compeers — 
 
 To you this second lay, design'd to tell 
 
 A schoolboy's tale, I dedicate. — Ere long. 
 
 Or singly, or together, you must launch 
 
 Your untried skififs from this calm harbour, home, 
 
 On school's tempestuous sea ; — not all unfit,— 
 
 Not unprepared by previous discipline, 
 
 I trust, albeit home-nurtiired, to essay 
 
 Such voyage ; — for not delicately rear'd 
 
 In mind or body, not in nursery cage 
 
 Too long immured, nor pamper'd have ye been 
 
 With drawing-room delights, nor train'd to trip 
 
 In lady-like gymnastics, nor imbued 
 
 With lore alone which ladies love to teach ; 
 
 But, from your tender years, to sports robust 
 
 Inured, and manly studies. — Ye could climb. 
 
 Ere seven years old, with toil of hands and knees. 
 
 The loftiest peak of Arran's mountain ridge. 
 
 Where eagles train their nestlings ; — ye can breast 
 
40 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 The ocean-waves, and buffet them away 
 With lusty strokes ; — on horseback or afoot, 
 Ye shrink from no fatigue ;— thro' Boon's clear pools, 
 Reckless how deep, the livelong summer day, 
 With rod in hand ye plunge, nor quit your sport 
 E'en though the inclement skies should pelt and pour 
 A deluge on your heads ; — and when the frost 
 With panoply of thickest ice hath mail'd 
 Our Avon's bosom, ye on trenchant skates 
 Athwart the glassy surface, swift as light. 
 Curve within curve describe, — not inexpert 
 E'en at the *' outside edge :" — Nor have your minds 
 Been all untutor'd, nor with ancient lore 
 And modern unimbued : — but chiefly ye 
 Have, by the wisdom of a mother's heart. 
 And that most holy tenderness of love. 
 Which none but mothers feel, been taught to know 
 And reverence Truth and Virtue : — ye have spent 
 Your infancy and childhood, and the dawn 
 Of thoughtful life, by impulses to good. 
 And many a pure, religious influence 
 Surrounded and impell'd : — no morn hath risen. 
 No night closed round the world, but ye have knelt 
 (And oft, I trust, with no unthoughtful prayer,) 
 Spreading the open volume of your hearts 
 Before God's throne, in words first taught by her 
 To whom you owe your earthly, and whate'er 
 Of heavenly life, is yours : — Her solemn tones 
 Discoursing, ere you slept, at your bedsides. 
 Of righteousness, of judgment, and of sin, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 41 
 
 Of Providence and duty, oft and oft 
 
 Have mingled with your dreams, excluding thence 
 
 All foul and hateful images : — your tasks, 
 
 Your pleasures, your employments, have by her 
 
 Been ruled and guided, sweeten'd and applied 
 
 With most prevailing wisdom, to those ends 
 
 Which she hath most at heart : — your home hath been 
 
 A happy one — the centre and the source 
 
 Of healthful joys, which ye have minister'd 
 
 Each to the other, or together shared ; 
 
 And thus have learnt, through mutual self-restraint. 
 
 And mutual joy, imparted and received, 
 
 To love each other dearly. — I am sure 
 
 That — whatsoever may in after years 
 
 Befall you, — both will always love your home, — 
 
 Your childhood's home, — and that the thought of it 
 
 Will be a purifying thought to both. 
 
 When we are in our grave. Nor will you lose 
 
 E'en yet, I trust, its shelter : — School, to you. 
 
 Will bring no exile from the haunts you love. 
 
 From cheering and familiar looks and words, 
 
 Or from parental aid : — amidst the cares. 
 
 The conflicts, and the interests, new and strange, 
 
 The doubts and the distresses, which, ere long, 
 
 Must chequer your school life, you will retain 
 
 One harbour and sure hold ; — unlike your sire. 
 
 Who, in old times, when railways yet were not, 
 
 And coaches travell'd scarce six miles an hour, 
 
 At eight years old was sent away to school 
 
 A hundred miles from home. 
 
42 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 In after life, 
 With all its ebbs and flows of joy and grief, 
 Its tears and smiles, its welcomes and farewells, 
 There is no separation like that first 
 Between the child and parent. — I can still 
 Remember how, when it had been resolved 
 That I should go to school, it seem'd to me 
 As though some fearful evil, undefined. 
 Mysterious, vague, hung over me ; — my heart 
 Presaged, it knew not what, — disruption dire 
 Of old home ties and sympathies, — dread loss 
 Of comforts and of kindness, ne'er till then 
 Esteem'd or valued, and, in place of these. 
 Harsh treatment, stern restraint, relentless law, 
 Inexorable justice. — Fearful tales 
 Of academic discipline severe. 
 Stripes and starvation, and imprisonment. 
 Rose up from memory's cells in grim array, 
 To scare imagination. — Well for me, 
 It chanced that on our road we were to halt 
 (My father and myself) for some few days 
 At an ancestral mansion, there to meet 
 A cousin, who (my senior by five years,) 
 Was, at the school to which we both were bound, 
 To act as my protector. — The last boon 
 Vouchsafed me was to fix the fatal day 
 On which we should leave home ; and I, who oft 
 Had been most happy in that ancient Hall, 
 Of two proposed, decided on the first, 
 There to prolong my stay ; but when I saw 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 43 
 
 My mother's grieved and disappointed look, 
 Though she spoke not, I felt my choice was wrong, 
 And the next moment, would have barter'd worlds 
 For leave to change it,— yet, through pride or shame, 
 Still held my peace perversely : — so we went 
 As it had been resolved, and in few days, 
 (Our passing visit ended) reach'd the town 
 Where dwelt my future pedagogue. E'en now 
 I well remember, how, with lingering wheels, 
 Our chaise approach' d the house : — it was a low 
 White plaister'd vicarage, in front of which, 
 A row of close-trimm'd limes, which interlaced 
 Their topmost branches, form'd a sort of fence 
 Between it and the churchyard : — not far off 
 Stood the old church itself, against whose broad 
 And battlemented tower, some striplings tall 
 (Grown men they seem'd to me) were playing then, 
 Irreverently, I thought, a game at fives. 
 The master, a pale man of sixty years. 
 In curl'd and powder'd and full bottom 'd wig, 
 (The symbol, then, of pedagogues) advanced 
 Beneath the limes to welcome us, and soon. 
 Within a comfortable parlour housed. 
 We with his wife, himself, and his two sons. 
 Assistants and joint partners in the school, 
 Were holding fearless converse : — the dread spell 
 Was broken ; — school seem'd not so dread a place 
 As I had still conceived it ; — half the weight 
 That lay upon my heart was taken off; 
 And not until the parting moment came, — 
 
44 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Not till my parent, seated in the chaise, 
 Which was to bear him homeward, turn'd him round 
 To take his farewell look, did I, at last, 
 Feel all my desolation. — There I stood. 
 Surrounded by strangle faces, each and all 
 Impertinently curious — every tongue 
 Let loose in countless questionings ; — my name. 
 Age, parentage, condition, birth-place, home, 
 Proficiency in Latin — with swift haste, 
 Ask'd, answer'd, and reported ; — I meanwhile 
 Awkward and shy, and grievously perplex'd 
 By such unceasing cannonade of talk. 
 Stood helpless ; — here and there a face express'd 
 Compassion, as I thought, and sympathy : 
 Nor was I, with my kinsman at my side, 
 Bereft of all protection ; — yet it seem'd 
 That when, with sudden clang, the bell rang out 
 Which summon'd us to supper, I was freed. 
 As by a friendly voice, from the assaults 
 Of reckless persecution. — But, that meal ! — 
 That first school supper ! — how unlike it seem'd 
 The comfortable board with tea-cups graced. 
 The glory of my home ! — those tables rough, 
 Unconscious of a table-cloth, with ink 
 Profusely flooded, and by pocket-knives. 
 In characters of every size and shape. 
 With names of generations past inscribed ; — 
 Those masses, huge and square, of flaccid cheese, 
 And bread unbutter'd, which each ravenous boy, 
 Plateless and forkless, seized with eager grasp 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 46 
 
 And carved, like hungry ploughman, with a knife 
 Drawn from his pouch ; — those tall white earthen 
 
 quarts 
 Of drink, by men call'd beer, but swipes by boys ;— 
 Such fare, so served, demanded hungrier maw 
 Than mine yet was, to relish it. — Full soon 
 The meal was ended, and — without a word 
 Of grace, or vesper service offer'd up, — 
 We were dismiss'd to bed ;— so prayerless then 
 Were all our English schools ; — but ere I slept, 
 The thought of home and habits home-instill'd 
 Came fresh upon my heart : — with bended knee 
 And clear articulation, undismay'd, 
 I said my wonted prayer. — Our master's wife. 
 Who stood beside me, I remember well, 
 Seem'd touch'd by such unwonted fear of Heaven ; 
 And, bidding me good night, devoutly pray'd 
 That I might long remain what then I was. 
 Vain hope ! — a martyr's spirit would have quail'd 
 (Had such been mine) beneath the unpitying 
 
 storm 
 Of ridicule and insult, rude reproach. 
 And scorn contemptuous, which, from that wild 
 
 rout 
 Of boisterous urchins burst upon the head 
 Of such as, like myself, retain'd as yet 
 Some remnant of home-feelings — some faint 
 
 trace 
 Of care for holy things. — It was their pride,— 
 Their never failing sport, to drag to light 
 
46 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 The secret thoughts of each most gentle heart, 
 
 And then, with rude, sarcastic ribaldry, 
 
 To set them up for laughing-stocks. — The soul. 
 
 Thus outraged, sunk into itself aghast, 
 
 And brooded o'er its treasure silently, 
 
 Not without deep resentment. — Some there were, 
 
 Who, with deceitful show of sympathy, 
 
 Would worm their way into the confidence 
 
 Of unsuspecting victims, — win complete 
 
 An unreserved disclosure of whate'er 
 
 Lay nearest to their hearts, — the names they loved, 
 
 Their fond remembrances of home-delights, — 
 
 The hopes they cherish'd — all that was the food. 
 
 The pure refreshment of their inner life ; — 
 
 Then straight betray the secrets, darkly won. 
 
 And, with demoniac insult, rend and crush 
 
 The feelings and affections thus evoked 
 
 From the soul's inmost depths. — Ithad been strange 
 
 Had spirits, thus abused, retain'd unchill'd 
 
 Their innate tenderness. — Ere long, a new 
 
 And less confiding nature crusted o'er 
 
 The surface of the old : — their hearts were sear'd 
 
 And harden'd to the blows they had to bear ; 
 
 And what they lost in tenderness, perchance 
 
 They gain'd in firm endurance, — thus prepared 
 
 To grapple with the world, and breathe, unhurt. 
 
 Its chilling atmosphere. — Such lot was mine ; 
 
 Such must be yours, my children. — Be it so ; 
 
 I seek not to avert what I lament. 
 
 But know to be the inevitable doom 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 47 
 
 Of Man in this rude Earth ; — perchance 'tis well 
 That this, your first collision with the world, 
 Should also be your bitterest. 
 
 Yet think not 
 That, when that shock is o'er, the schoolboy life 
 Is otherwise than happy. Time heals o'er 
 The wounds which the young heart so keenly feels: 
 Our nature soon conforms itself to that 
 Of each new world in which it is to dwell, 
 And takes its form and impress : — such at least 
 Was my experience ; — casting off my shy 
 Home-nurtured meekness, I began, ere long, 
 To rough it with my fellows, and soon won 
 From persecution clear immunity. 
 Nor, when I now look back on those old days. 
 Can I discern much real grief mix'd up 
 With their abundant gladness. — In that school. 
 Terror and pain and punishment were known 
 So little, that, ere many days had past, 
 I learnt to deem the tales, which I had heard 
 Of magisterial tyranny, profane 
 And old wives fables : — birchen rods appear'd 
 Mere figments of the brain ; and weeks elapsed 
 Ere execution on one luckless wight 
 Duly perform'd, proved that, beyond all doubt. 
 Such tales were fundamentally correct. 
 And true at bottom. — ^Thus our school-hours pass'd, 
 Not often sadly ; and, when school was o'er. 
 We had abundant change of joyous sports ; — 
 Fives, cricket, foot-ball, in its season each ; 
 
48 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 And (what to horticultural adepts 
 
 Yielded a graver joy) to each his plot 
 
 Of garden ground assign'd, producing crops 
 
 Of choicest salad-herbs, — green lettuces, 
 
 Mustard and cress, and radishes, oblong 
 
 Or turnip-shaped, which graced our evening meal, 
 
 And added to its relish. — Once a year 
 
 Each gather'd of green gooseberries, wherewithal, 
 
 From his own garden, to compound a pie. 
 
 Which, baked at the adjacent pastry-cook's, 
 
 Supplied a crowning feast. — On summer eves. 
 
 Conducted by our masters, and with them 
 
 Sharing the rapturous pleasure, we were wont 
 
 In Rennet's silver stream to plunge amain. 
 
 Ah me ! to think how sorely, at the first. 
 
 My heart misgave me ! — what a weight of fear 
 
 I hid beneath a bold and cheerful brow. 
 
 When on the river's grassy marge I stood. 
 
 And heard the mill-dam waters, through their 
 
 gates 
 Let loose, with thundering torrent rage and roar ! 
 Brief terror ! soon succeeded by delight 
 Extatic. Nor were more romantic joys 
 Denied us ; — to a neighbouring forest, ranged 
 By herds of the red. deer, sometimes we went 
 On holidays, and underneath an oak 
 (The forest monarch) spread upon the grass 
 Our sylvan banquet : — there, from branch to branch 
 We chased the squirrels, and sometimes, athirst 
 For manlier sport, assail'd the herd itself, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Like Robin Hood's boldToutlaws in the glades 
 Of Sherwood ; — but such holidays were rare : 
 Our every-day diversions were confined 
 Almost within the churchyard's narrow bounds. 
 Amidst the graves we sported, rarely touch'd 
 By aught of solemn feeling, to the place 
 Accordant — save that never, after dark, 
 We loved to pass near one mysterious part 
 Of the old church — a kind of catacomb 
 Or mausoleum on the northern side, 
 Encompassing a single marble tomb, — 
 A tomb without a name, inscriptionless. 
 Of him who slept beneath it fearful things 
 Were rumour'd and believed — a dark, strange tale 
 Of infant murder — of acquittal gain'd 
 Through legal subtlety— of large estates. 
 Held by the owner of a neighbouring Hall, 
 For service by an ancestor perform'd. 
 In dread forensic strife for life or death, 
 To that mysterious tenant of the grave. 
 *Twas seldom that the door of that dread vault 
 Was open'd ; — when it was, with shuddering awe 
 Sometimes we ventured in, and there beheld, 
 Suspended on the wall, the mouldering lines 
 Of a pale portrait, and what seem'd to us 
 The etching of some dark mysterious deed 
 Cut rudely upon brass. 
 
 But 'twas not long 
 Before that churchyard in our eyes assumed 
 An interest more impressive : — in her home, 
 i E 
 
50 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 After long years of patienf slow decline, 
 Our master's daughter died. Her once I saw- 
 White as a sheeted ghost, with thin blue lips 
 Emaciate — Death's dread seal upon her brow, — 
 Yet not, methought, unlovely : — with a friend, — 
 A female friend, the solace and support 
 Of her long weary sickness, she conversed 
 In whisper'd accents, — for her voice was gone ; 
 And when I look'd upon her face, even I 
 Could tell her end was near : — full soon it came : — 
 We heard that she was dead, and, in few days. 
 Were summon'd to attend her to the grave. 
 That long procession of dejected boys 
 Following the corpse of one almost as young 
 As some among themselves, and to the dust 
 Beholding her, with solemn rites, consign'd, — 
 That was my first near intercourse with death. 
 But few months pass'd ere to the daughter's tomb 
 The mother too was borne, and, with his sons. 
 Unbroken still, although by grief sore tried. 
 The father lived a widower. 
 
 Shades like these, 
 Gloomy but transient, swept across the heart 
 Even of that childish, gay community ; 
 But soon their trace wore oj0f, and joy return'd. 
 Brighter from brief suspension : — yet, though grief 
 To us was a rare visitant, — though scarce 
 Could we, in conscience, whisper to ourselves 
 That we could well be happier than we were — 
 With what intense expectant eagerness 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 61 
 
 We Iook*d for our deliverance ; and when June 
 
 Brought back the roses, or December bound 
 
 The earth in frosty chains, with what parade 
 
 Of science arithmetical we framed 
 
 Our calendars of weeks, and days, and hours ; 
 
 Computings the minutest point of time 
 
 Which must elapse before the holidays. 
 
 Then, when the wish'd-for morning had arrived, 
 
 How we awoke ere sunrise ! — if 'twas dark, 
 
 How eagerly we watch 'd for the first streak 
 
 Of candle-light beneath our bed-room doors 
 
 Significantly stealing ! — in what haste 
 
 We huddled on our clothes ! — with ears how keen 
 
 We listen'd for the roll of distant wheels ! 
 
 And when, before the gate, the long array 
 
 Of chaises from the neighbouring town dispatch'd 
 
 To bear us to our homes, assembled stood. 
 
 Who could restrain his transport ? — Then what din 
 
 Of horns arose ! — what ceaseless cannonade 
 
 Of pea-shooters and pop-guns ! — with what zeal 
 
 Of emulative mischief shots were aim'd 
 
 At windows which we pass'd ! — how proud was he 
 
 Who crack'd the largest number ! — but even these, 
 
 Though joys indeed, were joys of small account 
 
 Compared to that intensity of bliss 
 
 Which I at least enjoy 'd, when I approach 'd 
 
 Once more my wish'd for home. — Some three 
 
 miles off, 
 Familiar haunts and walks which I had loved, 
 And spots connected, in my heart of hearts, 
 
52 THE DIIEAM OF LIFE. 
 
 With pleasant recollections, by degrees 
 
 Stole on me in succession ; — nor, I think, 
 
 Shall I, as long as I exist, forget 
 
 How, at one well-known angle in the road. 
 
 My Father, who on horseback had come forth 
 
 To welcome me, appear'd; — next, some small space 
 
 Behind, in mirthful and expectant group. 
 
 Brothers and sisters, in full progress all, 
 
 To meet and ride home with me in the chaise. 
 
 That night I slept once more in my old bed, — 
 
 My own old darling bed ; — its site unchanged. 
 
 The pattern of its curtains still the same ; 
 
 And if unmix'd contentment e'er was mine, 
 
 'Twas in the sober certainty I felt 
 
 Of its complete identity. 
 
 But Time, 
 Jealous of day-dreams at life's sober noon, 
 Forbids me to enlarge upon the joys 
 And sorrows of those early schoolboy years. 
 Scarce noticed I pass o'er the Christmas sports 
 Of multifarious cousins, round one hearth. 
 From the four quarters of the compass met, 
 Filling one spacious ancestorial Hall 
 With the loud uproar of their merriment ; 
 The childrens' dance — the game at blind man's 
 
 buff,— 
 The courtships and flirtations, three parts jest, 
 And one part earnest, between boy and girl 
 Already knit in bonds of cousinhood ; — 
 Then,— with abreath dissolving love's light chains,— 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 53 
 
 Black Monday, and his heart-breaking farewells ; — 
 
 The swift transition from the land of dreams 
 
 Ethereal, brig^ht, Elysian, to the dull 
 
 And working-day realities of school ; — 
 
 The qualms of sad home-sickness, soon dispell'd 
 
 By studies and diversions in swift round 
 
 Alternating, yet still, from time to time, 
 
 Admitting to the mind's abstracted gaze 
 
 Bright glimpses of remember'd looks and forms ; — 
 
 These, and ten thousand griefs and joys like 
 
 these, — 
 Successes, disappointments, hopes fulfill'd. 
 And expectations blighted, friendships form'd 
 And enmities incurr'd — the good and ill 
 Strangely commix'd and blended, which make up 
 The schoolboy's portion — must I leave unsung : 
 Yet not without a woid of grateful praise 
 And frank acknowledgment of good received. 
 Would I cast off the thought of that old school 
 And all its recollections. — I believe 
 That, not for rudiments of classic lore 
 Alone, or other knowledge ably taught, 
 Do I remain its debtor, but for much 
 Of what is now least blamable, and bad 
 In all my moral Being. — We were school'd 
 Not by mere pedants — academic dolts. 
 With heart and soul all syntax, but by men 
 With hearts and souls of men, who loved to make 
 Their pupils their companions, — ate and drank 
 At the same board, and in their presence spoke 
 
54 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Of what Goncern'd themselves. — Of open heart 
 
 They were, and if the holdness of their speech 
 
 And humour sometimes overstepp'd the bounds 
 
 Of clerical decorum — if they seem'd 
 
 Less strict in their conformity to rules 
 
 Conventional — less careful of the shows 
 
 Which the world's voice exacts of clergymen, 
 
 Than friends desired, or foes could fail to wish — 
 
 There was in them a manliness of soul — 
 
 A blunt contempt for the world's hollow forms, 
 
 And seeming-s hypocritical, which taught 
 
 Us also how to think and act like men. 
 
 The spirit of the masters was, in part, 
 
 Diffused among the scholars ; — we became 
 
 Attach'd to them, and to their dwelling-place; 
 
 Nor less to one another ; — and at last. 
 
 When the time came which summon'd me away 
 
 For ever, I went forth like one who leaves 
 
 His native land and kindred :— sad farewells 
 
 Given and received, and benedictions breathed 
 
 From no unfervent hearts — pressure of hands. 
 
 Sad looks and tears that could not be restrain'd, 
 
 Attended my departure as I pass'd 
 
 Forth from the door which never more should ope 
 
 To me as to an inmate. Once again. 
 
 When near twelve years had pass'd, I saw that 
 
 house, 
 And spent a day and night beneath its roof, 
 And slept where I had slept, and traced once more 
 Each of my boyhood's haunts. — I scarcely think 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 55 
 
 That now, when others dwell there — now, when life 
 With me hath reach 'd its zenith, and must soon 
 Begin to sink into the vale of years, — 
 I e'er again could find it in my heart 
 There to repeat my visit. 
 
 Bat I turn 
 To scenes more famous, nor to me less dear, — 
 Nay dearer, and with feelings more profound 
 And holy in remembrance close entwined ; — 
 Birth-place, to me, of poesy and love. 
 Amidst whose classic shades, in after years. 
 Tarrying, I found and woo'd, and proudly won 
 Her who, for sixteen years, hath been the stay 
 And solace of my pilgrimage on earth ; 
 The mother of my children, the unchanged, 
 Unwearied partner of my joys and griefs. 
 Fair art thou, with thy crown of ancient towers, 
 Thy cloister'd dim arcades, thy spacious courts, 
 Thy verdant fields and venerable trees. 
 Reflected in the mirror broad and clear 
 Of tty praeterfluent Thames. — With what a calm 
 Proud confidence thou seem'st to nestle close 
 Beneath yon castle's overshadowing wing! 
 As conscious of the loyalty thou lov'st 
 To cherish in thy sons. — With reverent heart 
 I greet thee — not unmindful of the good 
 For which I am thy debtor ; nor, if aught 
 Of evil was mix'd up with it, upbraid 
 Thee and thy noble nurture for a fault 
 In part or all my own. — Etona, hail ! 
 
56 THE DREAM OF LIFE,. 
 
 And mayst thou flourish ever ! — Far removed 
 
 From thy fair shades, vihich yet, from year to year, 
 
 I visit, and with love for ever fresh, 
 
 And keen enjoyment, wander thro' and thro', — 
 
 I summon from my heart's sepulchral depths 
 
 Thy buried image. — Rise, as when I first 
 
 Beheld thee, half expectant, half in fear 
 
 Of that new world mysterious, unexplored, 
 
 Within thy walls awaiting me. — Far off 
 
 I saw thee— the grey pinnacles and spires 
 
 Of thy majestic chapel o'er the pile 
 
 Of dull, brick, massive ivy-mantled towers, 
 
 Rising in Gothic pride — thy verdant meads 
 
 Sprinkled with youthful cricketers, and bright 
 
 With vernal sunshine. — Beautiful thou wast. 
 
 And with thy loveliest smiles didst welcome me, 
 
 A stranger, to thy bosom ; — yet not then 
 
 (Albeit a stranger) simple or unversed 
 
 In all the ways of schoolboys, but with front 
 
 Bold and defiant, and with spirit prompt 
 
 To meet, and, if need were, repel the assault* 
 
 Of tyrannous oppression : — to such pitch 
 
 Of rude blunt valour had experience, gain'd 
 
 Through previous buifets,strung me,though in sooth, 
 
 By nature not a brawler, nor inclined 
 
 To pugilistic exploit : — but amidst 
 
 Thy peaceful dwellings slender need I found 
 
 Of such heroic daring : — there, enthroned 
 
 On meet gradations of ascending ranks, 
 
 Reign'd Order; — there, by firmest law secured, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 67 
 
 Right triumph'd over Might; — not strength alone, 
 Nor skill to give, nor stubbornness to bear 
 Black eye and bloody nose and bruise uncouth, 
 Won station and respect, — nor kept them, won. 
 A more mysterious, more majestic power 
 Diffused through, and controlling, every rank 
 Of that small commonwealth, was recognised, 
 Felt, and obey'd. — No robber horde were we, 
 Anarchical, self-will'd, by force alone 
 From mutual wrong and violence restrain'd ; 
 But a well-govern'd people, proud to own 
 Legitimate control, and to maintain 
 Our glorious constitution unimpair'd. 
 And what if aristocracy, upheld 
 By right prescriptive, ruled with feudal sway 
 Her unenfranchised vassals, — still her yoke 
 Was milder and less grievous to be borne 
 Than arbitrary bondage, forced elsewhere 
 By strength of fist, on the reluctant necks 
 Of trembling urchins, all too weak to win 
 The freedom which they sigh'd for. — Hard it seem'd. 
 No doubt, on summer evenings, when the Thames 
 W^as all alive with skiffs, to toil and pant 
 With infinite expenditure of breath, 
 And reeking limbs and weariness of heart. 
 Fetching and flinging home the volant ball 
 Of some unflagging cricketer : — hard 'twas 
 To rise before the lark, on menial tasks 
 Intent, discharging with one pair of hands 
 The offices of valet, footman, cook, 
 
58 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Housemaid, and shoeblack ; — passing hard to spread, 
 Hungry oneself and breakfastless, the board 
 Of some luxurious despot, — he meanwhile 
 Snoring supine ; — and oft would flesh rebel 
 When summoned by the cry of ' Lower Boy,' 
 To do the bidding of an autocrat. 
 Yet all such hardships, springing as they did 
 Not from a tyrant's arbitrary will, 
 But from the fix'd authority of law 
 And immemorial custom, were endured 
 With patience, nay with cheerfulness, as ills 
 Essential to the state in which we lived. 
 And not therefrom to be exterminate 
 Without disruption dire of social bonds 
 And urgent danger to the common weal : 
 Transient withal, and soon to be exchanged. 
 In due succession, for the sweets of power. 
 Nor lack'd that state of vassalage its rights 
 And privileges, by the weaker crowd 
 Not to be lightly valued ; — some defence 
 Against oppression, — patronage and aid 
 In trouble or distress, — assistance lent 
 In toils scholastic : — ne'er did thraldom wear 
 A yoke less galling : — strong attachment oft 
 Grew up between the master and the serf; 
 And each, from the relation held to each. 
 Derived some moral discipline — was taught 
 Lessons which else he might have never learnt, 
 Of kindness and forbearance, self-restraint, 
 Submission and obedience. — Would that I, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 59 
 
 With my rash humour and impetuous blood, 
 Had learnt those lessons better than I did ! 
 
 Swift flew, on pleasure's wings, those early 
 months, 
 The months of my noviciate : — slavery seem'd, 
 (If slave I was) on that enchanted ground, 
 Freer than freedom elsewhere : — I had broke 
 A hundred galling fetters of restraint. 
 For one (and that a light one) on my will 
 Newly imposed : — a mighty change had past 
 Across the spirit of my dream of life. 
 It seem'd as though a new and ampler world 
 Of Being to my vision was disclosed, 
 Or that my soul had burst the embryo bonds 
 Which held it, like the caterpillar, cramp'd. 
 Till then, in grovelling form, to soar aloft 
 On wings of new-born joyance. Now no more 
 Within a playground's narrow bounds confined. 
 Not without peril to be overpass'd, — 
 Fetter'd no more to the despised routine 
 Of sports and occupations which befit 
 The pre-existent state of private school, — 
 My spirit might expatiate, uncontroU'd, 
 Through boundless realms of pleasure : — Space 
 
 was free — 
 Time only had its limits ; — field and grove, 
 Water and land, — almost the air itself 
 Lay open — the whole world before us smiled. 
 Our portion and inheritance ! Nor lack'd 
 The energies and faculties within 
 
60 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Proportionate development; — our sports 
 
 Plans, enterprises, aspirations, aims, 
 
 Were all of manhood, manly : — tops and taws 
 
 Were thing-s forgotten ;— even the cricket-ground 
 
 And fives-court held but secondary rank 
 
 Among our recreations : — on the breast 
 
 Of Thames, it was our pride in trim-built skiffs 
 
 To shoot amain — now singly, now in crews, 
 
 With lusty tug of oar, in eager race 
 
 Contending ; — now along the river's marge 
 
 Exploring unknown regions; — and when June 
 
 Brought round the birth-day of the good old king, 
 
 (Our own especial patron,) — with w'hat pride 
 
 And pomp aquatic, in procession long, 
 
 Our galleys clave the water ! — what wild rout 
 
 Of horsemen on the banks ! — what jovial glee 
 
 Of banqueters ! — and when a rocket's blaze, 
 
 Scattering its fiery spangles on the sky. 
 
 Gave notice that the ten-oar was in sight. 
 
 How was each coign of vantage — bank and bridge, 
 
 Boatyard and terraced garden, wharf and quay, 
 
 Window and roof, with congregated crowds 
 
 Of gazers peopled ! — what sublime display 
 
 Of pyrotechnic wonders seem'd to mock 
 
 The all too tardy twilight ! — But even this, 
 
 For some adventurous spirits, was too dull 
 
 And spiritless a joy ! — Such burnt to win 
 
 The sportsman's noble fame, albeit alloy'd 
 
 By ill report of poacher : — with the dawn, 
 
 O'erleaping the restraint of bolts and bars. 
 
THE DRF.AM OF LIFE. 61 
 
 They ranged, with dog and gun, the near preserves, 
 
 Or from forbidden waters bore the lines 
 
 Rich with nocturnal spoil : — the river swans, 
 
 Breasting, with snow-white swell of downy plumes. 
 
 The silvery stream, themselves were not exempt 
 
 From rude assault, but stricken through and through 
 
 By murderous volleys, yielded up their lives 
 
 To daring marksmen ; then beneath the shade 
 
 Of favouring night brought home, and for the spit 
 
 With pomp of culinary skill prepared, 
 
 Were roasted and served up — their savoury steam 
 
 Provoking the keen appetites of those 
 
 Who, like myself, eschewing sportsman craft, 
 
 Shared not the sportsman's banquet :— on the turf 
 
 Meanwhile athletic cricketers, for strife 
 
 With the pick'd champions of some neighbouring 
 
 club 
 Preparing, plied the bat and drove the ball 
 In lusty sport. — Oh ! who can e'er forget, 
 When the day fix'd for final conflict came. 
 How breathlessly we rush'd, from school let loose, 
 To view the mighty game ! — how, from afar. 
 Between the umbrageous trees of Poet's walk. 
 The slim white figures of the combatants 
 Glanced on our eager sight ! — with what suspense, — 
 What alternations swift of hope and fear, 
 We watch'd the progress of the game !— and when 
 On Eton's side the fatal wicket fell. 
 Or aught occurr'd presaging her defeat, — 
 How keen a pang of anguish and dismay 
 
62 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Thrill'd through our trembling ranks !— then,if at last 
 
 The fortune of the day declared for us, — 
 
 With what a maddening shout of victory 
 
 We rent the welkin ! — Waterloo itself, 
 
 (For Waterloo was fought in those wild days) 
 
 Scarce seem'd a mightier triumph than some match 
 
 Won against Epsom. 
 
 But to loftier strains 
 Tune we our harp! — Descend, O Muse, and sing 
 The glories of Long Chamber, ere its name, 
 By march of innovation, from the earth 
 Be, with itself, erased. — Ere I became 
 Its denizen, dire tales had reach'd my ear 
 Of horrors by its dreadful walls conceal'd ; 
 Of slavery more oppressive than aught known 
 Or e'en imagined by inventive thought, 
 Among the happy dwellers in the town ; 
 Of penal torments by no living tongue 
 Divulged, nor e'er, beyond those prison walls, 
 Known or conceived ; — myself the destined thrall 
 Of one the most despotic of a race 
 Of most imperious despots. — Time sped on ; 
 The day arrived on which I was to don 
 The gownsman's sable garb, — and after due 
 Examination held, and solemn course 
 Of ceremonial forms, on bended knee 
 Observed with silent awe, night saw me housed 
 Beneath that dreaded roof. — It was an hour 
 Not soon to be forgotten. — Amidst sounds 
 Discordant, multifarious, — song and shout, — 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 93 
 
 Imperious summons and responsive cry 
 
 Reciprocal of master and of slave, — 
 
 And long shrill whistle throug"h the darkness 
 
 heard — 
 (Darkness scarce pierced by the thin glimmering- 
 light 
 Of candle, here and there its feeble ray 
 Emitting through the interminable gloom 
 Of that long spectral vault,) — with heart perplex'd, 
 I sought my destined resting place : — but where 
 Might resting-place be found ? — forlorn I gazed 
 On all that endless row of bedsteads rude, 
 Each bearing what appeared a mattress coarse, 
 Cover'd by coarser rug, alternating 
 With rude mis-shapen semblance of bureaus, 
 Square, upright, with cerulean paint bedaub'd, — 
 (Cerulean once, now with ten thousand hues 
 Distain'd) — sole furniture in that grim den. 
 Save tapestry of cobwebs, which had seen 
 The days of the sixth Henry, — here in threads 
 Of gossamer dependent from the roof, 
 There curtaining, with folds of filmy mist. 
 The smash'd and flapping casements : — chair was 
 
 none; 
 No, not a three-legg'd stool, nor oaken bench. 
 Nor aught which ingenuity of need 
 Might mould into a seat ; — no separate nook. 
 Withdrawn and shelter'd from the public gaze. 
 Where the poor novice might brief refuge find 
 From tumult and bewildennent : — all seera'd 
 
64 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 A maze of restless motion : — but ere long* 
 From out that welterinf^ chaos was evolv'd 
 A world distinct and orderly ; — the din 
 And hubbub had subsided ; — lights appear'd 
 Forth starting in succession ; — beds arranged 
 By nice precision of experienced hands, 
 Were ready, at the apartment's upper end, 
 For rest luxurious of aristocrats, 
 Who, in their studies pent, or far apart 
 In separate chambers, with each other held 
 Exclusive converse, or with book and pen 
 Beguiled the lingering hours : — the middle ranks. 
 In pairs or cluster'd groups, paced to and fro, 
 Or lounged on unmade beds : — the vulgar herd 
 (Their menial service done) in haste arranged 
 Their own hard pallets, pillowless, and soon 
 Sank into dreamless sleep, — some six or eight 
 Alone excepted, from the rest in turn 
 For seiTitorial functions, week by week. 
 Selected, on the lordly board to spread 
 The nightly meal, and do the high behests 
 Of sixth-form revellers ; — to each his task 
 Duly prescribed, as academic rank 
 Defined his office ; — some, the upper mess, 
 (So named) above the rest pre-eminent. 
 Brought from the neighbouring buttery meat and 
 
 bread, 
 With foaming cans of beer ; — to some 'twas given 
 To tend the nightly fire, and in their gowns 
 (Ne'er meant for such base service) to bring home 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 65 
 
 A ponderous load of coals, upon their backs 
 Artistically piled ; — some, clerkly-wise, 
 Noted, on tablets fair, with pen and ink 
 The mandates of their lords, — by one, who watch'd 
 Outside our prison bars, to be convey'd 
 Into the farthest town, and thence evoke 
 Luxurious freightage of nocturnal cheer. 
 It were a work o'ertasking my poor strength 
 To tell of half the feats within those walls 
 Nightly perform'd ; — to paint the winter fire, 
 By signal of the clock at half-past nine, 
 Fenced round with bedsteads, for the middle ranks 
 Forming a snug enclosure, within which, 
 Story, and song, and jest, and laugh went round, 
 Till bed-time came ; — to tell how, many an hour, 
 While our proud seniors half the livelong night 
 Conversed, until the embers died away. 
 We lay awake and listen 'd to their talk. 
 Now serious, now jocose, — with classic lore. 
 Or speculation philosophical, 
 Sometimes enrich'd, — sometimes with baser stuff 
 Degraded and defiled ; — and how, on nights 
 Of revelry, when coolest brains grew hot 
 With wine and wassail, we, in trembling dread. 
 Beneath our bed-clothes cower'd, till (every light 
 Quench'd suddenly) in mad, tyrannic sport. 
 Bedstead and bed, hurl'd suddenly aloft. 
 Dislodged their luckless tenant, in dire plight, 
 Heels upward on the floor. — But these were rare 
 And soon forgotten hardships : — other sports 
 2 r 
 
66 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 More genial, nor exclusively enjoy 'd 
 By the patrician few, from time to time 
 Cheer'd our imprisonment : — in motley form 
 Of merry masquerade, our mirth full oft 
 Broke loose and ran mad riot: — High and low, 
 With Saturnalian licence, burst their bonds 
 Conventional, and gamboll'd out the night 
 In frolic unrestrain'd : — sometimes arose, 
 (As by strange magic of Aladdin's lamp,) 
 A theatre, complete in all its parts, 
 With marvellous diversity of scene 
 And gorgeous decorations, and bright blaze 
 Of cunningly disposed and countless lights. 
 Embellishing the histrionic craft 
 Of our Collegian Roscii : — nor, in sooth, 
 Lack'd we or comic humour, or, at times, 
 Some touch of natural pathos ; — and, if these 
 E'er flagg'd, rich compensation still we found 
 In our grotesque apparel : — 'twas a sight 
 Worthy of more fastidious eyes than ours — 
 That motley pageant of fantastic garbs 
 Assembled in our green-room ; — boyhood's limbs 
 Robed in the grave habiliments of age ; — 
 The corpulent round paunch of monk or friar, — 
 The rustic with red mass of hair unkempt. 
 Smock frock, and scarlet hose, and nether vest 
 Of buckskin, begg'd or borrow'd, for the nonce. 
 E'en from the haunch of veritable clown — 
 And, (stranger, more fantastic than all else) 
 The garb, shape, face, and voice of womanhood, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 67 
 
 Aped by some beardless boy — his burly waist 
 Mocking the close imprisonment of stays ; 
 His bust by cunning artifice swoln out 
 To feminine proportions, and his brow 
 O'ershadow'd by profusion, rich and rare. 
 Of borrow'd ringlets, while with mincing gait 
 AflFected, and his voice's tenor pipe 
 Reduced to a shrill treble, he assumed 
 The gestures of a maiden — by applause 
 Obstreperous of the congregated crowd 
 Not scantily rewarded. — All alike, 
 Actors and audience, willing both to please 
 And to be pleased, received and gave, by turns. 
 Reciprocal enjoyment ; — well I wot 
 None such was ever felt in Drury Lane ! 
 And was this Eton ? — in no better lore 
 Than this doth she instruct the ripening mind, 
 And train the expanding heart ? — Nay, deem 
 
 not so, 
 But, in the lengthening retrospect of years, 
 The sports and conflicts , of the schoolboy world, — 
 Its microcosmic cares, and joys, and griefs, — 
 The daily intercourse of boy with boy, — 
 Appear the true realities ;— all else. 
 Which, when 'twas present, seem'd important, now 
 Looks dim and dwindled : — even the daily task, — 
 The weekly verses, — the whole grave routine 
 Of studies, with their prizes and rewards, — 
 Seem insignificant, minutest spots 
 In memory's landscape, which the limner's touch 
 
68 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Passes unnoticed. — Yet, among my peers, 
 
 (Albeit no sleepless student,) I enjoy'd 
 
 A scholar's reputation, nor disdain'd 
 
 The accomplishment of verse ; — and now, me- 
 
 thinks, 
 Amidst those preludings of boyish thought 
 And those young classic studies, I discern 
 The germs of much, which, growing with my 
 
 growth, 
 And strengthen'd with my strength, hath since 
 
 become 
 A portion of my Being. — If my song 
 Hath ever found its way to gentle hearts, — 
 'Twas by the nurture and developement 
 Of dormant powers, then first and only found, 
 That its wild notes were fashion'd to express 
 A natural tenderness. — To me, no tale 
 Of martial prowess, or renown'd exploit. 
 By poet or historian told of yore, 
 Was e'er attractive ; — little, in my heart, 
 Responded to the burst of trumpet blast, 
 Or host with host conflicting ; — but I loved 
 ('Twas the first poetry I ever felt) 
 That ode of Horace, which relates the doom 
 Of Hypermnestra, daring bonds and death, 
 For her young bride-groom's sake, — and Ovid's tale 
 Of grief domestic, that heart-breaking night 
 Appointed for his exile : — I admired, 
 With most intense and earnest sympathy, 
 Alcestis' self-devotion, and rejoiced 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 69 
 
 With an exceeding* joy, when Hercules 
 
 Restored her from the g-rave to life and bliss 
 
 And his embraces for whose sake she died. 
 
 Among such images of household love 
 
 My fancy fondly revell'd, and my heart 
 
 Responded to my fancy. — I ne'er form'd 
 
 An abstract scheme of bliss, which was not based 
 
 On the calm comfort of a home and hearth 
 
 Surrounded by bright faces rich with love 
 
 Connubial and parental. — Bounteous Heaven, 
 
 Exceeding whatsoever hope pourtray'd, 
 
 Or young imagination fondly dream'd, 
 
 Hath given me more than all my boyish heart 
 
 E'er sigh'd for. — Fancy's picture-world is now 
 
 To me less glorious than reality. 
 
 But my brain teems with spectral forms of 
 thought 
 Evoked from sleep sepulchral — long withdrawn 
 From the mind's eye, but unforgotten still 
 And fresh as heretofore. — I must perforce 
 Disperse the wildering vision. — Fair retreat, — 
 Thou cradle of my boyish phantasy, — 
 Farewell ! — with deep and undiminish'd love 
 I cherish thy remembrance, and rejoice 
 That o'er thy courts a brighter day hath risen 
 Than my young eyes beheld ; — for thou hast felt 
 The impulse of the spirit now awake 
 In the deep bosom of thy mother Church, 
 And, strong in thy re-animated faith, 
 Art, as I trust, become a schoolmistress 
 
70 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 To bring young hearts to Christ. — Beneath thy 
 
 towers 
 Religion, long obscured, once more uplifts 
 Her venerable head, — not now disguised 
 And sore degraded by low-mutter'd charm 
 Of Latin prayers, which, with indecent haste, 
 Impatient urchins gabbled, unreproved 
 By teachers as impatient — but infused 
 Into the fountains and fresh springs of thought, 
 And mingling her pure essence with its stream, 
 Which widens as it flows. Nor let me grieve 
 (Though haply there be cause of real grief) 
 For old associations, soon to pass 
 Into the number of the things that were, — 
 When even l^ong Chamber from the world's wide 
 
 face 
 Shall have been swept for ever. — Be its sins 
 (Not few J nor venial) with its joys forgot ; 
 And may a better generation find 
 At least no meaner shelter where it stood ! 
 
 I have a friend — almost the only one 
 Who, from our schoolboy days to life's full noon, 
 Hath kept his heart unchanged and true to me, 
 Though many a year hath past since last we met, 
 And more may pass before we meet again ; — 
 One friend — almost one only — faithful found. 
 To him, in distant vales a sojourner, 
 Far in the pleasant south, I now commend 
 (What to my children hath already been 
 With dedication more express consign'd) 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 71 
 
 This song — brief record of those early days 
 In which we were companions. — Different cares 
 And sympathies have gather'd around each ; 
 And yet I think, if e'er we meet again, 
 We shall not feel estranged : — meanwhile to him 
 And those who love him, though to me unknown. 
 Be this my pledge of boyish vows unbroke. 
 And friendship by the world as yet unchill'd. 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 YOUTH. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO DERWENT COLERIDGE. 
 
 The youth who daily farther from the East 
 
 Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 
 
 And by the vision splendid 
 
 Is on his way attended. wonDSWORXH. 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 BOOK III. 
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 With Friendship's sacred name my song broke 
 
 off;— 
 With Friendship's sacred name shall it resume 
 Its onward course, — not now on boyish sports, 
 And boyish cares intent, but borne along 
 (If from its subject it may yet receive 
 A kindred impulse) by the swelling flood 
 Of youthful passion through the veins diffused, 
 And vigorous thought new-born, and hope un- 
 
 quench'd 
 By sad experience, lighting up the eye 
 With gleams which seem prophetic — and are not. 
 Friend, whom in Granta's academic halls 
 First met, soon loved — thenceforward to my side 
 Fast bound by poesy's free-masonry 
 And mutual veneration for a name 
 To me most sacred, and by thee beloved 
 With all a son's affection — Friend, who now 
 These more than twenty years, with thy profound 
 And fervent spirit, hast supported mine, — 
 Transferring whatsoe'er can be transferr'd 
 From thy rich depths of intellectual wealth 
 Into this lighter and more sterile soil, 
 
76 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Which yields but scant return ; — to thee this strain, 
 
 A monument to long- departed youth, 
 
 I consecrate : — To whom indeed on Earth 
 
 If not to thee, my earliest Poet-friend, 
 
 Should song of mine be offer'd ? — Who but thou, 
 
 With earnest converse and assiduous zeal 
 
 Of sympathy, — neglectful of the gift 
 
 On thee more richly lavish'd, — fann'd in me 
 
 The spark of youthful phantasy ? — to whom. 
 
 If not to thee, is due on my behalf 
 
 A debt of deepest gratitude for all 
 
 That, in time past, my soul hath ever felt 
 
 Of hope and joy poetic ? — Small indeed 
 
 The fruit of all thy culture : — those long years 
 
 Of absence, during which we lived and wrought 
 
 In distant vineyards, seem'd to wither up 
 
 Whate'er brief promise of more healthful song 
 
 Thy care had caused to germinate ; — and now, — 
 
 When Providence once more hath brought us near 
 
 Each to the other, — 'tis too late to call 
 
 Lost seasons back : — but I have deeper debts 
 
 To thee than such as these, and there are bonds 
 
 More sacred, knitting fast thy heart to mine. 
 
 Than even the electric chain of phantasy : — 
 
 Warm sympathies cementing each with each 
 
 In joys and sorrows of the world that is ; — 
 
 Remembrances, now sweet, of conflicts once 
 
 Most bitter, but at length with triumph crown'd, 
 
 And still imparting to our noon of life 
 
 Its best of earthly joys ; — the mutual love 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 77 
 
 Of those respectively beloved by both 
 
 Beyond all else that breathes ; — and (more than all) 
 
 Our hope in worlds to come — our task in this ; 
 
 For we are, both, ambassadors for Christ, 
 
 And thou hig-h honour'd in His English Church 
 
 Among her theologians ; — in thyself, 
 
 No meanly skill'd expounder of her creed, — 
 
 Nor worthy of less honour, for that thou 
 
 Interpretest the mystic mind of One, 
 
 The mightiest thinker of these latter days. 
 
 For such, thy late achievements — how much 
 
 more 
 Than for whatever of high philosophy 
 Or art poetic, in our youthful days, 
 I from thy lips derived — am I become 
 Thy glad and grateful debtor. — Thou alone. 
 With stedfast gaze intent, hast well discern'd. 
 Through all the mists of error which bedim 
 Her heavenly features, the true spouse of Christ: — 
 Not that stern phantom, which, on Isis banks, 
 Enthusiasts have beheld, and in devout 
 And abject error worshipp'd — a severe 
 And loveless idol, from men's sympathies 
 And craving hearts estranged, — in garb of power 
 And terrible authority array 'd, — 
 O'erbearing Reason's clear uplifted voice 
 With frown dogmatic, and converting Faith 
 Itself into a blind credulity 
 Most slavish and idolatrous ; — not such 
 The vision thou hast seen, nor (falser yet) 
 
78 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 That hard-eyed spectre, by the will of man 
 
 Engendered, — altogether of the earth 
 
 And earthy, — which the laws of human realms 
 
 Create, and can at pleasure uncreate. 
 
 Not this, — not such as this, the Church of Christ, 
 
 Seen and with master hand pourtray'd by thee, — 
 
 But one, who on her fair and ample brow 
 
 Bears the bright impress of Divinity; — 
 
 No step-dame, but a mother of brave sons 
 
 With all a mother's heart, — the nurse and guide 
 
 Of Faith and Reason, — of celestial Truth 
 
 The guardian and the witness. — In thy page, 
 
 Well reason'd, pregnant with profoundest thought, 
 
 I, an unworthy student, seem to hold 
 
 Communion with thy spirit afar off ; 
 
 And sitting at thy feet, as I was wont 
 
 In earlier days, with willing mind imbibe 
 
 Instruction which makes smooth the way to death. 
 
 We are alone : — none other now on Earth 
 Shares our full bond of friendship. — One there was. 
 Beloved by both, and who repaid our love 
 As only natures of the purest mould 
 Repay the love of others. — Full two years 
 Have past since we consign'd him to the grave 
 In life's unripen'd prime, — and still it seems 
 As if we could not think of him as dead ; — 
 The immortality which dwelt in him 
 So swallow'd up the mortal. — Yet 'tis true, 
 "The good die first;" and his celestial part 
 Was purged so nearly of all earth's alloy. 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFK. 79 
 
 That 'twere, in us, most selfish to have wish'd 
 That he would tarry in our homes of clay. 
 Yet few there were, perchance, but thou and I, 
 And one, — his own by more especial ties, — 
 One fondlier cherish'd in his heart of hearts, — 
 Few but we three, who knew the wondrous depths 
 Of that mysterious spirit. — ^To the world 
 He veil'd, beneath a smooth and smiling brow, 
 Its fathomless abyss, — with flippant jest, 
 And poignant sarcasm, and sly equivoque, 
 And many a coruscation, bright though brief, 
 Of wit, and humour more akin than wit 
 To genius — drawing off intrusive eyes 
 From that intensity of human love 
 And that most deep and tender sympathy 
 Close guarded in the chambers of his heart. 
 His generation knew him not ; — he seem'd 
 To worldly men a trifler, — and when years, 
 Correcting the rash fervour of his youth, 
 Taught him to honour much which once he scorn 'd, 
 And guard what he had panted to o'erthrow — 
 Men deem'd such seeming fickleness the fruit 
 Of falsehood or caprice, and factious tongues 
 Were busy to defame him : — he, meanwhile. 
 Through honour and dishonour, through report 
 Evil and good, — by rash, misjudging men 
 Accounted a deceiver, though most true 
 And strong in his integrity, — maintain'd 
 His course unalter'd, and in vain assail'd 
 By obloquy and slander. — Death hath nipp'd 
 
80 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 His promise in the bud, or he had rank'd 
 Among our noblest statesmen, and perchance 
 Proved to the Church, in this distracted realm, 
 Her ablest champion in her utmost need. 
 As such let Her bewail him ! — but to us 
 He leaves a deeper sorrow : — Can that hour 
 E'er pass away from memory, when we two 
 With that highminded lady, hand in hand 
 Knelt by his coffin, till her deeper grief 
 At last found vent in tears, and we conversed 
 Of him, and what he was, and what he is. 
 In words of solemn calmness ? — or that morn, 
 When, one by one, into the room of death, 
 Hung with funereal black, the mourners stole, — • 
 A sad and silent crowd, by various ties. 
 Public and private, join'd to him in life, — 
 All grieving for him dead. — The statesman there 
 Forgot the war of factions, nor refused 
 To his untimely loss some natural tears ; — 
 The pale-eyed scholar side by side was seen 
 With men of wordy strife, who for a day 
 Suspended their forensic rivalries 
 To weep upon his grave ; — the merchant left 
 His counting-house, — and friends who had not met 
 For many a year before, met there to mourn 
 A nobler friend than all. — She too, his own — 
 His almost more than wife, (if more there be 
 In this cold world,) regardless of the laws 
 Of tyrant custom, came with tearless eye 
 And brow erect, though pale almost as his. 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 81 
 
 To give him to the grave : — through busy streets 
 
 Slowly and sadly moved the funeral train, 
 
 Until within the cemetery gates 
 
 At length it halted, and the solemn words 
 
 Of our sublimest ritual rendered back 
 
 Dust to its dust — the spirit to the hands 
 
 Of Him who gave it : — painful to the ear 
 
 Was that dull, grinding, subterraneous sound 
 
 Of some unseen machinery, which, with slow 
 
 Scarce visible descent, received the Dead 
 
 Into the opening bosom of the earth ; 
 
 And deep the desolation which oppress'd 
 
 Our spirits — the dejection which we felt, 
 
 When we (the three who loved and mourn'd him 
 
 most) 
 Together bent our steps into the vault 
 To bid our last farewell. — Between long rows 
 Of dead, each coffin'd in its separate niche. 
 Tier above tier — a subterranean vault 
 Of sepulchres — we walk'd, until we came 
 To his dark narrow home ; — the charnel gusts 
 Smote close and chill, — our tread, with hollow 
 
 sound. 
 Fell echoing, till (the wholesome upper air 
 And cheerful light of day once more regain'd) 
 With aching hearts we parted, to renew 
 Our troubled Dream of Life. 
 
 A dream indeed, — 
 A feverish waking dream — more shadowy still 
 The longer that it lasts ! — Whate'er in youth 
 
 2 G 
 
82 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Seem'd real, ere our middle age arrives, 
 
 Even like a phantom vanishes away, 
 
 Or crumbles in our grasp. — Our life itself — 
 
 Which once appear'd as if 'twould never end — 
 
 Is found to be a shadow, soon to flit 
 
 Away, and be forgotten ;— even the schemes — 
 
 The air-built castles of our early days — 
 
 That vigorous hope with which we look'd abroad 
 
 Into the opening world — that confidence 
 
 In the bright-seeming future, by no fear 
 
 Of change or chance diminish'd — were in truth 
 
 More tangible possessions in themselves 
 
 Than the realities of later life. 
 
 And such were thine and mine when first we met 
 
 (A freshman thou, and I a junior soph,) 
 
 In the Old Court at King's. Unlike, till then, 
 
 Had been our several nurtures, each to each ; 
 
 Thou, from thy birth, a hardy mountaineer, 
 
 A poet's child, thyself a Poet born, 
 
 And cradled among minds of giant mould, 
 
 Hadst, almost with my mother's milk, imbibed 
 
 Philosophy, which with thy growth had grown, 
 
 And with thy strength been strengthen'd : — in the 
 
 north — 
 A wanderer among lakes and mighty hills — 
 Scarce conscious e'en of such restraint as curbs 
 The southern schoolboy— thou hadst kept unstain'd 
 Thy sturdy freshness and simplicity ; 
 And, in thy native strength of intellect, 
 O'erleaping the stmit bounds of puny thought 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 83 
 
 Which circumscribed the realm in which we moved, 
 (Weak jinglers of hexameters,) could'st breathe 
 In worlds beyond our ken; — I, train'd and taught 
 In academic craft, and, for my feats 
 Poetic, with Etonian laurel crown'd — 
 A schoolboy bard, with schoolboy lore imbued, 
 And thinking like a schoolboy — what was I, 
 That I should match with thee ?— yet match'd we 
 
 were, 
 If not in genius, yet in sympathy ; 
 Each reverencing what the other reverenced — each 
 Still loving whatsoe'er the other loved ; 
 Our hopes, our aspirations, our desires, 
 Our plans and projects for the years to come, 
 Akin, if not identical : — the world 
 As yet was all before us — the young blood 
 Ran riot in our veins, — we felt our life 
 Strong, buoyant, full of hope — and we were free 
 To " frame" whate'er ** high purposes" we would 
 Of intellectual enterprise, *' at war 
 With fleshly shame ;" — so sang thy muse to mine. 
 Who tuned her chords responsive. — What more 
 
 blest 
 Could either of us wish, than to pursue 
 Together the green paths of poesy. 
 And cultivate the fair domains of thought 
 Which nature had assign'd us ? Of renown 
 And rank among our country's sons of song 
 Methinks we dream'd but little : — fame was not 
 Our idol, nor the prize for which we strove. 
 
84 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Our phantasy should be its own reward ; 
 Or if we needed other, that should be 
 The love of woman : — we would pitch our tent 
 In some sequester'd valley, and there dwell — 
 We and two gentle beings, who would link 
 Their lot with ours, and in our arms repose, 
 And, with serene and fervent sympathy 
 Sharing and sweetening all our toils and cares. 
 Diffuse pei-petual sunshine through our souls. 
 Which, by that warmth impregnated, should teem 
 With most abundant growth of noble thoughts 
 And lofty speculations, and rich store 
 Of sweet and bitter fancies. — Dreams like these 
 At times beguiled us, but our daily talk 
 Was of more serious matter ; — of the laws 
 Which govern the mysterious heart of man; — 
 Of dogmas transcendental, to my ear 
 A theme, till then unknown, though long to thee 
 Familiar, and with earnest zeal explored ; — 
 Of all the wild and wondrous world of song. 
 And those who hold its empire — chiefly Him 
 The myriad-minded ; — nor were they forgot, 
 The mighty masters of our later day, 
 And Him their Coryphaeus, then not yet 
 Enthroned, as now, on England's inmost heart. 
 But by a few (the true poetic Church, 
 As they esteem'd themselves) with earnest zeal 
 And somewhat of a fond idolatry 
 Revered, nay, almost worshipp'd. — With such 
 themes 
 
•the dream of life. 85 
 
 Were mingled yet profounder; — Truth divine 
 Reveal'd to erring man — Redemptive love, 
 In all its breadth, and length, and depth, and 
 
 height, 
 By thee with theologic gaze intent 
 Contemplated ; — and if from the routine 
 Of academic study we diverged 
 Too oft, and were forgetful of the claims 
 Of curves and squares, and parallelograms, 
 Cones, angles, sines and cosines, ordinates, 
 Abscissae, and the like — methitiks, our time, 
 Though sore mispent, was yet not wholly lost 
 In converse such as this. 
 
 Not wholly lost — 
 And yet my loss was grievous ; — not perchance 
 So much for the amount of actual lore 
 Neglected, or of science unattain'd. 
 As for the loss of discipline incurr'd, 
 Moral and intellectual, — self-control, 
 And self-denial, — patience in pursuit 
 Of knowledge, — perseverance to surmount 
 Impediments — and firmness to withstand 
 Temptation, unacquired. — If I am now 
 Too much an idler — prone to leave undone 
 My daily task of ministerial toil. 
 And loiter in my study o'er some page 
 Of theologic trifling — or forsake 
 Even that for lighter reading such as charm'd 
 My young imagination — to those strolls 
 In part I owe it, which, from day to day, 
 
86 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 We two were wont to take, in hours by right 
 To academic study set apart. 
 Pleasant they were, and pleasant was the talk 
 By which they were beguiled ; — to me oft rich 
 In knowledg-e newly gain'd. — We walk'd and 
 
 walk'd 
 As chance directed — by the river side 
 To Granchester — along the lanes which lead 
 To Cherry Hinton — out by Trumpington — 
 And Madingley, sole village from the plague 
 Of ugliness, in that drear land, exempt : 
 The Gogmagogs were conscious of our talk ; 
 And I may say that seldom I came home 
 No wiser than I went. — But in the days 
 Of early spring, when even those treeless fields 
 Look'd pleasant in the sunshine, and the lanes 
 With constellations of bright primrose tufts 
 Were here and there bestudded, — when the scent 
 Of the cinque-spotted cowslip was exhaled 
 From the low meadow grass,— and in the woods 
 The nightingale (more fitly heard by night) 
 Sang lustily all day — with what a bound 
 Of vernal exultation forth we sprang 
 Into the clear, fresh air ! — how recklessly, 
 Spurning the narrow bounds of space and time, 
 We rambled in the ways of our own hearts 
 And sight of our own eyes ! — with what dispatch 
 Of keen and craving hunger, we assail'd 
 Our mid-day luncheon in the village inn. 
 Served haply by the fair domestic hands 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 87 
 
 Of her, the maid of Quy — that saint whose shrine 
 By many a Cantabrig-ian pilgrimage, 
 (By none more zealous or more pure than ours) 
 Was, in those days, frequented ! — then at eve. 
 As, homeward bound, through the suburban streets 
 We wended in grotesque and careless guise— 
 The very tassels of our trencher caps 
 With cowslips interlaced, — how cheap we held 
 The laughter of the mob ! — how little fear'd 
 The frown of Dean or Proctor ! — then our meal 
 Together shared, — the savoury steak sent hot 
 From the cook's shop— the amber-flowing ale 
 Of Trinity, — the spare dessert, — the wine 
 With olives relish'd— and our day's discourse 
 Prolong'd till midnight ! — College life alone 
 Can boast such joys as these. 
 
 Nor let me pass 
 Unsung, those nights and suppers of the gods- 
 Feasts of the hungry soul, when, at the close 
 Of some well argued, eloquent debate 
 Held in the " Union,'* which with lengthen'd roar 
 Of cheers had shaken Petty Cury's roofs. 
 Startling the jaded shopman from his sleep, — 
 The leaders of the war on either side, 
 (Their strife suspended) to my neighbouring rooms 
 Adjourn'd, to sup on oysters. — Aid me now, 
 O Muse, to tell who first, who last engaged 
 In those keen conflicts of contending wit 
 And appetite as keen ; — who (since renown'd 
 In senatorial or forensic war) 
 
88 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 From their first proof and exercise of arms 
 Offensive and defensive, came to wield 
 Less cumbrous weapons in colloquial sport, 
 At those repasts, with us. First, He whose praise 
 This song already, though in feeble notes. 
 Unworthily, hath sung — he, then a youth 
 Fresh from Etonian discipline, well skill'd 
 In all her classic craft, and therewithal 
 Known, ere his sun in Granta's sky arose. 
 For many a boyish feat, unlike a boy's, 
 Of sparkling prose and verse, — he graced our board 
 With that rich vein of fine and subtle wit — 
 That tone of reckless levity — that keen 
 And polish'd sarcasm— arm'd with which he waged 
 A war of dexterous sword-play, wherein few 
 Encounter'd, none o'ercame him : — by his side 
 Sat One of ampler brow and ruder frame, — 
 A presence with gigantic power instinct. 
 Though outwardly, in truth, but little graced 
 With aught of manly beauty — short, obese, 
 Rough -featured, coarse complexion'd, with lank 
 
 hair. 
 And small grey eyes, — in face (so many said) 
 Not much unlike myself, — his voice abrupt. 
 Unmusical ; — yet, when he spake, the ear 
 Was charm'd into attention, and the eye 
 Forgot the visible and outward frame 
 Of the rich mind within ; with such swift flow 
 Of full, spontaneous utterance, the tongue 
 Interpreted the deep impassion'd thought, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 89 
 
 And pour'd upon our sense exhaustless store 
 
 Of multifarious learning ; — for his mind 
 
 Had been, from earliest childhood up to youth, 
 
 Insatiable of knowledge, and his brain, — 
 
 Not like a pedant's, cumber'd and confused 
 
 With ill-digested, heterogeneous hoards 
 
 Of intellectual matter, but endued 
 
 With power to shape and mould its gather'd wealth 
 
 As need suggested, — turn'd, with ready tact, 
 
 Its huge artillery on whatever point 
 
 It pleased him to assail,— and (sooth to say) 
 
 He was not over-scrupulous ; — to him 
 
 There was no pain like silence — no constraint 
 
 So dull as unanimity : — he breathed 
 
 An atmosphere of argument, nor shrank 
 
 From making, where he could not find, excuse 
 
 For controversial fight : — yet when the fit 
 
 Was off him, and he gave his mind free scope 
 
 To follow Nature's bidding — who so full 
 
 Of genial thought and feeling ? — who so keen 
 
 To separate truth from error— to detect 
 
 The fallacy in specious terms involved, 
 
 Or in the realms of Fiction to discern 
 
 The beautiful and just? — He was, in truth, 
 
 (So transcendental sages would affirm) 
 
 The king of Understanding — unapproach'd, 
 
 Unrivall'd in his own particular range 
 
 Of thought ; — and if that range was not the first — 
 
 If there were regions into which his gaze 
 
 Pierced not— an intuition more profound 
 
90 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Than be aflfected — such deficiency 
 
 Found ample compensation in the strength 
 
 And full perfection of his actual powers, 
 
 And the quick tact which wielded them.— Meanwhile 
 
 His heart was pure and simple as a child's, 
 
 Unbreathed on by the world, — in friendship warm, 
 
 Confiding, generous, constant; and though now 
 
 He ranks among the great-ones of the earth, 
 
 And hath achieved such glory, as will last 
 
 To future generations — he, I think, 
 
 Would sup on oysters with as right good will 
 
 In this poor home of mine, as e'er he did 
 
 On Petty Cury's classical first floor 
 
 Some twenty years ago. 
 
 With him in bonds 
 Of mutual friendship link'd — in classic lore 
 His equal, though of less voracious maw, 
 And slower to digest what he devour'd 
 Of intellectual food — appear'd a youth 
 Of comeliest presence, though of brow, perchance, 
 Less lofty and projecting than the brain 
 Beneath it would have taught phrenologists 
 To look for in its owner : — grave he was. 
 And prone to silence ; and whene'er he spake, 
 'Twas with a slow, sententious utterance. 
 As if each word that dropp'd was first well weigh'd, 
 And licensed to go forth ; — his manner shy 
 And somewhat puritanical ; — ^yet none 
 Possess'd a mind with richer humour fraught, 
 Or saw, with so acute and quick a glance. 
 
THE DREAM 0¥ LIFE. 91 
 
 The ludicrous in all things : — not in vain 
 
 He woo'd the Muse — with no ungraceful steps 
 
 Walk'd through the land of Fancy in its length 
 
 And in its breadth ; but with more earnest love 
 
 He sought profounder lore : — his mind severe. 
 
 Patient, exact, with most tenacious grasp 
 
 Held fast, and grappled with, and overcame 
 
 Whate'er of difficult impediment 
 
 Beset his path to knowledge ; — nor was truth, 
 
 Thus hardly won, less resolutely kept. 
 
 The rash vagaries of erratic thought 
 
 And venturous speculation, which seduced 
 
 More sanguine minds, ne'er raised a doubt in his, 
 
 Nor shook the deep foundations of his faith 
 
 Even for a moment. — Now, a learned man, 
 
 In professorial chair he holds his state 
 
 Didactic, and with classic lore imbues 
 
 Another generation. 
 
 Turn we next 
 To one but rarely, on those nights, our guest ; — 
 To him — thy kinsman, once my schoolfellow, 
 And more than most of my compeers at school, 
 Or thy collateral kindred, to us both 
 By close-knit bonds united ; — in those days 
 A comely youth, though prematurely grey. 
 And long ere manhood's noon upon his brow 
 To wear the stainless silver of old age. 
 Graceful he was in person and in mind, • 
 Enrich'd with classical accomplishments, 
 And stores of various study — apt to learn, 
 
92 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 And with intense susceptibility 
 Of soul and sense endued. Some deem'd him proud, 
 And in himself too confident. — In truth, 
 'Twas not his nature to dissemble powers 
 With which he had been gifted, nor the lore 
 To which he had attain'd ; and envious men, 
 Who hated him for both, were prompt to blame 
 That which they could not imitate : — yet few 
 W^ere cast by nature in a finer mould. 
 Or arm'd with apprehensions more acute, 
 And exquisite of beauty and of truth, 
 Moral and intellectual. To create 
 Was not his province ; but his mind received. 
 And treasured, and retain'd, with ready tact. 
 The lessons by profounder minds instill'd. 
 Which, with expressive utterance, to the taste 
 And apprehensions of the world at large 
 He skilfully adapted. — Hence his task 
 Was rightly chosen, when, in after years, 
 He to the teaching of that Master Mind 
 Subjected his whole soul — content to share 
 The glory which must rest, in time to come, 
 On those outpourings of immortal thought 
 By his sole pen preserved, or by his toil 
 Collected and arranged. His was, in truth, 
 A proud and happy lot, to have imbibed 
 Those lessons, while he lived, and after death 
 To link his own remembrance with the name 
 Of Earth's profoundest Teacher : — happier still 
 In that his toils were sweeten'd and sustain'd 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 93 
 
 By such rich treasure of connubial wealth 
 
 As few have e'er possess'd. Not mine the task 
 
 To seize and fix the ethereal lineaments 
 
 Of that majestic spirit, which illumed 
 
 With rays intense of intellectual light, 
 
 Corporeal beauty far surpassing aught 
 
 That to the painter's, or the poet's eye, 
 
 Imagination ever yet reveal'd 
 
 Of loveliness ideal — while the heart, 
 
 Unchill'd and unsophisticate, still throbb'd 
 
 With woman's deepest love — still sympathized 
 
 With whatsoe'er of human joy or grief 
 
 Demands or merits sympathy — still shared, 
 
 With unaffected, frank simplicity, 
 
 The interests and the cares, the healthful sports, 
 
 The mingled smiles and tears, which mark the course 
 
 Of ordinary life — suggesting thus, 
 
 To the discerning and observant mind. 
 
 How far inventive phantasy falls short 
 
 Of Nature's actual handiwork ! — not now — 
 
 Not in such strains as these, be her high praise 
 
 Attempted; — nor let step of mine invade, 
 
 With reckless tread, the still, sepulchral gloom 
 
 Which shrouds her recent sorrow.— For the Dead — 
 
 For Him, the gentle and the pure of heart, 
 
 The generous, the affectionate — from Earth 
 
 At life's full noon removed — for him, be tears 
 
 Of true and reverential sorrow shed ! — 
 
 For Her — what more can sympathy desire 
 
 Than those divinest gifts already hers ? — 
 
94 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Patience and faith to bear the will of Heaven, 
 And power, while yet on earth, to breathe in worlds 
 Of pure celestial thought, and cheering hope 
 Of future bliss, and memory of the Past, 
 To soothe the o'erburden'd Present. 
 
 Next appeared, 
 In that superb array of noble minds, 
 A pale, spare man, of high and massive brow, 
 Already furrow'd with deep lines of thought 
 And speculative effort — grave, sedate. 
 And (if the looks may indicate the age) 
 Our senior some few years : — no keener wit, 
 No intellect more subtle, none more bold 
 Was found in all our host ; none deeplier fraught 
 With stores of various learning ; — but, in him. 
 Imagination, fancy, feeling, taste, 
 And reverential faith and fervent zeal 
 Were overlaid by huge incumbent weight 
 Of understanding — so, of late, defined — 
 The faculty which judgeth after sense. 
 With poesy and poets still he waged 
 Relentless war — deeming all such, in sooth, 
 Mere cumberers of the ground, or haply worse — 
 Despisers of plain truth — mad mountebanks, 
 Who led the minds of simple folk astray 
 By their fantastic juggleries, and drown'd 
 The voice of reason with their jingling rhymes. 
 Such craft to him was hateful ; — Truth alone, 
 Truth tangible and palpable; — such truth 
 As might be weigh'd and measured, — truth deduced 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 95 
 
 By logical conclusion, close, severe, 
 
 From premises incontrovertible — 
 
 This was the mistress of his fond desire — 
 
 His first, his only love ; — of aught more fair 
 
 Or wonderful he dream'd not ; — nought to him 
 
 Existed, in the whole wide world of thought, 
 
 Save what could be defined, mapp'd out, survey *d, 
 
 Adjusted to his liking ; — to his eye, 
 
 Whatever was ideal, seem'd untrue : 
 
 The hopes which he profess'd of earthly good 
 
 Were limited to that which he could see, 
 
 Hear, taste, or feel — ease — pleasure — all the joys 
 
 Which wait on wealth — the exercise and use 
 
 Of intellect : — in all things he appear'd 
 
 A strict utilitarian ; — yet the Man 
 
 Was nobler than his creed, and though he mock'd 
 
 At things, which, to us poets, seem'd almost 
 
 The breath of human life — romantic love — 
 
 Chivalrous honour — patriotic zeal — 
 
 And loyal self-devotion — there were times 
 
 When even these very themes would kindle up 
 
 The better soul within, and he became, 
 
 Unconsciously, the enthusiast he despised. 
 
 Courteous he was and gentle, even to those 
 
 Whose intellectual rank beneath his own 
 
 Lay lowest, — and remembrance, looking back 
 
 Through twenty years, still rests upon his name. 
 
 As on a pleasant thought. 
 
 Unlike him far 
 In character — in intellect no less, 
 
96 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 The pair that follows ; for a pair in heart 
 
 So closely join'd, so comely each in form, 
 
 My song* must not divorce ; — the first, a youth, 
 
 Tall, graceful, well-proportion'd, noble-mien'd, 
 
 Tho' something in his air might have been thought 
 
 Almost effeminate, — the look of one 
 
 Who, delicately nurtured, ne'er had felt 
 
 The shocks and buffets which the world inflicts 
 
 Even on our boyish years ; — and such, indeed, 
 
 Had been his earlier lot, for he was born 
 
 Heir of a wealthy house, and, from his birth 
 
 To dawning manhood, in luxurious ease 
 
 And careless affluence rear'd ; — his mind untrain'd 
 
 By any rigorous discipline — unstored 
 
 With much of school-boy learning — ill prepared 
 
 (So men might think) to face the frowning world 
 
 And grapple with adversity ; — and yet. 
 
 When fortune changed — as in a moment's time 
 
 She did, and hurl'd him from his pinnacle 
 
 Of prosperous expectation down almost 
 
 To a despised estate — no strongest mind 
 
 E'er bore such fall more bravely : — even like one 
 
 Who estimates this world at its true worth. 
 
 And, loving not its treasures while they last. 
 
 Laments them not departed — he address'd 
 
 His spirit to its destiny with firm 
 
 And tranquil equanimity — content 
 
 To do and suffer all the will of Heaven 
 
 In his appointed sphere. — And, to speak truth, 
 
 Tho' wealth and this world's smiles had pass 'd away, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 97 
 
 Still, in the costliest treasure Earth can yield, 
 He was most rich ; — for one confiding* heart 
 Still clave to him with woman's deepest love, 
 And pour'd into his wounds (if wounds he had) 
 The balm of its aflfection. She was one — 
 (ITiat gentle maid) — a foreigner by birth, 
 Of humbler fortunes, who had loved him long. 
 But never told her love ; for while the world 
 Look'd bright around him, and the proudest dames 
 Grew prouder in his smile, she durst not lift 
 Her heart so high as to indulge a hope 
 That he would think of her ; but when his lot 
 Was darken'd, and the frivolous, false crowd 
 Deserted him — O then what rapturous hope 
 Thrill'd through her bosom, that his loss might 
 
 prove 
 Her gain, — and she, who never could have shared 
 His prouder, might console his humbler lot, 
 And shed upon his path the tender light 
 Of her devoted love ! Ere I threw off 
 The purple gown of Trinity, to don 
 The graduate's sable garb, their wedding day 
 Arrived, and I remember how they came, 
 A happy bride and bridegroom, to rebuke 
 In our own courts, or haply to stir up 
 To emulation of their better lot 
 Our Academic celibate. 
 
 But He— 
 The friend so like a brother — in what nook 
 Lies he conceal'd ? — he should not be ashamed, 
 
 2 U 
 
98 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Methinks, to shew his face ; for few have seen 
 
 A fairer one on earth ; — the Nireus he 
 
 Of all our host, though rarely in this field 
 
 A combatant, — no man of wordy strife, 
 
 Or wrangling disputation, but best pleased 
 
 With mild discourse and thought contemplative, 
 
 And the luxurious witcheries of art : — 
 
 Himself a poet born, and, from a child, 
 
 With all a poet's sensibilities, 
 
 Even to excess endued : — for him, a boy, 
 
 The boisterous sports of boyhood were too rough, — 
 
 The sympathy of schoolfellows too coarse, 
 
 Save of some few like-minded with himself. 
 
 With whom he roam'd apart — to all the rest 
 
 A by- word and a laughing-stock ; — now climb'd 
 
 Some favourite hill — now ranged the vernal woods 
 
 In search of wild-flowers. — -With advancing youth 
 
 Such weakness had worn off, and though he still 
 
 Retain'd a woman's beauty, manly thought 
 
 Was his, and manly feeling. — Still the paths 
 
 Of quiet contemplation — the wild haunts 
 
 Of phantasy — and the mysterious realms 
 
 Of painting and of music were his choice, — 
 
 The world in which his spirit loved to dwell ; 
 
 And, I believe, no truer eye than his, 
 
 No finer ear for concord of sweet sounds, 
 
 No spirit more susceptible of pain 
 
 Or pleasure from the spells of either art. 
 
 Or their diviner sister Poesy, 
 
 Was found, that day, among us. Years have since 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 99 
 
 Develop'd, and expanded, and matured 
 
 His intellectual strength : — through many a field 
 
 Of art, of science, of philosophy, 
 
 With firm and fearless step, he walks at will ; 
 
 A bold, adventurous thinker, but withal 
 
 In heart and hope a Christian. 
 
 Last appears 
 In this long muster-roll. One o'er whose mind 
 Majestic, deep, imaginative, pure 
 From aught of worldly taint, which might debase 
 Or mar its noble energies, the Muse 
 Laments as lost ; — by what mysterious bane 
 Of physical or mental malady 
 Disorder'd, none can tell ; but so o'erthrown, 
 That genius, learning, wisdom, the rich gift 
 Of song, on none, in these our later days, 
 More bountifully lavish'd, have, in him, 
 Become a shapeless wreck — May brighter days 
 Arise on that dark waste, and heavenly light, 
 Piercing its spectral gloom, create anew 
 The wondrous world beneath it ! 
 
 But 'tis time 
 To change this lengthen'd scene, and bid farewell 
 To all its passing phantoms, though the mind 
 Still grasps them with a fond tenacity. 
 Not all in vain, — not all in vain, — I trust, 
 O Granta, though thy wild and wayward son, 
 And little heedful of the lore which thou 
 Best lov'st to teach thy children — not in vain 
 Spent I the spring and seed-time of my youth 
 
100 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Beneath thy reverend towers ; — no slender gain 
 
 I count it to have known whom I have known, 
 
 And with the noblest spirits of my day 
 
 Beheld the dawn of manhood ; — not ill timed 
 
 My sojourn in thy courts — for 'twas my lot 
 
 To know a generation nobler far 
 
 Than that which went before it— more athirst 
 
 For knowledge — more intent on loftiest schemes 
 
 And purposes of good — and if more prone 
 
 To daring speculation, — apt to tread 
 
 More venturous paths — yet purer from the stain 
 
 Of gross and sensual vice — which among those. 
 
 Our predecessors in the steep ascent 
 
 Of academic honour, still had been, 
 
 Too oft, allied with genius. 'Twas the note 
 
 And token of a scholar, in their day, 
 
 To be a jocund reveller, — to spend 
 
 The night in mad carousals — then, perchance, 
 
 (The wineflush still upon the burning brow,) 
 
 To reel into the lecture-room ; — not such 
 
 Our folly — though our follies were not few. 
 
 Nor all innocuous — for the springs of thought 
 
 Had then been newly stirr'd — and Truth, who 
 
 since 
 Hath claim'd and won her old supremacy, 
 Was still at war with error, not, as now, 
 Unveil'd and understood. 
 
 The scene is changed ; 
 The towers and courts of Granta disappear 
 With all that they contain— and lo, instead, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 101 
 
 Green trees, and spacious lawns, and' slirvibb«^ry- 
 
 walks 
 
 Umbrageous, amidst which is diml-}' s-^en , 
 A shelter'd dwelling-, with thick-dlustering vine 
 And intermingled ivy overgrown. 
 In front, not two miles off, majestic spires 
 Shoot up their tapering outline ; — on the left. 
 A castle frowns, with massive towers antique 
 Cresting a gentle eminence ; — hard by 
 The Severn, scarce yet navigable, rolls 
 Its waters— and blue undulating hills 
 Sweep round the dim horizon. — 'Tis a scene 
 On which a poet's eye may rest well pleased ; 
 Nor lacks it such inspection — From yon house 
 Even now two youthful brethren of the lyre 
 Look forth, and in their intervals of rest 
 From toil (if toil it be to court the Muse,) 
 Refresh their sense of beauty on that rich 
 And boldly varied landscape. — We have met 
 That pair before ; — what do they in this land ? — 
 In truth they do but little — though withdrawn 
 Awhile from academic conflicts dire 
 To this, the calm sequester'd home of one, 
 With high intent and purpose to devote 
 The livelong summer to sublime pursuit 
 Of science mathematical. — And now 
 In separate, though adjacent, rooms immured. 
 Each on his own peculiar task intent. 
 They commune with Mathesis. — Is it so ? 
 Then hath she brought her geometric craft 
 
102 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 To njarvellous 'perfection — hath contrived 
 Tomeasiire woilds that spread beyond all space; — 
 Bafli ?p£>nn'"d Imagination's boundless realm, 
 And ascertain'd the laws, impell'd by which 
 Creative thought explores its wondrous way 
 Even to the Heaven of Heavens.— In those two rooms 
 Two worlds are now contain'd — two phantom worlds, 
 Diverse in kind and excellence, but each 
 A world of beauty, — each a pleasant home 
 For him whose fancy framed it, (like the web 
 Spun by the silk-worm,) to protect and house 
 His spirit from the pressure of the world. 
 High is the theme of one ; — in burning strains 
 He sings ideal Beauty, to his soul 
 Reveal'd in trance-like vision ; — her he seeks. 
 In passionate wild flight, through all the realms 
 Of earth, and air, and sea — and, having found. 
 Leads her through fairy palaces — prepares 
 A home, and spreads a couch for her, amidst 
 The pathless clouds, beneath the 'green sea waves. 
 In woody vales, and deep secluded glens — 
 Infusing still into her heart of hearts 
 The strong enchantment of his dreamy love. 
 The other, less ambitious, and endued 
 With genius less creative, less intense. 
 Hath, from the beaming regions of the East 
 Stolen a wild-hearted Fay, with whom, at will, 
 He wanders through the world from night to morn, 
 And in her mischievous and magic feats 
 Finds infinite amusement ; — yet his song, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 103 
 
 Now gay, and now sarcastic — now in bursts 
 
 Of broad rough humour recklessly let loose — 
 
 Prefers to linger in the quiet haunts 
 
 Of peace and love domestic — knows no world, 
 
 1 3 all Imagination's universe, 
 
 So blessed as a bright and blazing hearth 
 
 Surrounded by glad faces : — joyously 
 
 Those two, careering on the wings of song, 
 
 Pursue their several paths, from time to time 
 
 Relaxing their swift flight, to interchange 
 
 Encouragement and counsel, each with each. 
 
 Nor lack they recreation, such as soothes 
 
 The brain o'erwrought with toil, or by the throng 
 
 Of fancies multitudinous inflamed 
 
 To over-much excitement — gentle looks 
 
 And voices, and the pleasant intercourse 
 
 Of brothers and of sisters, shelter'd still 
 
 Beneath that roof parental, and the joy 
 
 Sedate, although expectant, calm, yet deep, 
 
 Of plighted lovers, at the altar soon 
 
 To seal their mutual vows : — what lack they more ? 
 
 — That, without which, even Poesy and youth 
 
 Are cold and lifeless — the first dream of love : 
 
 Nor shall that long be wanting ; — while we gaze, 
 
 The scene is changed ; — they wander side by side, 
 
 Each with a bright-eyed girl — one ample brow'd 
 
 And eagle-eyed — the other light of heart 
 
 And simple-minded ;— let them dream their dream, 
 
 Their short-lived dream of passion, while it lasts : 
 
 For theirs, in very deed, is but dream-love : 
 
104 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Not of the heart and will, but of the brain ; 
 — Fantastic, fleeting, which shall pass away 
 Ere long, and leave the spirit all unchanged, 
 The fountains of aflfection undisturb'd, 
 And fresh as ever : — let them dream their dream. 
 Till dawn dispel the illusion : — Nobler love 
 Awaits them, when the fancies and wild freaks 
 Of youth shall have been tamed by the approach 
 Of sober manhood, and connubial bliss — 
 Calm, deep, contented, with life's daily toil 
 And duty intermix'd — shall put to flight 
 Those phantoms of unripe and restless thought ; 
 For each, amidst the tumult and turmoil 
 Of worldly and unworldly cares and aims, 
 Erecting a sure refuge, housed wherein 
 The heart may take its rest, and gather strength 
 To bear its daily burden, and fulfil, 
 As best it may, the daily task imposed 
 By love divine on Man, that he, on Earth, 
 May win the crown which he shall wear in Heaven. 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 MANHOOD. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO MY WIFE. 
 
 At length the Man perceives it die away. 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 MANHOOD. 
 
 It is a shameless thing-, when poets chaunt 
 The praises of their wives ! — so some aver, 
 Whose judgment I dispute not — rather own 
 My full assent, albeit in this respect 
 Myself an old oflfender. — Hymen's bonds, 
 And that most deep contentment of chaste love 
 Within their magic links enclosed and bound, 
 Are holier things than that a man should sport 
 With them, as with the gay fantastic gawds 
 Of wanton gallantry, or to the gaze 
 Of public curiosity, with rude 
 And reckless hand, unveil them. — The whole world 
 Hath scarce a coarser spectacle to show. 
 Than your fond, foolish, amorous wedded pair 
 Betraying to all eyes, by act and look. 
 The giddy transports of their honey moon ! 
 From such may we for ever dwell apart. 
 Bride of my youth, and now, in middle age. 
 Ten thousand-fold beyond a bride beloved, — 
 My own true-hearted wife !— no sympathy, 
 And slender toleration can we yield 
 
108 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 To such transgressors of love's holy laws, 
 
 To such profaners of pure Hymen's bliss. 
 
 Yet, not the less, must I inscribe to thee 
 
 This portion of my song, design'd to tell 
 
 Of manhood's sober cares and temperate joys. 
 
 Its sorrows, and their solaces ; — for thou 
 
 Art still the centre around which revolve 
 
 My earthly hopes and fears — to which converge 
 
 My yearnings and affections : — there is nought 
 
 Within the compass of my daily life, 
 
 But takes, in part, its character and form 
 
 From thy pervading influence ; — nor now 
 
 Is this a bridegroom's fondness ; — sixteen years 
 
 Have spent their noiseless flight since, each to 
 
 each. 
 We pledged our nuptial faith. — Our eldest boy 
 Hath almost reach'd his teens, which were, in thee, 
 Still incomplete, when thou becam'st a wife ; 
 And, in the full meridian of Life's day, 
 A staid and sober pair, we now look back 
 To the gay freaks and follies of our youth. 
 And forward to the late decline of years. 
 As worlds which have been and which are to be — 
 Diverse alike in form from that which is : — 
 The first remote and dwindling, day by day, 
 In the still lengthening retrospect — the last 
 Just looming through the mists of unknown Time, 
 And daily seen less distant, less unlike 
 The swiftly changing Present. Years have laid 
 A gentle hand on thee ; — not I alone, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 109 
 
 But all who knew thee in the days long past. 
 Still recognize, unchanged in face or form, 
 The bride of gay nineteen : — scarce, here and there, 
 Amidst the clusters of thy raven curls, 
 Close-peering eyes may trace a silver streak 
 Threading their ebon gloss ; — thy full dark eye 
 Is yet undimm'd and lustrous, and thy form 
 Sylphlike, as when the brisk and tingling-blood 
 Of eighteen summers coursed along thy veins, 
 And thou, amidst our graver English girls, 
 In pride and strength of Scottish art elate, 
 Wast foremost in the dance. — In ruder sort, 
 Yet not ungently. Time hath dealt with me — 
 Working perchance but little outward change, 
 For I, since earliest youth, have look'd so old, 
 I scarce look older now ; — but, as my years 
 Cross their meridian, I discern and feel 
 The wane of life within : — the reckless strength 
 And confidence of health, which knew no change. 
 Are gone for ever : — Death appears no more 
 A dim and distant phantom — nor this world. 
 With all its charms for ear, and eye, and heart. 
 The permanent abode which once it seem'd. 
 My old acquaintance, Asthma, pays me still 
 His annual visit — but not now alone ; — 
 With him his daughter, pale Dyspepsia, comes, 
 And shows me, in her train, approaching fast. 
 Gout and his grimmer brother, her twin sons 
 More hideous than their parent ! — It may be 
 That thou, ere long, wilt have to nurse and tend 
 
110 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 With all the patience of thy Woman's love, 
 A fractious invalid ; — and thou wilt do 
 That office nobly, though with small return 
 Of gratitude, perchance, from thy self-will'd 
 And all too froward charge. — But we will not 
 Anticipate, in thought, impending ills : 
 Rather, while health suffices, let me seize 
 And fix, if that may be, the fonii and hue 
 Of this existing Present, which, ere long, 
 Must swell the increasing Past, and be, with it, 
 From memory's page erased, unless the Muse 
 Shall, in ambrosial song, embalm it now. 
 And cause it to become, to me and mine. 
 An heritage for ever. 
 
 I described, 
 Of late, how poets, in their lusty youth. 
 Sport with the world of Phantasy : — such sport 
 In me was past its height, and had begun 
 To sadden into toil and daily care. 
 And all the unblest anxieties of life. 
 When thou and I first met : — younglove's first dream 
 (A dream indeed, unreal, shadowy, brief,) 
 Was done and ended — and my heart, so far, 
 Not much the worse for wear : — a heavier blow 
 Had done it deeper mischief; — Friendship's bonds. 
 Holy and pure as e'er bound heart to heart. 
 Had, in the rash and headstrong war of thought — 
 The conflict of opinions, old and new, — 
 Been snapp'd, as seem'd, for ever. — I had lost 
 A mistress, and a friend — and in the void 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. Hit 
 
 Of objectless affection, sought in vain 
 
 For sympathy and solace — yet even then 
 
 Was not forsaken wholly : — I had kept, 
 
 Though not unscathed, the faith and hope in which 
 
 I had been nurtured, and although not yet, 
 
 By ordination and its solemn vows, 
 
 Expressly set apart to be a priest 
 
 And steward of the mysteries of Christ, 
 
 Was storing knowledge, and, with studious thought, 
 
 Preparing to devote my after life 
 
 To that high office ;— Youth, and youth's wild dreams, 
 
 Gorgeous and gloomy, sorrowful and gay, 
 
 Were fading in the clear and sober light 
 
 Of ripening manhood, and the world become 
 
 A working place for me, — Then 'twas that thou 
 
 Didst rise, a prosperous star, upon my path, 
 
 Discern'd at once among the sparkling throng 
 
 Of more ignoble fires — discern'd and loved, 
 
 And by the Muse's aid (who never yet 
 
 Did bard more blessed service) woo'd and won. 
 
 Not smooth, nor altogether unbeset 
 
 By trouble or perplexity, to us 
 
 Was true love's course ; — we shared the common lot 
 
 Of such as deem that life is more than meat. 
 
 The body more than raiment, and the mind, 
 
 With its inborn capacities of bliss, 
 
 Than all the wealth of this world. — Yet, in truth. 
 
 Our conflict with adversity was short. 
 
 Though stubborn while it lasted — and, that done, 
 
 Sweet were the days of courtship, — fair the haunt* 
 
112 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Through which we wander'd, a wild-hearted pair, 
 
 Framing our pleasant plans of future life, 
 
 Its duties and employments. O'er our heads, 
 
 The forest oaks of Windsor interlaced 
 
 Their dark umbrageous branches, as we roam'd 
 
 Through many a brake and dell and bosky bourn, 
 
 Arm link'd in arm, — or, on our gallant steeds. 
 
 With fleet and fearless gallop, plunged amain 
 
 Into the forest's heart. — Along the marge 
 
 Of that majestic river, dear to me 
 
 From boyhood, as to thee romantic Doon — 
 
 Through Datchet's fabled mead — beyond that grey 
 
 And ivy-mantled tower, sole relic left 
 
 Of what was Upton Church — across the lane 
 
 Misnamed of cut- throats, — o'er that well-known 
 
 stile 
 Where first our faith was pledged, (supplanted since 
 By a trim upstart lodge) — thence through the fields 
 Of Eton, with remembrances intense 
 Of early joy and sorrow in my heart 
 Indissolubly link'd, — we roam'd and roam'd ; 
 While thou, with patient ear, to many a tale 
 Of boyhood, by those well-known scenes recall'd, 
 Didst listen, and in turn, with earnest speech. 
 Discourse of all that thou hadst known and loved 
 In thy own mountain land. So pass'd the months — 
 The pleasant months of courtship, till, at length. 
 The Day of days arrived, for many a year 
 With fond anticipation imaged forth 
 To Hope's keen earnest gaze — Life's crowning day. 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 113 
 
 The blest fulfilment of the purest dreams 
 On which young Fancy feeds. — Without a cloud, 
 Calm, clear, serene, the summer's loveliest child, 
 (A summer such as England seldom knows,) 
 It rose, and shone, and set ! — Before the lark 
 I left the lonely couch of my unrest. 
 And to the river's bank, as I was wont. 
 But in far other than my wonted mood. 
 Directed my wild steps : — the clear cold stream 
 Received me in its bosom, cooling thus 
 The fever of my own ; — with practised arms 
 I clave the waters, and from shore to shore 
 Cross'd and recross'd ,— now striving with the stream , 
 Which mock'd and overbore my puny strength, — 
 Now floating down its current, — now supine 
 On the smooth surface of some tranquil pool, 
 "With face upturn'd to the blue, cloudless sky, 
 Lay gazing on its beauty, and inhaled 
 The freshness and the fragrance of the morn 
 From air, and earth, and water, — to myself 
 Repeating oft '* It is my wedding day ! — 
 No dream, but a reality !" And now 
 The hour was com6 ; — before the altar-rails 
 We two stood side by side ; — the solemn vows 
 W6re utter'd,— and I wonder'd, while we knelt. 
 That I should feel so calm ! — The wedding peal 
 Rang briskly out, — around the well-spread board 
 The w-edding guests assembled, — all due rites 
 Were decently perform'd, — and, ere 'twas noon, 
 (Friends,kinsfolk,feasters,bridemaids,thy old home 
 
 21 
 
114 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 And all who dwelt within it left behind) 
 
 We were alone, and with our faces set 
 
 Toward Cambria's mountain region. — Till'twaseve, 
 
 Conversing in such sort as lovers use, 
 
 We journey'd ; — then above the horizon rose 
 
 The towers of Oxford — spire and pinnacle, 
 
 And stately dome, and cupola, relieved 
 
 In outline clear against the cloudless sky 
 
 With sunset tints suffused. 
 
 — Our hasty meal 
 Dispatch 'd — till twilight faded into night, 
 We roam'd amidst those silent palaces : — 
 Through broad and spacious courts, deserted then. 
 Nor echoing to the students' sober tread. 
 Nor (as sometimes) by bacchanalian roar 
 Of revellers profaned — through long arcades, 
 And many a pillar'd aisle, and cloister dim, 
 We stroll'd, and mark'd the moonbeams, as they 
 
 stole 
 Through gorgeous panes of stain'd and storied glass. 
 Gild the rich fretted roofs and marble floors 
 Of those time-hallow'd temples. — On our hearts 
 The spirit of the place descended, calm 
 And solemn, and the day which rose in smiles 
 Accordant to our sunbright morn of hope 
 And hymeneal gladness, closed at last 
 (Meet emblem of a Christian life's decline) 
 In contemplations tranquil and serene. 
 Of life, of death, and of eternity. 
 
 And we were wedded !— and life's young romance 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 115 
 
 Henceforth to fade, away and be dissolved 
 In the clear daylig-ht of reality ! 
 Yet, for the space of some three years, or more, 
 The vision seem'd to tarry : — household cares 
 So long we knew not, nor the pleasant sound 
 Of children's voices, nor had yet commenced 
 Those pastoral duties, amidst which hath past, 
 Since then, the prime of life : — my daily task 
 Employ 'd, but not oppress'd me, nor engross'd 
 So large a space of time but more remain *d 
 For pleasant studies and amusements, such 
 As we might share together : — Life was still 
 Almost a constant holiday to us ; 
 And when the waning summer set us free 
 Even from that gentle yoke which gall'd us not, 
 With what exultant eagerness we broke 
 Our bondage, and, uncheck'd by nurseiy ties, 
 Shaped our swift flight, as fancy might direct, 
 Or old affection urge — now skimm'd the lakes 
 And climb'd the mountains of thy native land ; 
 Now, on green Devon's slopes, forgot the ways 
 Of artificial life, and grew adepts 
 At old Arcadian usages ; and now 
 In deep Salopian vales, amidst the homes 
 And habitations of my kindred, shared 
 Familiar joys, feeding our gaze meanwhile 
 On nature's richest beauty ! — Dreamlike still, — 
 A trance Elysian,— was our Dream of Life. 
 
 It is not good that years should pass away 
 Unburden'd by the weight of care and toil 
 
116 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Which is Man's lot and portion here on Earth. 
 Those years — I mourn them not — nor wish them 
 
 back, 
 Though pleasant in the retrospect — unlike 
 (O how unlike !) the round of varied tasks, 
 And duties which employ my noon of life ! — 
 The daily load of ministerial care, — 
 The parent's anxious toil of head and heart, — 
 The ceaseless stir and tumult of the world ! — 
 It is by these that men must live — in these 
 Our Father's spirit breathes. No easier lot 
 I covet, — only ask for heartier zeal. 
 And strength according to my need, and faith 
 Working by love, to do and to endure 
 Whatever Heaven may will, till the day close. 
 And the night come wherein no man can work. 
 
 There is a little town, within short space 
 Of England's central point, of various brick 
 Irregularly built, nor much adorn'd 
 By architectural craft — save that, indeed. 
 As you approach it from the south, a pile 
 Of questionable Gothic lifts its head 
 With somewhat of a grave collegiate air, 
 Not unbefitting what, in truth, it is, — 
 A seat of academic discipline 
 And classic education : — at its base 
 Stretches a broad expanse of verdant turf 
 With stately trees bestudded — the resort 
 Of schoolboys from their studious toil released, 
 And bent on sport athletic : — but for this, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 117 
 
 The place might pass unnoticed — to speak truth, 
 As insignificant a market-town 
 As may be seen in England. Far around 
 Extends a pastoral glade, to numerous herds 
 Yielding abundant herbage, but ungraced 
 By much of rural beauty — featureless, 
 And to the poet's and the painter's eye 
 Alike insipid ; — a wide, weary tract 
 Of hedgerow upon hedgerow. — Rock nor hill, — 
 Nor graceful undulation here is seen ; 
 The very stream which waters the fat meads 
 (Shaksperian Avon) hath not yet attain'd 
 The breadth and beauty of his later course, 
 But winds between his flat and reedy banks, 
 A thin, meandering, melancholy thread 
 Of slow, dull, slimy water: — the sole charms 
 Of which, with truth, the unvaried landscape boasts. 
 Are verdure and fertility: — the grass 
 Grows freshly, and the hedgerow trees present 
 Masses of summer foliage, with rich tints 
 Diversified in Autumn : — there is nought 
 To seek or shun, to hate or fondly love. 
 For miles and miles around ! Amidst such scenes. 
 The lines are fallen to me ; — amidst such scenes 
 I own a goodly heritage — content. 
 In the fulfilment of allotted tasks, 
 Here, if Heaven will, to live, and here to die. 
 Strange to the youthful minister of Christ, 
 Yet not unmixt with pleasure, is the awe 
 And anxious curiosity with which 
 
118 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 He first approaches his appointed sphere 
 
 Of pastoral duty — first inspects the fold 
 
 Of which he is the shepherd, and looks round 
 
 On faces which henceforth he is to know 
 
 In joy and grief, in sickness and in health. 
 
 Through many a chance and change of mortal life, 
 
 In many a close relation ; he meanwhile — 
 
 (Though haply versed in theologic lore) — 
 
 Unpractised, inexperienced in the ways 
 
 Of Man's mysterious heart, — unused to guide, 
 
 To comfort, to reprove, exhort, convince, 
 
 Or do the thousand offices of love 
 
 And Christian wisdom at his hands required. 
 
 And pressing on his heart. With what keen sense 
 
 Of high responsibilities, incurr'd 
 
 By weakness (then, if ever, deeply felt,) 
 
 He first ascends the pulpit ! — first surveys 
 
 The motley congregation closely pack'd. 
 
 And all intent, with curious eye and ear, 
 
 To see, hear, criticise — some few to learn 
 
 And welcome, with devout and docile hearts. 
 
 Him, their commission'd teacher ! In their homes. 
 
 And by their hospitable hearths, for him 
 
 With festal fires ablaze, — at social board. 
 
 Or cheerful tea-table, whence fairest hands 
 
 Dispense the nectarous fluid, to his taste 
 
 With nicest art adapted — each new face 
 
 Arrests his anxious eye ; each voice conveys 
 
 To his awaken'd and attentive ear 
 
 Some token, faint perchance, of fear or hope, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 119 
 
 Of comfort or discouragement. — ^To whom, 
 Among these cordial guests, in years to come, 
 Shall he resort for counsel ? Which shall aid. 
 With sympathy and solace pure and true, 
 His ministerial toil — and which oppose, 
 Impede, embarrass, — sometimes haply mar 
 His all too feeble efforts to promote 
 The welfare of his flock ? — Which shall be found 
 His friend, and which his enemy? — With whom, 
 At intervals of rest from pastoral care, 
 Shall he take pleasant counsel, and converse 
 On subjects which unbend, but not unnerve 
 The else o'er-labour'd mind ? — Such thoughts, per- 
 chance, 
 Flit swiftly thro' his brain : — Meanwhile he knows 
 Himself the mark of scrutinizing eyes, 
 And curious observation : — apt remarks 
 Are ventured — subtle questions ask'd, to probe 
 And fathom his opinions : — " Is he Whig 
 In Politics, or Tory ? — Orthodox 
 In creed, or Evangelical ? — What sect 
 Within the Church, — what party in the State, 
 Minutely in the parish imaged forth, 
 Shall find him its ally ?— Will he adhere 
 To old establish'd customs, and uphold 
 The right prescriptive of a parish priest 
 To hunt, and shoot, and fish, and be the first 
 In all convivial revels ? — strong at whist, 
 And matchless at back-gammon ? — or, imbued 
 With puritanic scruples, will he shun 
 
120 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 The world and all its pleasures — in their stead 
 
 Frequenting the resort of serious folk, 
 
 Committee-rooms and platforms — where the stage 
 
 And its profane excitements are eclipsed 
 
 (As some aver) by oratorio feats 
 
 Of reverend men, who spui'n alike the rules 
 
 Of grammar and the Church, and, in glib phrase, 
 
 Clip the Queen's English, — worthily repaid 
 
 For such achievements by the breath and bruit 
 
 Of popular applause ? — Or will he prove 
 
 A stern ascetic, in Tractarian lore 
 
 Profoundly versed, entangling simple souls 
 
 In bonds from which the Gospel sets them free — 
 
 Enjoining strict observance of the round 
 
 Of festivals and fasts and daily prayers. 
 
 And inconvenient alms-deeds, — apt himself 
 
 To fast and watch and mortify the flesh 
 
 With superstitious rigour, — teaching much 
 
 By precept and example, against which 
 
 We must perforce contend ?" — With such profound 
 
 And profitable queries, others mix 
 
 Less abstract speculations — " Is he one 
 
 Accessible as yet to Beauty's charms ? — 
 
 A prize to be contested by the skill 
 
 Of mothers and their daughters ? — the church glebe 
 
 Is rich and ample, and the Parsonage 
 
 (Judiciously enlarged) might well be made 
 
 A comfortable mansion." — Cease, fair dames. 
 
 Such musings, which the invulnerable man 
 
 With grim, sly smile suspects. — In distant bowers, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 121 
 
 The lady of his love already twines 
 Her nuptial wreath, and, ere six months have flown. 
 The bells from yon grey tower, with deafening peal. 
 Shall blithely welcome to their destined home 
 The Rector and his Bride. 
 
 It ill beseems 
 The poet — him especially whose crown 
 Of laurel must surmount the sober garb 
 For reverend clerks appointed — to select, 
 Amidst the present scenes of actual life, 
 The subjects of his song. This week-day world — 
 Its cares — its toils — its sharp anxieties — 
 The friends and foes of living flesh and blood, 
 With whom we sympathise and strive by turns — 
 These to Reality's dull realm belong, 
 And scarcely from that realm can be transferr'd 
 To Phantasy's domain, without neglect 
 Or partial violation of the laws 
 Of social life. — Such fault be far from me ! 
 Not in the Present, but the dreamy Past, 
 And not among the Living, but the Dead — 
 The unforgotten tenants of the grave — 
 The men o'er whose infirmities and faults 
 Remembrance draws a veil of shadowy haze. 
 Which glorifies their virtues — among such 
 Would I once more, in retrospective thought. 
 Live over my young days of pastoral care, 
 And interweave with this historic song 
 Some faint reflection of departed worth 
 And excellence still honour'd, which perchance. 
 
122 THE DREAM OF LIFE, 
 
 Not by surviving eyes unrecognized, 
 May to surviving hearts recall a train 
 Of pleasant recollections, nor incur 
 Reproach or censure — rather, let me hope, 
 Awaken kind and not unthankful thoughts 
 Tow'rd him who, if he could, would thus embalm, 
 In unguent mix'd of grave and serious verse, 
 Their loved and lost on Earth. 
 
 At the town's end 
 There is a neat and unpretending house. 
 Which you approach through a low wooden gate 
 Beneath an arch of laurel ; — a small porch 
 Of trellis -work, with odorous jessamine 
 And most luxuriant clematis entwined, 
 Shelters the expectant visitor, whose knock 
 Is yet unanswer'd ; — a bay windov/, fill'd 
 With flowering shrubs, on the left hand, admits 
 The late effulgence of the western Sun 
 To what, when first I knew it, long had been 
 The favourite room of one in many a heart 
 Still honour'd and remember'd — then my kind 
 And hospitable host. An aged man, 
 Already on the verge of full fourscore. 
 Was he, and, in his youth and middle age, 
 Had on the seas, beneath old England's flag. 
 Fought and commanded ; but for many a year 
 (The toils and perils of the deep foregone) 
 Had led a quiet and secluded life 
 In that snug dwelling, by the general voice 
 Of friends and neighbours quaintly named, from 
 him, 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 123 
 
 *' The Admiralty." Seldom hath a heart 
 
 So frank and simple dwelt within a frame 
 
 So burly and gigantic ; lustier voice 
 
 Than his, on shipboard, never yet outroar'd 
 
 The thunder, or was heard above the din 
 
 Of battle : — he was, all in all, compact, 
 
 Heart, voice, soul, sinews, bulk ; — colossal — vast. 
 
 As of the race of Anak, — yet, withal 
 
 As gentle as a lamb : — no kindlier smile 
 
 Than his e'er beam'd on childhood— (and, in truth, 
 
 He had his share of grandchildren ;) — no brow 
 
 Was e'er unbent on Woman with more bland 
 
 And guileless show of love ; and if his laugh 
 
 Was somewhat over-boisterous, and his jest 
 
 Couch'd in sea-phrase, and, like a seaman's speech, 
 
 Blunt and unpolish'd, — if fastidious ears 
 
 Might shrink from his sea-ditties, thunder'd forth 
 
 As though a broadside roar'd — the daintiest dame 
 
 Forgot such venial trespass in the sense 
 
 Of that inborn benignity which glow'd 
 
 And glisten'd in his look, and was diffused 
 
 Through his whole soul and spirit. Him all ranks 
 
 And classes loved and honour'd ; — to his house 
 
 Gentle and simple, country squire and clown, 
 
 Scholar and tradesman, pedagogue and peer. 
 
 Each sure of his appropriate welcome, came. 
 
 The nobles of the land were not ashamed 
 
 To leave awhile their lordly palace halls, 
 
 And spend an hour beneath that humble roof 
 
 In pleased, familiar talk with the old man, 
 
124 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Who on his part received them with blunt phrase 
 
 Of unaffected courtesy ; — the poor 
 
 Flock'd to him as their friend : — in grief and joy 
 
 He sympathized with all. — Two serving-maids, 
 
 Some twenty years his juniors, — one obese 
 
 And rubicund, — the other spare and lean, — 
 
 With a red-nosed, ill-manner'd serving-man, 
 
 Who rather ruled than served his easy lord, — 
 
 These form'd his household : — an asthmatic steed 
 
 Was, like his master, pension'd on half -pay, 
 
 Or rarely into active service call'd 
 
 From the near paddock. Such, for some few years 
 
 From the first date of my incumbency, 
 
 Continued his establishment, by laws 
 
 Most primitive and patriarchal ruled. 
 
 And unprofaned by aught of modish taste 
 
 Or over-costly luxury, though rich 
 
 In whatsoever to the incorrupt 
 
 And unsophisticated heart affords 
 
 Repose and satisfaction. — At the end 
 
 Of that brief time, with little outward change. 
 
 Or more decided symptom of decay. 
 
 After some days of sickness, meekly borne. 
 
 With calm expression of a Christian's hope 
 
 The old man fell asleep. Light lie the turf 
 
 On that stout heart, as simple and sincere. 
 
 As gentle and as brave as ever throbb'd 
 
 Beneath a sailor's bosom ! — be his sleep 
 
 The sleep of Paradise, till the last trump 
 
 To resurrection and their final doom 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 125 
 
 Summon the awaken'd dead ! 
 
 Nor let me pass 
 Unnoticed or unhonour'd in this lay 
 One who, by me but little known, hath yet 
 Left on my memory the abiding trace 
 Of his urbane and cordial courtesy, 
 By scholarship and classic taste refined ; 
 — A courtly, polish'd man, of bland address. 
 And clerical attire with rigorous taste 
 Adjusted and adorn'd — his reverend head 
 Well powder'd and pomatum'd — even the crown, 
 Which five and fifty winters had made bald, 
 With scrupulous exactness frosted o'er ; — 
 His central bulk, spruce, dapper, and rotund, 
 In silk and broadcloth of correctest cut 
 And sablest hue array'd ;— his nether parts 
 In hose unwrinkled of the finest woof, 
 And breeches, silver-buckled at the knee, 
 Display'd their plump proportions :— voice and look, 
 Gesture and phrase, to the discerning mind, 
 Proclaim'd the pedagogue — one of a race 
 Now passing from the earth ; — no man of thought, 
 Deep, earnest, serious, seething in the brain 
 Incessantly ; — no framer of vague plans 
 And purposes, imperfect, ever new. 
 From the rich depths of an exhaustless mind. 
 By the strong working of a Christian heart 
 Evolved ; — no rash enthusiast, labouring still 
 To purify, exalt, and bless mankind. 
 And using education as the means 
 
126 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 By Heaven, beyond all other means, ordain'd 
 To accomplish that high task. — Such men our age. 
 In this beyond preceding ages blest. 
 Hath seen, and loved, and mourn'd ; — but unlike 
 
 these 
 The generation which preceded ours, — 
 The teachers of our sires and of ourselves. 
 Less lofty was their aim ; — more moderate praise 
 Contented their ambition. — The dead tongues — 
 Their prosody and syntax — the nice rules 
 Of composition — the mysterious craft 
 Of metres — these to them were all in all — 
 The end of education, not the means. 
 Nor be it held dispraise to speak of one 
 Not last, nor least distinguish'd in his day, 
 As walking in the ways of his compeers 
 With steps which equall'd theirs, but not out- 
 
 stripp'd. 
 It was enough, for him of whom I speak, 
 To guard, with rigid and punctilious zeal, 
 That which he found establish'd ; — to maintain, 
 Unchanged and unimpair'd, the old, tried course 
 Of classic education, handed down 
 From those who went before him. This he did 
 With firm, unbending purpose, and became 
 The perfect model of a schoolmaster. 
 Such as our sires respected — such as we. 
 In the vain pride of our conceited age, 
 Are prone to undervalue — blind alike 
 To what exalts the Present — what the Past. 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 127 
 
 Far juster was the estimate which he 
 
 Form'd of himself : — proud was he of his craft, 
 
 Nor would abate one tittle of its claims 
 
 To honour and respect : — his air and tone 
 
 Were those of one who felt himself high raised 
 
 Above unlearned, unscholastic men ; 
 
 And, in or out of school, with equal pomp, 
 
 Right stately did he bear himself: — all rules 
 
 Of etiquette — all nice formalities, 
 
 He practised and exacted — was, in truth, 
 
 In discipline a very martinet ; 
 
 And when, in annual chair of state enthroned — 
 
 Surrounded by aristocratic groupes, 
 
 The county's high nobility, — he sat 
 
 Dispensing prizes — the world could not shew 
 
 A prouder, happier man ! Yet deem him not 
 
 Haughty or arrogant, — in manners stiflF, 
 
 Cold, and repulsive : — kindly was his heart. 
 
 Gentle he was and aflPable to all ; 
 
 And, when the labour of the day was done. 
 
 Loved with his neighbours at the social board 
 
 To spend a joyous hour, well pleased to reign 
 
 Supreme o'er mirth and music, whist and wit, — 
 
 Assuming and receiving at all hands 
 
 Precedency of place, and recognized 
 
 As absolute Dictator. 
 
 Yet such rank 
 Was not, without resistance and dispute. 
 At once assign'd him : — Our Republic found 
 A Brutus for this Caesar. — One there was 
 
128 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Whom Nature's hand had moulded to resist 
 
 Unconstitutional autocracy, 
 
 And hold it at defiance — a true son 
 
 Of Albion — all her dauntless Saxon blood 
 
 Careering in his veins — a brave, blunt man, 
 
 Laborious, energetic, shrewd of wit, 
 
 And resolute of action : — no adept 
 
 Was he at rules conventional — no slave 
 
 To forms of etiquette — no worshipper * 
 
 Of rank or sounding titles : — small respect 
 
 He own'd or felt for academic grade. 
 
 Or dignity ecclesiastical, 
 
 Save as the visible and outward garb 
 
 Of solid worth within : — his piercing eye, 
 
 Disdaining shows and seemings, ever sought 
 
 That which was real : — he esteem'd the man, 
 
 And not the cloak — the kernel, not the husk. 
 
 Whate'er himself possess'd of place, or wealth. 
 
 Or credit with the world, had been acquired 
 
 By the innate and energetic strength 
 
 And vigour of his mind, — by industry 
 
 And persevering toil of head and heart — 
 
 By due discharge of honourable trust 
 
 In the far Indies, whence he had return'd, 
 
 After few years in public duties spent, 
 
 A rich and prosperous man. Such energy. 
 
 Moral and intellectual, as could work 
 
 Whathe had wrought,— could bear whathehad borne, 
 
 And gain what he had gain'd — and such alone. 
 
 He honour'd and esteem'd in other men. 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 129 
 
 All else — diplomas — dignities — degrees — 
 
 Hereditary rank — ancestral pride — 
 
 Whate'er weak minds revere — he held dirt cheap, 
 
 And view'd, with somewhat of a jealous eye, 
 
 Monopolies of homage from of old, 
 
 In this aristocratic land, assign'd 
 
 To place, and station, and official rank. 
 
 Or well or ill maintain'd, with small regard 
 
 To aught which truly dignifies them all. 
 
 And gives them actual value :— hence he grew, 
 
 Almost by Nature's strong necessity. 
 
 Antagonistic to the Powers that were— 
 
 A stout and sturdy oppositionist. 
 
 Obstructing, by all lawful ways and means, 
 
 What seem'd encroachments of despotic sway ; 
 
 Asserting and maintaining the plain rights 
 
 Of social independence against all 
 
 Which look'd like usurpation. Hence arose 
 
 Occasional sedition — tart debate 
 
 Colloquial — insurrection, to restrain. 
 
 Within legitimate and wholesome bounds. 
 
 Monarchical prerogative. — Meanwhile 
 
 The Monarch was not slow to take the field, 
 
 With such offensive and defensive arms 
 
 As courteous scholars use — grave irony — 
 
 Sarcastic repartee — serenest smile 
 
 Of dignified compassion. Thus they two 
 
 (If old, traditionary tales speak truth 
 
 Of times beyond the memory of the Bard) 
 
 For many a year contended, yet broke not 
 
 2 K 
 
130 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 The bonds of social neighbourhood, nor lost 
 Their sense of mutual good-will. O'er both 
 The grave long since hath closed : — the petty feuds 
 And jealousies of earth divide them not 
 In that good land where both, we trust, have found 
 Acceptance and repose. 
 
 But all too long, 
 Methinks, we dwell among remembrances 
 Of days and things gone by : — 'tis meet we turn. 
 Beloved, to the Present. — Our abode — 
 The tabernacle of our earthly joys 
 And sorrows, hopes and fears — this home of ours — 
 Is it not pleasant ? — Is there one elsewhere 
 For which we would exchange it ? — Fourteen years, 
 Well nigh elapsed, have rear'd the puny trees 
 We planted at our coming, to a screen 
 And somewhat of a shade ; — our small domain, 
 Compact within itself, nor overlook'd, 
 (Albeit well nigh on every side begirt 
 By new and upstart dwellings,) forms a nook 
 In which the meek and unambitious heart 
 May live and die contented : — within doors 
 We have enough of comfort — and, without, 
 Of verdure, and bright sunshine, and fresh air. 
 To make our dwelling cheerful: — yon green field, 
 Between us and intrusion interposed. 
 Forms for our children a broad ample realm 
 Of undisturb'd enjoyment : — that tall pair 
 Of venerable elms, beneath whose shade 
 Lie buried those old favourites canine 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 131 
 
 Whose race, had we been childless, might per- 
 chance 
 E'en now have shared our hearth— those elms, 
 
 methinks, 
 May serve us for apt emblems of ourselves — 
 A hale, green pair, not yet much past their prime, 
 And from their grassy mound, in reverend state, 
 On a new generation looking down 
 Of young and hopeful plants. — By Fancy's aid 
 We might suppose them representatives 
 Of the successive tenants of this house — 
 The pastors of the parish and their wives, 
 Whose spirits, from the burden of the flesh 
 And all its toil released, have migrated. 
 Like Baucis and Philemon's in old time, 
 Into those leafy tenements, and there, 
 Fast by the mansion of their earthly life, 
 Await the body's waking. — But such sport 
 Of wilful Fancy haply ill accords 
 With the sad aspect of yon burial-ground 
 Contiguous to our garden — the long home 
 Of vanish'd generations, and in which 
 Both thou and I, ere many years have pass'd, 
 Must look to lay our bones. We lack not here 
 Mementos of mortality : — no knell 
 Proclaims the passing of a neighbour's soul. 
 But we are first to hear it ; — not a corpse 
 Is carried to its resting-place, but I 
 Do the last sacred offices ; — no week, — 
 Scarce a day passes, but some bed of death, 
 
132 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Or long consuming sickness, summons me 
 
 To minister beside it : — nor art thou 
 
 With sorrow less familiar, or less apt 
 
 To do thy part as comforter, and yield 
 
 Such help as woman only can dispense 
 
 To sickness and affliction. Strange 'twould be, 
 
 If all that we behold of chance and change. 
 
 Of sorrow and mortality, should leave 
 
 No trace upon our spirits, nor impress 
 
 On our remembrance ineffaceably 
 
 The lesson of the Church, that " in the midst 
 
 Of life we are in death." — Yet more perhaps 
 
 Than most of those with whom our lot is cast, 
 
 We lack such admonition : — life to us 
 
 Is fiU'd, by bounteous Providence, so full 
 
 Of purest comfort ! Since this house became 
 
 Our habitation, it hath seen more bliss 
 
 Than many a life of threescore years and ten 
 
 Brings to another dwelling — less of grief 
 
 Than one brief month hath brought to not a few. 
 
 There's scarce a room, beneath our roof, unmark'd 
 
 By some distinction of remember'd joy ; — 
 
 Of friends, whose visits, though too much like those 
 
 Of angels — passing short and far between — 
 
 Almost like those of angels gladden'd us ; — 
 
 Of pleasant and endearing intercourse 
 
 With neighbours whom we love ;— of home-content, 
 
 Enliven'd by those studies and pursuits 
 
 Which purify and strengthen, while they soothe 
 
 The weary mind. Here, in this study, cramm'd 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 133 
 
 With Strangest piles of heterogeneous lore, 
 O'er Shakspere's magic pages we have laugh'd 
 And wept by turns, while fairest fingers plied 
 The busy needle, and the reader's art 
 Repaid their cheerful toil : — on yonder chair, 
 Honour'd beyond its drawing-room compeers. 
 Sate once the mighty Poet of the Lakes, 
 And in his deep, sonorous voice conversed 
 On themes of loftiest import : — in this house 
 Six children have been born to us — of whom 
 Five until now, by Heaven's rich grace, remain, 
 And one hath fallen asleep. — My boyish dreams 
 Of happiness (though passing bright they were) 
 Fell short of the reality which still 
 Beneath this roof abides — reality 
 Too bright to be enduring. — May we wait 
 In thoughtful preparation, and endure 
 With patience, whatsoever change shall come ! 
 High theme it were — (too high for verse like 
 mine) — 
 To tell the toils, the pleasures, and the cares 
 Of ministerial duty ; — to set forth 
 The life of an ambassador for Christ 
 Such as it is — alas ! how much unlike 
 That which it ought to be ! Else there were food 
 For musing not unfruitful, not unblest. 
 In that long retrospect of years elapsed 
 Amidst parochial cares and toils and plans, 
 W^hich teems, as I survey it, with strange forms 
 Of human joy and sorrow. In the town 
 
134 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 There's scarce a house but to my mind recalls 
 Some sad or pleasing image of past days — 
 Some consolation offer'd — some sick bed 
 Sooth 'd or alarm'd— some confidence enjoy'd— 
 Some doubt dispell'd — alas ! some vain assault 
 On some strong-hold of Satan — some defeat 
 Encounter'd — some discomfiture sustain'd 
 Through lack of faith or courage.— Of such things 
 Let me not lightly speak, but speak in words 
 Recorded ere remembrance yet had lost 
 Its first impression. — Two such homely lays 
 I framed in other years; — the first a tale 
 (If tale it may be call'd) of grievous pain, 
 Through faith and patience wondrously endured. 
 And by endurance vanquish'd ; — a wild strain 
 The other, in Spenserian rhyme jocose 
 Recounting rustic feats of boisterous glee 
 And festal recreation, with a cause 
 Connected, righteous once, though since, alas! 
 By erring and fanatic zeal profaned, 
 And fitly, to sectarian patronage 
 Abandon'd by the Church. — Elsewhere than here 
 Be those twin songs recorded, and preserve 
 (If that perchance may be) to after days 
 Some memory of the English pastor's cares 
 And pastimes in this nineteenth century !* 
 So end my Dream of Life ! — for life is now 
 
 * See " Lays of the Parish," at the end of the present 
 volume. 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 135 
 
 Less dream-like than it has been ; — save, indeed, 
 
 That with a swifter and yet swifter course 
 
 The years begin and end — their hopes and fears 
 
 Blossom and fade — their sorrows and their joys 
 
 Are born and buried. While I strive to grasp 
 
 What seems the Present, it becomes the Past. 
 
 All things appear more fugitive, and yet 
 
 Less lovely than they did. The gorgeous hues 
 
 In which imagination clothed the world 
 
 While life was young, have faded : — what remains 
 
 Is, in its proper lineaments, discern'd. 
 
 And felt to be precarious — a brief dream. 
 
 Without a dream's magnificence : — and yet 
 
 To this the heart still cleaves, as in its youth 
 
 It clave to Fancy's daintiest imagery ; 
 
 Still as one joy dissolves and fades away. 
 
 Reposing on a new one. Death and Change 
 
 Are found to teach but slowly that sad truth, 
 
 That no continuing city have we here — 
 
 No rest for our foot-sole. — And yet their school, 
 
 Severe and stern, allows few holidays 
 
 From grief and disappointment ! — while I weave 
 
 This meditative lay, how rich a source 
 
 Of present solace, and of hope that gave 
 
 Bright promise for the future, with a stroke 
 
 Hath been cut oflf for ever ! — HE is dead ! — 
 
 He, whom all England honour'd as her first 
 
 Of Christian teachers ; — He, by whom her youth 
 
 Were train'd and lesson'd with most earnest zeal, 
 
 And depth unknown of wisdom from above. 
 
136 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 In Christ's all-perfect rule, and taught to take 
 His yoke upon them, and to bear His cross, 
 As Men who, with divine and human lore 
 Rightly imbued — in intellect and heart 
 Well disciplined — with heavenly arms equipp'd — 
 And knowing both the prize for which they strove, 
 And how it must be won — should, in this world, 
 Fight the good fight of faith.— Alas ! for us ! 
 His townsmen and near neighbours !— us^ whose 
 
 hopes 
 Parental with his life were close entwined ! 
 Who deem'd our children's the most blessed lot 
 By Providence to children e'er assign'd, 
 In that, by him, their young intelligence, 
 Develop'd and inform'd, should first expand 
 Its fresh and tender blossoms, — that in him, 
 Their teacher and their guide, they should behold 
 A model of what Christians ought to be ! 
 Alas ! for us ! — but not for us alone ! — 
 Britain — all Europe — Christendom itself 
 Mourns his untimely loss : — the Church bewails, 
 In him, the best and bravest of her sons ; 
 Him, if sometimes an erring, never found 
 A weak or craven champion in her cause : 
 For ne'er were truth and goodness loved and sought 
 With more devoted fervour than by him ; 
 Nor oft have noblest intellectual gifts 
 Been sanctified by loftier piety 
 Than in his bosom dwelt. His inward eye, 
 Clear, rapid, comprehensive, at a glance 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 137 
 
 Discern'd — if not the perfect form of Truth — 
 At least her shadowy lineaments — which straight 
 With stedfast gaze he foUow'd, in his course 
 Flashing" swift gleams of unexpected light 
 On whatsoever subject of high thought 
 Cross'd or approach'd his path. For human ills — 
 The want and woe — the ignorance and sin — 
 The bondage of corruption beneath which 
 The creature, in its anguish and unrest, 
 Still groans and travails — for whatever wrong 
 The feeble suffer and the strong inflict — 
 His was the sorrow of a Christian saint — 
 His were the projects of a Christian sage. — 
 For Britain's helpless millions above all, 
 Writhing in dumb, blind pain — untaught, unfed— 
 With earnest heart, and brain, and tongue, and pen, 
 He toil'd to achieve deliverance ; — to his end. 
 Through honour and dishonour, through report 
 Evil and good, still constant. — Yet, in him. 
 Philanthropy (too oft in feebler minds 
 Destructive of less liberal sympathies) 
 Marr'd not one home affection, but enhanced 
 And purified them all : — no happier hearth 
 Than his e'er flung its winter evening blaze 
 On groupes of joyous faces ; — there was not 
 In all the world a parent, husband, friend. 
 More excellent than he ! Nor was the face 
 Of Nature — her mysterious loveliness — 
 To him indifferent;— flowers, and trees, and fruits,— 
 Beast, insect, feather'd fowl, and creeping thing — 
 
138 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Whatever God hath made — the mountain ridge 
 
 Embosoming the lake, near which he spent 
 
 His intervals of rest from lifelong toil — 
 
 The primrose on the bank — the hawthorn hedge, 
 
 With woodbines and wild roses intertwined — 
 
 He loved them all ! Majestic was his soul, 
 
 And gentle in its majesty — alive 
 
 To whatsoe'er in this material world 
 
 Reveals the presence of Divinity, 
 
 And therefore full of love ! Alas for us ! 
 
 Who knew him — who beheld and felt the power 
 
 Of goodness which abode in him — and yet 
 
 Scarce loved it till 'twas lost ! — Alas for thee ! 
 
 Poor town, in which he sojourn'd for a time, 
 
 And which his sojourn dignified ! — Alas ! 
 
 For what thou art and hast been ! — Ichabod ! 
 
 Thy glory hath departed ! 
 
 — Fare thee well ! — 
 Henceforth, though I shall know thee as my home, 
 I will not view thee with a Poet's eye, 
 Nor wed thy name to verse. — And yet indeed 
 I love thee well, unlovely as thou art. 
 And in thy featureless repose of look, 
 Reflecting well that uneventful course 
 Of the mid life of man, to which my years 
 Have now attain'd ; — and though thou must become 
 Less pleasant, less endear'd to me, as years 
 Roll onward — though this house, now musical 
 With voices which I love, as I grow old 
 Must lose them, one by one, till we are left — 
 
THE DREAM OF LIFE. 139 
 
 (If death by swifter stroke divide us not) 
 
 — I and my partner — inmates of a home 
 
 Childless at last — not therefore will I now 
 
 Grudge thee such love as thou hast well deserv'd— 
 
 Such as thou still deserv'st. When I am gone, 
 
 May better and more gifted pastors dwell 
 
 Where I have dwelt so pleasantly ! — Yon Church, 
 
 Not even by Rickman's genius, in late years, 
 
 Reclaim'd from that unblushing ugliness 
 
 And degradation of deformity 
 
 By parsimonious thrift inflicted once — 
 
 May a new generation, more devout 
 
 Than we and than our fathers — pull it down. 
 
 As what defies amendment, and erect 
 
 A temple, worthier of the name it bears, 
 
 On what is now its site ! — But till it fall. 
 
 Still may the worship of our English Church, 
 
 As now, within its walls, in solemn pomp 
 
 Liturgical, with full accordant strains 
 
 Of the deep organ and symphonious chaunt 
 
 Of choristers, ascend from it to Heaven, 
 
 Wafting the aspirations pure and deep 
 
 Of Christian hearts ! — may never sound of hymn. 
 
 Such as these latter days have spawn'd in shoals — 
 
 Doggrel, prosaic, puritanical. 
 
 Quintessence of flat balderdash — pollute 
 
 Its sacred walls, suggesting to the mind 
 
 Of worshippers, who wish to be devout. 
 
 Involuntary thoughts which curl the lip 
 
 Perforce into a smile ! — may all who there 
 
140 THE DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 Kneel at one altar, be hereafter One 
 
 In heart and spirit ! — the whole Church on Earth 
 
 Anticipating, as the dawn draws nigh, 
 
 The eternal concord of the Church in Heaven ! 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH 
 CHURCH. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH 
 
 FIRST SUNDAY IN ADVENT. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Through the dreary night of ages, 
 
 While the world's gross dreamers slept, 
 Wakeful eyes of saints and sages 
 
 Have their lifelong vigil kept. 
 While long ages wax and wane. 
 Still they wake and weep in vain. 
 
 II. 
 Were thy words too boldly spoken, 
 
 Heralding salvation near, 
 Holy Paul ? — alas ! no token 
 
 Of the dawn doth yet appear. 
 Through thick clouds of grief and sin 
 Breaks no gleam of twilight in. 
 
 III. 
 Hath the Lord his Church forsaken ? 
 
 Nay ! — to faith's quick ear and eye, 
 Signs, too clear to be mistaken. 
 
 Tell of his redemption nigh. 
 Though gross darkness gird us round, 
 We an inner light have found. 
 
144 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 IV. 
 
 As the fleshly eye grows dimmer, 
 And the brow besprent with grey — 
 
 Nearer we discern the glimmer 
 Of the soul's eternal day. 
 
 As the grave begins to yawn, 
 
 Clear and perfect grows our dawn. 
 
 V. 
 
 Lo ! the eastern mountains kindle 
 With upshooting beams afar ! 
 
 Lo ! already droop and dwindle 
 Waning moon and morning star ! 
 
 Christ, the Sun of Righteousness, 
 
 Soon our weary eyes shall bless. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Christ himself! — make haste to meet him ! 
 
 Cast your robes of sin away ; 
 Clothed in light, go forth to greet him, 
 
 Children of the sober day ; 
 Not o'ercharged with foul excess, 
 Not in lust and wantonness ; 
 
 VII. 
 
 Not in wrath and fierce vexation. 
 
 Not in envying, not in strife, 
 Chaunt your hymns of gratulation 
 
 To the Lord of light and life. 
 Changed by Him, in heart and will, 
 Let not flesh its lusts fulfil. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 145 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 Our Lord came once in humble state, 
 
 And poor and mean array, 
 While crowds did on his advent wait, 
 
 And strew'd with boughs his way. 
 Upon a colt, an ass's foal, 
 
 He rode in lowly guise, 
 While shouts and songs, that mock'd control, 
 
 Peal'd round him to the skies. 
 II. 
 " Hosannah to the mighty King 
 
 Of David's royal stem ! 
 Whom, in Jehovah's name, we bring 
 
 To his Jerusalem !'* 
 So ran the shout from tongue to tongue, 
 
 While He in peace drew near — 
 Those tongues which soon foul insult flung 
 
 Upon his cross and bier ! 
 III. 
 And many a weary age hath past 
 
 Since those dark deeds were done — 
 And men would fain believe at last 
 
 His reign almost begun. 
 That day, 'tis said, shall dawn ere long, 
 
 When He o'er Earth shall ride. 
 Begirt by Heaven's angelic throng, 
 
 And martyrs glorified. 
 
 2 L 
 
146 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 IV. 
 
 So dream we, and with venturous skill 
 
 Heaven's times and seasons guess — 
 Yet cleave to this world's follies still, 
 
 Nor love its bawbles less. 
 Alas ! and sensual lust and hate, 
 
 And wasting strife and care. 
 Pollute and vex, from gate to gate, 
 
 Our Father's House of prayer ! 
 v. 
 With garb and gauds of harlot pride 
 
 And loveless smiles bedeck'd, 
 The Church, unlike a virgin bride. 
 
 Her bridegroom doth expect : 
 And we, who those blind hearts condemn. 
 
 Which Life's own Lord could slay, — 
 Should haply, had we lived with them. 
 
 Have been as blind as they ! 
 
 SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 I. 
 
 A WORLD of deep and fervent thought 
 God's word doth to our gaze unfold — 
 
 Whatever was done, or felt, or taught, 
 By saints and holy men of old ; 
 
 Their faith and patience, hope and love,- 
 Their trials in this nether sphere — 
 
LAYS OP THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 147 
 
 And how they won their crown above 
 
 Through purifying sorrow here. 
 II. 
 Nor is this all ; for God hath given, 
 
 To bless the mind's believing eye, 
 And lead the loving heart to heaven, 
 
 The sunbright scroll of prophecy : — 
 Blest glimpses of the bliss to come 
 
 Hereafter to this world below, 
 When Truth and Love shall build their home 
 
 Where sin dwells now with shame and woe. 
 III. 
 Six thousand years, in toil and pain, 
 
 Hath all Creation travail'd sore ; — 
 Six thousand years, alas ! in vain. 
 
 Nor yet that weary travail o'er ! 
 And well might strongest hearts give way 
 
 Beneath the incumbent weight of ill. 
 Which grows and gathers day by day, 
 
 Uncheck'd, unheal'd, triumphant still ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet this must end ; — deceit and guile. 
 
 And violence, and lust, and hate 
 Shall not, for aye, God's world defile, 
 
 Nor lay its glories desolate. 
 We look for a new Earth and Heaven, 
 
 Where righteousness in peace shall dwell, 
 When He to penal flames hath given 
 
 This globe of ours, with death and hell. 
 
148 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Though Heaven and Earth, like dreams, should 
 
 pass away, 
 Christ's word remaineth stedfast : — from their base 
 The hills may be up- rent, and know their place 
 No longer, — the great light which rules the day 
 Be quench'd, — the seas, burnt up, no more obey 
 Their rayless mistress, — each created race 
 Of beast, bird, insect, vanish from the face 
 Of Nature, sunk, herself, in deep decay; — 
 But nought which He hath spoken e'er shall fail ; — 
 Truth, goodness, mercy, wisdom, cannot die, 
 Nor aught in Earth or Heaven or Hell prevail 
 To mar His word, who from his throne on high 
 Came down and suffered in this tearful vale. 
 To save lost Man through all eternity. 
 
 THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 I. 
 
 As ministers of Christ, with high commission 
 Entrusted, his rich bounties to dispense. 
 
 And win, (if that may be,) from lost condition 
 To faith and hope, the slaves of sin and sense,- 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 149 
 
 As pledgped to preach, or in or out of season, 
 
 His truth to ears which hearken or reject, — 
 To guide, console, rebuke, and mildly reason — 
 
 Of us account, and yield us due respect. 
 II. 
 By us affused, the pure baptismal water 
 
 Doth to repentant souls rich gifts convey, 
 Sealing", to Heaven's adopted son or daughter, 
 
 Grace which shall wash the inborn sin away. 
 'Tis ours to dress the board, to crown the chalice, 
 
 With rich regalement of celestial food, — 
 From lips profane, deep stain'd with fraud or malice, 
 
 Withholding still Christ's body and his blood. 
 III. 
 Respect our office, — but insist, meanwhile. 
 
 That we should to our trust be faithful found ; 
 Not marring truth with flatteries base and vile — 
 
 Not fearing to reprove where sins abound, — 
 As duty calls, the cross still meekly bearing, — 
 
 Ne'er shunning God's whole counsel to make 
 known, — 
 Ourselves, our flocks, with equal zeal preparing 
 
 To meet the summons to His judgment throne. 
 
150 LAYS or THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 Fast bound in darksome prison 
 
 The saintly Baptist lay, 
 While on the world had risen 
 Redemption's vernal day : 
 And many a wondrous story 
 
 To cheer his spirit came, 
 Of Christ's increasing glory, 
 And ever spreading fame. 
 II. 
 Then spake he in his gladness — 
 
 ** Go forth, my brethren twain. 
 Who soothe my dungeon's sadness. 
 
 And glory in my chain — 
 Go ask this godlike seemer. 
 
 Of whom such things we hear,— 
 Art thou the true Redeemer, 
 Or must a third appear ?" 
 III. 
 Our Lord, in his deep kindness, 
 
 When they this message brought, 
 On sickness, pain, and blindness. 
 His healing mercies wrought ; 
 And while each dark disaster 
 Before him seem'd to flee, 
 " Go tell, he said, your master. 
 The things ye hear and see. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 161 
 
 IV. 
 
 " The lame their strength recover, 
 
 The lepers lose their stain, 
 The blind man's night is over, 
 
 The deaf can hear again ; 
 From Heaven hath light descended 
 
 To men of low degree ; — 
 Whoso is not offended, 
 
 The same is blest in me/' 
 
 V. 
 
 So spake our great Redeemer,^ — 
 
 So let our hearts reply ! 
 For who so blind a dreamer. 
 
 So dull of heart and eye, 
 As not to see around him. 
 
 As not to feel within, 
 That Satan's chain hath bound him — 
 
 That Christ hath conquer'd sin ? — 
 
 VI. 
 
 We ask not signs and wonders — 
 
 We go not forth to find 
 Rocks split by volleying thunders, 
 
 Reeds shaken by the wind. 
 By peace in Earth and Heaven, 
 
 By blissful hearth and home. 
 By all His grace hath given — 
 
 We know that Christ hath come. 
 
152 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 FOURTH SUNDAY IN ADVENT. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 I. 
 
 Rejoice in Christ alway — 
 
 When Earth looks heavenly bright. 
 When joy makes glad the livelong day. 
 
 And peace shuts in the night. 
 Rejoice, when care and woe 
 
 The fainting soul oppress, — 
 When tears at wakeful midnight flow, 
 
 And morn brings heaviness. 
 II. 
 Rejoice, when festal boughs 
 
 Our winter walls adorn, 
 And Christians greet, with hymns and vows, 
 
 The Saviour's natal morn. 
 Rejoice, when mourning weeds 
 
 The widow'd Church doth wear 
 In memory of her Lord who bleeds, 
 
 While Christians fast to prayer. 
 III. 
 Rejoice in hope and fear, — 
 
 Rejoice in life and death, — 
 Rejoice, when threatening storms are near. 
 
 And comfort languisheth. 
 When should not they rejoice, 
 
 Whom Christ his brethren calls — 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 153 
 
 Who hear and know his g-uiding voice 
 When on their hearts it falls ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet not to rash excess 
 
 Let joy like ours prevail ; — 
 Feast not on Earth's deliciousness, 
 
 Till faith begin to fail. 
 Our temperate use of bliss — 
 
 Let it to all appear ; 
 And be our constant watchword this — 
 
 *' The Lord himself is near!" 
 
 V. 
 
 Take anxious care for nought, — 
 
 To God your wants make known, 
 And soar, on wings of heavenly thought, 
 
 Tow'rd His eternal throne. 
 So, though our path is steep, 
 
 And many a tempest lours, 
 Shall His own peace our spirits keep, 
 
 And Christ's dear love be ours. 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 <• Wanderer in the desart bare, — 
 Man of pale and thoughtful brow. 
 
 With thy robe of camel's hair — 
 Tell us who and what art thou ? 
 
 Art thou He for whom we wait — 
 
154 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 He who, as we fondly deem, 
 From their low and lost estate 
 
 Shall our weary tribes redeem?" 
 II. 
 " Not Messiah's self am I," 
 
 (Straight the Baptist did confess,) 
 *' But a voice that loud doth cry 
 
 In the echoing wilderness — 
 Haste, prepare Jehovah's way- 
 Such the message which I bear ; — 
 Disobedient hearts obey ! 
 
 Stubborn knees be bent in prayer !" 
 III. 
 *' Thou art not Elias then, 
 
 Nor the prophet yet to be ; 
 Wherefore should the sons of men 
 
 Come to be baptized of thee ?" 
 Thus, in proud and taunting ire. 
 
 Did the Pharisees reply ; — 
 Straightway gleams of heavenly fire 
 
 Kindled in the Baptist's eye. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Yea," he cried, " right well ye say, 
 
 I with water now baptize ; 
 But among you stands to-day 
 
 One, yet hidden from your eyes — 
 One who doth all worlds control, • 
 
 Heavenly Son of heavenly Sire ; 
 He shall wash the sinful soul 
 
 With the Holy Ghost and fire." 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 155 
 
 V. 
 
 Jesu ! — the baptismal rite, 
 
 Ere we knew thee, made us thine ; 
 With thy Spirit's gentle might 
 
 Come, our carnal hearts refine ! 
 Purify and light and heat 
 
 All the darksome depths within ; 
 Heal, in nature's last retreat. 
 
 All her sickness — all her sin ! 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 I. 
 
 By vision clear and truthlike dream — 
 
 By awful voices heard from Heaven, — 
 By many a brief, but glorious gleam 
 
 Of his own brightness faintly given, — 
 By type and emblem, rite and law, — 
 
 By prophets' voices stern and bold, — 
 By all they felt, by all they saw, — 
 
 God to our fathers spake of old. 
 II. 
 But dreams are vague, and visions dim, 
 
 And e'en the heavenly sounds, that flow 
 From holiest lips of Seraphim, 
 
 To sinful hearts seem faint and low ; 
 And types — we scarce know what they mean, 
 
 And little heed we sage or seer, 
 
156 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Compared with what our eyes have seen, — 
 
 Compared with what our ears may hear. 
 III. 
 For God's own Son, to whom is given 
 
 Dominion o'er all worlds that are, — 
 Whose power upholds both Earth and Heaven, — 
 
 Who guides and governs sun and star, — 
 In whose refulgent person shine 
 
 His Father's lineaments express, — 
 Hath come on Earth, through love divine 
 
 To purge our human sinfulness. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And through the deeds His love hath done, 
 
 — Though heir himself of Heaven — hath He 
 A throne above the angels won. 
 
 Beside the Eternal Majesty. 
 And they — the beautiful — the bright, 
 
 Who ride upon the lightning's flame, 
 And guide at will the whirlwind's might, 
 
 Fall down and worship at his Name. 
 
 V. 
 
 O Lord ! eternal is thy throne — 
 
 Thee Heaven's immortal myriads bless ; 
 And men, and saints, and angels own 
 
 The sceptre of thy righteousness. 
 And, ere this frame was yet begun, 
 
 Of earth and ocean, sky and sea, 
 God's word went forth, " Thou art my Son, — 
 
 This day have I begotten thee !" 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 157 
 
 VI, 
 
 They, as a garment, shall wax old — 
 
 Earth, air, and ocean, sun and sky, — 
 Till, like a vesture, shalt thou fold 
 
 Creation up, and cast it by. 
 But thou shalt still the same remain. 
 
 Triumphant over death and hell, — 
 Secure from grief, remote from pain. 
 
 Eternal and unchangeable. 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 
 I. 
 In the beginning there was God alone : 
 His immaterial glory fill'd all space. 
 Its ancient and illimitable throne : — 
 Substance was none ; — no colour, form, or place ; 
 Not one of all night's countless orbs had shone 
 As yet upon her still and rayless face ; 
 No sound had pierced the silence lone and deep, 
 Telling of life, which still in Time's vast womb did 
 sleep. 
 
 II. 
 Then was the Word with God — the Word was God ; 
 Co-equal — co-eternal — co- divine, 
 Myriads of ages ere Earth's soil was trod 
 By man or seraph, — ere a sun did shine. 
 Impregnating with heat her teeming sod, 
 
158 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 And filling with rich ore the virgin mine — 
 Even then, in glory such as heart ne'er felt, 
 Tongue spake, or thought conceived, the Son and 
 Father dwelt. 
 
 III. 
 Earth was created : — the great fiat pass'd, 
 * Let there be light :' — that fiat spake the Word — 
 Himself the light on each man's spirit cast ; 
 And when into our nostrils life was pour'd, 
 He was that life ; — yet when He came at last 
 To his own world — its Maker and its Lord, — 
 That world received him not, and he was fain 
 Over a few poor, faithful, scattered hearts to reign. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet, to as many as received him, He 
 Gave power, e'en then, to be the sons of God ; 
 Not through the pride of mortal ancestry — 
 Not for that they Earth's sacred places trode — 
 Not for that men had will'd it so to be — 
 But that His grace, who quickeneth stone and clod, 
 Made them partakers of a second birth, 
 And denizens of Heaven, while yet they dwelt on 
 Earth. 
 
 v. 
 Thus was the Word made flesh, and with us dwelt, 
 Here sojourning among the sons of men, — 
 And all our joys and all our sorrows felt, 
 Revealing daily to our mortal ken 
 The glory of his Father, — so to melt 
 Our stubborn hearts, and win them home again 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 159 
 
 E'en to Himself; — for us he felt such ruth — 
 He, God's own image, full of heavenly grace and 
 truth ! 
 
 ST. STEPHEN'S DAY. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 
 Our mortal eyes are all too dim 
 To see Heaven's countless seraphim 
 
 Encamp'd Christ's Church around ; 
 Our mortal ears too dull to hear 
 Angelic voices, close and clear, 
 
 But in Earth's uproar drown'd. 
 II. 
 We know not what bright myriads stand 
 Invisible, but near at hand, 
 
 To guard our narrow way ; — 
 What banners o'er us are unfurl'd, — 
 How weak is he who rules the world 
 
 To Him whom we obey ! 
 III. 
 And so a timorous war we wage, 
 And plod through life's dull pilgrimage 
 
 With laggard steps and slow ; 
 Beset by perils dark and drear, 
 Trouble and toil, and doubt and fear, 
 
 And ever varying woe. 
 
160 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet moments, few and brief, have been 
 When faith's enfranchised eye hath seen 
 
 Beyond this mortal night ; — 
 When some strong effort of the heart 
 Hath rent Earth's shadowy veil apart, 
 
 And brought all Heaven in sight. 
 
 V. 
 
 First of the martyrs ! — thus to thee 
 'Twas given thy Saviour's self to see 
 
 At God's right hand reveal'd ; 
 Whom once beheld, what marvel thou 
 With patient cheer and stedfast brow 
 
 Thy saintly soul shouldst yield ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 But we ! — our eyes are dark with sin, — 
 Mists, rising from foul depths within, 
 
 Their else keen vision blind ; 
 And so in vain we struggle still 
 With sluggish heart, and slavish will. 
 
 And gross and sensual mind. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Lord ! on our darkling spirits shine 
 With those refulgent beams of thine, 
 
 Which kindle faith and love ; 
 That we thy presence may discern, 
 And so, through earth's afflictions, learn 
 
 To win our crown above. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 161 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 A BEAUTEOUS world is this of ours, 
 
 Though dimm'd by sin's polluting stain ; 
 The earth looks bright with fruits and flowers, 
 
 The skies with shifting sun and rain : 
 The air is fresh with fragrant scent, 
 
 And many a pleasant voice and sound 
 Tells sweetly of deep-felt content 
 
 In homes where peace and love abound. 
 II. 
 Who would not say, if this were all, 
 
 " The temple of God's love is here ; 
 Gleams of his brightest glory fall 
 
 From Heaven upon this favour'd sphere" ? 
 And yet — behold the lightning's path — 
 
 The blazing roof, the blasted tree — 
 The tokens of avenging wrath — 
 
 Plague, famine, death, and misery ! 
 III. 
 Alas ! from this, our beauteous earth. 
 
 The cry of guilt to God hath risen ; 
 The world, which smiled on Adam's birth, 
 
 Is now his sinful offspring's prison. 
 There's not a green and flowery vale. 
 
 There's not a pleasant grove or dell. 
 But has its own peculiar tale 
 
 Of agony and crime to tell. 
 
 2 M 
 
162 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And yet o'er all our deeds of shame, — 
 
 Of hate and veng-eance, wrath and lust, — 
 Of plundered cities wrapt in flame — 
 
 Of towers and temples ground to dust, — '■ 
 Of maids' and matrons' foulest wrong — 
 
 Of ruin'd hearth and reeking- sod, — 
 One cry arises, loud and long, — 
 
 The death-cry of the saints of God ! 
 
 V. 
 
 The earth has drunk their gentle blood. 
 
 And closed above their scatter'd bones ; 
 Rock, hill, and cavern, vale, and wood, 
 
 Have echoed back their dying groans. 
 In dungeons dark, in tortures dire. 
 
 By axe and fagot, stone and sword, 
 In whelming floods, in scorching fire, 
 
 Their lives they yielded for their Lord. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Through woods and wilds, o'er pathless rocks, 
 
 They roam'd to shun the rage of men ; 
 They found a shelter with the fox. 
 
 They dared the hungry lion's den ; 
 They sought and shared the raven's food. 
 
 They slept beside the eagle's nest ; 
 By human hatred still pursued. 
 
 And only in the grave at rest. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And years and ages wax and wane, — 
 But that fierce hate is quenchless still ; 
 
LAYS OP THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 163 
 
 And martyrs toil and bleed in vain 
 To free mankind from g-rief and ill. 
 
 The thirst of Cain for Abel's blood, 
 The hate that slew the Lord of heaven, 
 
 Still persecute the wise and good — 
 Those sole offenders ne'er forgiven ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And shall not God avenge his own ? 
 
 — Look up — in all the louring sky 
 The tokens of his wrath are shown — 
 
 He will avenge them speedily. 
 For ruthless deeds of days long past, 
 
 For saintly blood like water shed, 
 Those gathering clouds shall burst at last, 
 
 Ere many another age hath fled. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The curse deferr'd at length draws nigh, 
 
 Our guilty world beneath it shakes ; 
 It blights the earth, it blasts the sky, 
 
 All flesh before its advent quakes. 
 All human faces gather gloom. 
 
 Fear hideth in the hearts of kings ; — 
 O Lord, protect thy Church from doom, 
 
 Beneath thy mercy's sheltering wings. 
 
164 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 ST. JOHN THE EVANGELIST'S DAY. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 I. 
 
 A BLESSED lot was yOUFS, 
 
 Who dwelt with Christ below, 
 And saw him work his heavenly cures 
 
 On mortal pain and woe ! 
 Into whose charmed ears 
 
 His human accents sank ; 
 Whose heart, oppressed with griefs and fears, 
 His looks of pity drank ! 
 II. 
 Those words of his we read, 
 
 And feel their countless worth ; 
 And gladly yet our spirits feed 
 On all he wrought on Earth. 
 From Bethlehem's manger mean 
 
 To Calvary's awful hill, 
 We track him through each wondrous scene. 
 As faith discerns it still. 
 III. 
 But faith's intensest gaze 
 
 Is all too weak and cold 
 To pierce the thick and sensual haze 
 
 Which doth our hearts enfold. 
 Almost God's written word 
 
 Those craving hearts despise — 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 165 
 
 It cannot give the tones ye heard, 
 The looks that bless'd your eyes. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Unkind and selfish men ! 
 
 Ye might have told us more 
 (For God's own Spirit warm'd your pen) 
 
 Of Him whom all adore. 
 His voice — his form — his glance — 
 
 His stature fair and tall,— 
 The glories of his countenance — 
 
 Ye might have told them all. 
 
 V. 
 
 Among your tribes was none, — 
 
 Not one poor limner found. 
 Who might pourtray that heavenly One 
 
 With Earth's rich beauty crown'd ? 
 Could no kind art have left 
 
 The strains of that last hymn, 
 Whose parting tones your bosoms cleft 
 
 Near Cedron's hallow 'd brim ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 So might our eyes have dwelt 
 
 On that divinest brow ; 
 So might our thrilling hearts have felt 
 
 Those heavenly accents now. 
 That face o'er home and hearth 
 
 Might cheering light have flung, 
 And Christians still enjoy 'd on Earth 
 
 The strains their Saviour sung. 
 
166 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " O ! murmurs base and vain ! 
 
 (Heaven's martyr'd saints reply) 
 And foolish tongues that thus complain ! 
 
 And foolish hearts that sigh ! 
 What lack ye now of all 
 
 That we enjoy 'd of old ? 
 What light could on our spirits fall 
 
 Which yours may not behold ?" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He spake with us on Earth — 
 
 He speaks to you from Heaven ; 
 Is with you in your grief and mirth — 
 
 Hath all your sins forgiven : 
 To bear his words to you 
 
 Our strength and lives we gave ; 
 That ye might know what once we kiiew, 
 
 We dared the martyr's grave. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Our toils are over now, 
 
 And yours will soon be done ; 
 Keep patient heart and stedfast brow 
 
 Till faith's good fight be won. 
 Walk boldly in the light, 
 
 And so your prize pursue, 
 For God's own glory gilds the night 
 
 Which yet looks dark for you. 
 
 X. 
 
 Deem not the gospel's sway 
 As yet hath slain your sin, 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 167 
 
 Nor wash'd its crimson stains away, 
 Nor cleansed the founts within. 
 
 Before God's altar kneel, 
 To Him your sins confess, 
 
 And He your hearts shall cleanse and heal 
 From all unrighteousness. 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 
 If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee V 
 
 I. 
 Art thou still on Earth a rover ? 
 
 Shar'st thou still some mortal home, 
 Though life's task hath long been over, 
 
 Tarrying till thy Lord shall come ? 
 Still unchanged in human beauty, 
 
 Breathing still our human breath, 
 Stedfast still at all Earth's duty, 
 
 Only free from pain and death ? 
 II. 
 Thou whom once the Lord of glory 
 
 Chose his earthly friend to be — 
 Meekest saint of Christian story. 
 
 Gentle child of Zebedee — 
 Still do Earth's gross fetters bind thee ? 
 
 Is thy rest not yet begun ? 
 Where, O where, may Christians find thee? 
 
 In what land beneath the sun ? 
 
168 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 III. 
 
 Art thou still, unheeded, roaming 
 
 On the Galilean shore, 
 Where Gennesareth's waves are foaming", 
 
 Which thy bark so often bore ? 
 Dost thou still delight to wander 
 
 Through the paths thy Saviour trod ; 
 Where with thee he loved to ponder 
 
 On the ways and works of God ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 In the city sad and saintly, — 
 
 On the Temple's blasted site, — 
 When the stars are burning faintly, 
 
 Dost thou oft outwatch the night ? 
 How must Salem's ruins move thee ! — 
 
 All is changed on Zion's hill ; 
 Heaven alone is bright above thee, 
 
 And its fires unfaded still. 
 
 V. 
 
 Or, in Patmos isle secluded, 
 
 View'st thou, with prophetic eye. 
 Things whereinto ne'er intruded 
 
 Holiest angel known on high ? 
 Swiftly now the days are waning 
 
 Which thy mystic lips foretold ; 
 Soon thy Lord, in glory reigning, 
 
 Shall thy weary eyes behold. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Hath our own bright isle beheld thee, 
 Shrouded in some garb obscure ? 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 169 
 
 Have we from our doors repell'd thee, 
 For that thou wast old and poor ? 
 
 Faint, perchance, and Avorn and weary, 
 Toiling on from clime to clime — 
 
 Still thou view'st one prospect dreary, — 
 Waning faith and waxing crime. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Sick, perchance, in heart and spirit 
 
 At the ceaseless strife and change 
 Which Earth's ancient realms inherit — 
 
 Westward thou hast turn'd to range. 
 There, where nature's smiles are kindest — 
 
 Where our race is in its youth — 
 Tell us if, e'en there, thou findest 
 
 Holier love or purer truth ? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Doth thy bark, with gentlest motion. 
 
 Where the smooth Pacific smiles. 
 Bear thee o'er the breast of ocean, 
 
 Visiting its myriad isles ? 
 There, in joy and triumph sailing. 
 
 Dost thou pass from shore to shore. 
 Where young faith is yet prevailing, 
 
 Where false gods are found no more ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 Idle dreams ! though passing pleasant 
 
 To the fond and foolish heart. 
 Which on Earth would deem thee present, 
 
 Though in heavenly bliss thou art. 
 He who here vouchsafed to love thee, 
 
170 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 He who held thee on his breast, 
 Breathes eternal peace above thee, 
 In the chambers of his rest. 
 
 X. 
 
 Dreamy sounds, from earth ascending, 
 
 Tell thee of our strife below ; 
 How the Church is still contending 
 
 With unvanquish'd sin and woe. 
 Heaven's remotest depths must hide thee. 
 
 Till her victory be won ; — 
 There may we repose beside thee, 
 
 When our earthly toils are done ! 
 
 THE INNOCENTS' DAY. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 I. 
 
 Through Heaven's bright depths profound 
 Float waves of golden sound — 
 Voices of mingled love, and joy and wonder ; 
 Like harps that smite the ear, 
 'Midst waters murmuring near. 
 And the deep rolling of the distant thunder. 
 Seraphs and saints are chaunting some new 
 song. 
 Which, round Jehovah's throne, Heaven's echoing 
 vaults prolong. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 171 
 
 II. 
 
 On Zion's topmost brow 
 Bright hosts are g-athering now — 
 Twelve times twelve thousand, each a sceptred 
 saint ! 
 Each bears his Father's name 
 In lines of dazzling flame, 
 Writ on his forehead ; — yet that blaze grows faint 
 Beneath the overpowering glory of the Lamb 
 Throned in the midst— the One — the infinite I AM. 
 III. 
 And hark ! with one accord, 
 To greet Heaven's sovereign Lord, 
 That countless host its mighty voice doth raise ; 
 A loud and thrilling song 
 Peals through the immortal throng — 
 A song of holy love, and joy and praise : 
 A song which none may learn but such as be 
 EnroU'd among that bright and blessed company. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Those blissful sounds to hear, 
 
 Heaven stoops its charmed ear, — 
 Angels themselves their choral songs suspending ; 
 
 While blessed souls that sleep 
 
 In peace serene and deep. 
 Feel the wild music with their visions blending. 
 But even angelic voices are too dull 
 To imitate those strains — so wild and wonderful. 
 
 V. 
 
 Ye crowned heads that wait 
 
172 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 In calm and saintly state, 
 (White-vested elders) round the eternal throne; 
 Declare, if that ye may, 
 What glorious hosts are they, 
 From whose bright lips these wond'rous sounds 
 
 have flown ? 
 Why can none learn the words of that strange 
 song, 
 Nor chaunt the heavenly notes which waft those 
 words along ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Earth's holiest sons are these, 
 Who (so their Lord to please) 
 Refrain'd on earth from joys of earthly love ; 
 By woman undefiled, 
 Each like a sinless child 
 Follow'd his Master to his rest above ; 
 Nor e*er did passion's sensual paths pursue, 
 Nor e'er the wanton joys of amorous dalliance 
 knew. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " These calm'd, with stedfast will. 
 Desire's intemperate thrill, 
 E'en in the May of their impetuous blood ; 
 Nor let vain Fancy's play 
 Their senses steal away ; 
 Nor sank beneath the might of womanhood. 
 But firmly put Earth's baser love aside. 
 So best to live to Him for them on Earth who 
 died. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 173 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ** No feverish hopes and fears 
 Disturb'd their prime of years, 
 Nor from their heart's serene devotion drave ; 
 Nor foul suspicion's breath, 
 Nor passion, strong as death, 
 Nor jealousy, more cruel than the grave, 
 Marr'd the composure of their tranquil mind, 
 Nor could their eagle wings of heavenly musing 
 bind. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Nor knew they the turmoil 
 Of household cares or toil, 
 For wife and children daily bread to win ; 
 Nor love's capricious wiles 
 And shifting frowns and smiles, 
 Once snared them into act or thought of sin, 
 While, with fond zeal, to please a wife they strove, 
 Neglecting His high cause who claim'd their hearts 
 above. 
 
 X. 
 
 " Therefore, with perfect will. 
 
 They served their Master still. 
 Nor e'er, on Earth, forgot their heavenly prize ; 
 
 Through clouds of trouble dim. 
 
 By faith, discerning Him 
 Whom yet they saw not with their fleshly eyes : 
 For his dear sake Earth's fiercest hate defied, — 
 Lived but to work his will, and for his glory died. 
 
174 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Now all their toils are o'er, 
 And sense and lust no more 
 Disturb or sadden their serene repose ; 
 But, with Heaven's glories crown'd, 
 They near the Lamb are found, 
 And track his footsteps wheresoever he goes ; 
 Still in his wake, with rapturous flight, ascending, 
 Through worlds of dazzling light and bliss that 
 knows no ending. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " And that blest song, they sing, 
 With which Heaven's chambers ring. 
 As with the fabled music of the spheres, 
 Breathes no dull tone of earth — 
 No thought that e'er had birth 
 In the gross world of carnal hopes and fears : 
 But hymns the passion of a virgin love. 
 Which such alone conceive even in these realms 
 above." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Ah ! woe ! — must only they, — 
 
 (White-vested elders say,) 
 Must only they their Lord's pure joy partake ? 
 
 And we, who toil below 
 
 Through mortal grief and woe. 
 Bearing the cross for his beloved sake — 
 Must we ne'er learn the wonders of that strain, 
 For that we wore, on earth, soft wedlock's easy chain ? 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 175 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And that, around our hearth, 
 
 The laugh of childhood's mirth 
 And matron voices of meek rule were heard ; 
 
 And that the nuptial bed 
 
 Was in our chambers spread, 
 And that our hearts were innocently stirr'd 
 By woman's gentle words and cheering smile ; 
 And that her tender love did all our cares beguile ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 Is it our sin, that we, 
 In gentlest sympathy, 
 Thro' life's dark paths each other cheer'd along. 
 And felt the bitter dearth 
 Of children snatch'd from Earth, 
 To join their voices to that choral song ? 
 Can chastest love our path so foully mar, 
 As e*en Heaven's brightest courts against our souls 
 to bar ? 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " O base and foolish plaints 1" — 
 (Thus those white-vested saints 
 With dreamlike voice upbraidingly reply ;) 
 " O murmurs base and vain, 
 Which Heaven's high will arraign ! 
 And sinful hearts which with the sinless vie ! 
 Low, sensual spirits, which would take your fill 
 Of Earth's most luscious joys, yet reign with martyrs 
 still ! 
 
176 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Is't not enough that ye 
 Have power on earth to be 
 Emblems and types of Christ's eternal love ; 
 Fond husband and chaste wife, 
 In pure connubial life, 
 The Church pourtraying and her spouse above ? 
 Is't not enough to know that you shall share 
 In heaven the fullest bliss that blessed souls can 
 bear? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 *' Your own hard task fulfil, 
 And meekly do God's will, 
 Cheer'd by the comforts which his love hath given ; 
 It may be that the hours 
 Here spent in wedlock's bowers. 
 Shall shed rich fragrance o'er your homes in 
 
 heaven ; 
 And love's bright flowers, which bloom so feebly 
 here, 
 Burst into full-blown bliss in Heaven's congenial 
 sphere. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ** So let each soul possess, 
 
 In faith and holiness, 
 Its proper gift of God — and still let all, 
 
 With reverence due, give place 
 
 To those whom ampler grace 
 Doth to sublimer self-denial call ; 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 177 
 
 Who, self-subdued, best purge from earthly 
 leaven 
 Those founts of holy thought which fit the soul for 
 Heaven." 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 *' Through the desart wild and dreary, 
 
 Following tracks explored by few. 
 Sad at heart, and worn and weary. 
 
 We our toilsome march pursue. 
 O'^r our heads, with blaze unclouded, 
 
 Burns the fierce and fiery noon ; 
 Pestilence, in darkness shrouded, 
 
 Near us walks beneath the moon. 
 
 II. 
 
 " O'er the steep and pathless mountain 
 
 Oft with bleeding feet we climb ; 
 Scarce to taste the desart fountain 
 
 Human hate allows us time. 
 Israel's homes lie far behind us, 
 
 Yet we pause not to look back. 
 Lest the keen pursuer find us. 
 
 Lest grim murder scent our track. 
 III. 
 '* Eagles o'er our heads are wheeling, 
 
 Each careering towards her nest ; 
 E'en the wolf and fox are stealing 
 
 2 N 
 
178 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 To the covert of their rest ; 
 Every foul and noxious creature 
 
 Finds on earth its lair and bed ; — 
 But the infant Lord of Nature 
 
 Hath not where to lay his head, 
 
 IV. 
 
 •' Yet, my babe, sweet sleep enfolds thee 
 
 On thy fainting mother's arm ; 
 God, in his great love, beholds thee, 
 
 Angels guard thy rest from harm ; 
 Earth and hell in vain beset thee. 
 
 Kings against thy life conspire ; 
 But our God can ne'er forgret thee. 
 
 Nor His arm, that shields thee, tire. 
 
 V. 
 
 " Where is now our peaceful dwelling? 
 
 — Wrapt perchance in vengeful flame ; 
 Ruffian voices round it yelling, 
 
 Curses on thy gentle name. 
 Woe to Bethlehem's matrons, keeping 
 
 Tenderest watch above their dead ! 
 Rachel, for her children weeping, 
 
 Knows not to be comforted. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Woe to them ! — and yet their anguish 
 Fades before what mine must be ; 
 
 Doom'd to see my loved one languish 
 Through this life's long misery. 
 
 Doom'd to see Earth's hate expended 
 On his meek and lowly head. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 179 
 
 Till his weary task is ended — 
 Till his sinless blood is shed. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Heavenly hope shall soothe their sorrow, 
 
 When the grass begins to wave, 
 After many a dreary morrow, 
 
 Freshly o'er each infant grave. 
 I alone, to rest a stranger. 
 
 Must behold, with aching eye. 
 O'er my child distress and danger 
 
 Gathering still incessantly. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "But forbear, my sinful spirit. 
 
 Of thy chastening to complain ; 
 Gladly let me here inherit 
 
 Toil and sorrow, care and pain ! 
 Welcome Earth's most dread vexations ! 
 
 Welcome anguish and distress ! 
 Since my name all generations 
 
 For a Saviour's love shall bless !" 
 
 THE SUNDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 I. 
 
 The childhood of our race is o'er, 
 Its youthful prime hath faded long; 
 
 Man's ripening mind delights no more 
 In dream and vision, tale and song. 
 
180 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 The dawning hope, the fond belief, 
 
 The novelty of life are fled ; 
 And all is sober, joy and grief. 
 
 And phantasy and faith are dead. 
 II. 
 The rites which pleased our Nature's youth, 
 
 While heart and mind were childish still — 
 The earthly types of heavenly truth, — 
 
 The altars of the grove and hill, — 
 The saintly pomp — the annual feast — 
 
 The sounds of sacred dance and hymn, — 
 The sacrifice of bird and beast — 
 
 These rites are o'er — these splendours dim. 
 III. 
 Our reason, disenthrall'd at length 
 
 From youthful fancies, fond and vain, 
 Comes forth, released by manhood's strength, 
 
 From governor's and tutor's reign. 
 The shadowy types of mystic lore 
 
 Content not now our mental eye. 
 Whose quenchless gaze would fain explore 
 
 All wonders of all worlds on high. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And must man's spirit vainly pant 
 For purest truth to learn and love ? 
 
 Still groan beneath its earthly want 
 Of fellowship w^ith things above ? 
 
 — Not so ! — the teeming womb of Time 
 Hath travail'd with a wondrous birth ; 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 181 
 
 God's Son hath come, in love sublime, 
 His brethren to redeem on earth. 
 
 V. 
 
 And for that we, through sin subdued, 
 
 Are sons of God and heirs of heaven, 
 Our Father, to each heart renevv'd, 
 
 The spirit of a son hath given. 
 The soul's long servitude hath ceased, — 
 
 Not now, like slaves, we crouch and cower. 
 But on our Father's bounty feast, — 
 
 Enjoy His love, adore His power. 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 " Thou wast to me the brightest dream 
 
 That e'er upon my spirit shone ; 
 Alas ! and is that heavenly gleam 
 
 For ever lost and gone ? 
 And do I live ? — and can it be 
 
 That thou a shameless wanton art. 
 Who wast the type of purity 
 
 To this fond, foolish heart ? 
 
 " I thought, ere yet I dared to love. 
 
 That thou wast scarce an earth-born thing ; 
 
 Thy mortal grace so tower'd above 
 Earth's best imagining. 
 
 Almost it seem'd profane to press 
 
182 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 The ground on which thy feet had trod,- 
 Their path was mark'd with holiness, 
 
 As by the steps of God. 
 III. 
 " And when my heart grew bold at last, 
 
 And perfect love had banish'd fear, 
 And gentle hope grew fair and fast 
 
 For many a pleasant year — 
 It was a joy I may not tell 
 
 The beauty of thy soul to see, 
 And, in my fondest thought, to dwell 
 
 On its pure harmony. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Ah me ! — how like a glimpse of Heaven 
 
 The day of our betrothal seem'd. 
 When first a pledge to love was given 
 
 Of all that hope had dream'd ! 
 And I thenceforth might think of thee 
 
 When to my daily toil I went, 
 As doom'd in after years to be 
 
 My star of home content ! 
 
 V. 
 
 " Can she, (I thought) so fair and good, 
 
 Partake a base mechanic's lot, 
 The light of loveliest womanhood 
 
 Diffusing through his cot ? 
 Can she, whose heart is all above, 
 
 A poor man's bride consent to be, 
 And rear, with meek and patient love, 
 
 His lowly progeny ? 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 183 
 
 VI. 
 
 *** But thou didst so benignly smile, 
 
 And speak with such a gentle tone — 
 Ah ! me — that voice might sure beguile 
 
 An angel from his throne ! 
 And all thy words, and all thy ways, 
 
 And all thy looks so heavenly were ; 
 'Twas heaven into thine eyes to gaze — 
 
 Thy mortal love to share ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 " And wast thou then a sensual thing, — 
 
 A heartless wanton, light and vain ? — 
 Such thoughts o'erwhelm my heart, and fling 
 
 Distraction on my brain. 
 No, no — it must not, cannot be — 
 
 Thy looks bespeak a virgin's heart. 
 The wanton's gestures suit not thee, 
 
 Nor yet the wanton's art. 
 
 Vllf. 
 
 " Thou dost not quail before my glance — 
 
 And yet thine own is modest still ; 
 Thy calm and radiant countenance 
 
 Betrays no thought of ill. 
 I cannot scan thy secret soul, 
 
 Nor read the unfathom'd depths within ; 
 But ne'er did looks like those controul 
 
 The restless pulse of sin. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " And yet — those fatal proofs of guilt !— 
 Alas ! too plain a tale they tell ; — 
 
184 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 O ! that my life-blood had been spilt 
 
 Ere thus my loved one fell ! 
 And I ! — shall I that fall proclaim ? 
 
 Make public all her guilty deeds ? 
 Consigning Her to scorn and shame 
 
 For whom my spirit bleeds ? 
 
 X. 
 
 *' No, Mary — my crush'd heart may break. 
 
 But thou shalt still uninjured be ; ^ 
 
 If vengeance e'er thy faults o'ertake, ' 
 
 It shall not come from me. 
 Thou wast my hope — my pride — my bliss, 
 
 I will not now divulge thy shame, 
 Nor point the common scoffer's hiss 
 
 At thy beloved name." 
 
 XI. 
 
 Such thoughts, perchance, in turbid stream 
 
 O'er Joseph's burden'd spirit crept ; 
 But that same night a blessed dream 
 
 Came to him as he slept : — 
 And when he from his sleep arose, 
 
 With stedfast heart and cheerful brow, 
 Like one whose hopes on God repose, 
 
 He pledged his nuptial vow. 
 
 XII. 
 
 In pure and reverent love he dwelt 
 With her his own, his chosen bride ; 
 
 Nor all a bridegroom's fervour felt, 
 Nor slumber'd by her side. 
 
 He shared with her his peasant's cot. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCII. 185 
 
 He watch'd her fondly night and morn, 
 But still approach'd her chamber not 
 Until her babe was born. 
 
 THE CIRCUMCISION OF CHRIST. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 
 IPwE world may look serene and bright, 
 
 Our path bestrewn with choicest flowers ; 
 And days of love and home-delight. 
 
 And nights of healthful rest be ours. 
 From worldly strife and worldly care 
 
 The heart a safe repose may win, 
 And yet feel all too weak to bear 
 
 The burden of unpardon'd sin. 
 II. 
 The mists of grief but rarely dim 
 
 The glorious light of childhood's skies ; 
 Life tingles in its every limb. 
 
 Health speaks and sparkles in its eyes : 
 Yet, e'en among its sports and toys 
 
 A cloud is gathering on its brow ; 
 Stern conscience soon will blast the joys 
 
 Which steep the soul in gladness now. 
 III. 
 Through many a green, secluded walk, 
 
 In life and hope's delicious May, 
 Engross'd in love's unwearying talk, 
 
186 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Fond youths and happy maidens stray. 
 Earth hath not a diviner bliss 
 
 On g-entle spirits to bestow ; 
 Yet boast not — for alas ! e'en this 
 
 Unpardon'd sin converts to woe. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The pleasant noise of children's mirth 
 
 Makes glad our sober middle age ; 
 Bright faces, round the evening hearth, 
 
 The day's heart-wasting cares assuage. 
 But wife and children's sweetest smile — 
 
 The light that on our hearts doth fall — 
 The love that doth our griefs beguile — 
 
 Unpardon'd sin can poison all. 
 
 V. 
 
 With stedfast thought and cheerful toil 
 
 The mines of learning we explore. 
 And waste our patient midnight oil 
 
 O'er many a page of ancient lore. 
 We seek and earn the sage's name, 
 
 We feel the sage's pride within ; 
 But all our wisdom, all our fame, 
 
 Lie crush'd beneath unpardon'd sin. 
 
 VI. 
 
 We give our hearts to humankind, 
 With liberal bounty we dispense 
 
 To fainting flesh and weary mind 
 The streams of our benevolence. 
 
 And poor men's tongues our kindness bless, 
 And earth and air our praises fill ; 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 187 
 
 But, in the spirit's loneliness, 
 Unpardon'd sin consumes it still. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He — he alone is truly blest 
 
 Whom God hath from this burden freed ; 
 Whose doubts and fears are lull'd to rest, 
 
 Whose peace of heart is peace indeed : 
 Who, strong in faith, can lift to heaven 
 
 A tranquil and undaunted brow ; 
 Who knows and feels his sin forgiven, 
 
 His soul's dark warfare ended now. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And who are they on whom alone 
 
 Descends this blessing from above ? 
 To whom their Father hath made known 
 
 These tokens of especial love ? 
 The Jew by circumcision's rite ? — 
 
 The Christian by baptismal sign ? — 
 On these doth more celestial light 
 
 Than on less favour'd spirits shine ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 Nor outward sign, nor mystic rite, j 
 
 Alone such blessings can confer ; — 
 To walk by faith, and not by sight — 
 
 Like Abraham's self a worshipper, — 
 To count all earthly gain but loss, — 
 
 To look and long to be forgiven 
 Through Him who died upon the cross — 
 
 This — this unlocks the gates of heaven. 
 
188 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 The angels' song was ended, 
 
 Sweet stillness fill'd the air, 
 Through which to Heaven ascended 
 
 The shepherds' silent prayer. 
 They gazed on one another, — 
 
 Strange thoughts were rife in them ; 
 Then each cried, "Up, my brother ! 
 
 Away to Bethlehem ! 
 II. 
 " Our sheep, in safety feeding 
 
 Upon the mountain side, 
 Beneath the watch-dog's leading 
 
 May wander far and wide. 
 From heat, and frost, and thunder, 
 
 God shelter flock and fold ! 
 While we this work of wonder 
 
 Are journeying to behold." 
 III. 
 Forthwith each sturdy ranger 
 
 To Bethlehem took his way ; 
 And soon they found the manger 
 
 Wherein the Saviour lay. 
 They bow'd the knee before him, 
 
 Those simple men and true ; 
 They bless'd the womb that bore him, 
 
 The breast whose milk he drew. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH 189 
 
 IV. 
 
 No sign of kingly splendour 
 
 Did that poor hovel grace ; 
 But love, devout and tender, 
 
 Had sanctified the place : 
 For there the saintly mother, 
 
 The virgin undefiled, 
 In bliss she could not smother. 
 
 Was gazing on her child. 
 
 V. 
 
 And, keeping watch above her, 
 
 In rapt and heavenly mood, 
 Her husband, friend, and lover, 
 
 Stout-hearted Joseph stood. 
 Such bliss no mortal father 
 
 E'er felt for his first-born, 
 As faith began to gather 
 
 In his pure soul that morn. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And, as in smiling slumber 
 
 That blessed infant lay, 
 Bright visions without number 
 
 About him seem'd to play. 
 And in that lowly dwelling 
 
 A stillness, hush'd and dim, 
 Seem'd of the presence telling 
 
 Of viewless seraphim. 
 
 VII. 
 
 They came and they departed, 
 Those simple, holy men ; 
 
190 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 And each felt joyful-hearted 
 As home he fared again : 
 
 But oft in thought they wander'd 
 To all they left behind ; 
 
 While Mary kept and ponder'd 
 Their visit in her mind. 
 
 THE EPIPHANY. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 I. 
 
 Angelic tongues would be too weak, 
 
 Angelic hearts too cold, 
 The wonders of God's love to speak, 
 
 So deep and manifold. 
 Heaven's principalities and powers 
 Are gazing on this world of ours, 
 
 His counsel to behold, 
 Which, since creation's morn, hath been 
 Unfolding on this mortal scene. 
 
 II. 
 The strife in which we here engage 
 
 With Hell's rebellious host, 
 The warfare which the Church doth wage, 
 
 Hath Heaven's whole heart engross'd : 
 E'en as the news of foes' descent, 
 In fierce invading armament, 
 
 On some far island coast, 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 191 
 
 With one intense, tumultuous thrill 
 May rouse an empire's heart and will. 
 
 III. 
 We know not but each brave repulse 
 
 Which foils the Tempter here, 
 Forbids his legions to convulse 
 
 Full many a brighter sphere. 
 But this we know — that since, on Earth, 
 Sin's foul and monstrous womb gave birth 
 
 To grief, and pain, and fear. 
 The wisdom and deep love of Heaven 
 Against hell's noxious brood have striven. 
 
 IV. 
 
 At first, in dark mysterious guise. 
 
 That wisdom lay conceal'd ; 
 Obscurely to prophetic eyes 
 
 As in a glass reveal'd. 
 But now the veil of Hebrew lore 
 Can dim its glorious light no more ; 
 
 And Abraham's race must yield 
 The rights, which theirs no more may be. 
 To all Earth's countless progeny. 
 
 v. 
 And, day and night, o'er land and sea, 
 
 Is spreading, far and fast. 
 The knowledge of Christ's mystery, 
 
 Close hid in ages past. 
 And who are they who tell the tale ? 
 Who, heaven-commission'd, rend the veil 
 
 O'er all the nations cast ? 
 
192 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 And cause the light of truth divine 
 On man's sin-darken'd soul to shine ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Not seraphs, as ye well might deem, 
 With souls and tongues of flame ; 
 Whose utterance yet too weak would seem 
 
 That mystery to proclaim : 
 Not prophets from the grave arisen, 
 To groan once more in fleshly prison ; 
 
 Not saints, who overcame, 
 Through Jesus' blood, the infernal powers 
 Which yet besiege these hearts of ours. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ah ! no ! — the messengers of peace 
 
 Themselves are sinners still ; 
 Who scarce, e'en yet, have found release 
 
 For weary heart and will. 
 Fast bound in Satan's devilish thrall, 
 Christ's love aroused them, one and all, 
 
 And sent them forth to fill 
 His marriage-feast with guests, and tell 
 Of his rich love, unsearchable. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The words they speak are faint and few, 
 And scarce, at times, find vent; 
 
 Yet can the strongest hearts subdue, 
 With might omnipotent. 
 
 For from the spirit's depths they start, 
 
 And wing their way from heart to heart, 
 As though the speaker meant, 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 193 
 
 In that deep utterance, to reveal 
 A love he cannot choose but feel. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And through that love, sent down from Heaven 
 
 To dwell in hearts new-born, ' 
 Shall sin at last from Earth be driven, 
 
 And Death of terror shorn. 
 The weapons of our warfare here 
 Are faith, and hope, and holy fear ; 
 
 — Let these our souls adorn ; 
 And Earth shall soon, like Heaven, confess 
 Christ's reign of peace and righteousness. 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 Fair Star ! whose orient beauty. 
 In patient love and duty. 
 Thro' many a sultry clime the pilgrim-sages led ; 
 Whose beams, serene and tender. 
 First stay'd their waning splendour 
 Above the lowly stable where our Lord had laid his 
 head ; — 
 
 II. 
 Bright, tranquil child of morning ! 
 Who gav'st the earliest warning 
 Of that more glorious Sun, e'en then about to rise ; — 
 From light's eternal fountains, 
 2 o 
 
194 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 O'er Earth's remotest mountains, 
 First heralding the blaze of day, which soon should 
 fill the skies ! 
 
 III. 
 What wast thou, wandering planet? 
 — Thy course, — O ! whence began it ? 
 In what dim, distant tract of unimagined space 
 Did thy Creator form thee ? 
 Did first the sunbeams warm thee ? 
 Did Nature's law project thee on thy swift and 
 ceaseless race ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah ! sure, no glimmering meteor 
 Wast thou — Earth's noxious creature. 
 From dank, unwholesome dews and fetid vapours 
 bred ; 
 No comet fiercely glaring, 
 Men's hearts for war preparing. 
 And shaking, from its horrid hair, hate, pestilence, 
 and dread. 
 
 V. 
 
 Faith's eye alone could view thee — 
 Faith's foot alone pursue thee — 
 So thou didst safely guide those pilgrims on their 
 way; 
 While yet thou wouldst not render 
 One glimpse of faintest splendour 
 To light stern Herod's ruffian bands to seize their 
 infant prey. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 195 
 
 VI. 
 
 Perchance some new creation, 
 
 By sudden revelation 
 Wast thou, to mortal eyes, then first made manifest ; 
 
 Some home of souls departed, 
 
 The holy, humble-hearted, 
 For ever floating; blissfully,— an island of the blest! 
 
 VII. 
 
 And when thy task was over. 
 
 Thy beauty thou didst cover 
 With azure folds of sky, and, hid from mortal eyes. 
 
 O'er ether's boundless ocean 
 
 Resume thy destined motion 
 Through space where other systems roll, and other 
 suns arise. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ah ! wherefore thus forsake us ? 
 When pain and grief o'ertake us. 
 Why not, from time to time, thy cheering light 
 unveil ? 
 On many a night of sorrow 
 Presaging glad to-morrow 
 To hearts that faint beneath their load, and eyes 
 that, weeping, fail ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 Where lonely saints are kneeling. 
 From godless eyes concealing 
 The weight which this world's sin doth on their 
 spirits lay — 
 
196 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Where, in prophetic study, 
 Until the east grows ruddy, 
 All night pale scholars wake and watch for Christ's 
 long promised day — 
 
 X. 
 
 Where ships, in endless motion. 
 
 Plough through the plains of ocean, 
 The messengers of peace to heathen lands to bear — 
 
 Where, English homes forsaking, 
 
 Brave hearts are slowly waking, 
 Tn savage haunts and gloomy wilds, the voice of 
 Christian prayer — 
 
 XI. 
 
 Where Heaven's elect assemble — 
 Where sinful spirits tremble — 
 Where first the stricken soul finds strength and 
 voice to pray — 
 Where, round some widow'd father, 
 Half orphan'd children gather 
 Beside their sainted mother's grave — why with- 
 hold thy ray ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 For what more blessed token 
 To hearts, by sorrow broken. 
 Of pardon seal'd in heaven and future rest could 
 be? 
 What surer sign could find us, 
 In trouble to remind us 
 Of Christ's protecting light and love — than that 
 reveal'd in thee ? 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 1P7 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Soul ! — soul ! — forbear such questions, — 
 
 Poor fancy's wild suggestions, — 
 Vain longings of the sense to feed its carnal eye ; 
 
 What boots it that Man's spirit 
 
 Faith's treasures doth inherit, 
 If yet it cleaves so fondly to its old idolatry ? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 No blaze of sensual glory, 
 Intense but transitory, 
 Could the heart's craving thirst for purer light 
 allay ; 
 Even thine, fair star, returning, 
 Would but increase our yearning, 
 Which nought on earth could satisfy, for Heaven's 
 unclouded day. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Yet fond imagination, 
 By many a bright creation, 
 With shadowy types of Heaven can people Earth's 
 domain ; 
 Still shaping and combining, 
 From all things sweet and shining. 
 Memorials of immortal love to soothe our mortal 
 pain. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The rainbow, in its splendour. 
 To hearts devout and tender 
 Still yields a glorious pledge of deepest sin forgiven ; 
 The dawn's outbreaking whiteness, 
 
200 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Despiser of his laws ! insane reviler 
 
 Of His great name ! wild rebel to His will ! 
 
 Of thine own soul the unrestrain'd defiler ! 
 Yet scatheless still ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Why art thou spared ? — what potent intercessor 
 
 Averts from thee His oft uplifted arm ? 
 Why, on this earth, so reckless a transgressor, 
 
 Liv'st thou and breathest, free from mortal harm ? 
 The sun shines on, the rains still fall to bless thee ; 
 
 Heaven's brightness — Earth's affections still are 
 thine ; 
 Fond bosoms heave, and gentle arms caress thee 
 
 In tenderest twine. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And ever and anon, amidst Earth's pleasures, 
 
 Thou hear'st a voice — a still small voice of love. 
 From these vain pomps and these decaying trea- 
 sures 
 
 Wooing thy soul to fairer hopes above : 
 And, midst thy darkest deeds of shame and terror, 
 
 God's Spirit whispers to thy secret ear, 
 *' This is the way — oh ! quit those paths of error, 
 
 And walk thou here !" 
 
 VII. 
 
 And thou art still encompass'd by His people, 
 And saints, perchance, weep for thee, night and 
 day; 
 
 And Sabbath chimes ring out from tower and steeple, 
 In His own house inviting thee to pray. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 201 
 
 And Christ still sends thee his appointed teachers, 
 Still proffers to thee his own flesh and blood ; 
 
 Entreats, persuades, by pastors and by preachers, 
 Thy wayward mood. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 O ! close not thou thine ear, nor madly darken 
 
 Thy heart by reckless counsel, vain and wild ; 
 But to those words of mercy meekly hearken, 
 
 E'en like a g-entle and submissive child. 
 Think how all heaven hath been convulsed to save 
 thee. 
 
 Vile as thou art, from hell's eternal death ! 
 Think how God's Son — his sole begotten, gave thee 
 
 His dying breath ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Think on the Virgin's womb ! — on Bethlehem's 
 manger ! 
 
 God condescending to a peasant's birth ! 
 Think on that life of grief, distress, and danger! — 
 
 His toils, his tears, his troubles here on Earth ! 
 Think on that desert fast ! — that lone temptation !— 
 
 Think on the anguish of Gethsemane ! — 
 Think on the bitter cup, to win salvation, 
 
 Endured for thee ! 
 
 X. 
 
 For thee !— for thee I— the lost— the unconverted, — 
 The grief of angels— hell's close-guarded prize !— 
 
 But for his love by Heaven itself deserted ! 
 Doom'd prey to that fierce worm which never 
 dies ! 
 
202 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 And wilt thou still resist his deep compassion ? 
 
 By new rebellions his slow wrath provoke ? 
 Nay ! — to His will thy spirit meekly fashion, 
 
 And bear his yoke. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yield up thy body, once sin's willing* servant, 
 
 To Him a living sacrifice — to Him 
 Give heart, soul, thought, in love devout and fer- 
 vent; 
 
 Join, with thy voice. His choir of seraphim. 
 Thy health, thy strength, the glory and the beauty 
 
 Of all thine inner man, with stedfast will. 
 Submit henceforth to the calm rule of duty. 
 
 And serve Him still. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Be not conform'd to this world's varying humour, 
 
 Its love, its hate, its folly, or its pride ; 
 Court not, and fear not, the foul breath of rumour ; 
 
 Be to Earth's pomps and pleasures crucified. 
 Bow thy soul meekly to the Spirit's guiding. 
 
 Welcome his pure transforming influence ; 
 Till Christ shall reign, in power and grace abiding, 
 
 O'er soul and sense. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Walk humbly before God, and with thy neigh- 
 bour ; 
 Be wisdom's lowliest and most docile child ; 
 Counting it ample fruit of all thy labour 
 
 That thou to God, throu.s:h Christ, art recon- 
 ciled. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 203 
 
 Be One in faith and hope, in heart and spirit. 
 With His true members, and in patient love 
 
 Do thine own task, that so thou may'st inherit 
 Their bliss above. 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 The solemn joyance of the paschal feast 
 In Salem's thousand homes was over now ; 
 The melody of Psalms had sunk and ceased, 
 And sacrifice, and prayer, and offer'd vow 
 Were mute on Zion's Temple-crested brow; 
 Throug-h the throng'd gates was passing many 
 
 a train 
 Of pilgrims, who had come their knees to bow, 
 In annual homage, at Jehovah's fane, 
 And now with peaceful steps were wending home 
 
 again. 
 
 II. 
 At that year's feast men's spirits had been stirr'd 
 Beyond their wonted feiTOur ; — far and near, 
 Throughout the city, grave discourse was heard, 
 Breathing expectance not unmix'd with fear ; 
 And friends, who met around their paschal cheer, 
 Spake each to each, in low and solemn tone. 
 Of Him who, all were hoping, should appear. 
 Ere many another passover had flown. 
 O'er Israel's race redeem'd to rear his promised 
 
 throne. 
 
204 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 III. 
 
 And hoary rabbis, who had spent their youth 
 And the calm fervour of their middle age 
 In learned study of prophetic truth, 
 Met and conversed, in conference deep and sage, 
 On what God's oracles did now presage ; 
 Computing how the years were nigh fulfiU'd, 
 Foreshown long since in Daniel's mystic page, 
 Whereon high hopes did men securely build, 
 That soon Messiah's star should now the horizon 
 gild. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And hearts which long had for deliverance sigh'd 
 From the stern pressure of Rome's iron sway. 
 Felt as if soon they should not need to hide 
 The swelling hope, which deep within them lay. 
 That Israel's bondage now should pass away. 
 And brighter glory than her morn had seen 
 Gladden the progress of her later day, 
 When she of all the nations should be Queen, 
 And to Earth's utmost bounds extend her sway 
 serene. 
 
 v. 
 And among those of the unlearned sort, 
 The wild fore-shadowing of their hearts' desire 
 Found copious vent in many a strange report 
 Of signs in Heaven, — of blood and smoke, and 
 
 fire, 
 Betokening to the Earth convulsion dire ; 
 Of meteors kindling all the Eastern sky ; 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 206 
 
 Of yawning graves, and ghosts in bright attire, 
 Who through the city walk'd nocturnally, 
 And spake of change to come, and freedom draw- 
 ing nigh. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And thus, on all the city's mighty heart, 
 A breathless hush of expectation dwelt ; 
 And tears, unbidden, to men's eyes would start 
 As they, in fervent supplication, knelt 
 Before God's altar ; and what each man felt 
 His neighbour in his eyes full well might read. 
 Till into words fond hope began to melt — 
 " Is Christ then born? — hath he been seen in- 
 deed ? 
 Doth God vouchsafe at last to heal his people's 
 need?" 
 
 VII. 
 
 But the feast ended, and Christ had not come ; 
 So, by degrees, hope's fever was allay 'd. 
 And all dispersed — each rustic to his home, 
 Each townsman to his craft or to his trade. 
 Such termination life's dull labours made 
 To anxious speculation ; — they meanwhile, 
 The dwellers afar off, began to lade 
 Their beasts, and homeward fared for many a 
 mile. 
 In cheerful, pleasant talk, which did the way be- 
 guile. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And thus tow'rd East and West, and South and 
 North, 
 
206 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Thro' Salem's every gate, from morn to night, 
 Youth, manhood, and old age were issuing forth ; 
 In sooth a solemn and affecting sight ! 
 Beneath those myriads hill and dale were white 
 As unto harvest, while each several breast 
 With its own treasure of glad thoughts felt light ; 
 For each had done Jehovah's high behest, 
 So winning for itself abiding peace and rest. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Amidst the humbler wayfarers were two. 
 Husband and wife — a noticeable pair, 
 Who northward their long journey did pursue ; 
 Calm and devout their aspect and their air ; 
 She, amidst Judah's daughters, passing fair. 
 And now in the full bloom of matron prime ; 
 Yet, on her saintly forehead, did she bear 
 Traces of thought more holy and sublime 
 Than our dull hearts can reach in all their mortal 
 time. 
 
 X. 
 
 Upon an ass sedately did she ride. 
 Which for their travel scant provision bore ; 
 While, staff in hand, her husband by her side 
 Cheer'd her with loving solace evermore. 
 — Thus pleasantly away the daylight wore. 
 And now, for weary beast and wearier man, 
 Until the morrow, must their toil be o'er ; 
 And, halting for the night, the caravan 
 To pitch its lowly tents right joyfully began. 
 
 1 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 207 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then suddenly, amidst that motley crowd, 
 A strange yet pleasant turmoil might be seen ; 
 And busy voices, clamouring long and loud, 
 Lent their shrill discord to a wilder scene 
 Than e'er our quiet clime beheld, I ween; 
 As each small groupe its own encampment chose. 
 By bubbling fount or palm-tree broad and green. 
 Where each, or ere the gathering shades should 
 close, 
 Prepared its evening meal and night's secure repose. 
 
 XII. 
 
 To each his separate province was assign'd ; 
 Some spread the viands forth in neat array ; 
 Some for their beasts the freshest pasture find ; 
 Some kindle watchfires, so to scare away 
 From the small camp each prowling beast of prey ; 
 Some for the outposts choose their turns by lot, 
 That so the rest may sleep secure till day : 
 No separate charge or caution was forgot, 
 To guard from foes' assault that lone, sequester'd 
 spot. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Meanwhile that grave-eyed couple, each for each, 
 Their coarse and scanty supper did prepare. 
 With gentle interchange of loving speech, — 
 Sweet condiment, I ween, to sorriest fare ! 
 Then spake the matron, " Much I marvel where 
 Tarrieth our child, who never, till to-night. 
 Hath fail'd our labour, or our meal, to share ; 
 
206 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Thro' Salem's every gate, from morn to night, 
 Youth, manhood, and old age were issuing forth ; 
 In sooth a solemn and affecting sight ! 
 Beneath those myriads hill and dale were white 
 As unto harvest, while each several breast 
 With its own treasure of glad thoughts felt light ; 
 For each had done Jehovah's high behest, 
 So winning for itself abiding peace and rest. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Amidst the humbler wayfarers were two, 
 Husband and wife — a noticeable pair. 
 Who northward their long journey did pursue ; 
 Calm and devout their aspect and their air ; 
 She, amidst Judah's daughters, passing fair, 
 And now in the full bloom of matron prime ; 
 Yet, on her saintly forehead, did she bear 
 Traces of thought more holy and sublime 
 Than our dull hearts can reach in all their mortal 
 time. 
 
 X. 
 
 Upon an ass sedately did she ride, 
 Which for their travel scant provision bore ; 
 While, staff in hand, her husband by her side 
 Cheer'd her with loving solace evermore. 
 — Thus pleasantly away the daylight wore, 
 And now, for weary beast and wearier man. 
 Until the morrow, must their toil be o'er ; 
 And, halting for the night, the caravan 
 To pitch its lowly tents right joyfully began. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 207 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then suddenly, amidst that motley crowd, 
 A strange yet pleasant turmoil might be seen ; 
 And busy voices, clamouring long and loud. 
 Lent their shrill discord to a wilder scene 
 Than e'er our quiet clime beheld, I ween; 
 As each small groupe its own encampment chose. 
 By bubbling fount or palm-tree broad and green, 
 Where each, or ere the gathering shades should 
 close. 
 Prepared its evening meal and night's secure repose. 
 
 XII. 
 
 To each his separate province was assign'd ; 
 Some spread the viands forth in neat array ; 
 Some for their beasts the freshest pasture find ; 
 Some kindle watchfires, so to scare away 
 From the small camp each prowling beast of prey ; 
 Some for the outposts choose their turns by lot, 
 That so the rest may sleep secure till day : 
 No separate charge or caution was forgot. 
 To guard from foes' assault that lone, sequester'd 
 spot. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Meanwhile that grave-eyed couple, each for each, 
 Their coarse and scanty supper did prepare, 
 With gentle interchange of loving speech, — 
 Sweet condiment, I ween, to sorriest fare ! 
 Then spake the matron, '* Much I marvel where 
 Tarrieth our child, who never, till to-night. 
 Hath fail'd our labour, or our meal, to share; 
 
208 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Why comes he not to bless our longing sight ? 
 Strange he should leave us now in this wayfaring- 
 plight ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Fair as he is beyond the sons of Earth, 
 In form and feature, as in heart and will, — 
 Divine in wisdom, as divine by birth ; 
 Yet hath he been, in love and duty, still 
 The meekest child that ever did fulfil 
 A parent's bidding ; nor hath either heart 
 (Thine, Joseph, or mine own) been fain to thrill. 
 Since he was born, with one such grievous smart 
 As oft, for children's sins, makes parents tears to 
 start. 
 
 XV 
 
 *' Why comes he not ? — why now, at last, neglect 
 His parents' needs ? — why leave us thus to bring 
 (As if through heedless sloth or disrespect) 
 Leaves for our couch, and water from the spring 
 To quench our thirst ? — why suffer us to fling 
 Our weary limbs upon their earthy bed 
 Without a blessing ? — sure, he would not wring 
 Our hearts with wilful wrong or causeless dread ; — 
 O ! lives he yet on earth, or rests among the dead ?'* 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Thus the pale mother, in her anguish, spake, 
 With trembling voice and tear-suffused eye ; 
 To whom her husband : " O ! forbear to make 
 Thy fond heart sad with causeless agony. 
 His time, thou know'st, is not yet come to die ; 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 209 
 
 His earthly trials scarcely are begun : — 
 Somewhere he loiters in our company ; 
 For few there be who joy not to have won, 
 By most enticing arts, the presence of thy son. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 ** Haply with gracious and persuasive speech, 
 And wisdom riper than his tender age, 
 Tho' all unlearn'd,some neighbour doth he teach 
 The import deep of some prophetic page ; — 
 Or, it may be, less serious tasks engage 
 His gentle spirit ; — on the beaten track 
 He may have wander'd from our pilgrimage, 
 To feed his thought, which food doth never lack, 
 
 On Nature's wondrous works — and soon will he 
 come back." 
 
 xviii. 
 Thus he his anxious consort mildly cheer'd : 
 But the sun set, and moon and stars arose, 
 While yet their missing child had not appear'd ; 
 And now the caravan in deep repose 
 At length was hush'd ; — they only could not close 
 Their aching eyelids ; — the fond mother's breast 
 Then first experienced all a mother's woes. 
 And, as each lay in comfortless unrest, 
 
 Did many a wild surmise their anxious minds mo- 
 lest. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Scarce did the dawn above the mountains peep 
 Ere these sad mourners from their couch had 
 sprung, 
 
 2 p 
 
210 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 When scarce an eye, save theirs, had banish'd 
 
 sleep — 
 And, with imploring looks and anxious tongue, 
 Wander'd from tent to tent their friends among. 
 — " O ! tarrieth not our gentle child with you ?" 
 Thus still they ask'd, and still their hearts were 
 
 wrung 
 With bitterest disappointment, and anew 
 Did they their restless search, with faltering steps, 
 
 pursue. 
 
 XX. 
 
 In vain ! — no eye had seen that glorious boy 
 Since from the city gates the train had past, 
 And other cares did now all thoughts employ ; 
 ' — Each to his own loved home was hastening fast. 
 The weary parents stay'd their search at last, 
 And toward Jerusalem retraced their way. 
 While many an anxious glance to Heaven they 
 
 cast. 
 And ever and anon did humbly pray 
 That from their feverish lips this cup might pass 
 
 away, 
 
 XXI. 
 
 So to the Holy City back they went. 
 Fearless, though unprotected ; for what dread 
 E'er touch'd a parent's spirit while intent 
 On a child's loss, perchance untimely dead ? 
 And they moreover on their journey sped. 
 Trusting, with all their hearts, to Heaven's high 
 
 love. 
 Which still had saved them, when of old they fled 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 21 1 
 
 Before fierce Herod's wrath, and from above 
 Warn'd them, in dreams, which way and when their 
 steps should move. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But vain was all their toil : — in crowded street. 
 In lonely grove and garden, mount and hill. 
 In mart where buyers and where sellers meet, 
 On Cedron's marge, by clear Siloam's rill, — 
 They search'd and searched with fruitless labour 
 
 still ; 
 Their truant child could nowhere yet be found, 
 And deeper awe began their hearts to fill : — 
 " Hath God removed him beyond this world's 
 bound ? — 
 Was he too pure and good to tread our mortal ground ? 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " Is he withdrawn to some less sinful sphere, — 
 There to be train'd and nurtured for the strife 
 Which he with Satan must encounter here. 
 So to redeem our race from death to life ?" 
 Thus wildly ask'd the husband and the wife, 
 While hope within their hearts was fading fast. 
 And dark imaginations there were rife. 
 And faith half sank beneath the bitter blast 
 Which o'er their sky of peace such clouds of dark- 
 ness cast. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Yet fail'd not, in that dark and trying hour, 
 Their gentle patience or confiding love ; 
 And e'en 'midst pangs which did their souls de- 
 vour. 
 
212 LAYS or THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Their thoughts rose freely to God's throne above. 
 So, ere their weary steps had ceased to rove 
 Thro' the wide city, they would spread their grief 
 Before His altar, thus perchance to move 
 His pity, and by prayer devout, though brief. 
 From this exceeding woe obtain divine relief. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 So toward the Temple, up the sacred brow 
 Of Zion, pass'd they on their weary way, 
 And stay'd their steps beside the portal now 
 Through which men pass to sacrifice or pray : 
 Throng'd was the gate with busy feet that day, 
 For thither, at the feast, did crowds resort 
 To hear the rabbis, who, in learn'd array. 
 Were wont to fill the Temple's outer court, 
 Expounding Moses' law to those of simpler sort. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Onward they pass'd to where a circle stood 
 Around a knot of doctors, then intent 
 On some deep question, learnedly pursued 
 With reason sound and specious argument. 
 Whereto a curious ear the hearers lent, 
 Silent and moveless, while on eveiy brow 
 Sat thought perplex'd and deepest wonderment ; 
 —But ah ! what voice disturbs that silence now? 
 Wake, Mary, from thy grief !— ah, well indeed mayst 
 thou ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The centre of that circle, close begirt 
 With grave-eyed rabbis, erudite and sage, 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 213 
 
 A Stripling stood, whose high and strange desert 
 All ears, all hearts, all voices did engage ; 
 Scarce twelve years old, (so tender was his age !) 
 Yet with profoundest questions did he ply 
 Those reverend men, and from the scripture page 
 Cull close and cogent arguments, whereby 
 He foil'd the subtlest skill of all their casuistry. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Never, till then, had disputant so keen 
 Opposed and baffled those divines profound ; 
 Full sorely were their wits perplex'd, I ween. 
 Against such wisdom to maintain their ground 
 As in his fervent pleadings did abound ; 
 Yet was there nought of youth's presumption 
 
 rude, 
 Or flippant scorn in his demeanour found ; 
 Modest he was, and meek of eye and mood. 
 With more than mortal grace and gentleness endued. 
 
 XXTX. 
 
 In simplest phrase, and yet like one who bore 
 Commission from on high, did he refute 
 Those grave professors of rabbinic lore — 
 Doctor, and scribe, and learned priest to boot ; 
 — Not one was found who could with Him dispute ; 
 The Pharisaic bigot stood aghast, — 
 The flippant Sadducee for once was mute, 
 Seeing and feeling all his triumphs past, 
 And almost deeming now Messias come at last. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And, on some faces, rising scorn and hate, 
 
214 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 On Others fervent interest you might read ; 
 While many a listener to the keen debate 
 Did on that stripling's words, like manna, feed, 
 Feeling them full of grace and truth indeed ; 
 So well he reason'd upon things divine, 
 So warm'd with life the letter of their creed, 
 Bringing rich gems from truth's exhaustless mine, 
 Whose brightness on all hearts, with quenchless 
 light, did shine. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 His voice once heard, those wanderers forward 
 
 rush'd — 
 — The listening crowd divided as they came, 
 And, for a space, the strife of words was hush'd — 
 Ah ! can it be ? — it is, — it is the same ! — 
 Their own dear son ! — his mother shriek'd his 
 
 name. 
 As sudden joy took place of grief and fear ; 
 Ah me ! — my child, whom yet I dare not blame, — 
 Why deal'st thou with us thus ? — what dost thou 
 
 here. 
 While we, with sorrowing hearts, have sought thee 
 
 far and near ? 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 ' ' To whom our Lord, with look serene and mild, — 
 Wherefore thus seek me ? — know ye not that I, 
 E'en like a duteous and obedient child. 
 Must do my Father's business ?" From his eye 
 A smile broke forth like sunshine from the sky. 
 And his whole face with love celestial glow'd, 
 
LAYS OP THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 216 
 
 — Then straightway turn'd he, and submissively 
 Follow'd his joyful parents on their road. 
 And home with them returned, and shared their 
 mean abode. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 There, in a poor man's cot, the Lord of Heaven 
 In meekness and in love vouchsafed to dwell. 
 To lowly tasks of rule parental given, — 
 Nor once against it did in thought rebel. 
 E'en when his heavenly heart began to swell 
 With holiest aspirations ; — thus he grew 
 In wisdom and in stature, loved full well 
 By God in Heaven, — on Earth by all the few 
 Who of his gentle life the grace and goodness 
 knew. 
 
 SECOND SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 I. 
 
 With patient toil and thought profound, 
 
 There are, who can all depths explore. 
 And, in didactic phrase, expound 
 
 The wondrous things of sacred lore. 
 High privilege is theirs — to hold 
 
 The torch whict lights our narrow way. 
 And to unlearned hearts unfold 
 
 The hidden life, the word, the way. 
 
216 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 II. 
 
 But woe to such ! if learned pride, 
 
 Or fancy, with her restless eye. 
 Still searching, still unsatisfied, 
 
 Where holiest angels fear to pry — 
 If bigot's hate, or zealot's ire. 
 
 Corrupt the faith which God hath given 
 To kindle in their hearts the fire 
 
 That leads and lights mankind to Heaven ! 
 III. 
 And others are there, set apart 
 
 Through gifts which heavenly grace confers, 
 To heal the bruised and sunken heart, 
 
 Of peace and love blest ministers. 
 The soothing tone — the cheering smile — 
 
 The heart with kindness brimming o'er — 
 The speech which doth all griefs beguile — 
 
 The looks which banish'd peace restore — 
 
 IV. 
 
 The liberal hand — the patient zeal — 
 
 The sympathy in darkest cares — 
 The pleasant ways to help and heal — 
 
 The death -bed solace — all are theirs ! 
 Through this world's haunts of shame and sin 
 
 With love unwearied, let them roam, 
 Men's hearts, by gentlest lures, to win, 
 
 And lead them, to their Father, home, 
 v. 
 Each hath his proper gift of God — 
 
 His own peculiar taste assign'd — 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 217 
 
 His path of duty to be trod — 
 
 His debt of service to mankind. 
 Do thou, in simple trust, thy part — 
 
 Teach, toil, give, suffer, hope and pray. 
 And He, who sees thy secret heart, 
 
 Thy work shall bless — thy pains repay. 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 Wondrous was thy path on Earth, 
 'Midst our human grief and mirth ; 
 All our good, and all our ill, 
 Feeling, Lord, yet sinless still ! 
 
 II. 
 Though thy hand upholds the spheres. 
 Thou could'st pity children's tears : 
 Though to thee Death yields his prey, 
 Thou could'st gaze on children's play. 
 
 III. 
 At our feasts of sober glee 
 Thou would'st oft vouchsafe to be : 
 When thou cam'st thy friend to save, 
 Thou could'st weep beside his grave. 
 
 IV. 
 
 At thy bidding, social mirth 
 And heart-gladdening cheer had birth. 
 When thou bad'st the goblets shine 
 With pure water turn'd to wine. 
 
218 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 V. 
 
 Then, in humble love's abode, 
 Livelier pleasure gleam'd and glow'd ; 
 Then, from rustic lips devout, 
 Songs of joyous praise brake out : 
 
 VI. 
 
 And thy glistening eyes might see, 
 In their blithe festivity. 
 What our earthly feasts had been 
 But for death and but for sin. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Fie on unrestrain'd excess ! 
 
 Fie on hateful drunkenness ! 
 
 Fie on each unhallow'd feast 
 
 Whence thy love and name have ceased ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For thou still dost condescend 
 To our hearths and homes to send 
 Blessings on the social cheer 
 Of the hearts that love thee here. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thy transforming influence still 
 Into good turns all our ill ; 
 Or, from weak and worthless things, 
 Holy joy and comfort brings. 
 
 X. 
 
 Sensual passion, lust obscene. 
 Wrath and hatred fierce and keen, 
 Thy pure presence doth transmute 
 To the Spirit's choicest fruit. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 219 
 
 XI. 
 
 When the sacred nuptial rite 
 Doth pure heart to heart unite, 
 Thou canst make permitted love 
 Pure as that of saints above. 
 
 XII. 
 
 What to our gross sense doth seem 
 Water of the fontal stream, 
 Thou canst change, by power divine, 
 To celestial milk and wine. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But for thee, sin's hateful gloom 
 Soon would make this Earth a tomb ; 
 But where thy bright face hath shone, 
 Grief and fear at once are gone. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 In thy path all things look bright, 
 Mortal darkness turns to light. 
 And, e'en here, our mental eye 
 Heavenly glories may descry. 
 
 XV. 
 
 O be with us, gracious Lord, 
 Near our bed and at our board, — 
 By our fireside's pleasant cheer, 
 When the winter nights are drear. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Through the livelong summer day, 
 When our hearts are blithe and gay. 
 From all taint of fleshly ill 
 Purify our gladness still. 
 
220 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 All that doth our hearts estrange, 
 From thy service — come and change 
 Into feiTent love of thee, 
 By thy potent alchymy. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 So that when new Heavens and Earth 
 At thy bidding shall have birth. 
 Purged from all our dross of sin, 
 We may dwell with thee therein. 
 
 THIRD SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 SONNET. 
 
 Vengeance is mine ! saith God ; I will repay ; 
 Yet would we madly arrogate His power. 
 Worms as we are ! — poor reptiles of an hour ! 
 And so, with many a fierce, vindictive fray. 
 Shake and o'erthrow our fragile homes of clay. 
 And each his foe, with bitter rage, devour, 
 W^hen on his head rich blessings we should shower. 
 And with our kindness melt his wrath away ! 
 Thou, if thine enemy hunger, give him food, 
 And to his thirst refreshing streams supply ; 
 Still overcome his evil with thy good ; 
 So, if his stubborn hate refuse to die, 
 God shall chastise his unrelenting mood 
 By sharp affliction's penal ministry. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 221 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 SONNET I. 
 
 *' Lord ! if thou wilt, thy power can make me 
 
 clean ! " 
 So spake the leper, and our Lord straightway 
 Put forth his hand, and *' be thou clean," did say ; 
 — Immediately he rose with alter'd mien. 
 For on his body might no more be seen 
 A vestige of the plague, which, many a day, 
 From Man's abodes had driven him far astray, 
 To dwell with dark despair and anguish keen. 
 Thus by thy swift, mysterious grace, Lord, 
 Cleanse thou our fouler leprosies within, 
 That so, from exile hateful and abhorr'd, 
 We may at length our full deliverance win, 
 And (to thy presence in thy Church restored) 
 Bring daily gifts of love for pardon'd sin. 
 
 sonnet II. 
 
 With cheerful self-surrender, to rely 
 
 On the sure rock of thy omnipotence ; — 
 
 To rest our free, undoubting confidence. 
 
 On thy deep love ; — to deem thee ever nigh ; — 
 
 To know that Hell's dark hosts retreat and fly 
 
 Even at thy beck ; — to feel thee our defence 
 
222 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 When most we groan beneath the whelming sense 
 Of our own sin — our deep iniquity ; — 
 Is not this faith ? — the faith thou dost approve ; 
 Such faith as dwelt in that centurion's breast, 
 The burden of whose grief thou didst remove, 
 Healing his servant at his meek request ? — 
 Such faith, Lord, as still draws down thy love 
 On homes which dare not claim thee for a guest ? 
 
 SONNET III. 
 
 From East and West, and North and South, shall 
 
 come 
 Unnumber'd myriads to Christ's marriage feast ; — 
 Souls, by his gospel, from their sins released, 
 And call'd, to His and their great Father, home ! 
 From torrid Ind, from frigid Greenland some — 
 A motley crowd, but in whose hearts hath ceased 
 The empire of the demon or the beast, 
 And peace and love have built their temple dome. 
 But we — the children of the kingdom — we 
 From earliest childhood train'd to truth and right. 
 Where, at that day, if faithless, shall we be ? — 
 Alas ! excluded from our Father's sight, 
 For foul neglect of grace so rich and free, 
 Gnashing our teeth in darkness day and night. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 223 
 
 FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY. 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 
 SONNET I. 
 
 The powers that be are God*s — from Him derive 
 Their functions and their rights ; — so we maintain, 
 O'er whom Christ doth, as willing subjects, reign ; 
 Whence, whosoever with such powers shall strive, 
 Strive th with God, and doth himself contrive 
 His own damnation. Meekly wear thy chain, 
 Servant of Christ, nor e'er, in heart or brain. 
 At the fierce deeds of headstrong men connive. 
 Thine 'tis, while furious anarchs rant and rage. 
 Filling the air with turbulence and hate. 
 To shame the license of this latter age, 
 Still faithful found to God and to the State ; 
 And rendering still, with spirit meek and sage. 
 Love to the good and honour to the great. 
 
 SONNET II. 
 
 Not in the foul and pestilential den 
 
 Of plotting treason ; — not where brawlers meet 
 
 In fierce assemblies, with seditious heat 
 
 To rail at monarchs ; — not where evil men 
 
 Slander the great and good with tongue and pen 
 
 Not where, in crowded mart and public street, 
 
224 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Vile demagogues their ribald slang repeat — 
 Spirit of Christ ! thy presence meets our ken. 
 Better thou lov'st the tranquil home and hearth 
 Of those whom such mean-spirited esteem ;— 
 The gentle and submissive of the earth, 
 Who glide securely down life's quiet stream, 
 Safe, in their meek and unobtrusive worth 
 From fears which haunt the evil-doer's dream. 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 With sails full spread and bending mast, 
 
 Like one who bounds with glee, 
 A fisher's bark was sailing fast 
 
 Across Gennesareth's sea. 
 Freshly and keenly blew the blast 
 
 From the shore of Galilee. 
 II. 
 A precious freight it was, 1 trow, 
 
 Which that frail galley bore ; 
 But angry waves, from stern to prow, 
 
 Her deck were sweeping o'er ; 
 And loud and louder bellow'd now 
 
 The tempest's gathering roar, 
 in. 
 But still, as on the vessel swept 
 
 Through waters foaming wild, 
 One toil-worn man lay still and slept 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 225 
 
 As calmly as a child, 
 Whose eyes for sin have never wept, 
 Whose heart is undefiled. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Full soundly slept he, — for in sooth 
 
 A weary man was he ; 
 A wanderer since his noon of youth, 
 
 By land and lake and sea, 
 To spread the rays of light and truth, 
 
 Where darkness wont to be. 
 
 V. 
 
 Awhile that vessel's thoughtful crew 
 
 Stood gazing- on his rest, 
 With awe profound and reverence due 
 
 In all their looks exprest ; 
 Till fiercer yet the tempest blew 
 
 From the dark and cloudy west. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then straight a fearful toil began . 
 
 The vessel's course to keep ; 
 So wildly with the wind she ran 
 
 O'er the black and boiling deep ; 
 — Yet still he slept (that weary man) 
 
 A calm, unstartled sleep. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But fiercer still the surges roar'd, 
 
 And fiercer blew the blast ; 
 And now, in each bold heart on board. 
 
 Dark fears were gathering fast, 
 2 Q 
 
226 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 As the winds and waves their fury pour'd 
 On shatter'd sail and mast. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Then came they, in their utmost need, 
 To where that sleeper lay ; — 
 
 " Lord, sleep'st thou still and tak'st no heed- 
 Betide our lives what may ?" 
 
 They spake — and at their words, with speed, 
 The sleeper rose straightway. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Oh ! ye of little faith !"— he stood, 
 
 And calmly waved his hand ; 
 At once the tempest's wrathful mood 
 
 Was hush'd at his command. 
 And the waters, in a waveless flood, 
 
 RoU'd smoothly to the strand. 
 
 X. 
 
 No cloud obscured the deep blue sky. 
 
 No ripple curl'd the sea ; 
 Earth, air, and water, far and nigh, 
 
 Were calm as calm could be. 
 The vessel's track you scarce might spy. 
 
 She rode so peacefully. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The vessel's track you scarce might spy,— 
 
 And yet she wins her way, 
 With sails untorn and cordage dry, 
 
 Through the smooth and smiling bay ; 
 " Now, who is this," the shipmen cry, 
 
 ** Whom the sea and the wind obey ?" 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 227 
 
 XII. 
 
 Dear Lord ! a lowly life was thine, 
 While thou with Man didst dwell ; 
 
 Yet winds and waves obey'd thy sign, 
 And knew their Maker well. 
 
 Thy voice could tame, with a charm divine, 
 All powers of Earth and Hell. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Incarnate fiends, beneath thine eye, 
 
 From human dwelling's fled, 
 With a terrified and wailing cry, 
 
 To the fields where swine were fed ; 
 And the sick were heal'd at the point to die, 
 
 And the graves gave up their dead. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And is thy power less wondrous now ? 
 
 Or is thy love less kind 
 Than when they made Hell's demons bow, 
 
 And stiird the waves and wind ? 
 May prayer no more, and whisper'd vow, 
 
 From thee such mercy find ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 Nay, still, though oft thou seem'st to sleep. 
 
 Thy love directs the helm, 
 And guides thy Church from deep to deep, 
 
 O'er this world's billowy realm ; 
 And a tender watch doth o'er it keep, 
 
 Lest storms should overwhelm. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And still do Hell's dark legions flee 
 
228 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 From the heart where thou dost reign, 
 And the sinner is cleansed from his leprosy, 
 
 And the prisoner breaks his chain, 
 And the soul, which was dead as dead could be, 
 
 Is raised to life again. 
 
 FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 SONNET I. 
 
 Servants of Christ ! in men's misjudging eyes 
 Ye seem of little price, and proud men scorn 
 Your lowliness of heart ; but ye are born 
 Of God, and made partakers of a prize 
 Unknown, undream 'd of by the worldly-wise, 
 — A crown which none but saintly brows have 
 
 worn, — 
 A robe which doth Christ's wedding guests 
 
 adorn, — 
 Laid up, till His great day, beyond the skies. 
 This shall be yours in Heaven, — but now, on 
 
 Earth, 
 Think it not strange if men account you vile ; 
 Nor seek their plaudits, vain and nothing worth. 
 Nor quail at this world's frown, nor court its 
 
 smile. 
 Clouding the glories of your own new birth 
 With such gross aims as sensual hearts defile. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 229 
 
 SONNET II. 
 
 Soldiers and patriots ! votaries of the vine ! 
 And brain-sick lovers ! ye have each your lay, 
 Martial or melting, wanton, grave, or gay. 
 As best befits each several idol's shrine ; 
 The drunkard shouts wild catches o'er his wine 
 The lover sighs his passionate soul away 
 In tenderest ditties ; and, while trumpets bray, 
 Fierce war-songs animate the charging line. 
 Each mood and humour of the sensual mind 
 Hath its appropriate music ; — and can we. 
 Chosen of Christ, and by his love design'd 
 To join hereafter heaven's high minstrelsy, 
 Fail, here on earth, for our great theme to find 
 Numbers, or words, or fitting melody ? 
 
 sonnet III. (continued). 
 
 Nay ! — to the organ wed the voice of song. 
 And let the potent master of sweet sound, 
 Majestic Handel, till the sense be drown'd 
 In dream-like rapture, heavenliest strains prolong ! 
 While the full chorus of the white-robed throng 
 Doth from the dim cathedral's roof rebound ! 
 Nor yet, with censure harsh, the less profound 
 And tuneful skill of village minstrels wrong : 
 
230 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 The heart alone makes melody to Heaven 
 Such as it loves ; and angels oft are mute, 
 While simplest words of praise for sin forgiven, 
 Sung to rude notes of viol, pipe, and flute. 
 From parish choir, at Sabbath morn and even. 
 With grateful hymns the Omnipotent salute. 
 
 SONNET IV. 
 
 There are, whose faith is as a thing remote 
 From the world's common use ; who, day by day. 
 Must from their narrow rule of duty stray, 
 For that, as worldly and misspent, they note 
 All hours which men to this world's cares devote, — 
 All labours and all pleasures — work and play — 
 Save what may speed the spirit on its way 
 O'er the calm waves of prayer and praise afloat. 
 Not such, O Lord, the lessons thou hast taught — 
 Not such thy law of worship undefiled ; 
 For that pervades all action and all thought — 
 The man's grave toils, the pastimes of the child, 
 Bids us eat, drink, work, sport, as Christians 
 
 ought, 
 Whom thy dear blood to God hath reconciled. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 231 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 SONNET. 
 
 TwERE pleasant to true Christians, when they meet 
 At their dear Master's board, to know that there 
 All hearts, with one accord, combine in prayer 
 Deep, pure, sincere, before Heaven's mercy-seat, 
 Aright discerning what they drink and eat. 
 Nor some to taunt our English Church forbear, 
 For that she guards, say they, with slender care. 
 Her altars from approach of reckless feet. 
 Such laxity to error is akin ; 
 Yet error — all, like this, on mercy's side, 
 Methinks, can scarce deserve the brand of sin ; 
 For who, without dire mischief, shall divide 
 From the pure wheat, till it be gather'd in, 
 The tares, their roots extending deep and wide ? 
 
 SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 SONNET I. 
 
 Diverse in clime and country, wealth and birth, 
 Lowly and lofty, rich and poor are we. 
 Brethren, in Christ, of one great family — 
 Heirs to a treasure of uncounted worth 
 In Heaven, yet oft dishonour'd here on Earth, 
 
232 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 For that men know us not — too blind to see 
 
 That inner light's serene effulgency 
 
 Which cheers the humblest Christian's home and 
 
 hearth. 
 Yet fear we not their scorn, nor shun their hate. 
 Knowing that love, eternal and divine, 
 Even here hath raised us to a higher state 
 Than this world to its noblest can assign ; 
 If to be sons of God is to be great 
 Beyond the greatness of Earth's princeliest line. 
 
 SONNET II. (continued.) 
 
 Yes ! — we are sons of God, though still beset 
 By sorrow and infirmity and sin, 
 Fightings without, and grievous fears within ; 
 And oft with bitter tears our cheeks are wet. 
 Such are we now ; nor may we guess as yet 
 What we shall be, when (this world's stormy din 
 Once ended) we our final rest shall win. 
 Where souls redeem'd all earthly griefs forget : 
 But this we know, that when He shall appear 
 Who is our life — whatever change shall be 
 In these frail bodies we inhabit here — 
 In these weak souls not yet from bondage free — 
 We shall be like Him — since, unveil'd and near, 
 Even as He is, our Master we shall see. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 233 
 
 SONNET III. (continued.) 
 
 Such is our hope, which maketh not ashamed, 
 Our souls sustaining with that daily bread 
 Whereon the cold dull world hath never fed ; 
 By all but saints, unseen, unknown, unnamed ; 
 Then let not such for carnal sloth be blamed 
 In their high calling, but, till lust be dead, 
 Their master's path of self-denial tread ; 
 To his high model let their lives be framed. 
 So, strength from Him deriving, let them wage 
 Unceasing war with still unvanquish'd sin. 
 Quelling the lusts that in their members rage. 
 Till by degrees they cleanse the world within, 
 And, in the Book of Life's eternal page. 
 Triumphantly their high enrolment win. 
 
 ' FROM THE gospel. 
 
 I. 
 In patient faith, till Christ shall come 
 To call his duteous servants home, 
 
 Our hearts and minds we keep ; 
 Still looking for that glorious day 
 When Heaven and Earth shall melt away 
 
 And saints awake from sleep. 
 II. 
 And still — as years roll swiftly by. 
 And signs fulfiU'd of prophecy 
 
234 LAYS 01' THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Declare Christ's coming near — 
 O'er Heaven and Earth our spirits range, 
 Noting if signs of coming change, 
 
 And brighter days appear. 
 III. 
 And signs there be, in this late time, 
 Once more of hope's reviving prime, 
 
 As in redemption's morn ; 
 The feverous earth doth shake again, 
 Groaning and travailing in pain, 
 
 Till some new change be born. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And still, as empires reel and quake. 
 Doth longing expectation wake 
 
 In questions deep engross'd ; 
 Seeking the place, the day, the hour. 
 Of Christ's approach in all his power, 
 
 With heaven's abundant host. 
 
 V. 
 
 Vain search ! — yet vainer and less blest 
 Is theirs who would our faith molest 
 
 With fancies strange and new ; 
 False prophets who men's hearts deceive, 
 For dark and slippery paths to leave 
 
 The ancient and the true. 
 
 VI. 
 
 We will not heed them, though they preach 
 False Christs with most persuasive speech. 
 
 And godless gospels frame. 
 Well skill'd the unstable to beguile. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 235 
 
 In freedom's name, themselves the while 
 Sworn slaves of sin and shame ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 *' Lo ! here" — the sensual zealots cry — 
 " Is man's supreme felicity; — 
 
 Leave dreaming- and be wise ; 
 Pleasure and love's free laws obey, 
 Nor cast Earth's solid joys away 
 
 For hopes beyond the skies. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ** Man's full-grown mind hath burst its prison- 
 On superstition's night hath risen 
 
 The wish'd for dawn of truth ; 
 Nations and empires break the sleep 
 Of centuries, and from darkness leap 
 
 To life and hope and youth. 
 
 IX. 
 
 *' Indulge the fond conceits no more 
 Which fed the heart, ere yet was o'er 
 
 The childhood of our race ; 
 Unheard let priests and poets tell 
 Fantastic tales of Heaven and Hell ! — 
 
 Be Earth our resting place ! 
 
 X. 
 
 " Let reason's sober light dispel 
 
 The dreams that nature loved so well — 
 
 Whate'er young fancy drew : 
 Her shadowy world at once destroy, 
 Nor barter for ideal joy 
 
 The tangible and true." 
 
236 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 XI. 
 
 So let them prate ! — we will not heed 
 The dogmas of their loveless creed, 
 
 Nor cast our hope away ; 
 But calmly still in patience rest, 
 Till, lightning-like, from east to west 
 
 Breaks in the promised day. 
 
 XII. 
 
 With no unheedful hearts we hear 
 The mutterings of convulsion near, 
 
 And terror soon to be ; 
 Hosts gathering for the final strife 
 Of light and darkness, death and life, 
 
 With breathless awe we see. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 We know that fearful darkness soon 
 Shall veil the face of sun and moon. 
 
 The stars forsake their spheres ; — 
 The powers of heaven, with fear aghast. 
 Tremble and quake, until at last 
 
 Christ's sign in heaven appears. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then Earth's rebellious tribes shall wail. 
 And sinful hearts with terror fail ; 
 
 While saints despised so long, 
 From east and west, and south and north, 
 By angel trumpets sumraon'd forth — 
 
 Raise one triumphant song. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 237 
 
 SEPTUAGESIMA SUNDAY. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 
 Ceaseless is the race we run — 
 All who live beneath the sun, 
 For some tinsel prize of earth, 
 Hardly won and little worth. 
 Brother striving still with brother — 
 Fain within his breast to smother 
 Rage and hate, and jealous fear ; — 
 So we toil from year to year ; 
 Some for wealth in gold and gems, 
 Some for gorgeous diadems ; 
 Some, a rival to beguile 
 Of capricious beauty's smile ; 
 Some to win the warrior's name ; 
 Some to share the poet's fame ; 
 Some, perchance, to guide the helm 
 Of the toss'd and foundering realm : 
 But amidst the toil and din, 
 Few, I guess, there be that win ; 
 Thousands still, who faint and fall, 
 Ere the wish 'd -for coronal 
 Round their fever'd brows they twine ; 
 — Thus doth manhood waste and pine, 
 While the sweets which life imparts 
 To discerning minds and hearts, 
 
238 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Unperceived around us lie, 
 Waste their sweetness, droop and die 
 And our haste no pause allows 
 With Heaven's gale to fan our brows, 
 Of the wayside brook to drink, 
 Or, beside the fountain's brink 
 Stretch'd awhile, the breath inhale 
 Of the fresh and flower-sweet gale ; 
 Or to bless our aching eyes 
 With the beauty of the skies, 
 And the glories which have birth 
 In the fresh and fragrant earth ; 
 Or, reclined beneath the shade 
 By thick-clustering arches made. 
 To life's joyous sounds to listen, 
 Till our eyes with pleasure glisten, 
 And a voice within replies 
 To those outward harmonies. 
 With a silent song of love — 
 Silent here — but heard above ! 
 Few there be who loiter so 
 In this restless race below ; 
 Few^ who gladden soul and sense 
 With this world's magnificence ; 
 Fewer who such freedom win 
 From the bonds of lust and sin, 
 That, with an untroubled ear. 
 They the distant music hear. 
 Which the spirits of the blest 
 Make in their eternal rest. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 So it is in this strange earth — 
 Outward wealth makes inward dearth. 
 Labour drains the spirit dry, 
 Fades the cheek, and dims the eye — 
 Labour and fierce strife to win 
 Food for lust and food for sin ; — 
 So we waste our actual store, 
 While we vainly brawl for more ; 
 Envying still, and still contending-. 
 In turmoil that knows no ending ; 
 Restless, though our cup we fill. 
 While Earth holds a fuller still : 
 Sad, though we an empire gain. 
 While more potent monarchs reign. 
 Yet was ever earthly crown 
 Which grim death could not beat down ?- 
 Gold which we could hoard and save 
 In the chambers of the grave ? — 
 Beauty by no change invaded, 
 Which nor time nor sickness faded ? — 
 Is not all we love so well, 
 Like ourselves, corruptible ? — 
 Do we not, for worthless things, 
 Barter the delight that springs 
 From the soul's eternal health ? — 
 Still exchanging peace for wealth, — 
 W^earing out the life and strength — 
 Only to possess at length. 
 Through our endless toil and care, 
 Raiment for the flesh to wear 
 
240 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 When the flesh itself is wasted- 
 Food, then only to be tasted 
 When no more the exhausted sense 
 Can discern its excellence ? 
 
 Brethren ! meet it is that we 
 Wiser far and happier be ; — 
 Wiser than to waste, on earth. 
 All its bliss and all its mirth. 
 That, for life-long pains and cost 
 Heaven and it may both be lost. 
 Yet have we a race to run, — 
 Glory — to be lost or won, 
 Brighter than, since earth began, 
 Cheer'd the waking sense of man. 
 Or, in nightly visions, stole 
 On the slumbers of his soul. 
 Sharp that race to sensual flesh. 
 Though the spirit may be fresh ; 
 And, until its toil hath ceased, 
 Still our vigour is increased ; 
 While — as nearer still we come 
 To our goal and to our home — 
 Lovelier landscapes round us glow, 
 Sweeter breezes breathe and blow. 
 Brighter sunshine cheers our eyes. 
 And the choral symphonies 
 Of the heavenly legions ring 
 Audibly our welcoming. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 241 
 
 Wouldst thou win yon heavenly crown ? — 
 Christian, tame thy spirit down ; 
 Loiter not in sensual bowers, 
 Flush'd with wine and crown'd with flowers ; 
 Nor of Coraus and his train 
 Join the revels wild and vain. 
 Let not love's delicious play 
 Steal thy soul and sense away, 
 Till thou canst no longer learn 
 Wisdom's lessons pure and stern. 
 Pleasure's cup may luscious be, 
 But it is not mix'd for thee. 
 If thou wouldst thy spirit train 
 For its heavenly race, refrain 
 From whate'er regalements bring 
 Foul excess and surfeiting. 
 Keep each power of heart and will 
 Clear, and free, and vigorous still. 
 Though thy toil be sharp and sore, 
 Soon, full soon, it will be o'er, 
 And thy weary brain and breast 
 Taste of Heaven's eternal rest. 
 
 s R 
 
242 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 Through the world's frequented places — 
 
 Busy street and broad high-way — 
 Midst the throng of human faces, 
 
 Year by year and day by day — 
 Wisdom's earnest voice is calling 
 
 To the slaves whom sloth and sin 
 Hold, in sensual chains enthralling, 
 
 " Come ye, to my vineyard, in !" 
 II. 
 Happy, in life's cloudless morning. 
 
 Yea, of all men happiest they 
 Who receive that heavenly warning. 
 
 Hear it and at once obey ! 
 They, ere lust hath dimm'd the splendour 
 
 Of the opening world within — 
 Ere the heart hath grown less tender, — 
 
 Break the bonds of sense and sin. 
 III. 
 Them no sore avulsion rendeth 
 
 From this world's vain hopes and fears ; 
 No unheal'd remembrance blendeth 
 
 Anguish with their after years. 
 Time by them hath ne'er been wasted ; — 
 
 Ere life's tempting paths they trod, — 
 Ere life's poison'd cup they tasted, — 
 
 They became the sons of God. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 243 
 
 IV. 
 
 Them no storm of woe compelleth 
 
 To their Father's arms to flee ; 
 In their hearts His Spirit dwelleth 
 
 Richly e'en from infancy. 
 Christ to love's unceasing duty 
 
 Them with silken cords constrains, 
 And with g^leams of heavenly beauty 
 
 Soothes their sorrows, charms their pains. 
 
 V. 
 
 Happy they ! but few in number ! — 
 
 Till mid ag^e the millions lie 
 Wrapt in dreams of sensual slumber, 
 
 While life's brightest hours go by. 
 Them, amidst their cares or pleasures, 
 
 Wisdom's voice again invites ; 
 " Come — secure your heavenly treasures, 
 
 Flee from Earth's impure delights !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 Some there be who heed and hearken. 
 
 Cast their worthless gauds away. 
 Ere life's noon begins to darken. 
 
 Shade by shade, to twilight grey. 
 Wealth to them becomes a bubble, 
 
 Honour but an empty name ; 
 — Farewell now Hfe's toil and trouble, 
 
 Fraud and folly, sin and shame ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Nobler hopes have stirr'd within them. 
 Loftier aims engage the breast ; 
 
244 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Heaven and heavenly labours win them 
 From this feverish world's unrest. 
 
 They the better part have chosen, 
 Late, but not too late to toil ; 
 
 Years not yet the heart have frozen. 
 Though rank weeds o'erspread its soil. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Noon hath past; — life's fervour waneth; 
 
 O'er the temperate heart and will 
 Sensual lust less blindly reigneth, 
 
 Yet the spirit slumbereth still. 
 Wisdom's voice again upbraideth — 
 
 *' Haste — life's sun will soon go down; 
 Ere its light for ever fadeth, 
 
 Wake and win your heavenly crown." 
 
 IX. 
 
 Fainter now that voice appeareth, 
 
 Yet it will not cease to plead, 
 Till the awaken'd sleeper heareth. 
 
 Till his heart is touch'd indeed. 
 From life's evening rest he starteth, 
 
 Eager some few hours to save 
 (Ere the time for work departeth) 
 
 From the darkness of the grave. 
 
 X. 
 
 Eve is gone; — grey twilight's glimmer 
 Veileth life's cold cloudy sky ; — 
 
 Soul and sense are now grown dimmer, — 
 Fadeth ear and heart and eye. 
 
 In the wreck of thought and feeling 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHUKCH. 245 
 
 Earthly love is waxing cold ; 
 
 Yet are Wisdom's accents stealing 
 
 To the soul in sin grown old. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Lo ! — the hoary sinner turneth 
 
 Feebly to the awakening sound ; 
 In his heart strange fervour burneth, 
 
 Love hath sin's strong chain unwound. 
 Little hath he now to proffer, — 
 
 Time and strength and health are gone ; — 
 What remains behold him offer — 
 
 " Lord ! in me thy will be done !" 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yea ! even so : — thy ways, O Father ! 
 
 Are not as our mortal ways ; 
 Thou canst life's whole harvest gather 
 
 From its worst and weakest days. 
 To thy just decision bending, 
 
 At thy feet our works we cast ; 
 Though, in bliss all thought transcending, 
 
 Last be first, and first be last ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Ouii lot hath fallen upon the latter time— 
 The cloudless evening of the Church's day ; 
 Whose burden and fierce heat have past away, 
 That scarce we need that faith and zeal sublime, 
 Which, in her pure and persecuted prime, 
 
246 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Taug-ht tender maids and matrons old and grey, 
 
 Smiling defiance in death's grim array, 
 
 To the proud heights of martyrdom to climb. 
 
 Beneath our fig-trees and our vines we dwell 
 
 At ease. — What claim then to their bliss have we 
 
 Who with the fiercest powers of Earth and Hell 
 
 Warr'd, and so won their immortality? 
 
 Ask not : — but wage thine own poor warfare well — 
 
 E'en as thy striving thy reward shall be. 
 
 SEXAGESIMA SUNDAY. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 SONNET. 
 
 Thou wouldst have been, had all thy hopes died 
 
 here, 
 Of mortal men most wretched, Holy Paul ! 
 For thou didst cast away thine earthly all — 
 Wealth, comfort, reputation bright and clear, 
 Yea, whatsoever carnal men hold dear. 
 To be what, in their blindness, they miscall 
 A low fanatic, — superstition's thrall. 
 Then most contemptible when most sincere. 
 The Gentile sophist mock'd thy simple creed, 
 The bigot Jew pursued thee with fierce hate ; 
 E'en faithless brethren, in thine utmost need. 
 Forsook thee ; — thou, meanwhile, didst calmly wait 
 God's time, content on Earth to toil and bleed, 
 Till martyrdom should ope Heaven's narrow gate. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 247 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 God ! who dost the increase grant 
 
 To thy labourers here below, 
 When they water, when they plant, 
 
 When the Heavenly seed they sow ; 
 Bless, O Father, bless our toil, 
 
 With the sunshine of thy face ; — 
 Fertilize this barren soil 
 
 With the dews of love and grace. 
 II. 
 Thine the harvest, thine the praise. 
 
 When the crops are gather'd in. 
 Which, with life-long pains we raise 
 
 In this world of shame and sin. 
 Where we sow 'tis thine to reap- 
 All our days are seed-time here ; — 
 Ceaselessly at work we keep. 
 
 Month by month and year by year. 
 III. 
 Spring and autumn toil we still — 
 
 Through the long midsummer light ; 
 Through the winter, dark and chill, 
 
 Scattering seed from morn till night. 
 Now, with zeal's persuasive power, 
 
 Life-infusing truth we preach ; 
 Now, for many a patient hour. 
 
 In the village schoolroom teach. 
 
248 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oft beside the social hearth 
 
 Stealthily the seed we sow, — 
 Oft when hearts are light with mirth — 
 
 Oftener when oppress'd with woe. 
 Times and seasons watch we still — 
 
 Still the best occasions seek, 
 When to bend the stubborn will, 
 
 When the awakening word to speak. 
 
 V. 
 
 So we toil, but toil in vain 
 
 When the dews of grace ai-e diy ; 
 When the fertilizing rain 
 
 Lingers in the drouthy sky. 
 Now in rocky soils we sow — 
 
 Hearts from Heaven so far astray, 
 That, or ere the blade can grow, 
 
 Satan steals the seed away. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Some in light and shallow mould 
 
 Doth, with fairer promise, fall, — 
 Ardent minds and uncontroll'd — 
 
 Sensitive — but weak withal. 
 Such, anon, with joy embrace. 
 
 Hear and ponder, weep and pray, 
 Till — when trouble shews its face — 
 
 Straight their flimsy faith gives way. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Other seed in deeper soil 
 
 Sinks, and takes abiding root ; 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 249 
 
 But rank thorns the produce spoil, 
 Choke and mar the genuine fruit. 
 
 Worldly care and lust and pride, 
 Wealth and luxury creep in, 
 
 Till the life of life hath died, 
 Stifled by insidious sin. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Thou, the harvest's sovereign Lord ! 
 
 For the seed the soil prepare. 
 Sun and rain and dews afford, 
 
 Till the wish'd-for crop it bear. 
 Good and honest hearts create, 
 
 Swift to hear and firm to hold ; . 
 Make our tillage, soon or late, 
 
 Bring forth fruit an hundred-fold. 
 
 QUINQUAGESIMA SUNDAY. 
 
 FROM THE GOSPEL. 
 I. 
 
 'TwAS when our Lord was journeying tow'rd stately 
 
 Jericho, 
 And multitudes around his path did gather still and 
 
 grow ; 
 For wondrous were the words he spake — pure words 
 
 of truth and grace. 
 And all the love of Earth and Heaven was beaming 
 
 from his face ; 
 And miracles of healing might his blessed hand had 
 
 done. 
 
250 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Proclaiming Him, to faithful eyes, the Lord's 
 
 anointed Son. 
 
 II. 
 Now as he to the city gate, in earnest speech, drew 
 
 nigh, 
 A blind man sat beside the road, and begg'd of 
 
 passers by ; 
 He heard the hum of multitudes — the myriad- footed 
 
 tread — 
 And in his darkness, anxiously, " What meaneth 
 
 this ?" he said ; — 
 " What mean these sounds of thronging crowds?" 
 
 — and thus men made reply — 
 " Jesus, the blessed Nazarene — 'tis He whopasseth 
 
 by." 
 
 III. 
 
 Then suddenly a gleam of light shot through the 
 beggar's mind. 
 
 His inward eye was lighten'd, and his heart no 
 longer blind ; 
 
 Faith brought him back the world without, in bliss- 
 ful vision shown. 
 
 And said it might, by Heaven's rich grace, become 
 once more his own. 
 
 So straight he raised his eager voice, and piteously 
 cried he — 
 
 '' Jesus ! thouSon of David ! have mercy upon me !" 
 
 IV. 
 
 His cry disturb'd the listening groupes, the fore- 
 most in the way — 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 261 
 
 " Now hold thy peace, bold beggar — trouble not 
 
 our Lord," said they. 
 But little heeded he their words, for in his mental 
 
 eye 
 Familiar faces — youthful scenes, long lost, were 
 
 passing by ; 
 And still he raised his earnest voice, and piteously 
 
 cried he — 
 " Jesus ! thou Son of David ! have mercy upon me !" 
 
 V. 
 
 Our Lord stood still, and fix'd on him a mild, ap- 
 proving glance, 
 
 Till the blind man felt the sunshine of his beaming 
 countenance ; — 
 
 '• Forbid him not, but rather guide his steps to me," 
 he said, — 
 
 And the beggar to his presence straight by pitying 
 hands was led ; 
 
 And as he knelt before Him, with raised hands and 
 bended knee — 
 
 " Tell me," he said, " what wilt thou that I should 
 do for thee ?" 
 
 VI. 
 
 That voice of heavenly mercy through the blind 
 
 man's bosom thrill'd 
 As sweetly as the dew of Heaven on Hermon's brow 
 
 distiird. 
 He felt the pressure of the grief that on his spirit lay, 
 But felt that soon, at His dear word, that grief would 
 
 pass away ; 
 
252 LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 
 
 Nor paused he for a moment's space, but cried, in 
 
 deep delight, 
 " Lord ! this I would — that, from thy hand, I might 
 
 receive my sight !" 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Receive thy sight," our Lord replied, — " thy faith 
 
 hath made thee whole" — 
 And the blind man rose, with sight restored to body 
 
 and to soul ; 
 And blithely in his Saviour's track, with eager steps, 
 
 he trod. 
 And bless'd him for his healing grace, and glorified 
 
 his God. — 
 And all the crowds, that throng'd around, with 
 
 echoing hearts replied — 
 *' Our God, and Jesus Christ, his Son, for this be 
 
 glorified I" 
 
 ASH WEDNESDAY. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE. 
 
 I. 
 
 When our hearts with grief are sore. 
 When our path looks dark and sad, 
 When Hope's star appears no more. 
 
 When our foes are proud and glad- 
 When our steps have gone astray, 
 Till we feel the chastening rod. 
 
LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH. 253 
 
 Wherefore should the godless say — 
 
 *' Where is now their God ?" 
 II. 
 In our grief of heart is He — 
 
 In the darkness of our path — 
 Him in Hope's eclipse we see, 
 
 Robed in mercy, not in wrath. 
 Thus he warns us from the way — 
 
 Sins wild way, which we have trod ; — 
 Why should then the godless say — 
 
 " Where is now their God?" 
 III. 
 While in this dark world we roam, 
 
 Out of sight His judgments lie; 
 Stay till we have reach'd our home — 
 
 That bright home beyond the sky. 
 When, in Time's last awful day, 
 
 We of Earth throw off the sod- 
 How shall then the godless say — 
 
 *' Where is now their God?" 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 I. 
 
 Tis Sunday morn ! — a summer Sunday morn ! — 
 And should be full of sunshine, for July, 
 Queen of the circling months, to-day is born ; 
 Yet o'er yon mountain peaks, which pierce the 
 
 sky, 
 Dark louring clouds in densest masses lie. 
 Which though, all night, the rain in torrents 
 
 pour'd, 
 Seem yet unspent, and to the inquiring eye 
 A dark presage of coming storms afford — 
 Signs to wayfaring wight most hateful and abhorr'd ! 
 II. 
 But not, though skies should lour or tempests rage, 
 To-day must Brodick's sturdy mountaineer 
 Grudge through the grimmest moors stout pil- 
 grimage ; 
 For 'tis that single Sunday in the year. 
 When crowds together flock, from far and near, 
 Around the holy board to take their seat ; 
 
 2 S 
 
268 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 And 'twere a shameless thing to loiter here, 
 While friends and brethren, flocks and pastors 
 meet 
 
 In Kirk of far Lamlash, to bless that bread and eat. 
 III. 
 Unhappy he whom sickness now detains 
 Close pent in bed, or crouching o'er his fire, 
 Safe from the gathering war of winds and rains ; 
 And he whose aged limbs no more aspire 
 To thrid the mountain moors and never tire ; 
 And she, whom nursery or domestic cares 
 Forbid to satisfy her heart's desire, 
 By mingling, with the Kirk's, her vows and 
 prayers. — 
 
 Ah ! — well-a-day for them ! — a dismal lot is theirs ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 No more for them, till full twelve months are o'er, 
 With heavenly food that table shall be spread ; 
 For them the cup divine be fiU'd no more. 
 Nor blest, nor broken the mysterious bread. 
 E'en though they lay upon their dying bed. 
 So Calvinistic rigour hath decreed ; 
 Withholding that by which the soul is fed 
 From saintly sufferers in their utmost need ; — 
 Ah ! better far her sons doth our dear Mother feed ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Solemn and sweet thy monthly feasts, I ween, 
 Church of our fathers ; yet even they too few ; 
 Better, by far, and wiser had it been, 
 Thy children's faith each Sunday to renew. 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 259 
 
 And with fresh strength their fainting souls en- 
 due; 
 So best the ancient Apostolic rites ' 
 
 Maintaining still in form and order due ; 
 Yet dear thy call which to that board invites, 
 Which all pure hearts with all,and all in One, unites ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yea, sweet thy monthly feasts ! — yet scarce than 
 
 these 
 Less sweet the board in sick man's chamber 
 
 spread, 
 Where weeping friends and children on their 
 
 knees 
 Are meekly gather'd round the dying bed ; 
 And tears, almost into the chalice shed, 
 The o'er-burden'd hearts full agony relieve, 
 While each and all the mystic wine and bread 
 From pastoral hands, in pious faith, receive. 
 Nor now, like hopeless men, for death s new victim 
 
 grieve. 
 
 VII. 
 
 No comforts, such as these, O Scotland, cheer 
 Thy saints in life's last moments ; — yet not this 
 Speak we in scorn ; — the dying mountaineer 
 By custom school'd, and strong in hope of bliss, 
 May ne*er, perchance, the last dear ritual miss, 
 Whereby the expiring Southron well sustains 
 His parting soul ; — nor thou account amiss 
 The rites which soften death in English plains, 
 As though they proved us bound even now in Popish 
 chains. 
 
260 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 VIII. ' 
 
 Such thoughts yon stout pedestrian's breast have 
 
 cross'd, 
 Who climbs, with steady pace and stedfast will, 
 Thatmountainpath, and tow'rd the peak s,half lost 
 In eddying clouds, looks back, admiring still; 
 For vaster far seems each majestic hill 
 Through the dense veil of mist which sweeps 
 
 away 
 Distinctness from its outline, and each rill, 
 Swoln to a foaming cataract to-day, 
 Makes music, loud and wild, to cheer him on his 
 
 way. 
 
 IX. 
 
 A wanderer he from England's midland vales, 
 Wooing sweet health in this fair wilderness, 
 Where, shunning the soft breath of southern 
 
 Which him with suffocation sore oppress. 
 He finds secure relief from long distress ; 
 And now a glad and mirthful man is he, 
 And doth the waves and breezy mountains bless 
 That they from that dire plague have set him 
 free, 
 'Neath which, since early youth, he groan'd per- 
 petually. 
 
 X. 
 
 O thou unhappy wight, whoe'er thou art, 
 Whom the bright skies and balmy gales torment 
 With toil of lungs apd weariness of heart, 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 261 
 
 Till thou, almost with lack of breath o'erspent 
 To barter life for ease wouldst be content — 
 Throw physic to the dogs ; — not opium's power, 
 Nor the inhaled stramonium's reeky scent, 
 Nor subtlest ether will, for one brief hour, 
 Soothe the convulsive gasps which strength and 
 life devour. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Nor to the lancet bare thy passive arm, 
 Nor to the blister ope thy labouring breast ; 
 Vain all their spells the dire disease to charm. 
 Or scare the incumbent vampyre from thy chest ; 
 Nor yet will pill, persuasive to digest. 
 Nor snuff prepared by skill of Lundy Foot, 
 Nor ipecacuanha give thee rest, 
 (Expectorative drug) — nor rhubarb's root 
 Provoking nausea dire, and cholic pangs to boot. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Long were the labour, in melodious verse, 
 The nostrums strange prescribed by quack and 
 
 crone, 
 (Nauseous alike, and poisonous) to rehearse ! 
 Abominable things — untried — unknown ! 
 One remedy there is, and one alone ;— 
 Come, breathe the mountain breezes pure and 
 
 free. 
 Climb once a week old Goatfell's craggy cone, 
 Bathe once a day in Brodick's crystal sea, — 
 Full soon, from spells like these, the baffled fiend 
 
 will flee. 
 
262 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Haply some grim Hippocrates hath starved 
 Thy craving stomach with prescription drear, 
 All pleasant meats forbidding to be carved 
 For thee, nor e'en permitting thee to cheer 
 Thy drooping spirits with the smallest beer — 
 (Thee, little to abstemious rules inclined ;) 
 Come then — spare diet may be spared thee here. 
 Nor need'st thou dread on dainties to have dined. 
 If dainties thou shalt chance in this lean isle to 
 find. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 But where is he, our lone wayfaring wight, 
 Whom late we left upon the mountain side ? 
 Through the wild moors he plods from height 
 
 to height. 
 Surveying still the landscape far and wide ; 
 Though little there, to-day, can be descried. 
 So thick and dark the clouds around him lour ; 
 Yet will he dare, all cloakless, to abide 
 The utmost rage of driving wind and shower. 
 So strong and proud he feels in health's recover'd 
 power. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And sorely would his soul be grieved, I ween. 
 
 To miss that solemn spectacle to-day ; 
 
 To him a new, though not unheard of scene ; 
 
 Used as he is in English forms to pray. 
 
 And England's rule episcopal obey ; — 
 
 A presbyter himself, as from the dress 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 263 
 
 Clerkly and grave, which doth his limbs array, 
 And eke from his demeanour you may guess, 
 Albeit, in this strict land, convict of carelessness. 
 
 XV. 
 
 For he, untaught in puritanic school, 
 And little heedful of the forms that bind 
 The subjects grave of presbyterian rule. 
 Walks, as his fancy leads him, unconfined 
 By pedant laws in body as in mind ; 
 Nor deems it unbecoming pastoral state 
 His pleasure by the lone sea-side to find, 
 Or e*en with timely mirth to recreate 
 His spirits, sunk sometimes by care's oppressive 
 weight. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Ah ! reckless man, and all unfit to bear 
 The scrutiny of keen domestic eyes ! 
 Now whistling, as he walks, with absent air. 
 Now singing (if perchance an infant cries) 
 Wild nursery rhymes and heathenish lullabies ; 
 Unconscious all the while what scandal thence 
 Among the simple mountaineers shall rise ; — 
 Scandal most foul, and unforeseen oflfence, 
 Branding his church and him with righteous ve- 
 hemence ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But worst of all — provoking direst wrath — 
 His Southron scorn of Scottish sabbath-day ! 
 For, kirk- ward as he climbs the mountain path. 
 He, with his cane, full oft doth prostrate lay 
 
264 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 The thistle-heads that grow beside the way ; 
 And eke, descending once the gallery stair, 
 Was heard (as all the congregation say) 
 To hum aloud a Psalm's remember'd air ;— 
 Such crime, in Scottish kirk, could shameless 
 Southron dare ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But now, midway on yonder steep ascent 
 Halting awhile, he views with curious eyes 
 Groups from each quarter of the firmament 
 Converging, numberless as summer flies — 
 In cart, in car, of every shape and size, 
 Afoot— on horseback ; — grandames old and grey. 
 In sober mutch and cloak of tartan dyes. 
 By sons or grandsons in their best array. 
 In vehicles close-pack'd, help'd forward on their 
 way. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And there are sturdy swains on bony jades, 
 In low grave converse journeying side by side ; 
 And there are comely youths and comelier maids, 
 The future bridegroom with his plighted bride ; 
 Bare-headed she and bare-foot — the close plaid* 
 Shielding her gentle bosom from the rain ; 
 Her braided locks confined, in decent pride, 
 With virgin snood, which must unloosed remain 
 Till she, in wedlock's bonds, a holier name shall 
 gain. 
 
 * Pronounced, in Scotland, plide. 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 265 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Graceful her garb, and passing well doth suit 
 Her native mountains ; yet, to Southron eye, 
 Unpleasing is the soil'd and shoeless foot, 
 Which through the mire its daily toil doth ply, 
 Heedless alike if it be wet or dry — 
 And haply swathed in rag's unseemly fold, 
 Telling dark tales that underneath doth lie 
 Afflictive com, or blain produced by cold — 
 Most hateful to conceive — most hideous to behold ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Dear to the youthful poet's phantasy 
 Is female foot, in dream or vision seen ; 
 The well-turn'd ankle's shapely symmetry — 
 The skin's soft texture and its snowy sheen ; 
 But adverse all to phantasy, I ween. 
 The sun-burnt limb by highland lassie shown — 
 Not plump, soft, white, but muscular and lean, 
 A ponderous mass of sinew, skin, and bone — 
 Broad — bulky — to rude shape, thro' long exposure, 
 grown. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 O maidens, richly with all else endow'd. 
 Healthy in mind and body, pure and free 
 As the clear stream, or as the wandering cloud, 
 Which swathes the mountains where ye love 
 
 to be, — 
 Hide but in shoes, what few unshod would see, 
 And ye by many a poet shall be sung 
 In worthier lays than e'er were penn'd by me. 
 
266 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 A wedded bard, and now no longer young, 
 Who roam, with heart unscathed, your pastoral 
 glens among. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Strange, of a truth, that o'er these rocky ways 
 Women alone with naked feet should fare ! 
 While the rough Gael his nether man arrays 
 In fleecy garb, nor ventures now to bare 
 His hardier skin to cutting mountain air ; 
 Ah ! why should he alone such luxury know. 
 When gentle maids, the fearless and the fair, 
 Barelegg'd o'er rugged peaks securely go. 
 Nor heed what hurts assail the unprotected toe ? 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But they perchance, in bareness of attire, 
 With their own treeless mountains aptly vie, 
 And 'twere, in us, as idle to desire 
 In northern clime the cloudless southern sky, 
 As to expect, in Gaelic damselry, 
 The trimness of an English maiden's dress ; 
 The hose of cotton woof and snowy dye — 
 The polish'd shoe, which closely doth compress 
 The small and delicate foot's minuter shapeliness. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And who the pure simplicity shall blame 
 Of Highland maiden, when in mountain stream 
 Knee-deep immersed, she bareth without shame 
 Her dainty limbs to the meridian beam, 
 Faultless in shape, and white as whitest cream, — 
 — First glancing round lest stranger eyes be near. 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 267 
 
 (Tlioug-h curst were he who any ill should dream 
 Gazing on her) — then swift as mountain deer 
 Plungeth into the burn, and crosseth without fear ? 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Or who, with frown censorious, would impeach 
 The mysteries grave and deep of laundress skill, 
 When the white linen with bare feet they bleach, 
 In tub which they with purest water fill 
 From the clear depths of neighbouring tarn or 
 
 rill. 
 Trampling the soaking mass with maiden mirth, 
 And thus their daily task performing still ; 
 Fashion most strange to maids of English birth — 
 The daintiest race and eke the proudest upon Earth ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Blessings on both, the Saxon and the Gael ! 
 The maid of highland hut and English cot ! 
 The glory of the glen and of the vale ! 
 To each her separate charms let Truth allot ; 
 For praise is blame when it exalteth not. 
 Save by disparagement of others good ; 
 And let the poet's lay be soon forgot. 
 Who, in sarcastic or contemptuous mood. 
 Shall mar the equal fame of British womanhood. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 But we, methinks, have wander'd all too long 
 From the grave tenour of our purposed theme ; 
 Back from thy flights discursive, O my song. 
 To where our wanderer, lost in thoughtful dream. 
 Through the bleak moor, across the mountain 
 stream, 
 
268 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Up to the topmost point hath wound his way, 
 Which to retreat before him long did seem ; 
 And now discerns, far off, Lamlash's bay, 
 And hears its breakers roar, and sees their glittering 
 spray. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Not loth is he to mark his journey's end, 
 Bedew'd with Scottish mist for many a mile ; 
 And soon, with quicken'd footstep, doth descend 
 The downward slope, contemplating meanwhile 
 The pyramid abrupt of Holy Isle 
 Cresting the narrow strait which girds the shore, 
 And now, thro' flooded creek, and cove, and kyle. 
 Doth, in fall tide, its swelling surges pour, 
 And sweep the ribb'd sea sand with thundering rush 
 and roar. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Not tame the view to eyes long used to gaze 
 On England's level meads and hedgerows green. 
 And streams meandering through their sluggish 
 
 maze. 
 And waving woods, whose foliage dark between 
 Tall spires up-pointing to the skies are seen, 
 And stately mansions their proud summits rear 
 O'er sunny slopes ; — yet doth this sea-girt scene 
 Meagre and mean and spiritless appear 
 To favour'd swains who dwell in Brodick's moun- 
 tain sphere. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 For there, begirt by Nature's noblest forms, 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 269 
 
 Doth Caledonia's genius proudly dwell 
 In the mid region of the winds and storms, 
 Enthroned on cloudy peak and pinnacle ; 
 While, far below, the ocean-surges swell, 
 Laving a shore with spreading woods o'ergrown; 
 For Art hath there bestow'd her labour well, 
 And o'er the glens a leafy verdure thrown, 
 While here, in barren state, doth Nature reign 
 alone. — 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 — In barren state, nor that with grandeur graced 
 Of form or outline; — upward from the sea 
 Slopes the bare coast, bleak, featureless, and 
 
 waste, 
 A mountain tract — yet void of majesty ; 
 Such as, from time to time, sore vex'd, we see 
 In Scottish region, with unpleasant change 
 Succeeding to the beauty, bold and free. 
 Of lake, and rocky glen, and mountain range, 
 Of aspect ever new, and form abrupt and strange. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Nor yet more cheerful, to an English eye. 
 The long, straight village, which no rustic taste 
 Hath toil'd, with patient skill, to beautify; 
 Where never yet the cot's outside was graced 
 By woodbine, with dark ivy interlaced. 
 Nor rose nor lily did the air perfume ; 
 Nor e'er was porch by clematis embraced, 
 Nor e'er did jasmine round the windows bloom. 
 And from its silver cups shed fragrance thro' the 
 room. 
 
270 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Strange seems it that, in region far renown'd 
 For horticultural skill, such lack should be 
 Of decoration, rife on English ground, 
 E'en in the mean abodes of penury ; 
 Where little else, save cleanliness, we see 
 That tells of comfort ; — and not small amends 
 Yields it for lack of mountain majesty, 
 That neatness there on poverty attends. 
 And industry and taste together dwell like friends. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 But lovelier yet than ivy-mantled cot. 
 
 Or garden musical with hum of bees, 
 
 The grey Church tower on green sequester'd spot. 
 
 Half hidden by its dark embowering trees. 
 
 With merry bells that fill the evening breeze 
 
 With music best befitting English vales ; — 
 
 O ! might such temples grace such glens as 
 
 these ! 
 O ! might such music on these mountain gales 
 Repeat to Highland hearts their sweet and solemn 
 
 tales ! 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 But vain the wish ! for here, on hill, in glen, 
 Religion wears her simplest, rudest dress. 
 Spurning each fond device of carnal men 
 To clothe her in external gracefulness : 
 And well doth Scottish architect impress 
 On stone and morter the severest guise 
 
 Of the old Orthodox unloveliness, 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 271 
 
 Offending vain Episcopalian eyes 
 With kirks of hideous shape, proportion, hue, and 
 size. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Scarce more perversely doth Wesleyan pile. 
 Such as in Eng-lish villa<^e we behold. 
 With ostentatious ugliness de61e 
 The beauty of the land, in contrast bold 
 Rearing its front near church of Gothic mould, 
 As though in scorn of what fond hearts revere — 
 The grace and grandeur of the days of old — 
 The shrines by ancient piety held dear. 
 Where saintliest knees have knelt in faith and love 
 sincere. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 And, for the music of the belfry chime. 
 One sullen bell in Scottish kirk doth hang, 
 The call to prayer, at stated service time. 
 Reverberating hoarse with iron clang : 
 But never here the mountain echoes rang 
 With wedding peal, whose merry silver sound, 
 In sweeter notes than ever Syren sang. 
 Told its fond tale of bliss and love profound. 
 Which cavern, rock and hill repeated round and 
 round. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Nor ever here on ear expectant broke 
 The knell which told a neighbour's soul had j3ed, 
 Conveying, with its sad and solemn stroke. 
 Brief message to the living from the dead ; 
 
272 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Bidding them think how swift life's current sped, 
 How near the summons to the judgment throne, 
 How short the passage to the wormy bed, 
 How none could know when that might be their 
 
 own — 
 How death's sharp sting is heal'd by Christian faith 
 
 alone. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Such customs, long with Popish rites combined, 
 Doth Scotland's rigorous kirk hold Popish still, — 
 Abominations once, even here, enshrined, 
 As, of old time, in heathen grove and hill, 
 The principalities and powers of 111 ; 
 And, tho' they speak to nature's heart of heart, 
 And oft, with holiest glow, men's spirits fill, 
 She from her children keeps them far apart, 
 As hellish snares devised by Rome's malignant 
 art. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Even be it so ! — from Scotland's simple shrines 
 Still let her simpler psalms to Heaven ascend. 
 While the wind, whistling thro' the mountain 
 
 pines. 
 Doth to the strain accordant music lend. 
 With which their thundering voices cataracts 
 
 blend ; 
 But where, on English plains, cathedral spire 
 Lifts its tall height, let organ-peal attend 
 With notes symphonious the full chaunting 
 
 choir, 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 273 
 
 Whose anthems breathe to heaven the heavenly 
 soul's desire. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 And be the graceful garniture retain'd 
 Of cunning workmanship in stone and wood, 
 And fair large window, gothic-shaped and stain'd 
 With richest dyes, thro' which, in glareless flood. 
 Streams the dim light ; — and still let scarf and 
 
 hood. 
 And surplice white, and academic gown 
 Enrobe her priests, the gracious and the good, 
 Well-train'd and arm'd to beat proud error down, 
 And spread religion's reign and learning's fair re- 
 nown. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Time was when Church with Kirk, — Geneva 
 
 cloak 
 With robe and mitre, in fierce wrath have striven, 
 And love's pure law, with mutual rancour, broke. 
 Till, in the name and for the sake of Heaven, 
 The holiest bonds of Earth were rent and riven ; 
 But time and wiser thoughts have quell'd that 
 
 fray; 
 Let each by turns forgiving and forgiven. 
 And each forbearing each, await the day, 
 When truth, more clearly seen, shall drive debate 
 
 away. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Each needs her strength, in this distemper'd age. 
 For other conflicts ; — around either wait 
 
 2 T 
 
274 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 The sceptic's scofiP, the atheist's impious rage, 
 The hot sectarian's indissembled hate, 
 The cold half-friendship of the wavering State, 
 The brawling demagogue's coarse, ribald yell. 
 The lust of plunder with fierce hope elate ; 
 Sad is their doom, in Kedar's tents to dv.'ell, 
 'Midst enemies to peace who 'gainst all good rebel ! 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Here pause we, — for the swiftly gathering crowd 
 Thro* the church doors are thronging, and the 
 
 rain, 
 From the dark bosom of yon thunder-cloud, 
 In big round drops falls audibly amain ; 
 Safe shelter found, our wayfarer is fain, 
 As best he may, his garments drench'd to dry ; 
 There let him rest, observing, till again 
 Our song begin, with grave, attentive eye, 
 Whate'er, to him, new sights to-day he may espy. 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 275 
 
 CANTO n. 
 
 I. 
 Sweet ! to the wanderer's heart, in foreign land, 
 Whate'er reminds him of that spot of earth 
 Where the tall trees which shade his dwelling 
 
 stand — 
 The evening light which glimmers round his 
 
 hearth — 
 The chamber which beheld his children's birth — 
 The Church, within whose walls he first became 
 Acknowledged heir of Heaven's uncourted 
 
 worth — 
 The altar where his bride, with maiden shame. 
 Pledged herself his till death, in body, soul, and 
 
 name. 
 
 II. 
 Sweet, and yet sorrowful, each sight and sound 
 Telling his heart of home's far distant bliss. 
 E'en as the ranz des vaches, on foreign ground, 
 O'erwhelms the martial spirit of the Swiss, 
 In thought restoring his wife's farewell kiss. 
 His children's voices, and his mountain cot ; 
 Till waking from his dream, he starts to miss 
 Those cherish'd joys, and loathes his soldier lot, 
 Fame — honour — fortune — hope — in that fond grief 
 
 forgot ! 
 
276 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Not alien thou, O Scotland, to the heart 
 Of England, but long since, by many a tie 
 Of law, religion, language, custom, art 
 And mutual service done in days gone by, 
 — Yea, by remembrance of past enmity. 
 Each link'd to each ; — for still the noblest foe 
 Becomes the truest friend and best ally 
 When discord's bitter blasts have ceased to blow, 
 And each the other's worth doth, thro' long con- 
 flict, know. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A noble pair are ye, allied no less 
 By contrast than resemblance ; — each doth wear 
 A diverse garb of outward loveliness ; — 
 Thou, with thy giant lakes and mountains bare, 
 Where the storms bellow and the lightnings glare, 
 Art robed in grandeur, — while her softer grace 
 Of vale, and verdant wood, and pasture fair. 
 Smiles on thy rude sublimity of face. 
 E'en like a gentle bride in a brave man's embrace. 
 
 V. 
 
 And yet, though dear to wandering Southron's 
 
 breast. 
 And, e'en when most unlike, resembling still 
 The pleasant land which he must needs love best. 
 That land thou art not, nor its place canst fill 
 So, in his heart, that it shall cease to thrill 
 With fond home-thoughts ; — but oft as he hath 
 
 found 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 277 
 
 In the wild region of the lake and hill, 
 Aught which appears the growth of English 
 ground, [bound ! 
 
 How doth its every pulse with new-born pleasure 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sweet 'twas to him, amidst Edina's fanes, 
 That Gothic pile episcopal to find. 
 Where the pure form of English worship reigns, 
 In graceful pomp and circumstance enshrined ; 
 And there, once more, the willing heart unbind, 
 To alien rites, for many a recent week, 
 Amidst the mountains and wild glens confined, — 
 And hear the English pastor's accent meek. 
 The music, long unheard, of forms liturgic speak ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Sweet 'twas to note the reverential air 
 Of each new worshipper who bent the knee, 
 Shading his brow meanwhile in silent prayer — 
 While the deep organ, in accordant key, 
 Sent forth a low, melodious symphony, 
 Prelusive to the swell of choral hymn, — 
 And o'er the soul a hush'd solemnity. 
 Stealing from pillar'd arch and window dim. 
 Raised it to Heaven, as seem'd, on wings of seraphim. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 O say not this is superstition all — 
 
 This solemn awe from solemn places caught — 
 
 This reverence grave which doth man's heart 
 
 enthrall — 
 This tuning of the soul to pious thought ; — 
 
278 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Albeit, perchance, by shrewd contrivance wrought 
 Through architectural grace and music's power. 
 Deem not that lesson all unwisely taught, 
 Which lifts the enfranchised spirit, for an hour, 
 Above those cares of earth, which its best life devour. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Is it a guilty weakness to have felt 
 
 A present spirit in the house of God ? 
 
 To love the shrine where saintly knees have 
 
 knelt — 
 The marble floor which saintly feet have trod ? — 
 To press, with softer tread, the churchyard sod. 
 Beneath whose grassy verdure saints repose 
 Till the last trump shall wake the kneaded clod. 
 And once again the shrouded eyes unclose, 
 To crown with heavenly bliss life's long-forgotten 
 woes? 
 
 X. 
 
 Would not the soul which felt no reverent awe 
 In Earth's most holy places, still be cold, 
 E'en if reveal'd. Heaven's blissful depths it saw, 
 Throng'd with the spirits of just men of old ; 
 And still unmoved, and confidently bold. 
 Gaze with composure on the dreadful throne 
 Whereon his final judgment Christ shall hold. 
 And the dread secrets of all hearts make known. 
 And all his foes coademn, and his redeem'd ones 
 own ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 And yet not so, — for many a pious heart 
 Hath come to worship in yon kirk to-day, 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 279 
 
 And of that holy feast receive its part, 
 And bear rich blessing to its home away, 
 Which yet no decent reverence deigns to pay 
 To aught which here the mental eye may trace 
 Sacred or solemn ; — as they will or may, 
 The groups drop in — no outward sign of grace — 
 But each, with hat undoflf'd, squats down upon his 
 place. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Ah ! well-a-day ! — but this seems wondrous 
 
 strange ! 
 Is this a mart where gossips sell and buy? — 
 A room for lectures, or a stock exchange ? — 
 Is that, which seems a pulpit to the eye, 
 A desk where auctioneers their labour ply ? 
 Nay — ill the day such rash conjectures suit ; — 
 Ask not, Southron gazer, whence or why 
 The Northern vine bears such unshapely fruit; — 
 Tis wholesome food, though coarse; — the tree is 
 sound at root. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Now cast thine eyes attentively around ; — 
 The Temple and its worshippers survey ; — 
 Rude is the first as may on Earth be found ; 
 No vain adornments its white walls array, 
 — Carving of oak, or stonework old and gray, — 
 Nor monumental slab, nor sculptured tomb. 
 Where their huge length recumbent warriors 
 
 lay,— 
 Nor painted glass sheds round cathedral gloom, 
 Noraughtofoutwardpompmayfind permitted room. 
 
280 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Oblong the shape ; — an area cramm'd with pews, 
 Close, narrow, low, which, at a glance, you see 
 Are such as sturdy Presbyterians use. 
 Who never, e'en in worship, bend the knee. 
 Back'd by the western wall, which fronts the sea. 
 Frowns the grim pulpit, cushionless and bare 
 Of all vain gauds oi Popish frippery, — 
 Unlined the sides, unearpeted the stair, — 
 Wore never hermit's cell a less luxurious air. 
 
 XV. 
 
 So 'tis most fitting : — so shall issue thence, 
 In strains accordant both to place and theme. 
 The deep-toned flood of Gaelic eloquence, 
 Clear, strong, and rapid, like a mountain stream ; 
 Dispersing, in its rush, sin's sensual dream. 
 Ah how unlike the soft luxurious shrine. 
 Which fashion's sickly brood sublimest deem ! 
 Where, throned in velvet state, the smug divine 
 Doth his thin, filmy woof of polish'd periods twine. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Fronting the pulpit, with capacious span, 
 Yawns a broad arch , through which the wandering 
 
 eye 
 A separate portion of the kirk may scan ; 
 The floor close-pe w'd, o'er which extends on high , 
 From side to side, a spacious gallery 
 Assign'd to worshippers of higher class. 
 Where fluttering scarf and gorgeous shawl you 
 
 • spy» 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 281 
 
 Mix'd with such male attire as doth surpass 
 Aught that below appears in all that motley mass. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Vacant as yet the seats, for scarce the chime 
 Of neighbouring clock the hour of twelve hath 
 
 told; 
 Nor oft the rich anticipate the time 
 Of worship ; but below you may behold, 
 Assembling slowly, forms of coarser mould ; 
 The lowly dwellers in the moor and glen ; — 
 Shepherds and hinds, and cottars young and old, 
 And sailors rough, and simple fishermen. 
 Which fitly to describe o'ertasks poetic pen. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Silent they sit, expectant all and each, 
 When he who leads their worship shall appear; 
 No time for idle thought or idler speech, 
 Or nod of mutual recognition here : 
 No sound, save that of slamming doors, you hear, 
 As the new comers, one by one, stalk in, 
 And take their seats with grave and sturdy cheer- 
 None breathing, till the service shall begin, 
 A whisper which could drown the dropping of a 
 pin. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And some, the lingering moments to beguile, 
 On scripture page with gaze abstracted pore, 
 Or Psalter turn'd to rhyme in homeliest style, 
 Conning each well-known metre o'er and o'er. 
 Ah ! well I wot would David's heart be sore, 
 
282 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Could he, return'd to Earth, the wrong behold 
 Done to the strains divine he sung of yore, 
 By British bards, in version new and old, 
 So marr*d with phrase uncouth, and rhyme of rugged 
 mould. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But neither those twin jinglers of harsh wire, 
 Sternhold and Hopkins, nor that worthier pair, 
 Brady and Tate, have stripp'd the Hebrew lyre 
 Of poesy and music quite so bare 
 (If doggrel we with doggrel may compare) 
 As Scottish bards, whom yet the kirks decree, 
 Expelling hymns profane with pious care, 
 Hath throned in David's seat, that they may be 
 Sole lords throughout the land of songandpsalmody . 
 
 • XI. 
 
 Ah ! why forbid the tuneful soul to soar 
 Heavenward, unless on inspiration's wings ? 
 Why cramp its flight with chains of Jewish lore? 
 Why blame the music of those later strings, 
 To which the Church her song majestic sings. 
 Attuned to themes of yet diviner strain 
 Than bless'd the ear of prophets or of kings. 
 Before the Son of man, with toil and pain. 
 Had freed our ransom'd race from Hell's oppressive 
 chain ? 
 
 XXII. 
 
 By seer and psalmist, darkly at the best, 
 Messiah's face, as in a glass, was seen ; 
 Dimly, by them, in shadowy lines exprest— 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 283 
 
 The incarnate glory of its god-like mien 
 Veil'd from our gaze by clouds that float between; 
 Yet not unrecognized by saintly eye, 
 Whether of hind unletter'd, poor and mean, 
 Or studious scholar, skilful to descry 
 Whate'er of old was taught in type and prophecy. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 But who shall thus discern, of modern men, 
 The form reveal'd to Hebrew seer sublime. 
 When marr'd and mangled by the reckless pen 
 Of versifier rude, with measured chime 
 Twisting the strain prophetic into rhyme, 
 In parish churches to be shriek'd, not sung, 
 By untaught throats that murder tune and time, 
 In nasal drone and broad provincial tongue, 
 With twang of viols harsh to perfect discord strung? 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 But Scotland's kirk this last foul murder yet 
 Hath ne'er committed her strict walls within ; 
 But loathes the sound of flute and clarionet, 
 Hautboy, and hoarse bassoon and violin, 
 And gruff bass viol with commingled din 
 Deafening the ear ; — their own harmonious notes 
 Her children raise to heaven, and deem it sin 
 To mar the natural music of their throats 
 With instrumental clang, on which Hell's monarch 
 dotes. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And deep and sweet and solemn is the swell 
 Of congregated voices, when they raise 
 
284 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 The simple strains which Scotland loves so well, 
 Attuned to words, tho' rude, of prayer and praise ; 
 Upborne by which the soaring spirit strays 
 Through worlds beyond the bounds of space and 
 
 time ; — 
 Oh ! could some bard but lend accordant lays 
 To notes so sweet and utterance so sublime, 
 Methinks e'en Knox's shade might pardon such a 
 
 crime. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Bolder herein have Wesley's flocks been found, 
 Though far unlike, in all things else, they be 
 The Calvinistic growth of Scottish ground, — 
 Weak, stunted off-shoots of a goodly tree : 
 Yet they, with venturous daring, have set free 
 Both verse and music from those irksome chains 
 Which cramp the wing of statelier psalmody ; 
 Recalling banish'd song from sin's domains 
 To praise redeeming love in blithe trochaic strains. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But worthier far to greet angelic ears 
 The hymns in Rome's apostate temples sung 
 To music like the luusic of the spheres — 
 Hymns of past ages, when the church was 
 
 young ! 
 Ah ! why still shrouded in a foreign tongue ? 
 Or why, since purer faith's reviving day, 
 Hath none been found, Britannia's sons among, 
 To cheer her churches with an equal lay? — 
 Arise some bard, and wipe the foul reproach away ! 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 285 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And yet, (so quickly is the gentle heart 
 By simplest things to keen emotion stirr'd) 
 E'en this rude mockery of poetic art 
 May be to loftiest minstrelsy preferr'd 
 By those who first, from lips maternal, heard 
 Its rugged rhymes, in tenderest accents, sung ; — 
 Lo ! where intently scanning line and word, 
 Yon matron sits, a radiant group among 
 Of children, all her own — yet she both fair and 
 young. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Silent she sits, and yet her lips are moving. 
 In measured cadence, to the psalm she sings 
 To her own heart, whose thoughts meanwhile 
 
 are roving 
 Through worlds unseen on faith's ethereal wings ; 
 Nought marks she now of sublunary things, — 
 The congregating crowd— the rustic fane — 
 The infant group around her knees that clings ; 
 No sense hath she of mortal joy or pain ; — 
 O ! might she thus dream on, nor ever wake 
 
 again ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Yet is she rich in this world's purest joy ; 
 Heaven hath, with liberal bounty, blest her lot ; 
 Witness each bright-eyed girl and blooming boy- 
 Witness their sire, whose neat sequester'd cot 
 Her smile makes glad ; — in truth she needeth 
 not 
 
286 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Aug'ht more of earthly bliss than God hath 
 
 given ; 
 Yet never, amidst all, hath she forgot 
 To lay up treasure, costlier far, in Heaven, 
 And prize o'er Earth's best joys the peace of sin 
 
 forgiven. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 But see ! the pastor of the flock appears, — 
 A man of rosy cheek and cheerful eye. 
 His age now verging close on fifty years, 
 Which, you may deem, have smoothly glided by ; 
 For not a vestige on his brow you spy 
 Of over-anxious care, or thought too deep : 
 Sound doctrine doth he preach, but passing dry ,— 
 Which as he drones, o'er hearers' sense doth creep 
 Such calm that some 'gin nod, and some have fallen 
 asleep. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 His hour, and with the hour his sermon done, 
 From dreamy doze at once the slumberers start, 
 And loudly all the final psalm intone. 
 Which and the service closed, the larger part 
 Forsake the church, while those of contrite heait 
 Or strict profession, still their seats retain. 
 — Our wanderer with the former shall depart, 
 Deeming it now intrusion rash and vain. 
 Amidst the bidden guests, unbidden, to remain. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Meanwhile, without the walls, a countless crowd 
 Yon shelter'd pulpit, misnamed tent, surround. 
 
SUNDAY IN THE iMOUNTAlNS. 287 
 
 Where with alternate rhetoric, long and loud, 
 Saxon and Gael successive texts expound ; 
 And ever and anon the solemn sound 
 Of psalms, in Gaelic and in Saxon tongue, 
 Doth from the mountains and huge rocks 
 
 rebound. 
 As, by a sea of voices old and young, 
 A chorus like the roar of ocean-waves is sung. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 A solemn sound ! — a sweet and solemn sight ! — 
 The psalm — the choir — the temple vast and fair 
 In which all voices with all hearts unite, — 
 Its floor the turf — its roof the boundless air — 
 Its altar Man's deep heart — its offering prayer, 
 Attuned to melody of sacred song ; — 
 In truth, devotion lacks not utterance there. 
 But breathes to Heaven, in accents clear and 
 strong. 
 Strains scarce unfit to sound angelic choirs among. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Thus, between mingled acts of prayer and praise, 
 The day wears on, till lengthen'd shadows fall, 
 And still fresh crowds their solemn chorus raise. 
 And still fresh preachers, with repeated call. 
 Reprove, rebuke, exhort them, one and all ; 
 And still new hearers, as the old retire, 
 Fill up of space each vacant interval ; 
 Sooner, it seems, the daylight shall expire 
 Than psalm and sermon cease — than flesh or spirit 
 tire. 
 
288 SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 *Tis good for Southron wight to have been here, — 
 Good to have felt the spirit of the place, 
 And witness'd the devotion, deep, sincere, 
 Which fires this sturdy Presbyterian race ; 
 Nor deems he that henceforth shall aught efface 
 Remembrance of their worship from his mind : 
 Yet, as he turns, his footsteps to retrace. 
 Is this, thinks he, the holy rite design'd. 
 True Christian hearts in one with heavenly love to 
 bind? 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 This countless crowd — this myriad-throated roar 
 Of voices, echoed back from rock and hill, — 
 Comport they with a spirit sad and sore ? — 
 A heart self judged — a meek and chasten'd will? 
 A conscience troubled by its load of ill ? 
 This festival of feeling, wild and high, 
 Ah ! — how unlike that upper chamber still ! — 
 That hush of hearts , which felt the hour draw nigh , 
 When on the atoning cross the Son of man must die ! 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Far better with that hallow'd feast agree 
 The church embosom'd deep in peaceful vale, — 
 The silent groups which humbly bow the knee, 
 In suppliant guise, before the altar rail, — 
 The lowly voice of pastor meek and pale, 
 Who to his hungering flock doth there impart 
 The livino* bread from heaven which cannot fail— 
 
SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS. 289 
 
 The deep-drawn sighs, which ease the contrite 
 heart, 
 The penitential tears, which there unbidden start. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 So deems our wanderer, and with thoughtful brow 
 Wends homeward through the wind and pelting 
 
 rain. 
 Which, (through brief rest its strength recover'd 
 
 now) 
 From masses of black cloud descends again ; 
 Gladly shall he his mountain cot regain. 
 Where wife and children his return desire ; 
 Nor let him deem this Sunday spent in vain, 
 When, cheer'd by food and clothed in dry attire, 
 He tells what he has seen by summer evening fire. 
 
 su 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF ARRAN. 
 1838. 
 
 I. 
 
 There was a time when scenes like these 
 
 Which from our cottage door we see — 
 Those peaks which seem the clouds to kiss — 
 
 The sunlight on that crystal sea — 
 The solemn gloom of yon pine wood — 
 
 This burn which glides, in music, by, 
 Had charm'd me to that wish'd-for mood 
 
 Which oft gives birth to poesy. 
 II. 
 'Tis not so now; — I gaze and gaze. 
 
 And feed my pleased corporeal sense. 
 As gladly as in earlier days, 
 
 On Nature's rude magnificence. 
 Each feature of this glorious scene 
 
 Looks glorious as it look'd of yore, 
 But I am not as I have been, — 
 
 The spells, which charm'd me, charm no more. 
 
294 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Tis not that now, in manhood's prime, 
 
 My powers have sunk in swift decay ; — 
 I rather deem the scythe of Time 
 
 Hath lopp'd their rank misgrowths away. 
 Tis not that now, with soberer will, 
 
 I shun the visions loved so long* ; — 
 Full oft my heart is yearning still 
 
 To mingle with the sons of song. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It is that life hath lost, for me, 
 
 The shadowy veil of doubt and fear ; 
 That depths, once hid in mysteiy. 
 
 Now lie before me close and clear. 
 It is that I can use no more 
 
 The workings of young Hope within 
 To gild each outward object o'er 
 
 With glory to herself akin. 
 v. 
 Long since when, in the spring of youth, 
 
 My spirit wrought on airy themes, 
 Investing with the hues of truth 
 
 The substance of its wildest dreams, — 
 Then wood and hill and mountain-head, 
 
 And murmuring stream and billoAvy sea, 
 With draughts of pure enjoyment fed 
 
 The inner life of Phantasy. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Each form of earthly beauty seem'd 
 With its own substance to endue 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 The emptiest joys that Fancy dream'd, 
 
 Or Hope's delusive pencil drew. 
 And thus, while Earth look'd heavenly-brig^ht, 
 
 And Hope and Fancy still were strong-, 
 Well might I soar, with venturous flight, 
 
 Through many a dizzy path of song. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But now — on life's sunshiny noon 
 
 There rests a clear, unclouded ray ; 
 The lights and shades of star and moon 
 
 Have faded from the sober day. 
 My heart no more delights to dwell 
 
 In treacherous dreams of bliss to come ; — 
 My present joys — I love them well, 
 
 But they are, with myself, at home. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And Nature's face is now to me 
 
 No prophecy of times more fair ; 
 It speaks no more of things to be. 
 
 But tells of lovelier things that were. 
 Yon mountain-peaks — those sea-girt isles — 
 
 This sky, too oft with clouds o'ercast. 
 Remind me of life's varying smiles. 
 
 Its hopes, its fears, its interest past. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Therefore, albeit I love to muse, 
 In dreamy mood, on days gone by. 
 
 And still, well-pleased, the face peruse 
 Of stream and mountain, sea and sk}', — 
 
 Not these, nor sights like these awake, 
 
296 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 In me, the slumbering- soul of song", 
 Nor those benumbing fetters break 
 
 Which Fancy's wing hath felt so long. 
 
 X. 
 
 My days of tuneful thought are o'er, 
 
 Nor need I at their loss repine ; 
 Since home-content and letter'd lore. 
 
 And love and friendship still are mine : 
 And pastoral duties, not unblest, 
 
 With tranquil toil my powers employ ; 
 And heavenly hope yields peace and rest 
 
 Sweeter than Earth's unquiet joy. 
 
 OUR WEDDING-DAY! 
 
 1838. 
 
 I. 
 Our wedding-day ! our wedding-day ! — 
 
 And 'tis a bright and balmy morn ; 
 But thou, alas I art far away. 
 
 And I, in home and heart, forlorn! 
 This thirteenth year of love and peace. 
 
 With small alloy of squally weather, 
 (Ah! why must good old customs cease?) 
 
 Should find us, like past years, together. 
 II. 
 But happier is thy lot than mine. 
 
 For thou hast those dear young-lings near thee, 
 Round whom thy heartstrings twist and twine. 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS. 297 
 
 Whose smiles with ceaseless sunshine cheer thee. 
 There's Gerard with his calm grave eye, 
 
 And GeoUy's cheeks as red as may be ; 
 And curly-pated, saucy Ty, 
 
 And May, the loveliest earthly baby. 
 III. 
 And in the dear old house thou art, 
 
 My childhood's home, my manhood's vision, 
 Whose every chamber to my heart 
 
 Recalls past joys and dreams Elysian. 
 And both my parents lavish smiles 
 
 On thee, their own adopted daughter; 
 And Nature's face thine eye beguiles 
 
 With rock and hill and wood and water. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But I ! — about my house I roam, — 
 
 My lonely house, my cheerless dwelling. 
 Which wears no more the look of home, 
 
 Though still of home's lost comforts telling. 
 My children's toys lie scatter'd round, — 
 
 Their hoops and balls and rakes and rattles. 
 And flags, about the garden found. 
 
 Memorials brave of mimic battles ! 
 
 V. 
 
 The garden ! — how its borders look ! 
 
 Rank weeds are trailing round their edges ; 
 The pair, who late its charge forsook. 
 
 Were not exactly garden Hedges. 
 The roof is rent from off the bower. 
 
 And sun and stars and sky look through it, 
 
298 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 And thunder-storm and summer shower 
 In seat and floor and side bedew it. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And Fanny's voice seems tuneless now, 
 
 Although she sings as sweet as ever ; 
 And Jess has lost her blithe bow-wow, 
 
 And Pam has caught a nervous fever. 
 E'en Sally's smiles no more delight, — 
 
 E'en Dulcy's brow is cold and clouded ; — 
 In short, Avhatever once look'd bright 
 
 Is now in gloom completely shrouded. 
 
 VII. 
 
 At night, when I to bed repair, 
 
 I find but one poor, lonely pillow ; 
 And round my brows am fain to wear, 
 
 For nuptial wreath, the weeping willow. 
 And Tiny's crib is at my side, 
 
 And for its company I thank it ; 
 But it has lost its crown and pride, — 
 
 Yea, e'en its counterpane and blanket ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Our wedding day ! our wedding day ! 
 
 How dismal 'tis ! — how dull and stupid ! 
 Alas ! that wives from home should stray. 
 
 And Hymen prove as false as Cupid ! 
 Return, return, thou spouse of mine, 
 
 Bring all our olive-buds about thee. 
 And cheer, with those bright smiles of thine, 
 
 This heart so dreary-dark without thee. 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS. 299 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A BUST 
 OF THE LATE WINTHROP MACKWORTH PllAED. 
 
 Not that in him, whom these poor praises wrong, 
 Gifts, rare themselves, in rarest union dwelt ; 
 
 Not that, reveal'd through eloquence and song, 
 In him the Bard and Statesman breathed and 
 felt ;— 
 
 Not that his nature, graciously endued 
 
 With feelings and affections pure and high. 
 
 Was purged from worldly taint, and self-subdued, 
 Till soul o'er sense gain'd perfect mastery ; — 
 
 Not for this only we lament his loss, — 
 Not for this chiefly we account him blest ; 
 
 But that all this he cast beneath the Cross, 
 Content for Christ to live, in Christ to rest. 
 
 HYMN 
 
 FOR THE OPENING OF A CHURCH ORGAN. 
 I. 
 
 Throughout all earth, and air, and sea. 
 
 Sweet sounds our Father bless, 
 In hymns of natural harmony 
 
 From voices numberless. 
 
300 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 
 The carol shrill of joyous bird, — 
 
 The hum of honey-bee, — 
 The leaves, by summer breezes stirr'd, 
 
 Which whisper on the tree — 
 III. 
 The cataract's rush, — the ocean's roar 
 
 Unite with one accord, 
 In ceaseless chorus to adore 
 
 Their own — all Nature's Lord. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Church, with pipes and keys combined 
 
 By Man's profounder art, 
 Appropriate utterance strives to find 
 
 For music in her heart. 
 
 V. 
 
 Father ! to-day accept our gift, 
 
 And by thy presence bless 
 The hymns thy children here uplift 
 
 To praise thy bounteousness. 
 
 SONNET I. 
 
 NEW year's day. 
 
 Not wfth solemnities of festal mirth, — 
 The well-spread board, the wine-cup sparkling clear, 
 The laugh of neighbours o'er their Christmas cheer, 
 The gibe and gambol round the blazing hearth, — 
 Not with such rites we celebrate thy birth. 
 
OCCASIONAL rOEMS. 301 
 
 And bid thee blithe God-speed ! O infant year : 
 Nor yet, in thoughtful mood, with brow severe, 
 Mourning thine elder sisters lost on earth ; 
 But with leave-takings, and the bustling care 
 Of packing and of parting : — sad employ ! 
 Yet not unmingled with a sober joy ; 
 For we, who part, to separate homes repair. 
 So greeting well thy birth ; since none may share 
 Life*s pleasures undebased by pain's alloy. 
 
 1838. 
 
 SONNET II. 
 
 Once more the tardy progress of the spring 
 Brings round, beloved, our betrothal day. 
 Rich heretofore in all the sweets which May 
 Did from her teeming lap, prolific, fling ; 
 But now the lingering Zephyr's crippled wing 
 Thro' boughs all bare and blossomless doth stray, 
 And scarce have winter's hoar-frosts pass'd away, 
 Or vernal birds begun as yet to sing. 
 But let the laggard and distemper'd year 
 Frown as it lists ; — we two have sunshine still. 
 Warming with love sweet wedlock's atmosphere ; 
 And many a bubbling fount and sparkling rill 
 Of joy and peace makes music sweet and clear 
 For us, scarce yet descending life's steep hill. 
 
 1838. 
 
302 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 SONNET III. 
 
 Cousin, the phantom voice of other years 
 Spake to me, as I sat by thee once more, 
 And saw thee what thou wast in days of yore, 
 Unfaded yet by life's thick-gushing tears — 
 While thy loved voice made music in my ears, 
 Such as it did ere boyhood's dream was o'er, 
 Or manhood yet had found its present store 
 Of household joys and sorrows, hopes and fears. 
 Now in two worlds we dwell, by different cares 
 And sympathies begirt; — yet each, I trust, 
 Employ'd in tasks through which high Heaven 
 
 prepares 
 For its own bliss the faithful and the just. 
 There may our spirits meet, as now our prayers, 
 When our dust, cousin, hath return'd to dust. 
 1837. 
 
 SONNET IV. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
 
 Through islet-sprinkled lakes, embosom'd deep 
 In mountains crown'd with yet unmelted snow, 
 While o'er their heathery sides bright wild-flowers 
 
 grow, — 
 Through rocky glens, in which, from steep to steep, 
 With rush and roar, the mountain torrents leap, — 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS. ^ 
 
 O'er Inverara's heights, — through wild Glencroe- 
 (Delight and wonder kindling as we go) 
 From Arran's distant isle our course we keep. 
 But ask me not to paint what here we see, 
 With graphic pen, though all be passing dear 
 To memory ; — for this outward world, to me. 
 Hath never been of tuneful thought the sphere ; 
 My realm of song is human hope and fear, 
 Joy, grief, domestic peace and fireside glee. 
 1839. 
 
 SONNET V. 
 
 LOCH RANZA. 
 
 From Brodick's matchless bay, along the shore 
 Of Arran northward, past the Sannox glen. 
 Her freight of sketching dames and wondering men 
 Our crowded steamboat to Loch Ranza bore ; 
 Which when we enter'd — all my hopes were o'er ; 
 Nought found I there to task poetic pen : 
 But one there was, who with an artist's ken 
 Gazed at the scene, and straight began to pour 
 Artistic raptures about light and shade — 
 And how effectively these tints would lie, 
 And how much of those outlines might be made ; 
 Yet he, with slender notice, had pass'd by 
 Glen-Sannox gorge. — How unlike mine his trade ! 
 How far the painter's from the poet's eye ! 
 1839. 
 
304 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 SONNET VI. 
 TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER. 
 
 My daughter ! — in that name appear fulfill'd 
 
 The cherish'd dreams of many wedded years; 
 
 Child of as many wishes, hopes and fears, 
 
 As e'er through poet's restless bosom thrill'd, 
 
 How doth thy rising star serenely gild, 
 
 For me, the horizon of this vale of tears ! 
 
 Which, in its tender light, almost appears 
 
 A place where Hope her final home might build. 
 
 But with a deeper joy I greet thy birth. 
 
 For that hereafter, as I fondly trust, 
 
 Thou slialt make glad thy mother's home and hearth , 
 
 When she shall mourn (as soon or late she must) 
 
 Her lack-land sons dispers'd throughout the 
 
 earth, — 
 Her husband, and his follies, in the dust. 
 1837." 
 
 SONNET VII. 
 
 TO MY YOUNGEST CHILD. 
 
 I WOULD not have it said that thou alone, 
 My latest-born, hast been unsung by me, 
 Of six whom I have dandled on my knee, 
 Some among whom have, many a year, outgrown 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS. 305 
 
 Parental dandling^: — therefore, for thine own, 
 Take now this sonnet, — though perchance to thee, 
 But little versed in lore of A, B, C, 
 'Twill seem a mystery better left unknown. 
 Right glad am I that thou art thus devoid 
 Of erudition ; — that thy tender age 
 Hath been in healthier toil, till now, employ'd 
 Than poring o'er some spelling-book's dull page ;— 
 That thou, a poet's daughter, hast enjoy'd 
 Life's early dawn unpent in schoolroom cage. 
 1843. 
 
 SONNET VITI. 
 
 With fond parental pride did I devote 
 This pair of sister Sonnets to the press ; — 
 Short-sighted dreamer ! — little did I guess 
 That, at the moment when the words 1 wrote, 
 Did Azrael's dusky wing already float 
 O'er both those gentle heads !— That sore distress — 
 Those long, long weeks of death's own bitterness 
 Are past— the Arm, thrice lifted, never smote. 
 For this deep mercy be the Chastener blest ! 
 And ye, my children, from the grave's embrace 
 Deliver'd— our lost treasure repossest — 
 May ye, henceforth, by yet diviner grace 
 Made doubly His, so run your earthly race 
 That ye in Heaven with holiest saints may rest ! 
 
 1843. 
 
 2 X 
 
306 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 SONNET IX. 
 
 Six weeks of anxious watching and suspense, 
 With ceaseless ebbs and flows of hope and dread, 
 A ting-e of silver o'er thy locks hath shed. 
 Dimming, in part, their dark magnificence. 
 Which else perchance had, many a summer hence, 
 As in time past, still graced thy matron head ; 
 Grey hast thou grown beside our children's bed, 
 Raised, through thy care, from stroke of pestilence : 
 Therefore, O best-belov'd, more deeply now 
 Those streaks of summer snow do I hold dear 
 Than the pure jet which shaded thy young brow 
 When, at the altar's rail, with hearts sincere 
 We plighted, each to each, our nuptial vow ; 
 — Mother and wife on Earth without a peer ! 
 
 1843. 
 
 SONNET X. 
 
 TO THE AUTHORESS OF " I WATCh'd THE 
 HEAVENS." 
 
 Within two miles of glorious dale and hill, 
 Lady, we two from infancy were bred ; 
 And bravely (doubt not) were our spirits fed 
 On forms and hues which there with beauty fill 
 Meadow and valley, rock, and wood, and rill; 
 Each, by a guidance which we knew not, led 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS. 807 
 
 Through discipline, which train'd both heart and 
 
 head 
 The Bard's mysterious mission to fulfil. 
 Nor grudge I, but rejoice, that Heaven to thee 
 Allots the loftier task, the nobler powers. 
 Teaching thy wing to soar, thine eye to see 
 Beyond the bounds of this gross world of ours ; 
 While I , confined to Earths' green banks and bowers. 
 Pipe my wild notes of human grief and glee. 
 1843. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 I. 
 
 Some five and twenty years have past — 
 
 (It may be more — it may be less—) 
 Since first we met— and parted last, — 
 
 A poet and a poetess. 
 II. 
 That first and last and only time 
 
 Did we (whose hearts e'en then were swelling 
 With thoughts, ere long to bloom in rhyme) 
 
 Converse within one earthly dwelling. 
 III. 
 A dark-hair'd girl — a stripling tall — 
 
 (For then no lath than I was thinner) 
 We sat within thy Father's Hall, 
 
 Among sedater guests, at dinner. 
 
308 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 We talk'd, as youthful poets use, 
 
 Of high imaginative matters ; 
 Of Scott's and Moore's and Byron's Muse, — 
 
 Of Odes and Epics — Songs and Satires ; — 
 
 V. 
 
 Of Music and the sister arts. 
 Save one — alas ! denied to thee. 
 
 Though mostly dear to female hearts — 
 The art of gay Terpsichore. 
 
 VI. 
 
 To Her, in that same festive Hall, 
 Had I, in strange, fantastic motion, 
 
 Obedient to the fiddle's call, 
 
 Paid, oft ere then, my young devotion. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And graceful forms and eyes of light. 
 Before my raptured vision glancing, 
 
 Had held me through the livelong night. 
 In love's wild dreams my soul entrancing. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Each form — each face — each thrilling tone. 
 Which charm'd me then, is now forgot ; 
 
 One face remains, — one voice alone 
 From Memory's ear departeth not. 
 
 IX. 
 
 A Presence of mysterious power 
 (But dimly then discern'd by me) 
 
 Had through my spirit, in that hour, 
 Diffused itself insensibly. 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS. 809 
 
 X. 
 
 And hence that hour of converse still, 
 While years have faded, seeraeth near; 
 
 Like some sun-gilded, distant hill 
 
 Seen through a rain-fraught atmosphere. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And if no more we meet on Earth, 
 
 'Twill be a pleasant thoug-ht to me. 
 That the same haunts which gave thee birth 
 
 Were mine from tenderest infancy. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The bold Clee Hill — the winding Teme — 
 The glorious woods of Mawley Hall — 
 
 The banks of Rea's romantic stream — 
 We both have known and loved them all. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Yes ! — both have loved them ; — thou no less 
 Than I (though thine no earthly strain) 
 
 Dost, from that region's loveliness, 
 Pure springs of inspiration drain. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Heaven speed thee, lady, in thy flight 
 Through worlds of song beyond my ken ! 
 
 Heaven guide that wing of female might 
 Where few can soar of mightiest men ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 And though thou fall'st on evil days 
 For daughters, as for sons, of Song, 
 
 Doubt not the echo of thy lays 
 In many a heart shall linger long. 
 
310 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Nor now this cordial praise repel 
 From one who glories that, in thee. 
 
 Amidst the scenes he loves so well 
 Was born a nobler Bard than he. 
 
 1843. 
 
 LAMENT FOR THE DOON. 
 
 Air.— The Rhine ! the Rhine ! 
 
 I. 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! — our own romantic river t 
 We tread thy banks no more — we tread thy banks 
 no more ; 
 Thy stream's bright gush is lost to us for ever, 
 Its home-sweet music o'er — its home-sweet mu- 
 sic o'er. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! — mourn, sires grown old 
 before us. 
 Your birthright lost too soon — your birthright 
 lost too soon ; 
 Youths, maidens, wives, take up ourwailing chorus I 
 Weep, children, for the Doon ! — weep, children, 
 for the Doon ! 
 
 II. 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! — thine own great Bard 
 
 hath made thee 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS. 311 
 
 Of Earth's famed rivers one — of Earth's famed 
 rivers one ; 
 Thy banks, thy braes, each tree that droops to shade 
 thee, 
 Immortal praise hath won — immortal praise hath 
 won. 
 
 The Doon !— the Doon ! &c. 
 III. 
 But Doon, fair Doon — why doth my memory hover 
 O'er thee in tearful thoug^ht — o'er thee in tear- 
 ful thought ? 
 Boyhood had past, and youth's best days were over. 
 Ere thou to me wast aught — ere thou to me wast 
 aught. 
 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! &c. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But Doon, bright Doon, thy waters leapt to greet 
 me, 
 When wedded love was young — when wedded 
 love was young ; 
 And on thy banks new friends came forth to meet 
 me, — 
 Warm heart and cordial tongue — warm heart and 
 cordial tongue. 
 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! &c. 
 
 V. 
 
 The Doon! — the Doon! — remembrance yet re- 
 joices 
 O'er bliss beside thee felt— o'er bliss beside thee 
 felt ; — 
 
312 OCCASIONAL rOEMS. 
 
 The old plain home — the cheerful looks and voices 
 Which round its hearthstone dwelt — which round 
 its hearthstone dwelt. 
 
 The Doon ! — the Doon, &c. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Doon '.—the Doon !— those looks no more shall 
 cheer me 
 On thy deserted shore — on thy deserted shore ; 
 Those tones which told what friendly hearts beat 
 near me, 
 Shall bless mine own no more — shall bless mine 
 own no more. 
 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! &c. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But Doon, sweet Doon ! untouch'd some hearts be- 
 hold thee, 
 For whom thy bright waves ran — for whom thy 
 bright waves ran ; 
 One, long thy lord, to alien hands hath sold thee — 
 That calm, grey-headed man — that calm, grey- 
 headed man. 
 
 The Doon !— the Doon ! &c. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet, Doon, lost Doon — the love of thy clear waters 
 Must still his spirit sway — must still his spirit 
 sway ; 
 Woe ! — woe for him ! — his sons ! — his blooming 
 daughters ! — 
 Their birthright cast away ! — their birthright cast 
 away ! 
 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! &c. 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS. 31) 
 
 IX. 
 
 But Doon, sweet Doon ! — thy murmurs will not 
 reach them, 
 Where Fashion rules their lot — where Fashion 
 rules their lot ; 
 Strange are their hearts to lore which thou wouldst 
 teach them ; — 
 Sweet Doon, they love thee not— sweet Doon, 
 they love thee not. 
 
 The Doon !— the Doon ! &c. 
 
 X. 
 
 But woe for Her whose home hath been beside thee 
 For many an anxious year — for many an anxious 
 year ! 
 From whose deep love no change shall e'er divide 
 thee, 
 Nor make thy hanks less dear — nor make thy 
 banks less dear. 
 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! &c. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And woe for those, whose weary footsteps wander 
 Far in the burning East — far in the burning 
 East! 
 Whose hearts e'en now, perchance, still vainly 
 ponder 
 O'er hopes which here have ceased — o'er hopes 
 which here have ceased. 
 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! &c. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And woe for Her o'er whom, as lost, we sorrow, — 
 
314 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 Our once loved meetings o'er — our once loved 
 meetings o'er ! 
 'Midst alien cares, her grief, perchance, shall borrow 
 A voice from mine once more — a voice from mine 
 once more. 
 
 The Doon '.—the Doon ! &c. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Yes, woe for her ! — sound sleeps her virgin sister 
 Beneath our Southern sod — beneath our Southern 
 sod ; 
 Joy to her now !— long, long our homes have miss'd 
 her; — 
 But hers hath been with God — but hers hath been 
 vyith God. 
 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! &c. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! — along thy banks, sweet 
 river, 
 My first-born's steps have stray'd — my first- 
 born's steps have stray'd ; 
 Thy voice, I trust, shall haunt his thought for 
 ever, 
 Till Memory's self shall fade — till Memory's self 
 shall fade. 
 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! &c. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! — still, still to sons and 
 daughters 
 Fond tales of thee we'll tell— fond tales of thee 
 we'll tell ; 
 
OCCASIONAL POEMS. 315 
 
 Though we no more must gaze upon thy waters ; — 
 Our own sweet Doon, farewell ! — our own sweet 
 Doon, farewell ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 The Doon ! — the Doon ! — mourn, sires grown old 
 before us. 
 Your birthright lost too soon — your birthright 
 lost too soon. 
 Youths, maidens, wives, take up our wailing chorus ! 
 Weep, children, for the Doon !— weep, children, 
 for the Doon ! 
 
 1837. 
 
LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 I. EUTHANASIA. 
 II. THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 
 
LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 I. 
 The world is full of lovely thing's ; 
 We need not borrow Fancy's wings 
 
 To waft us throug-h the sky 
 In quest of change, through any dearth 
 Of glorious objects here on Earth 
 
 To feed our inward eye. 
 II. 
 Nor deem I that all-bounteous Heaven 
 Hath, to the poet only, given 
 
 A power which doth reveal, 
 In Nature's every sound and sight. 
 Deeper and more intense delight 
 
 Than common souls can feel. 
 III. 
 'Tis holy Love — 'tis Faith and Hope, 
 Which Beauty's secret chambers ope 
 
 To minds of humblest mould ; 
 And paths of heavenly light are trod 
 On Earth by every child of God, 
 
 Which no gross eyes behold. 
 
320 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And he — there's not a spot so sad 
 But he can make it bright and g-lad ; 
 
 No scene so dark and drear, 
 But he therein doth well discern 
 Celestial lights, which blaze and burn 
 
 Through its thick atmosphere. 
 
 V. 
 
 In towns or woods, on towers or trees, 
 The impress of God's hand he sees, 
 
 And hears his well-known voice ; 
 In hope and fear, in woe and weal. 
 His presence doth he ever feel, 
 
 And in His smile rejoice. 
 
 VI. 
 
 With searching glance 'tis his to scan 
 The deep, mysterious heart of man — 
 
 Its secret movements trace ; 
 The spirit's silent growth to mark, 
 And track, through windings dim and dark, 
 
 The wondrous stream of grace. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The griefs and joys which others feel 
 More closely to his heart appeal 
 
 Than godless minds can guess ; 
 'Tis his with all to smile and weep, 
 And share, with fervour kind and deep. 
 
 Their joy and their distress. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And thus, — whate'er his walk may be, — 
 
EUTHANASIA. 3)1 
 
 Full of sweet sympathies is he 
 
 With pleasure and with pain ; 
 Wherever human hearts are found, 
 Feeling and thought for him abound ; — 
 
 The world is his domain. 
 
 IX. 
 
 In court or camp, in hall or cot, 
 Rich contemplations fail him not ; — 
 
 A peasant at the plough — 
 A soldier — or a merchant grave — 
 A monarch — or a menial slave — 
 
 His heart hath range enow. 
 
 X. 
 
 And yet, methinks, one task there is 
 More sweetly and more truly his 
 
 Than other tasks can be ; — 
 The gospel message to convey 
 To souls from Heaven still far astray ;— 
 
 The task assign'd to me. 
 
 XI. 
 
 To us, and to our pastoral care. 
 Is many a human heart laid bare 
 
 In many a vai-ying mood ; 
 All human sorrows, doubts and fears. 
 All cares and troubles, smiles and tears, 
 
 Supply our mental food. 
 
 XII. 
 
 To us the wounded spirit flees 
 For words of comfort to appease 
 Its own afflictive smart ; 
 
 2 Y 
 
322 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 The penitent, by fears opprest, 
 Comes to us, and asks ease and rest 
 For his o'er-burden'd heart. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Our aid is lent, our prayers are said 
 By saint and sinner's dying bed ; 
 
 To us, in life's last hour. 
 Confidingly both young and old 
 The soul's mysterious depths unfold — 
 
 Its weakness and its power. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then, if I may revive once more 
 
 The powers, which, ere life's spring was o'er, 
 
 Were mine, or seem'd to be, — 
 What need to urge, beyond the sphere 
 Of vision which surrounds me here. 
 
 My light- wing'd phantasy ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 Nought care I for heroic strains ; — 
 I leave to bolder hearts and brains 
 
 The lofty epic style ; 
 Enough for me what I can win 
 Of calm and tender thought, within 
 
 The space of one square mile ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Here, in this quiet shelter'd spot, 
 Where Providence hath cast my lot, 
 
 In love and peace, so long, — 
 This spot which saw my children's birth — 
 Here, by my own still blissful hearth. 
 
 Shall be my world of song. 
 
EUTHANASIA. 323 
 
 XVII. 
 
 From things which gladden or which grieve 
 Familiar hearts, my Muse shall weave 
 
 Such garlands as she can ; 
 Noting, in this her narrow sphere, 
 All storms which shake, all gleams which cheer 
 
 The troublous soul of Man. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 So now to hearts of gentle mould 
 A simple tale will I unfold — 
 
 A tale of humble love, 
 Of sufifering long and faith intense. 
 In one who late departed hence 
 
 To dwell with Christ above. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Of humble parentage was she. 
 And yet not born in poverty. 
 
 No child of want or shame ; 
 Her parents still in comfort dwell, 
 And earn a decent living well, 
 
 And bear an honest name. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Herself — in sooth I would not speak 
 Of beaming eye or blooming cheek. 
 
 Fine form, or noble mien, 
 Had such been hers : — 'twould suit as well 
 The unromantic tale I tell. 
 
 Had she an Ethiop been. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 There are, whose chance-caught looks express 
 An intellectual loveliness, 
 
324 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 Which makes us turn and start, 
 Even when no outward sig-n we trace 
 Of beauty in the form and face — 
 
 Looks kindled from the heart. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But such were not her looks or mien — 
 No token in her face was seen 
 
 Of genius rich and rare ; 
 Even though you sought, you scarce would find 
 A symptom of superior mind, 
 
 Or high-wrought feeling there. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 She was a meek and simple maid 
 As ever roam'd in greenwood shade, 
 
 Or sat in summer bower ; 
 Though little of green shades or woods. 
 Lone dells or silent solitudes. 
 
 Knew she, or felt the power. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Scant store of sentiment refined 
 Had she — her pure but humble mind 
 
 Small culture e'er had known ; 
 Few were her books, nor much she sought, 
 Through knowledge gain'd of others' thought. 
 
 To elevate her own. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 So fares it oft with those design'd 
 
 The loftiest place midst human kind ^ 
 
 In other worlds to hold ; 
 Though here they seem, to human eye, 
 
EUTHANASIA. 886 
 
 Compass'd with much infirmity — 
 The feeblest of the fold. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 We see not how their spirits grow, 
 We know not whence the breezes blow 
 
 Which life to them convey ; 
 Through what dim workings of the thought 
 The silent work of grace is wrought, 
 
 And error purged away. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But mark them well — in lowliest hut, 
 Or, poorest among paupers, shut 
 
 Within a workhouse walls ; 
 And you will own that heavenly light, 
 In streams of glory pure and bright, 
 
 On their weak spirits falls. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 No doubts have they through learned pride ; 
 They hear God's promise and confide, — 
 
 Their faith is faith indeed ; 
 And thus from height to height they go 
 Of hope and love, while we, below, 
 
 Plod on with laggard speed. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Yet was not she, of whom I speak. 
 Left all her little lore to seek. 
 
 Or rear her own poor thought ; 
 But placed beneath the Christian rule 
 Of one who kept a daily school. 
 
 And Christ's pure lessons taught. 
 
326 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Nor may we deem the years mis-spent, 
 In which, from day to day, she went 
 
 To that instructress kind ; 
 Though then no goodly growth was rear'd, 
 No promise of rich grace appear'd 
 
 To blossom in her mind. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Her teacher plough'd the virgin ground. 
 And scatter'd in its soil profound 
 
 The seed of truth divine ; 
 Which there unseen, unnoticed lay. 
 Till on her heart, with quickening ray, 
 
 Religion's sun should shine. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 And thus her tender years were past — 
 Until the time arrived at last 
 
 When she, a woman grown, 
 Should, as the Church's laws allow, 
 Renewing the baptismal vow. 
 
 Confirm it as her own. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 A blessed time is that to me, — 
 Of all my pastoral ministry 
 
 To toil most pleasant given ; 
 When, face to face, in conference sweet, 
 The younglings of my flock I meet, 
 
 To speak of Christ and Heaven. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 A blessed time, when heavenly truth 
 
EUTHANASIA. 327 
 
 Press'd firmly on the mind of youth 
 
 In many a close appeal, 
 Lays bare undreamt-of depths within, 
 And the whole mystery of sin 
 
 Doth startlingly reveal. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 A time of fresh and fervent thought, 
 When Heaven and Hell at once are brought 
 
 Before the young mind's eye ; 
 And the thick veil is rent in twain 
 Which on the wondrous world had lain 
 
 Of immortality. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 So fell it in that maiden's case ; 
 The deep, mysterious work of grace 
 
 Seem'd then, in her, begun ; 
 The seeds, in childhood sown, then first 
 To life and sudden vigour burst, 
 
 Beneath religion's sun. 
 
 XXXVII. f 
 
 With thoughtful brow and tearful eye 
 She heard, and in her heart laid by 
 
 The lessons then instill'd ; 
 Truths known, but never felt before. 
 Which now she ponder'd o'er and o'er, 
 
 Through soul and spirit thrill'd. 
 xxxvm. 
 And when the holy rite was done, 
 And from the altar, one by one. 
 
 Her young companions pass'd, 
 
328 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 Whatever thoughts in them might stir — 
 Some had, that day, been waked in her. 
 Which would for ever last. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 The emptiness she now had learn'd 
 Of things below — had well discern'd 
 
 The worth of things not seen, 
 And, in the Everlasting arms, 
 From Earth's temptations. Hell's alarms. 
 
 Received and shelter'd been. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Strange passage ! from youth's dreams of bliss 
 Inv^esting such a world as this 
 
 With glory most untrue. 
 To calmest faith and sober love. 
 Which almost bring the world above 
 
 Within the Christian's view. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Strange passage! — and to her, most blest! — 
 For so she found a place of rest 
 
 And comfort all her own. 
 When on her gentle head did rain 
 A storm of such fierce grief and pain 
 
 As few on Earth have known. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 When summer leaves were on the boughs, 
 She ratified her Christian vows. 
 
 Began her Christian race ; 
 But long ere winter's icy chain 
 Was broke, disease and bitterest pain 
 
 Had paled her patient face. 
 
EUTHANASIA. 
 XLIII. 
 
 She came to church on Christmas day, 
 The homage of her love to pay, 
 
 And celebrate His birth. 
 Who, eighteen hundred years ago. 
 Exchanged Heaven's bliss for human woe. 
 
 And dwelt with Man on Earth. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 That morn what peaceful joy was hers, 
 As with his chosen worshippers 
 
 She at his altar knelt ! 
 But ere another sabbath day, 
 Ah me ! how like a corpse she lay ! 
 
 And yet what anguish felt ! 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Hard lot, ye think, my readers young. 
 While every heart and every tongue 
 
 Save hers was full of glee. 
 And friends and neighbours vied in mirth 
 By well-spread board and blazing hearth. 
 
 To groan with agony. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Hard lot, ye think, was that for her ; 
 And yet was she (I dare aver) 
 
 Far happier where she lay. 
 Than could the loudest laugher be 
 Of any joyous company 
 
 Which then kept holiday. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Far happier — for her Saviour stood 
 Beside her in her solitude, — 
 
330 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 Beside her stood and smiled ; 
 And sounds were to her soul convey'd, 
 Which seem'd to say " Be not afraid, 
 
 Mine own adopted child." 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 A peace seraphic, night and day, 
 Upon her gentle spirit lay, — 
 
 Peace, sent her from above, 
 Which told that nought which might betide 
 Thence-forward should her soul divide 
 
 From Heaven's eternal love. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 And think ye, while she felt this peace, 
 Nor fear'd lest it should ever cease — 
 
 That she could wish to be 
 Once more with a light-hearted crowd. 
 Midst roars of laughter long and loud. 
 
 And boisterous revelry ? 
 
 XL. 
 
 Would she one glimpse of Heaven forego 
 For all Earth's merriment ? — ah no ! 
 
 Her ties to Earth are burst ; 
 She listens to the angels' song. 
 In draughts of rapture, deep and long, 
 
 She slakes her spirit's thirst. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Whoso had look'd on that sick bed 
 
 With thoughtful eye, must needs have said 
 
 A contrast strange was there ; 
 Disease and racking pain without — 
 
EUTHANASIA, 331 
 
 Within — a soul from fear and doubt 
 Made free as summer air. 
 
 LII. 
 
 And yet 'twas pitiful to see 
 With what extreme severity 
 
 Heaven chasten'd its dear child ; 
 What pang^ did that weak frame devour, 
 From day to day, from hour to hour, 
 
 Made fiercer and more wild. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 In sooth but slender skill have I 
 In phrase of learn'd anatomy ; 
 
 Nor know I how to name 
 Whatever tortures urge the pulse 
 To wildest throbbings, or convulse 
 
 Our sinful human frame. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Yet I may say no limb was free 
 From its peculiar a^ony, 
 
 But, downward from the face, 
 Through all her frame convulsions went, 
 Which every separate fibre rent 
 
 In swift and ceaseless race. 
 
 LV. 
 
 From year to year did she sustain 
 A dread diversity of pain. 
 
 Still gathering more and more ; 
 And this physicians did declare — 
 That all which flesh and blood can bear 
 
 Their gentle patient bore. 
 
332 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 So three years pass'd ; — the fourth begun — 
 We deem'd that now her race was run, 
 
 Her conflict nearly o'er ; 
 For then a storm of pain did pierce 
 Each part, more fiery and more fierce 
 
 Than she had felt before. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Nor was this all ; — the light of day 
 Was now for ever swept away, 
 
 And ceaseless night began ; 
 Her eyelids closed, nor might she trace 
 Thenceforward any friendly face 
 
 Or form beloved of Man. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 You deem perhaps that then she found 
 Some compensation from the sound 
 
 Of living voices near ; 
 That friends would from a distance walk, 
 With pleasant and familiar talk 
 
 Her loneliness to cheer. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 And that beside her dying bed 
 From morn to nisrht her sisters read 
 
 Sweet words of truth divine ; 
 And prayers were said, and hymns were sung, 
 And comfort dropp'd from many a tongue 
 
 More eloquent than mine. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Ah no ! — so fierce her tortures were 
 
EUTHANASIA. 388 
 
 That she could now no longer bear 
 
 The softest human tone ; 
 A footstep, though it trod on down, — 
 The rustle of a silken gown 
 
 Thrill'd through her to the bone. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 And thus they la^ (her pain and she) 
 In sorrowful society, 
 
 While twelve months more roU'd by ; 
 She wasting silently away 
 With imperceptible decay, 
 
 And yet too strong to die. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Twas the meek patience of her heart 
 Which, through such fierce and fiery smart. 
 
 Her life did long sustain ; 
 And had her faith and love been less. 
 She had escaped the bitterness 
 
 Of many a month of pain. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Throughout that time full oft did I 
 For entrance to her room apply, 
 
 Which mostly was denied ; 
 Such were her pangs, she could not bear 
 A soothing word, a whisper'd prayer 
 
 Put up at her bedside. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 At last the final conflict came. 
 Each part of her exhausted frame 
 Had borne its share of woe ; 
 
334 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 The lungs with inflammation dire 
 Were last attack'd, and raging fire 
 In every vein did glow. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Then 'twas that me they came to call 
 In her last tranquil interval 
 
 Of partial rest from pain ; 
 Such rest as lulls the wintry deep, 
 When the spent storms at evening sleep, 
 
 Ere morn to wake again. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 I came ; — her quick and struggling breath 
 Told of the near approach of death, 
 
 As by her side I stood ; 
 Her painful toil was nearly done, 
 The conflict o'er, the victory won, 
 
 The sinful soul renew'd. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 A glorious sight it is to see 
 A dying saint's felicity, 
 
 When death draws gently nigh. 
 And no sharp pangs disturb the peace 
 Preceding the glad soul's release. 
 
 Or clog the parting sigh. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 A glorious sight ! — for then Heaven's field 
 Seems to be visibly reveal'd 
 
 To faith's expiring gaze ; 
 And we almost can hear the hymn 
 Which cherubim and seraphim 
 
 For its new inmate raise. 
 
EUTHANASIA. 335 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 But deaths like this, I deem, are rare, 
 For mortal weakness, pain and care, 
 
 Cleave to us to the last ; 
 And few of saintliest souls there be 
 From all life's galling" bonds set free 
 
 Till life itself is past. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 O ! shame ! eternal shame to them 
 Who would the penitent condemn 
 
 In his expiring hour, 
 Because his fainting soul is toss'd 
 By waves of doubt, nor yet hath lost 
 
 All sense of hellish power. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 O ! shame to such ! they little know 
 The warfare to be waged below, — 
 
 The mystery, dark and strange, 
 Of inextinguishable sin, 
 Subjecting the whole world within 
 
 To doubt and fear and change. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 By many a death-bed have I stood 
 Both of the wicked and the good. 
 
 And this will I maintain, — 
 That while the former smile on death, 
 The latter oft yield up their breath 
 
 In trouble, fear, and pain. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 But such was not our sister's doom, — 
 Strong pains she had, but care and gloom 
 
336 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 And fear had fled for aye ; 
 One toilsome fight was still to win, 
 And then — farewell to grief and sin ! 
 
 And welcome endless day ! 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 And yet no rapturous flights had she 
 Of feeling or of phantasy, 
 
 No visions heavenly-bright ; 
 'Twas patience all, and faith and love, 
 Which with her giant sufferings strove. 
 
 And triumph'd through God's might. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Once, as I bent above her bed — 
 
 " Now, Mary, you approach," I said, 
 
 " Death's dark and shadowy vale;" — 
 ** It is not dark" — was her reply, 
 And a faint smile pass'd radiantly 
 
 Across her features pale. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 No more she spoke ; — her anguish grew 
 Fiercer and fiercer, till we knew 
 
 The final strife was come ; 
 At length the web of life was rent. 
 And, with a sigh, her spirit went 
 
 To its eternal home. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 But was this all ? — to mortal eye 
 No more 'twas granted to desciy ; 
 
 And yet the soul within 
 Had felt a more stupendous strife, — 
 
EUTHANASIA. 387 
 
 The struggle between death and life, 
 Heaven's grace and human sin. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 By prayer intense and fervent thought, 
 Strange transformation had been wrought 
 
 In all the inner man ; 
 And ever, as the flesh decay 'd, 
 The spirit was more heavenly made, 
 
 A steadier race she run. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Yet think not that her sainted soul 
 Of peace and joy attain'd the goal 
 
 By easy steps and few ; 
 Or that from height to height she went 
 With swift and regular ascent. 
 
 As happy angels do. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Ah no ! — though now, for many a year, 
 ^She to her Saviour had been dear, 
 
 And in his flock received, — 
 The Tempter's power was not yet past, 
 But still assail'd her to the last, 
 
 As ere she first believed. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Full surely, all the time, he knew 
 That all his legions were too few. 
 
 His subtlest efforts vain, 
 The ranks of that bright host to stir. 
 Invisibly encamp'd round her. 
 
 As on a battle plain. 
 
338 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Yet though he could not overcome, 
 Nor lure her from her heavenly home, 
 
 Dread power he wielded still ; 
 Power to disturb, to haunt, to vex, 
 Confuse and fearfully perplex 
 
 With dreams obscure of ill. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 The sin which still was unsubdued, 
 In many a dark and dreaiy mood, 
 
 He show'd to her mind's eye 
 In frightful forms and hues intense, 
 O'erwhelming her bewilder'd sense 
 
 With fear and agony. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Doubts and dark thoughts did he suggest, 
 Robbing her soul of peace and rest ; — 
 
 '* O am I Christ's indeed, — 
 So weak of faith, so cold in love ? — 
 Could he who lives and reigns above 
 
 For such a sinner bleed ? — 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 " Hath all this sharp and bitter pain, 
 Borne for long years, been borne in vain ? — 
 
 Is all this woe for nought ? — 
 Is this vile heart e'en now unchanged ? 
 From Him— from hope— from Heaven estranged V 
 
 — Thus darkly fancy wrought. 
 
 LXXXV I. 
 
 But soon such terrors pass'd away. 
 
EUTHANASIA. 388 
 
 And then in bliss untold she lay, 
 
 Though still in grievous pain ; 
 Heaven's gates once more were open thrown, 
 And Faith and Hope and Love came down 
 
 To dwell with her again. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Nor lack'd she, ere her anguish grew 
 Too deadly, friends, nor cold nor few. 
 
 Who daily to her came, 
 Spake with her of Christ's dying love. 
 And soar'd with her, in thought, above 
 
 This world of sin and shame. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 And blest, to her, those seasons were. 
 When to her chamber did repair 
 
 Souls touch'd by grace divine ; 
 And the Lord's table there we spread, 
 And bless'd and brake the living bread. 
 
 And shared the mystic wine. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Thus joy and grief together wrought 
 To purify her springs of thought. 
 
 Her heart for Heaven to train ; 
 Thus was her spirit cleansed from guilt, 
 And God therein a temple built 
 
 Where he might ever reign, 
 xc. 
 Nor did her faith and patience (shown 
 Thus sweetly) to herself alone 
 
 Most rich in blessing prove ; 
 
340 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 For few to her sick chamber came 
 In whom she kindled not the flame 
 
 Of her celestial love, 
 xci. 
 The careless, when her pangs they view'd 
 So meekly borne, with hearts subdued 
 
 And sadden'd went away ; 
 The weak grew strong, the timid bold, 
 Her patient warfare to behold 
 
 With suflfering and decay. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 She was a silent preacher, sent 
 (Silent, but O ! most eloquent !) 
 
 To teach us how to die ; 
 Showing o'er what fierce depths of pain 
 A tender maiden's soul can gain, 
 
 Through faith, the victory. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 But little now remains to say ; 
 She died ere dawn upon the day 
 
 Of last St. Valentine ; 
 And on the following Monday morn, 
 With reverence, to her grave was borne ; — 
 
 The last sad office mine, 
 xciv. 
 Few mourners at her burial were, 
 In truth, the day was far from fair ; 
 
 And while along the street 
 The scant and slow procession pass'd, 
 The thickening clouds pour'd down full fast 
 
 A storm of rain and sleet. 
 
EUTHANASIA. 341 
 
 XCV. 
 
 Yet One there was whom all respect, — 
 A man of noblest intellect, 
 
 Great heart, and station high, 
 Who, that day, all his toils forsook, 
 And on her funeral came to look 
 
 With sad and reverent eye. 
 xcvi. 
 For service high perform'd to truth, 
 For Christian lessons taught to youth. 
 
 Deep thanks to him are due ; 
 And I, for one, may truly say 
 How happy I esteem the day 
 
 When first his worth I knew. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Yet ne'er, methinks, for him I felt 
 Respect so deep as when we knelt 
 
 Together by her bier. 
 And I beheld him not too proud, 
 Amidst the meanest of the crowd. 
 
 To drop a parting tear. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 To him, with cordial heart, to-day,* 
 I dedicate this humble lay, 
 
 Which he will not despise. 
 But treasure as a record true 
 Of one whose faith on earth he knew, 
 
 Now throned above the skies. 
 
 * Written in 1834. 
 
342 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 
 
 I. 
 What decks our sober parsonage to-day 
 With this unusual pomp of festal show ? 
 What mean these tents, bedight with streamers 
 
 gay? 
 These tables, spread in long continuous row? — 
 This throng of busy peasants to and fro ? 
 Yon maypole wreathed with yet unfaded flowers, 
 Braving the blasts that all too wintry blow, 
 And ever and anon, with sleety showers, 
 
 Bemock the cold mid-May of this wild clime of ours ?* 
 II. 
 Not without previous care and tasteful toil 
 Hath all this rural pageantry been wrought ; 
 But yesternight the meadows' flowery spoil. 
 By children's hands with childish ardour sought, 
 Was to our pastor's busy parlour brought. 
 And then and there did gentle ladies twine 
 Those flowery wreaths, and, with fantastic 
 
 thought. 
 Primrose and cowslip and blue bell combine 
 
 In forms and hues so rich as mock this verse of mine. 
 III. 
 And here, all day, since earliest peep of dawn. 
 Hath rustic labour preparation made 
 
 « Written in 1839. 
 
THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 343 
 
 For feats gymnastic on the wanton lawn, 
 With stroke and thrust of hammer, saw, and 
 
 Here tilters deft shall dextrously evade 
 The quintain's swift and ignominious blow ; — 
 Here shall the wrestler at his length be laid, 
 Lock'd in the gripe of his victorious foe ; 
 Here youths and maids shall point the light fantastic 
 toe. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But wherefore here ? where solemn thought 
 
 should dwell, 
 And heavenly contemplation oft be found. 
 And silence house, as in a hermit's cell, 
 And pious cares and studies aye abound. 
 Untroubled by the world's intrusive sound ? — 
 Why all this coil of boisterous frolick here ? 
 Startling the tenants of the graves around, 
 And ever bursting on the living ear 
 With uproar meeter sure for some less sober sphere ? 
 
 V. 
 
 'Tis not our pastor's wont, nor e'er hath been, 
 Since first in Christian fold a flock he fed, 
 To mingle with gay crowds in festal scene ; — 
 Full surely to the world we deem'd him dead, 
 A life so grave and sober hath he led. 
 Shunning whate'er to puritanic eye 
 Might cause offence; —so much he seem'd to dread, 
 Lest keen schismatics should in him espy 
 Occasion to impeach and mar his ministry. 
 
344 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 VI. 
 
 No feaster he, nor sportsman, nor alert 
 At feats athletic — save that, in his day, 
 At England's game of games he was expert, 
 And loved with jovial cricketers to play. 
 So wasting many a summer holiday ; 
 But now that pastime too he doth forego, 
 Nor e'er in flannel garb his loins array. 
 Nor arm his foot with iron spikes below. 
 Nor wield the ponderous bat with skilful block and 
 blow. 
 
 VII. 
 
 A graver interest warms his heart to-day. 
 Grave meaning lurks beneath his mirthful mood. 
 Some graver purpose owns this trim array 
 Of tents and tables piled with daintiest food — 
 These garlands wreath'd by tasteful womanhood— 
 This preparation for athletic sport; — 
 Mock not, ye graceless — marvel not, ye good ;— 
 Here Temperance holds to-day her solemn court. 
 Whereto her liegemen true, in festive pomp, resort. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A Power benignant she, and once on Earth 
 Well known and honour'd; — health's secure ally, 
 Sworn friend of household peace and social mirth. 
 And happiness, and love, and liberty ; 
 Sedate her mien and modest is her eye. 
 From meretricious wiles exempt and pure ; 
 No care hath she, the casual passer by 
 With smiles of harlot blandishment to lure. 
 But wins by quiet worth, and knows her triumph sure. 
 
THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 346 
 
 IX. 
 
 Small store of season'd viands loads her board, 
 No sparkling^ wine -cup at lier feasts is seen ; 
 Yet she the choicest dainties doth afford 
 To healthful tastes, and reigns in state serene, 
 Of true convivial joys the sovereign queen : 
 Hers is the cheerful home, the fire-side glee, 
 The rustic game, the dance upon the green ; — 
 And eke the kettle's song, the toast, the tea, 
 The gleam of household smiles, from guilt and sorrow 
 free. 
 
 X. 
 
 Ah me ! that ever nymph so fair and good 
 Men should have banish'd from our luckless isle. 
 Through lust of tempting drink and luscious food. 
 Duped and enslaved by that enchanter vile, 
 Accursed Comus, who doth yet defile 
 Our homes and hearths with riotous excess. 
 Stealing the heart and brain with treacherous 
 
 guile, 
 And breeding deadlier woe than thought can 
 guess. 
 Through brutish sensual waste and filthy drunken- 
 ness. 
 
 XI. 
 
 O shun his proffer'd draught, unthinking swains, 
 In whom not yet is appetite subdued 
 To Reason's temperate rule ; — that cup contains 
 Circean juice with poisonous drugs imbued ; 
 Whereof who freely drinks, albeit endued 
 With natural graces manifold, casts off 
 
346 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 His better self, grows sensual, wild and lewd. 
 And doth at life's true pleasures rail and scoff, 
 Herding with human swine, and wallowing in their 
 trough. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yet sweet, at first, the luscious beverage seems, 
 Which, like an adder, stingeth at the last, — 
 The Avine that sparkles in rich ruby gleams, 
 The ale by amber's clearness unsurpass'd ; — 
 And pleasures throng around it thick and fast- 
 Gay spirits — generous feelings — social glee. 
 And blithe good humour by no cloud o'ercast, — 
 Frolic and song and laughter loud and free — 
 Yea, all the joys that wait on jocund joUity. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Right pleasant 'twere to quaff that charmed cup, 
 And feel its inspiration rich and fine. 
 Were no sharp bitters with the dregs mix'd up. 
 Were social gladness all that flows from wine ; 
 Then Bacchus were indeed a god divine, 
 And Circe's son a welcome guest on Earth ; 
 But soon, alas ! those giddy joys decline, 
 And furious folly takes the place of mirth. 
 And fever'd brain and blood to lust and rage give 
 birth. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Strange sight it is, I ween, at lordly feast. 
 Or alehouse revel, (as the case may be) 
 To mark the gradual change of man to beast, 
 The quick transition from convivial glee 
 To tipsy fun and senseless ribaldry ; 
 
THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 347 
 
 Thence to mad riot and unseemly brawl, 
 Or brutish, base insensibility. 
 As, in their strength or weakness, one and all. 
 Beneath the enchanter's spell, in swift succession, 
 fall. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Gentle at first his stealthy influence seems ; 
 He opens the shut heart, and frees the tongue 
 Of shy reserve, and lights the eye with gleams 
 Of kindling humour round the table flung. 
 And cheers the drooping soul which seem'd un- 
 strung 
 For boisterous joys, and tunes the timid voice 
 To jovial ditties in full chorus sung. 
 And charms the ear with talk so quaint and choice 
 As makes the dull applaud — the sorrowful rejoice. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Anon a change doth o'er this spirit pass. 
 Discourse more freely, but less clearly, flows ; 
 This grows a pert, and that a solemn ass, 
 And maudlin fervour makes sworn friends of foes, 
 Till from embraces straight they come to blows, 
 (Extremes so nearly meet,) and you may see 
 Black eye, and broken head, and bloody nose. 
 Marring the mirth of this fair company ; — 
 Sure Circe's swine themselves could scarce more 
 swinish be. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And one, with solemn air and swimming eyes. 
 Drawls saws of tipsy morals to deaf ears ; 
 One, at full length, beneath the table lies 
 
348 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 In most unsavoury plig'ht, nor sees nor hears 
 The brawls or babble of his drunk compeers, 
 So well the wine hath done its work on him ; 
 There let him lie till sober morn appears, 
 Then wake with throbbing brow and aching 
 limb ; — 
 Woke never mortal wight in more unseemly trim. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Time was when scenes like these you might be- 
 E'en in the Palace-Halls of Albion's isle ; [hold 
 So closely did the curst Enchanter hold 
 Peasant and prince in bondage base and vile, 
 And all the virtues of all ranks defile ; 
 Nor Learning's cloister'd shades withstood his 
 
 power, 
 Nor shrank he back abash'd from Beauty's smile, 
 But durst, with steps profane, invade her bower. 
 Reeling from revels gross, prolong'd for many an 
 
 hour. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Then without shame on drawing-rooms' retreat, 
 Whereto, ere wine grows wanton, dames retire, 
 Would sots intrude, who scarce could keep their 
 
 feet, — 
 The drunken lord and doubly drunken squire. 
 Their brains bewilder'd, and their blood on fire. 
 Then felt the enamour'd youth, thro' hot excess, 
 His bashful love transform'd to bold desire. 
 And gazed upon his fair one's loveliness 
 With looks from which she shrank as from a fiend's 
 caress. 
 
THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 349 
 
 XX. 
 
 Those days are past; — but tho' at length expell'd 
 From courtly halls, or there with chains fast 
 
 bound, 
 And wand reversed,— the miscreant, yetunquell'd. 
 In lowlier homes and meaner haunts is found, 
 Still too triumphant upon British ground ; 
 Him taverns worship, him the alehouse owns 
 Lord of each loathsome sight and bestial sound ; 
 Him the gin-palace in full state enthrones — 
 That charnel, fair without, but fill'd with dead men's 
 bones. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And in the streets, at midnight, you may hear 
 His votaries from their orgies staggering out, 
 Flush 'd high with brandy or ignoble beer, 
 And roaming, like enfranchised fiends, about. 
 With many a wanton song and deafening shout. 
 Startling the sober citizen from sleep, 
 Who haply opes his casement, and thereout 
 At those mad revels doth aflfrighted peep. 
 Which they, in frantic sport, right mischievously 
 keep. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Then from obnoxious doors are knockers wrung. 
 And pannels with incongruous paint o'erspread, 
 And signs torn down, till watchmen's rattles 
 
 sprung, 
 Sound to the charge, and soon some senseless 
 
 head. 
 Split by the official staff's congenial lead. 
 
350 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 Discloses to men's eyes its lack of brains ; 
 And one, self- rescued, staggers home to bed, 
 And one, all night, in durance vile remains, 
 Consigned to watch-house base— fit guerdon for his 
 pains. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 These, Comus, are thy triumphs — but alas ! 
 Not these alone — ah would that these were all ! 
 For thou all fiends in mischief dost surpass, 
 Plague most accurst of this terrestrial ball ! 
 Health, fortune, reputation, conscience fall 
 Beneath thy blasting spell ; — alas for those 
 Whom thou, with fatal witcheries, dost enthrall ! 
 No more shall they in peaceful homes repose, 
 But wastein swift decay, pierced through with many 
 woes. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Theirs is the trembling hand, the pimpled cheek, 
 The purple nose, the lean and shrunken limb. 
 The bloated trunk, the gait infirm and weak, 
 The palsied head, the eyeball blear'd and dim. 
 Woe to the sot ! yet not alone to him ; 
 Woe,woe to those whom once he held most dear ! — 
 His little ones a prey to famine grim, 
 His wife left weeping in her chamber drear. 
 Yet waiting his return with less of hope than fear. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Ah wretched she ! more wretched for the peace 
 Which once was hers, and which, when life was 
 
 young. 
 She fondly hoped with life alone should cease, 
 
THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 351 
 
 When he upon her neck, enamoured, hung, 
 And vow'd, with winning and persuasive tongue, 
 His life, himself, his body, soul and sense 
 Hers until death ; — nor were such pleasures flung 
 At random from his lips in base pretence, 
 But breathed in honest truth and frankest confidence. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Nor lack'd their early years of wedded love 
 The choicest pleasures which that state can yield, 
 Until strong drink seduced his steps to rove 
 From duty's path, and soon his bosom steeVd 
 Against all power which Love and Hymen yield ; 
 For he, of pious parents born and bred. 
 His vows devoutly at the altar seal'd. 
 And long the tenderest husband's life had led ; 
 Seem'd never mortal pair with brighter hopes to 
 wed. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 And blessed was their basket and their store, 
 For industry and honest thrift were theirs ; 
 And still they loved each other more and more. 
 For that joint burden of parental cares 
 Which grew and gather'd round them unawares 
 As sons and daughters, year by year, were bom, — 
 Dear subjects of new hopes, and fears, and 
 
 prayers ; 
 Alas that e'er such home should be forlorn, 
 Or heart so fond as hers by such fierce anguish torn ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Sly was the fiend's approach ; — in friendship's 
 
352 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 And hand in hand with " Auld lang syne" he 
 
 came ; 
 And if the victim's heart, more warm than wise, 
 Too freely open'd, few would harshly blame, — 
 Few, in his place, but would have done the same. 
 Yet there the first and fatal fault crept in, 
 And at its heels came sorrow, guilt, and shame. 
 Remorse in liquor quench'd, and deepening sin, 
 So steep is Hell's descent when we to err begin ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 First tyrant Custom fill'd the dangerous cup 
 In Friendship's name, and thus the alehouse dire 
 Was, in his thoughts, with holier things mix'd up ; 
 Then, by degrees, insatiable desire 
 Of that fell poison set his throat on fire, 
 Weaning his heart from his pure peaceful home. 
 Till, day by day, would he from work retire 
 To that foul den, nor near his cottage come. 
 Its pleasures now appear'd so tame and wearisome. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 His home-spent hours — ah ! wherefore flag they 
 
 now? 
 They flagg'd not when a life of toil he led. 
 By daily sweat of his industrious brow 
 Earning his wife's, his children's daily bread ; 
 And now by whom shall they be clothed and fed ? 
 What shelter shall they find from winter's cold ? 
 Alas for them ! — far better were they dead ! — 
 Their food withheld — their raiment pawn'd or 
 
 sold, — 
 
THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 363 
 
 Their mother sick and weak, for very grief grown 
 old. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 No hope for her ! — with hard and ceaseless toil 
 Early she labours, and but late takes rest; 
 In vilest drudgery doth her beauty soil, — 
 No murmur utter'd, no complaint express'd, 
 Though wasting anguish is her daily guest; 
 And still her needful food doth she forego, 
 To calm their hunger whom she loveth best; 
 And still, thro' wintry frost and driving snow, 
 111 shod and scantly clothed, to daily labour go. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 No hope for her ! — scarce all her toil can win 
 A scanty pittance of the coarsest bread ; 
 And when, sore spent, at evening, she comes in. 
 Cowering she sits, and trembles, pale with dread. 
 If she but hear her husband's coming tread, 
 Lest he that pittance from her children tear, 
 And barter it for drink ; — their marriage-bed 
 Long since was sold ; — of table, stool, and chair, 
 Yea all, save mouldering walls, her wretched hut 
 is bare. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Cowering she sits beside her fireless hearth. 
 Her children shivering in their straw with cold , — 
 Till, with a sudden shout of brutal mirth, 
 The crazy door is shatter'd, and behold ! 
 Him whom her youthful arms were wont to fold 
 In tenderest transport, now, in drunken ire, 
 
 2 A A 
 
354 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 Showering fierce blows and curses uncontroll'd 
 On her — on her so long* his heart's desire, — 
 For whose dear sake he toil'd, with zeal which nought 
 could tire. 
 
 XXXTV. 
 
 No hope for her ! — the subtle fiend in him 
 Hath done its perfect work, and he hath grown 
 A reckless tyrant, sensual, sullen, grim ; 
 His heart, once flesh, is now transform'd to stone. 
 Deaf is he to his famish'd children's moan, 
 And if benigner death should set them free 
 From life-long woes, would mock their dying 
 
 groan 
 With drunken shouts of most unnatural glee ; — 
 So lost to human love — to human shame is he. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 No hope for her ! — yes, one, she thinks, is left — 
 O ! if perchance in some long wish'd-for hour. 
 When, not of sense and feeling quite bereft 
 By dire intoxication's deadly power. 
 He yet might ope his bosom to a shower 
 Of loving words, kind looks, and gentle smiles, 
 Still might she lead her lost one to a tower 
 Of sure defence against temptation's wiles. 
 And quell the enchanter curst who now his soul be- 
 guiles. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 O ! could she tempt him, by persuasion bland. 
 
 To join this sober festival to-day. 
 
 And see convivial pleasure hand in hand 
 
THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 366 
 
 With peace domestic, chasing grief away, 
 With sport, and dance, and jocund roundelay — 
 Or could she ope his sluggish ears to hear 
 What that good man will in his lecture say — 
 His better mind might yet unquench'd appear, 
 And he, from guilt reclaim'd, be more than ever 
 dear. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 But hark ! — the near church clock with sudden 
 
 stroke 
 Proclaims the long expected hour of one, 
 And straight the tents are throng'd with hungry 
 
 folk, 
 And (grace first said) the banquet hath begun : 
 Joints roast and boil'd, to nice perfection done. 
 With multifarious garden-stulBf combined — 
 Plumb-puddings which no epicure would shun, 
 With thin potations of the choicest kind — 
 Furnish a feast at which Apicius might have dined. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Nor lack we music to regale the ear. 
 And keener relish to our meat impart, 
 For brethren skill'd in minstrelsy are here. 
 Each well-prepared, with willing hand and heart. 
 In instrumental clang to bear his part ; — 
 Clarion and fife and double drum have we, 
 And hautboy blown with no ignoble art ; 
 Hark ! how attuned to blithe triumphant key. 
 They breathe (what could they less ?) the soul of 
 social glee ! 
 
356 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Brief is the meal, as Earth's best pleasures are ; 
 Few condiments the flag^ging taste provoke, 
 No Bacchanalian toasts the banquet mar, 
 For our unfetter'd banqueters have broke 
 The tyrant Custom's arbitraiy yoke, 
 And eat as hunger, drink as thirst impels ; 
 But hark ! once more with swift, repeated stroke, 
 The solemn music of the vesper bells 
 The hour of public prayer, now fast approaching, 
 tells. 
 
 XL. 
 
 And at the signal, in procession long, 
 Our men in office marshal their array, 
 With trump and timbrel and low-murmur'd song. 
 And parti-colour'd streamers bright and gay ; 
 — Brief compass fetch'd— they crowd the queen's 
 
 highway, — 
 Aloft the Temperance banners are unroll'd, 
 And emblems meet and mottoes quaint display, 
 Emblazon'd with devices manifold. 
 Which well, with quaking hearts, may publicans 
 behold. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 And now, defiling through the churchyard gate, 
 The music hush'd at once, in order due 
 Within the church they crowd and congregate ; 
 Well fill'd, ere long, I ween, is every pew — 
 With gazers all, with sneerers not a few : 
 Meanwhile, the organ's deep, harmonious swell 
 
THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 357 
 
 With notes prelusive gives the choir their cue, 
 And they the Psalm intone which sings so well 
 How sweet for brethren 'tis in unity to dwell. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 And soon each heart is wrapt, or seems to be, 
 
 In solemn worship by our pastor led ; — 
 
 Well with the occasion by strange chance agree 
 
 The lessons in the daily service read ; — 
 
 " Destroy not him for whom Christ's blood was 
 
 shed 
 By meat and drink ; — all things indeed are pure ; 
 Yet is it good e'en lawful meat to dread, 
 Which makes a brother's walking insecure;" 
 Thus saith St. Paul to-day, and what he saith is 
 
 sure. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 — The prayer concluded and the priest retired 
 To doflF the surplice and to don the gown, — 
 Once more the choir, by tuneful zeal inspired, 
 With choral hymn the solemn service crown ; 
 While rustic voices the full organ drown, 
 Swelling from aisle and gallery, loud and clear, 
 That hymn let us, who hearken, here set down, 
 Albeit, uncouth and rugged it appear, 
 And all unfit to please a critic's dainty ear. 
 
 HYMN. 
 1. 
 
 God of this fair creation ! 
 In whom we live and move ; 
 
358 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 With hymns of adoration 
 
 We own that Thou art love ; 
 Before thine altar kneeling- 
 
 Thy gracious name we bless 
 For life, for health, for feeling", 
 
 For all Earth's plenteousness. 
 2. 
 For all that soothes our sorrows. 
 
 And gives our sickness ease, — 
 For corn that fills our furrows, 
 
 For fruit that bends our trees, — 
 For wine, its balm diffusing 
 
 Through souls by pain opprest, 
 Which use as not abusing, — 
 
 O Lord, thy name be blest ! 
 3. 
 May food which nature needeth 
 
 To us be daily given. 
 While still the spirit feedeth 
 
 On bread sent down from heaven ! 
 From streams by drought un wasted 
 
 May we those draughts obtain, 
 Which he who once hath tasted 
 
 Shall never thirst again ! 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 And now, full arm'd for controversial fight, 
 Yet more by mild persuasion bent to win. 
 Our pastor climbs the pulpit's well-known height, 
 And (prayer first duly utter'd,) doth begin 
 
THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 369 
 
 With scripture phrase, well cull'd, to usher in 
 His theme, repulsive to the public maw ; 
 Nor heeds the sneerer's ill-dissembled grin, 
 Nor much of fair objectors stands in awe, 
 So he may fence his cause with Heaven's expounded 
 law. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Calmly he shows how Christian men should look 
 Each to his neighbour's welfare as his own ; 
 How Paul himself permitted meat forsook. 
 Lest brethren's souls thereby might be o'er- 
 
 thrown ; 
 Yet all harsh judgment strictly does disown 
 Of those who use what God for use hath given ; 
 Deeming, in sooth, small sense or wisdom shown 
 By those grim zealots of fanatic leaven, 
 Who fain to all who taste would bar the gates of 
 
 Heaven. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 — The sermon ended — from the Church once 
 
 more 
 In proud procession moves the long array ; 
 Some haply not displeased that (service o'er) 
 They as they list may now keep holiday ; 
 Again drums thunder, and loud trumpets bray, 
 And now the tented lawn is throng'd apace 
 With squire and peasant, lord and lady gay, 
 Plebeian beauty and patrician grace ; 
 Was ne'er such motley crowd beheld in such a 
 place. 
 
360 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Within the tents again the festive board, 
 But now with daintier fare, hath been supplied j 
 Soul-cheering Tea, by fairest fingers pour'd, 
 And piles of bread and butter, side by side 
 With cakes which friends with liberal zeal pro- 
 vide ; 
 Around, domestic, happy groups appear, — 
 Husband and wife, each now the other's pride. 
 With children to both parents grown more dear ; 
 All former wrongs effaced, all grief forgotten here. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Elsewhere athletic youths, with strength adroit, 
 In sports gymnastic sturdily contend ; 
 Some strike the quintain, and some hurl the 
 
 quoit. 
 Some, with firm grasp, the slippery rope ascend 
 'Midst favouring shouts and laughter without 
 
 end; 
 And round the maypole, with bright garlands 
 
 hung, 
 Age, rank and sex, in circling dances blend — 
 Scholar and clown — the aged and the young ; 
 Meanwhile, in lusty notes, is this blithe chorus 
 
 sung. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 1. 
 Come brothers, be hearty ! our Teetotal party 
 Should surely the mirth of the alehouse outvie. 
 
THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. Sfil 
 
 Where sots o'er their liquor grow duller and sicker, 
 And fools mimick fun with a drop in their eye. 
 Better pleasures are ours — blue skies and g-reen 
 bowers, 
 And merry tea-tables set out on the grass; 
 With sunshine above us, and faces that love us, 
 The wife with her husband — the lad with his 
 lass. 
 
 2. 
 Let blockheads too stupid for Hymen or Cupid 
 To charm with a sweetheart or bless with a 
 spouse, 
 Their addle-brains muddle with publican's puddle. 
 And drink themselves dumb in a sulky carouse. 
 We've daughters and spouses, the joy of our houses. 
 
 To share all our pleasures as blithely as we ; 
 In bumpers o'er-brimming, come — health to the 
 women ! 
 And thanks for their company ! — drink it in Tea ! 
 3. 
 'Tis they who best cheer us, when sorrow comes 
 near us, 
 And would not their absence our revels condemn? 
 Let's banquet like brothers, with sisters, wives, 
 mothers, — 
 Shame, shame on the churl who would feast 
 without them! 
 The brawls and brute quarrels which flow from 
 beer barrels 
 We leave to the slave of the bottle and bowl ; 
 
362 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 No Strife shall divide us, while they sit beside us, 
 
 To smile on our frolics and yet to control. 
 4. 
 Let sots in deep swilling who spend their last shil- 
 ling, 
 
 Lose food for the belly and clothes for the back ; 
 With coats all in tatters and puddingless platters, 
 
 And health gone to ruin and home gone to rack. 
 So end their carouses ; — we've peace in our houses, 
 
 Glad smiles to receive us, and family glee ; 
 So a fig for ale-bottles ! — let tee-total throttles 
 
 Shout Glory for ever to Temperance Tea ! 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 But daylight waneth, and our sports must end, 
 For moderation best befits the wise ; 
 Nor would our brethren by excess offend 
 Foes who malign or friends who patronize ; 
 Anon, at signal sounded, all arise ; 
 Tent, maypole, quintain are deserted straight, 
 And soon upon the ear the music dies. 
 Even the last straggler follows through the gate* 
 And all is silence now, where all was mirth so late. 
 
 L. 
 
 Is all then o'er ? — and shall our revel fade 
 E'en like a dream, and leave no trace behind ? 
 Nay, yet one final effort must be made 
 To shake the stubborn, fix the wavering mind. 
 And weak resolve by strengthening pledge to 
 bind. 
 
THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 363 
 
 Lo ! where to yonder schoolroom crowds repair 
 Each on the alert to gain the foremost place, 
 For one well-known to-night will lecture there ; 
 And now the room is full ; — our pastor takes the 
 chair. 
 
 LI. 
 
 At first some meaner orators, with speech 
 Simple and rude, the attentive crowd address ; 
 Themselves reclaim'd, would fain their brethren 
 
 teach 
 How small indulgence leads to sure excess ; 
 And many a homely tale, as you may guess. 
 They tell, and many a pungent jest essay, 
 Mocking each phase of filthy drunkenness, 
 The alehouse gabble and the tipsy fray. 
 The pains and sickness dire which topers feel next 
 day. 
 
 LII. 
 
 " Somewhat too much of this — but now 'tis past;" 
 A murmur of impatience, quickly heard, 
 Dies into silence ; — lo ! he comes at last. 
 The speaker to all speakers far preferr'd : — 
 He rises, but, or ere he speaks a word, 
 The echoing walls with loud applause are rent ; 
 One cheer has sunk, — a second — then a third 
 Rise, roar, and fall— till all theirbreath have spent. 
 And hang upon his words with eager looks intent. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 A noticeable man is he, with brow 
 
 High and projecting, and of broad expanse, 
 
364 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 Plough'd, by long thought, in deepening furrows 
 
 now, 
 As past life's middle stage his years advance ; 
 From his benign and manly countenance 
 Intelligence and mild good-humour beam ; 
 Around the room he casts one kindling glance, 
 And straight, when hush'd and still the hearers 
 
 seem. 
 Lets loose his deep-toned voice in full, continuous 
 
 stream. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 At first, in gentlest phrase, with utterance low, 
 And half, it seems, in earnest, half in jest. 
 He courts attention both from friend and foe. 
 And lays unwilling prejudice to rest, 
 Which else with rude disturbance might molest 
 His after speech ; and now some tale he tells. 
 Now on some caustic apologue, express'd 
 With dry, grave humour, for a moment dwells, 
 Till, roused by its own rush, the soul within him 
 swells. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Anon, in fearful colours, he portrays 
 
 The drunkard's headlong course of sin and 
 
 shame, — 
 His short and bitter term of evil days, — 
 His frantic joys unworthy of the name, — 
 His children beggar'd, or of ruin'd fame — 
 To guilty deeds by grinding hunger driven, — 
 Yet he in heart and conduct still the same,— 
 His every hope long lost in Earth and Heaven, — 
 
THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 365 
 
 For how should slave so curst repent and be for- 
 given ? 
 
 LVI. 
 
 In vigorous contrast he exhibits next 
 
 The abstainer's blameless life and blissful lot ; 
 
 His days of peaceful industry, unvex'd 
 
 By guilt or fear, — his clean, well-furnish'd cot, — 
 
 The plenteous meal, well dress'd and smoking 
 
 hot, — 
 The jocund circle round his evening fire, — 
 His marriage-vow unstain'd by speck or blot, 
 But bless'd by mutual love and chaste desire, 
 And sweet domestic joys too pure to fade or tire. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Nor ends the contrast with expiring Time ; — 
 
 Eternity's dark veil is rent in twain, 
 
 And lo ! the direful fruit of sensual crime ! 
 
 The deep damnation — the immortal pain 
 
 In which the drunkard must for aye remain ! 
 
 The fire unquench'd ! — the worm which never 
 
 dies ! 
 And Heaven discern'd far off distinct and plain, 
 Throng'd with the spirits of the just, who rise 
 From death's sepulchral sleep to reign above the 
 
 skies ! 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 " Now look on these twin pictures, ye who doubt, 
 And choose," quoth he, '* the better while ye 
 
 may; 
 Beware lest appetite drive reason out, 
 Or rash indulgence Heaven's whole bliss betray; 
 
366 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 Now, in the sunshine of your mortal day, 
 By strongs resolve the insidious Tempter shun, 
 Cast from your lips the dangerous cup away. 
 And half life's battle is already won, 
 And half its direst troubles ended ere begun. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 " Strong is the magic of our Temperance pledge, 
 The pledge of brethren against evil bound, 
 Fencing, with an impenetrable hedge. 
 Each weak and wavering brother round and 
 
 round ; 
 Sole aid against the spells of Bacchus found, — 
 Religion's handmaid. Virtue's friend secure, — 
 Extirpator of vice from British ground, — 
 Firm aid of all things lovely, good, and pure, — 
 Heaven's instrument it seems, all social ills to cure. 
 
 LX. 
 
 *' Once bound and circled in its mystic chain, 
 The timid become bold, the feeble strong. 
 The self-indulgent can, thenceforth, refrain 
 From sinful pleasure, loved and cherish 'd long : 
 Man's tyranny and woman's bitter wrong 
 Its potent influence quickly doth allay ; 
 And, where 'tis kept, domestic pleasures throng. 
 And social joyance makes all faces gay; — 
 Witness the mirthful crowds assembled here to- 
 day !" 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Our festival is o'er ; — the crowds disperse. 
 And silence dwells in the deserted room ; 
 
I THE SONG OF THE KETTLE. 367 
 
 A few remain, who from the avenging curse, 
 And all the dreadful depths of guilt and gloom, 
 To which intemperance doth her victims doom, 
 Would, in that vaunted pledge, safe shelter find. 
 For such let Earth's least fading garlands 
 
 bloom, — 
 Love,joy, and peace, from sensualdross refined ; — 
 And theirs be vigorous health of body and of mind ! 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Nor need our pastor grieve with vain regret, 
 Tho' he no more the inspiring glass should drain, 
 His throat no more with port or sherry wet, — 
 No more his lips, at costlier tables, stain 
 With ruddy claret or the pink champagne : 
 In sooth, such draughts were never sweet to him ; 
 Better he loves the juice of British grain — 
 The porter, foaming o'er the tankard's brim — 
 The ale, whose dazzling gleam makes e'en the topaz 
 dim. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Nor thankless he, of old, for cyder press'd 
 From the rich growth of Worcester's fruitful 
 
 shire ; 
 Nor scorn'd on Sunday evenings, when at rest 
 From pulpit toils (for pulpit toils will tire) 
 With wine and egg, commingled o'er the fire. 
 His drooping strength and spirits to restore, — 
 Well pleased to think the body might require 
 Such aid ; — these thoughts are, for the present. 
 
368 LAYS OF THE PARISH. 
 
 And he, on thinnest drinks, grows lustier than 
 before. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 And if, ere long, by sore experience taught, 
 That which he now upholds he must oppose, 
 'Twill yet to him be no unpleasant thought, 
 That vice and he were here, as ever, foes. 
 But, for the present, thus our song we close,— 
 For hark ! the urn is hissing, and the tea 
 In fragrant streams for our regalement flows,— 
 While Fanny's voice, in clear, melodious key, 
 Warbles prelusive strains of choicest minstrelsy. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 C. VVhittinghani, Tooks Court, Chancery Lane. 
 
YC159164