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 TONES 
 
 FROM 
 
 1 
 
 THE 
 
 LYRE. 
 
 BY A 
 
 LEEDS 
 
 MECHAKIC. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Arise, arise, long captive bound ! 
 
 
 Leap up 
 
 , and gladly 
 
 gaze around 
 
 
 Where living Truth, 
 
 with laughing 
 
 eyes, 
 
 Sings to 
 
 thy soul, Arise, arise ! 
 
 
 PRINTED 
 
 FOR THE 
 
 AUTHOR AT 
 
 LEEDS. 
 
 
 MDCCCLXIX. 

 
 /9r 
 
 Sff/ 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Some readers may be disposed to smile that a man 
 of mature years should issue, even anonymously, 
 verses so melancholy as some of these are over an 
 occasion so trivial as is implied. To such readers 
 the author has two answers : — first, that in his 
 experience men or women who ever have been really 
 young never grow old, and that, therefore, such 
 cavillers must belong to a nondescript class, outside 
 of the pale of humanity, and properly neither men, 
 women nor children. His second answer is, that 
 readers of poetry should never forget that true 
 poetry can only be produced by a surrender of the 
 whole soul and intelligence to a mood of mind 
 which by the very entirety of such surrender is of 
 necessity transient, not to say momentary. Hence it 
 is no unusual case that the writer of melancholy 
 verses rather enjoys the melancholy than otherwise, 
 while the humorous writer, on the other hand, is 
 more likely to be touched with the pale cast of 
 melancholv. 
 
 861805
 
 IV. PREFACE. 
 
 The title of this book implies that the great 
 human heart with which we are all more or less, in 
 unison, is the lyre from which these verses are 
 tones ; and though the hook is small yet the pur- 
 pose to which it is preliminary is great, being no 
 less than to grapple with the question of the day — 
 the organisation of labour. It has long been the 
 author's conviction that effective organisation, such 
 as our age demands, is impossible without religious 
 harmony as the controlling element, regulating all 
 the various relations of individual and social life. 
 But the hopeless conflict of opinion, ever prevalent 
 among learned theologians, offering no prospect of 
 religious harmony ever being arrived at under their 
 guidance, the author of this book has fallen back on 
 the very ancient expedient of inculcating the spirit 
 of religion, to the total neglect of all doctrinal 
 points, as elements of mere discord, worthless as a 
 means of bringing man's humanity into living sym- 
 pathy with the hidden divinity of God. 
 
 Leeds, March, 1869.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 PART FIRST, 
 
 I. 
 
 I would that I were free to climb 
 
 Tlie mountain hoar — the cliff sublime ; 
 
 To track the valley-winding stream, 
 
 Far flashing in the eastern beam ; 
 
 To rest me in the lofty grove, 
 
 On ivy carpet, thickly wove, 
 
 Where fields are green, and skies are clear- 
 
 For oh, my heart is heavy here. 
 
 'Tis not the puling discontent 
 
 Of shattered nerves and frame unbent — 
 
 It is the love of Nature makes 
 
 My bosom heave, until it aches. 
 
 To list where ocean's murmur swells ; 
 
 To haunt the vale where beauty dwells; 
 
 These I have loved ; these are not near ; 
 
 For these, my heart is heavy here.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 II. 
 
 Who would achieve, in times so tame, 
 
 An immortality of fame, 
 
 Must to one only purpose hend — 
 
 Must live or die, for one great end; 
 
 And 'tis that time and fate deny 
 
 To me such self devotion high, 
 
 That fills my mind with doubt and fear, 
 
 And makes my heart so heavy here. 
 
 'Tis not the breath of vain applause 
 That I would court. A holier cause — 
 The cause of Freedom, Justice, Truth, 
 Shall crown my age, or drain my youth. 
 For I have cherished glorious schemes, 
 And I have dreamed entrancing dreams ; 
 And 'tis that still those dreams are dear 
 That makes my heart so heavy here. 
 
 III. 
 
 Love is a fickle game, which they 
 Whose stakes are deepest worst can play ; 
 And 'tis, like many other joys, 
 Most valued when we lose the prize. 
 It is a game we cannot choose 
 But try our chance to win or lose; 
 And won, or lost, we still retain 
 A prize we cannot choose but gain.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 Pleasures, like leaves upon a lake, 
 Elude the very grasp you make ; 
 But swim along with careless force, 
 And they will gather in your course. 
 But as the seeming strength of leaves, 
 Caked in some eddying whirl, deceives — 
 Deem not on fleeting joys to rest — 
 Life is a pastime at the best. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Beautiful Emily, pride of the family ! 
 
 Why has fate revealed thus thy beauty to me ; 
 If with true heart then, I must depart then, 
 
 And be as nothing — as nothing to thee? 
 Beautiful Emily, pride of the family, 
 
 Was it for this then thou smiled'st so on me, 
 When I, in my dreaming, believed thy fond seeming, 
 
 Though I could be nothing — be nothing to thee ? 
 
 Can I believe then, that truth can deceive then, 
 
 Or beauty belie, love ? The thought cannot be ! 
 But thou must be fairest, and thou must be dearest, 
 
 And none can be dearer than thou art to me. 
 Beautiful Emily, pride of the family, 
 
 Think not that thus fate reveals its decree ; 
 For if true be thy heart then, I cannot depart then, 
 
 I cannot be nothing — be nothing to thee.
 
 8 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 V. 
 
 Thou, in thy beauty then, knowest the duty then, 
 
 Love has exacted too willing from rue ; 
 Thou surely knowest each smile thou bestowed' st, 
 
 Was treasured, too truly, by fondness for thee. 
 Beautiful Emily, pride of the family, 
 
 Surely thou wilt not thus bid me be free ; 
 Yet by not speaking then, to my love seeking then, 
 
 "What can I dream that thou canst be to me? 
 
 .Beautiful Emily, pride of the family, 
 
 Though I have dreamed thus so fondly of thee ; 
 Yet in my dreaming then, 'twas thy fond seeming 
 
 Made thee so dear as I dreamed thee to be. [then, 
 But love loved so boldly, flung back thus so coldly, 
 
 Ah ! what must it teach me so dreaming of thee ? 
 With love loved so truly, flung back so unduly, 
 
 Thou canst now be nothing — be nothing to me. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Fair as thou truly art, dear as thou truly wert, 
 
 Deep in my heart is thy beauty enshrined ; 
 But I'll not seek now, nor ask thee to speak now, 
 
 Devotion I dreamed of but never shall find. 
 By the words yet unspoken, all bonds now are broken ; 
 
 Thy silence too truly has answered for thee : 
 And thou of my bridal now, canst not be idol now 
 
 No, thou art nothing — art nothing to me.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 9 
 
 The vision has vanished now, all hope is banished now, 
 
 The dream I so truly and tenderly dreamed ; 
 And whate'er be the cost now, all love is lost now, 
 
 Thou art not, thou art not, the thing thou hast seemed. 
 So sweetly thou smiled'st, my heart thou beguiled'st, 
 
 And still would beguile it in fondness as free ; 
 But thus flung back to me, I'll bear no rack for thee — 
 
 No, thou art nothing — art nothing to me. 
 
 VII. 
 
 When the sun that has burst o'er the far-gleaming 
 
 And it burns in his blaze like a mirror, [sea, 
 Goes back into night — love will cease to be free, 
 
 And truth shall be drowned out in error. 
 When the heart that has known- no devotion but 
 
 And loves, and adores, to the last, [love, 
 
 Can be false to its faith, then the bright stars above, 
 
 Shall be quenched in that dream of the past. 
 
 For the heart that loves truly — true love will confess ; 
 
 And in truth, and in tenderness given, 
 It will ask for no more — it will offer no less, 
 
 To create, or to purchase, its heaven. 
 It dreams of no compact, it knows of no guile ; 
 
 But it shines like the great sun above ; 
 And rays out its gladness, unthinking the while, 
 
 For the joy, to be loved, and to love.
 
 10 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Time hath told in many a story, 
 
 Broken hope, and purpose vain ; 
 I have sought the poet's glory, 
 
 I have found the poet's pain. 
 Met hy cold obstruction only, 
 
 I have hid my heart's deep grief; 
 Whilst in wandering, pensive, lonely, 
 
 I have sought, and found relief. 
 
 Yet my heart hath never faltered — 
 
 Never trembled in the blast ; 
 Dreams of glory rise unaltered, 
 
 Like the sun when clouds are past, 
 Dreams, too lofty to be spoken 
 
 In a cold, regardless ear ; 
 Hopes, too precious to be broken, 
 
 Bear me, all neglected, here. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The poet hath his birth of heaven — 
 
 And how shall earth receive 
 The glory it hath never given, 
 
 And it can never give? 
 The world will its own dupes control, 
 
 Who at its shrines adore ; 
 But he who hath a poet's soul 
 
 Hath dreamt of something more.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. H 
 
 The flash of his prophetic scorn 
 
 O'er earth's vain pageant gleams ; 
 Whose pomp is perished, ere full born 
 
 Are his o'er pregnant dreams. 
 Then let the earth to earth return, 
 
 To heaven let heaven ascend ; 
 The fire, the flame, will upward burn — 
 
 The ashes downward tend. 
 
 X. 
 
 Oh, woman, the unconquered spell 
 
 Of thy fair face is mighty o'er 
 The hearts where dreams of beauty dwell, 
 
 In kindred grace, for ever more. 
 There's not a joy of earth or heaven, 
 
 In youth's fond eyes, can match with thee — 
 Oh, well, when a holy scope is given 
 
 To passion's rise — that must be free 1 ? 
 
 Mad with the bounding pulse of love, 
 
 And the quickening heart, and the quivering 
 If the poet turn from heaven above [limb, 
 
 To where thou art, oh blame not him ! 
 He is the child of a passionate hour — 
 
 And the kindled fire of his heart will burn 
 With the might and the flame of a speechless power, 
 
 Like a blazing pyre, or a smouldering urn.
 
 12 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 XI. 
 
 When the ocean waves are dancing 
 
 In their wildest stormy glee, 
 Hast thou marked a sunbeam glancing 
 
 O'er the dark and heaving sea 1 
 So, oh thou of Albion's daughters, 
 
 Sunbeam piercing clouded skies 
 O'er my lone heart's troubled waters 
 
 Shot the radiance of thine eyes. 
 
 Hast thou, when the dawn is stealing 
 
 Through the wintry evergreen, 
 Heard the warbled welcome pealing 
 
 Where unbroken night had been 1 
 So when sad and heavy hearted, 
 
 Eeft of all that makes rejoice, 
 After night of hope departed, 
 
 Came the music of thy voice. 
 
 XII. 
 
 All so gentle and fair, 
 
 She stole on my sight ; 
 Ere my heart was aware 
 
 It was filled with delight. 
 And my eyes ever turned 
 
 To behold her again ; 
 And my breast ever burned, 
 
 When she spoke to me then.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 13 
 
 The skies they are blue, 
 
 And the clouds they are bright ; 
 But they fade in the hue 
 
 Of my passion's delight. 
 The flowers on the lawn 
 
 They are fresh ere they fade ; 
 But she came like the dawn 
 
 In her beauty arrayed. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 My heart hath sprung to meet thee 
 
 In many a raptured dream ; 
 And yet I may not greet thee 
 
 As love would best beseem. 
 Oh I could fondle o'er thee, 
 
 And clasp thee to my breast, 
 And yet am mute before thee 
 
 With passion unconfest. 
 
 And like a shield above thee, 
 
 Oh I could bend thee o'er ; 
 And look on thee and love thee — 
 
 And love thee ever more. 
 My eyes when they behold thee, 
 
 Are inlets to my heart ; 
 And surely they have told thee 
 
 How dearly loved thou art 1
 
 U TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 What could I do but kiss those lips, 
 
 Whose laughing smiles allured me ; 
 And as a bee of honey sips, 
 
 Cling on while they endured me ? 
 What could I do but snatch the prize 
 
 Tbe moment it impended, 
 And dare the frown those flashing eyes 
 
 So prettily pretended ? 
 
 What could I but with sudden arm 
 
 Encircling clasp thy waist, 
 And yield to love's luxurious charm, 
 
 That knows no thought unchaste 1 
 What can I now, but like a bee 
 
 That's only had a sip, 
 Still long to taste more full and free 
 
 The honey of thy lip? 
 
 XV. 
 
 No, no ; I dare not lose thee ; 
 
 Thou art all my life and joy ; 
 From a thousand I could choose thee — 
 
 For thee, pass a thousand by. 
 Xo, no ; if e'er thou dreamest 
 
 I could change from loving thee ; 
 Deeper sorrow than thou deemest 
 
 Is that thought from thee to me.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 15 
 
 No, no ; my heart is swelling 
 
 Hours on hours with love for thee ; 
 Love those words are vainly telling, 
 
 If thou hast not faith in me. 
 No, no ; that love could never 
 
 Half reveal its bursting store ; 
 Though my tongue would speak for ever, 
 
 Still my heart would love thee more. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Oh love is like the belted bee 
 
 That hangs on buzzing wing ; 
 Be wise, and touch him warily, 
 
 Or ye may feel his sting. 
 The honeyed prize will boom away, 
 
 Lost o'er the roaring river ; 
 But in the heart the sting will stay, 
 
 And venomed work for ever. 
 
 Oh never hung a bonnier bee 
 
 On sweeter opening flower, 
 Than waked the honey love in me, 
 
 Chance passing at that hour. 
 But never boy with wilder spring 
 
 Beleased his prize in terror, 
 Than I to feel the hidden sting, 
 
 And know my fatal error.
 
 16 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Go, go ; in grief I met thee, 
 
 And in grief to part is meet ; 
 Go, go ; and I'll forget thee, 
 
 When my heart forgets to heat. 
 Go, go ; though I had never 
 
 Thought or wished to part for aye ; 
 Go, go ; and if for ever, 
 
 'Tis not mine to hid thee stay. 
 
 Go, go ; for thou hast spoken, 
 
 Words I cannot "brook from thee ; 
 Go, go ; for thou hast broken 
 
 Every tie 'twixt thee and me. 
 Go, go, and mourn, I met thee, 
 
 Since, in truth, we ne'er can meet ; 
 Go. go, and I'll forget thee, 
 
 When my heart forgets to beat. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Little known and less believed, 
 By my fondness self-deceived, 
 Can I hope that thou wilt be 
 All my passion pictured thee? 
 Smiling with those melting eyes, 
 How the dear delusions rise, 
 Which my heart still aches to quell, 
 As I utter — Fare-thee-well !
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 17 
 
 Yet it must be, and for ever, 
 Ever, ever we must sever ; 
 Every hour I near thee hang 
 Only whets the parting pang ; 
 Every minute lingered on, 
 Dearer than the minute gone, 
 Warns my sinking heart to tell, 
 Ere 'tis broken — Fare- thee- well ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Beautiful isle, on the fair blue sea, 
 
 Wilt thou be a home to my bark and me ? 
 
 With thy emerald turf and thy waving trees 
 
 That nod to the surf of the rolling seas, 
 
 With their palmy leaves hung glittering high, 
 
 In the slanting beams of the cloudless sky ; 
 
 Beautiful isle, oh will thou be 
 
 A haven home to my bark and me ? 
 
 Far have we seen thee, far have we sought 
 
 On the restless seas for thy lonely spot ; 
 
 Like a star of the evening it shone on the rim, 
 
 Of the round blue main, when the sky grew dim ; 
 
 Like the peak of a paradise, sunk in the blue, 
 
 It lured us afar with its vernal hue ; 
 
 Beautiful isle, on the fair blue sea, 
 
 Wilt thou be a home to my bark and me 'i 
 
 B
 
 18 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Beautiful isle, through rocks and foam 
 
 We came to thee for a haven home ; 
 
 Through the scowling rack and the blackening sea, 
 
 Beautiful isle, we came to thee ; 
 
 Shattered and buffeted, weary and worn ; 
 
 Covered with surf, with the rude rocks torn ; 
 
 Beautiful isle, oh wilt thou be 
 
 A haven home to my bark and me ? 
 
 Beautiful isle, on the fair blue sea, 
 "Where art thou vanished to 1 Where 1 Ah me, 
 There is darkness above, there is tempest below ; 
 There is crashing and foaming wherever we go. 
 The gleam of the lightning, the flash of the surf, 
 Come blinding my eyes as they look for thy turf; 
 And the roar of the thunder, the crash of the sea 
 Are pealing the knell of my bark and me. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Strong be thy heart, but as strong as it is, 
 
 It will need all its strength ere it cross the abyss ; 
 
 For the friends thy fond trust never deemed but were 
 
 Will turn from thee first, when thy battle's begun, [won, 
 
 They cannot feel all the passionate love 
 
 That intoxicates thee, drawn direct from above ; 
 
 They cannot share in that infinite joy, 
 
 Makes thee of the chosen, however they try.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYKE. 19 
 
 Ah ! sad is the conflict, and wild is the strife 
 That tears thy young heart in the outset of life ; 
 But sadder, and wilder, that battle would he 
 Didst thou shun the sheer contest appointed to thee. 
 Then strong be thy heart, in a faith without fear ; 
 In the blackest abyss there's a Comforter near ; 
 Though the friends thou offendest, grow doubtful and 
 There's a Friend will not fail watches over thee still, [chill, 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Lonely, lonely, lonely ever, 
 
 Like an eagle on the blast 
 With a proud wing I must sever 
 
 Clouds and darkness o'er me cast. 
 Upward strongly, sternly, clanging, 
 
 O'er the blackness I am borne, 
 Like a star in ether hanging, 
 
 Wandered forth to meet the morn. 
 
 Lonely, lonely, lonely ever, 
 
 When the surge is rolling high, 
 Like a rock I'll shrink nor shiver, 
 
 Gazing on the fitful sky. 
 Like a rock in the lone ocean 
 
 Lashed by ever sounding waves, 
 I will bide my heart's emotion 
 
 When the tempest round me raves.
 
 20 TONES FROM THE LYEE. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Woe to him who hows not down 
 Meek to hear the thorny crown ; 
 Woe to him who fears the frown 
 
 Of the godless world. 
 Woe to him who dwells in state, 
 Judgment comes, though long and late- 
 Thrones and empires, earth-elate, 
 
 All are headlong hurled. 
 
 Kings and princes if your sway 
 Be not of the just alway, 
 In an hour and in a day, 
 
 Ye shall perish all ! 
 Kingdoms, empires, Indus wide, 
 Godless ye cannot ahide ; 
 In your power, and in your pride 
 
 Ye shall surely fall ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 There is a mirth whose holy swell 
 
 Need fear no chill of changeful earth ; 
 For where the desolation fell 
 
 That holy gladness sprung to birth. 
 There is a thrill that comes and goes, 
 
 A motion of the surging soul ; 
 And they can smile at worldly woes 
 
 Who feel its impulse o'er them roll.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 21 
 
 There is a rapture unexprest, 
 
 A joy, a peace, a hope, a thrill, 
 Which they can only know who taste, 
 
 And they who taste not know not still. 
 Oh, Thou unuttered Holy One, 
 
 It is to be imbued with Thee, 
 That was, and is, and shall alone 
 
 Be all the heaven that e'er can be.
 
 22 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 PAET SECOND. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Cara Eegina, still fondly bestowing 
 
 Thy thoughts on remembrances hallowed and sad ; 
 The hearts of thy people, with loyalty glowing, 
 
 Remembering thy sorrow, forget to be glad : 
 Millions have wept in the day of thy mourning, 
 
 Sad with thy sorrow, unknowing their own ; 
 Born in that bright time, he shared in adorning, 
 
 When England looked lovingly up to thy throne. 
 
 Cara Eegina, thy children around thee 
 
 Are teaching thy people the lessons he taught ; 
 Are binding their hearts with the fetters that bound 
 
 With woman's devotion to live in his lot. [thee 
 In wisdom exalted, in purpose so holy, 
 
 Though lost to thy fondness, his spirit still lives ; 
 Still speaks to thy heart, to his own wedded solely, 
 
 In the dream of devotion remembrance still gives.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 23 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Cara Eegina, forego this long weeping — 
 
 Eeturn to thy people — thy people implore ; 
 Vain were his virtues, in silence now sleeping, 
 
 Did they not teach thern to love thee the more. 
 By that serene and seraphic devotion 
 
 That won thee, a hride, to thy home in his heart, 
 Dwell not so sadly on hyegone emotion, 
 
 Forgetting thy people, a Queen as thou art. 
 
 Cara Eegina, the hearts are still beating 
 
 That throbbed when he stood by thy side at the 
 When truth and devotion, in ecstasy meeting, [shrine; 
 
 Made emulous England look proudly to thine. 
 Though thou art left by his loss sad and lonely, 
 
 And lonely and sad still his loss would deplore, 
 Think that thy people, now having thee only, 
 
 Queen of our British Isles, love thee the more ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Hush ! for a sacred sorrow here 
 Hath found a sad relief to rear 
 In memory of a loved one gone — 
 This pile of tributary stone ; 
 Here, as it rose, her royal heart 
 Eejoiced in every touch of art 
 That blended, in its finished whole, 
 The placid instincts of his soul.
 
 24 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 Oh ! early lost, but long revered, 
 The nation, whose own Queen hath reared 
 This royal tribute to thy worth, 
 Will long remember thee on earth. 
 Albert the Good, ere scarce was known 
 Thy value — thou art lost and gone ; 
 And, with thy weeping widow, we 
 Are mingling tears — remembering thee. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 But no, thou art not gone ! but still 
 Thou liVst with us in every thrill 
 Of placid unobtrusive truth 
 That hallows thy remembered youth. 
 Oh ! could the nation who have lost 
 Thy gentle wisdom to their cost, 
 Resuscitate thy peaceful power, 
 'Twere well for England in this hour. 
 
 When war and bloody lust unchains 
 Her hell-hounds on fair Denmark's plains ; 
 And civil Europe hears once more 
 Barbaric butchers' cannon roar. 
 England indignant, sees with scorn 
 Europe with rival factions torn; 
 But England, girdled by her sea, 
 Though thou art gone, remembers thee.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 25 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Remembers how thy life's brief lease 
 Taught us the royal arts of peace ; 
 And how, in loyalty allied, 
 England and France stood side by side ; 
 And with the spectacle of power 
 Frowned down the factions of the hour ; 
 Making our armaments of war 
 The means of peace they truly are. 
 
 Shade of the gentle and august ! 
 Teach our poor pride thy perfect trust, 
 And let us at thy shrine renew 
 The pledge vain faction would undo. 
 England and France together turn 
 Repentant to thy sacred urn, 
 And with united flags unfurled, 
 Awe into peace a troubled world. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 'Tis well for a spirit like thine 
 
 To be wafted in music away ; 
 Though with voice and with look so benign, 
 
 There was none we could wish so to stay. 
 There was none who could welcome the stranger, 
 
 With so kindly outstretching a hand ; 
 There was none who in doubt or in danger 
 
 Could in faith so inflexibly stand.
 
 26 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 There was none from affliction could borrow 
 
 So truly the wisdom divine ; 
 There was none could forget their own sorrow 
 
 As thou did'st continually thine. 
 Then softly and solemnly pealing, 
 
 Oh, let this great music arise ; 
 And as we are bowed down in deep feeling, 
 
 Thy spirit will soar to the skies. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Bury him deep 
 
 Where his bones will rest 
 With the quiet clay 
 
 On his genial breast : 
 For never a nobler 
 
 Went wearied to sleep. 
 Than him whom the nations 
 
 Are burying deep. 
 
 Deep in their hearts 
 
 Will his memory dwell, 
 Who watched when they wandered 
 
 So wisely and well ; 
 And 'tis ours wh are left 
 
 To let foreigners see 
 That England hath many 
 
 Such sons as he.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 27 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Welcome, weary pilgrim, 
 
 Rest thee, rest thee, here ; 
 Death and Sin are scowling, 
 
 Baffled, in the rear. 
 Cloud-enveloped chaos, 
 
 Dark, hehind thee, lies ; 
 Heaven's gate opes before thee 
 
 Like the evening skies. 
 
 Past those golden portals 
 
 Angel legions bright, 
 Avenued, await thee, 
 
 Clothed in gleaming white. 
 Hark, their harps are mingling 
 
 Tones of heavenly cheer ; 
 Welcome, weary pilgrim, 
 
 Rest thee, rest thee, here. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 As, in the silence of the night, 
 
 Some lone one, through the churchyard's gloom 
 Steals softly, by the pale moon's light, 
 
 To scatter flowers upon a tomb, 
 So would I from the faery bowers 
 
 Of fancy cull some wreathe of woe ; 
 So would I shed those withered flowers 
 
 Where thou art laid in silence low.
 
 28 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 It may not be, it must not be, 
 
 The world shall deem why thus I crave 
 The tribute of a tear for thee, 
 
 While scattering flowers upon thy grave. 
 It may not be, it must not be, 
 
 With these the world shall waste its care; 
 For if they speak, they speak of thee, 
 
 And not of him who placed them there. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Oh, not in words of measured woe, 
 
 With stately swell of rhythmic grief, 
 Would I bewail thee stricken low 
 
 Ere Autumn's sun had seared thy leaf. 
 Let hireling scribes assail the ear, 
 
 Let hireling tributes load the shelf — 
 The honest, manly, friendly tear 
 
 Befits thee, for 'tis like thyself. 
 
 The tyrant in his living pride 
 
 Is worshipped with all smiles and forms ; 
 But in an hour he's thrust aside, 
 
 To death, oblivion, and the worms. 
 But thou wert like a flower that spread, 
 
 Unfolding ever fresh and fair; 
 And though thy leaves and stem be dead, 
 
 Thy fragrance fills the boundless air.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 29 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 I remember him well in the heyday of gladness, 
 
 When our hearts were all young, full of frolic and jest ; 
 And now must his name, in the long list of sadness, 
 
 Be entered, one more, to abide with the rest. 
 I see them engraven on stones from that quarry 
 
 So oft we have walked to, when full of life's zest, 
 When our hearts were too buoyant with gladness to tarrj' 
 
 On the sad contemplation their fate has confest. 
 
 And as there they repose in their undisturbed slumbers, 
 
 New life, ever bursting, flows frolicking on ; 
 And year by year adds to the still growing numbers, 
 
 The names of the nameless — save engraven on stone. 
 Oh, home of my fathers, though long I have left thee 
 
 To dwell among strangers, unnoticed, unknown, 
 In memory there's a nook not bereft thee, 
 
 Where the names are engraven of kindred long gone. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Year by year my youth is fading, 
 
 Day by day my life is past ; 
 And the gloom of sorrow, shading, 
 
 Hangs around me to the last. 
 Little thought I, when I entered 
 
 Love's domain, in fond belief, 
 Little thought I, when I ventured, 
 
 I should turn so soon in grief.
 
 30 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 Little thought I years should find me 
 
 Wandering onward still alone, 
 Mourning o'er those hopes behind me, 
 
 Darkened, faded, lost and gone. 
 Little thought I, I should bow me 
 
 Down in calm despair at last ; 
 Careless what fate might allow me 
 
 When my dearest dreams were past. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Ah, if years of grief could move thee, 
 
 With their sad and plaintive tone, 
 I would not thus vainly love thee — 
 
 I could move a heart of stone. 
 I could string my harp of sadness, 
 
 I could wake such notes the while — 
 Tears upon the cheek of gladness — 
 
 Tears would mingle with the smile ! 
 
 I could from my store of sorrow 
 
 Mingle such a burst of woe, 
 Mourners for the dead would borrow 
 
 Tears from their own grief to flow. 
 I could with such power of anguish 
 
 Plunge into those sorrows yet — 
 Brides on bridal eves would languish 
 
 With a strange and pale regret.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 31 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 The hawthorn bud may burst anew, 
 Refreshed by showers of vernal dew ; 
 The opening rose again may bloom, 
 The lily breathe a fresh perfume. 
 The wanton warblers of the grove 
 Reiterate their notes of love ; 
 But never, never more my heart 
 Can thy untimely chill depart. 
 
 The frisky lambs may leave the fold, 
 The fields may wave with Autumn's gold ; 
 The sun may climb yon azure dome, 
 The hind may lead his harvest home ; 
 The waggon, cumbrous with its load, 
 Attest continual bounteous God — 
 But never, never more my heart 
 Can thy untimely chill depart. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 In joy conceived, in pain brought forth, 
 Thy lot is chequered, child of earth ! 
 And be thy locks of gold or gray, 
 A night is ever near thy day. 
 If Summer's blue spread o'er thee bright, 
 Lo, clouds have climbed the distant height; 
 If morning's skies are gaily drest 
 The warning bow is in the west.
 
 32 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 A storm-spent wanderer thou art driven 
 By every breeze, and blast of heaven ; 
 A pilgrim, knocking at the gate, 
 That never, never opened yet. 
 Thy golden hours of youth are cast 
 Like withered leaves before the blast ; 
 And on the hoary waste of years 
 Thou bleachest in the rain of tears. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Oh, could I weep away 
 My life, and be again 
 The cold and senseless clay 
 From which I came in vain, 
 
 I would not mourn, I would not burn, 
 With hopeless love for thee ; 
 
 I would not wear my heart with care 
 That thou art lost to me. 
 
 Oh, could I lay me down 
 
 Upon the cold, cold earth, 
 
 And freeze into a stone, 
 
 I would not mar your mirth. 
 With looks so sad, when all are glad, 
 
 I would not ever mourn ; 
 With dying heart, that joys depart, 
 
 And ne'er, oh, ne'er return.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 33 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Oh, could I lay my head 
 
 Upon the cold, cold grave, 
 
 And find among the dead 
 
 The rest life never gave, 
 I would cast my eyes, at last, 
 
 In weary dolour forth ; 
 I would not start when lone apart, 
 
 To hear the voice of mirth. 
 
 Oh, on thy bosom fair 
 
 I could have laid my head ; 
 
 But never, never there 
 
 Shall my fond tears be shed ; 
 No hope of mine shall blend with thine, 
 
 No grief be sighed away ; 
 No sound of cheer made doubly dear, 
 
 No love, no hope, no stay. 
 
 XLIL 
 
 I have seen a pale star in the light of the morning 
 
 Grow fainter, and fainter, as the sky grew more 
 So see I thy spirit our darkness adorning, [bright : 
 
 Serenely and slowly dissolving in light. 
 I have seen the blithe lark from his covert upspringing, 
 
 Soar away through the clouds like a prophet of joy ; 
 I have heard that sweet lark to the morning star singing, 
 
 And so would I sing to thy spirit on high. 
 
 c
 
 34 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 I have seen the same star in the red eve's declining, 
 
 From the crest of the mountain in splendour look 
 So see I thy spirit, like a beacon star shining, [back ; 
 
 To win us to follow thy heavenward track. 
 I have seen as night closed, all the starry host wending 
 
 In the track of that star, o'er the dark mountain's brow ; 
 And so would I march with earth's millions attending, 
 
 To the land of all peace thou art leading to now. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Mine hath been a silent sorrow, 
 
 Mine hath been an inward grief, 
 With an eye that in the morrow 
 
 Saw nor sought for no relief. 
 Mine hath been a brow o'erclouded 
 
 When it seemed but gay the while ; 
 Mine hath been a sorrow shrouded 
 
 With the whiteness of smile. 
 
 Mine hath been a grief that growing, 
 
 Branched into luxuriant woe ; 
 Mine hath been a wound that flowing, 
 
 Found a sad relief to flow. 
 Mine hath been a sorrow shedding 
 
 Tears that did more weeping crave ; 
 Mine hath been an anguish spreading 
 
 Like the verdure of the grave.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 35 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Mine hath been a dream beguiling 
 
 When the light of hope was lied — 
 Like a fair-browed infant smiling 
 
 In the chamber of the dead. 
 Mine hath been a lone sojourning — 
 
 Wandered on without an aim, 
 Save the fond gaze, ever turning, 
 
 For the friend who never came. 
 
 Mine hath been a raptured dreaming 
 
 Of a fond and gentle bride, 
 Perished as I caught the gleaming 
 
 Of her soft eyes by my side ; 
 And her white robes, like a token 
 
 Of her sinless soul's array — 
 Oh, my heart, art thou not broken 
 
 As she fades, and fades away? 
 
 XLV. 
 
 The wandering breeze on the branch alit, 
 
 And the branch was bended low ; 
 
 But her head is bowed down lower than it, 
 
 Where the fresh breeze ne'er shall blow. 
 The violets fling, in the opening spring, 
 
 Their purple fragrance there ; 
 But damp and cold is the wormy mould, 
 
 Beneath those flow'rets fair.
 
 36 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 The willow droops where the waters stray, 
 
 As they wind on their foamy track ; 
 
 And the dew it kissed in gladness away, 
 
 It weeps in sadness back. 
 Oh ! merry and sad were the days I had 
 
 When my youth was in its prime ; 
 But my mirth is crost, and my grief is lost 
 
 In the formless gulf of Time. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 We come we know not whence, 
 
 We go we know not whither ; 
 
 We wake to a living sense, 
 
 But we wake not altogether ; 
 And day by day as we plod on our way, 
 
 We have dreams of rapture fond ; 
 But still in their swell, they only tell, 
 
 Of happier scenes beyond. 
 
 We live and move in the present, 
 But we dwell in a far off time ; 
 The balmy air is pleasant, 
 But we look to a fairer clime. 
 
 The shades of eve, as they slowly leave, 
 And the sun with his parting beam, 
 
 He leads us on from the day that is gone, 
 To a land of a dearer dream.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 37 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 The joys that soon depart, 
 
 We love ere they are o'er ; 
 
 But they cannot still the heart 
 
 That craves for something more. 
 The dreams we dream, in their far off gleam, 
 
 Are hright with the hues of heaven ; 
 But they fade away from the hour and the day, 
 
 Their full delight is given. 
 
 All hope, all joy, all fear, 
 
 All sense of life looks on. 
 
 And tells us it is not here 
 
 The goal of life is won. 
 And lost are they on their desolate way, 
 
 "Who seek in this sorrowful earth 
 For the living joy of a purer sky, 
 
 And the hope of a holier birth. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Like the dew on the mountain we spangle green earth, 
 
 Like the dew on the mountain we melt into air; 
 And the vale of our youth, and the spot of our birth 
 
 "Will forget that Ave ever hung glittering there. 
 Like the foam of the ocean we leap into life, 
 
 Like the foam of the ocean we fritter away ; 
 And the elements mingle again into strife, 
 
 And the yeast of the tempest hods up where we lay.
 
 38 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 Like a cloud in the heavens we float for a while, 
 
 Like a cloud in the heavens we are swept into night ; 
 And the sun will arise, and the morrow will smile 
 
 On ether as blue, and on vapour as bright. 
 The mountains are huge, and the ocean is wide, 
 
 And the clouds they are fair in their sunset array ; 
 But the hour of our life, in the glimmering void 
 
 Of eternity, melts like a shadow away.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 39 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 The rugged clouds that clasp the sky 
 Look grimly down, in rolling by ; 
 But darker down the gulf of years 
 My gloomy wreck of life appears. 
 The winter of a weary grief 
 In ice hath froze me, stem and leaf; 
 And though the thawing beams appear, 
 My stem is shrunk, my leaf is sear. 
 
 Arise, my sold ! leave dull despair 
 To worldly grief and worldly care ; 
 The heart of sterner temper knows 
 A world beyond the world of woes. 
 Arise, arise, the hour is near 
 That cowards hate, and tyrants fear ; 
 But he wbo looks beyond this life 
 Can welcome best the deadliest strife,
 
 40 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 L. 
 
 I see them in their wan despair, 
 I see them pinched and pining there ; 
 The children of onr peopled Isle 
 Flung forth to famish from their toil : 
 While Mammon's hoof is trampling down 
 The fairest of the field and town, 
 Oh, what are all those griefs of mine 
 That I should idly mope and whine ? 
 
 Arise, my soul ! tyrannic wrong 
 
 In rock-built hattlements is strong ; 
 
 But husy Truth is mining there 
 
 To toss their ramparts in the air. 
 
 Arise, arise ! the conflict comes 
 
 With other sounds than trumps and drums ; 
 
 And tyrants in the death grip feel 
 
 The stab of something more than steel. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Weary and desolate, sons of soil, 
 
 Know ye the tyrants who feast on your spoil ? 
 
 Strong ones, who labour in country and town, 
 
 Know ye the masters who trample ye down 1 
 
 In their halls they are met with their banners unfurled, 
 
 The old Norman barons, the pride of the world ; 
 
 While the wine they have drunk, was yet wild in their 
 blood, 
 
 They have sworn by the cross that ye shall not have food.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 41 
 
 In a palace upreared by the skill of your hands, 
 With a frown on his brow the Aristocrat stands ; 
 On the carpet ye wove him he paces along, 
 And he plots in his beart to requite ye with wrong. 
 As he sits at his table, all lavishly served, 
 He asks for a blessing, let labour be starved ; 
 
 As he quaffs the bright wine, then the toast that goes 
 
 round, 
 Is, "Down to the dust, let the peasant be ground." 
 
 lit 
 
 The horse hi his stable is pampered and fed — 
 Eut the man in his hovel shall hunger for bread ; 
 The hound for his food may not idly complain, 
 But the wives of your bosoms shall seek it in vain. 
 Oh England, my country, we had heroes of old, 
 Who have gathered thy children like a flock to the fold ; 
 But where are they vanished to, why are they fled, 
 That for years we have battled, yet vainly for bread 1 
 
 Shall the haughty and bigoted dare to oppress, 
 When the millions are up, and demanding redress 1 
 Shall the old Norman barons re-rivet the chain 
 Which the spirit of Freedom is snapping in twain? 
 Oh, woe to their folly, ob, woe to their fraud, 
 If they stand in the front of the power that's abroad ; 
 They may sink in the strife, like a wreck in the waves, 
 But the sons of the soil cannot live to be slaves.
 
 42 TOXES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 The toilworn worker's blood and bones, 
 
 And thinkers' brain do all ; 
 Yet each of both among us owns 
 
 A sorry lot withal. 
 Self help may serve the strong who can, 
 
 Who find the good they seek ; 
 But in life's battle, brother man, 
 
 How fares it with the weak ? 
 
 Were there not still good God above, 
 
 Who reins and guides us alL 
 How little would a brother's love 
 
 Avert his fellow's fall. 
 In the mad contest commerce breeds, 
 
 The splendid wretch who wins 
 Knows in his heart how much needs 
 
 A shrival from his sins. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 For four and twenty years and odd, 
 
 Mechanic bred and thorough, 
 I, by the providence of God, 
 
 Have dwelt within this borough. 
 So steep and rUgged was the road 
 
 That opened fair before me, 
 With labour hard, and long bestowed, 
 
 But little way it bore me.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 43 
 
 I have enriched the trade and town 
 
 With many a rare invention ; 
 And got perhaps some small renown, 
 
 But little more to mention. 
 For as young birds, with new-fledged wings 
 
 Fly to the world before them ; 
 So thoughts embodied into things 
 
 Forget the brains that bore them. 
 
 LV. 
 
 But by those twenty-four odd years 
 
 Fve spent in vain essaying — 
 Let him look back with coward fears 
 
 Who feels his faith decaying. 
 For in the battle of the just, 
 
 With foes who long may grieve us, 
 There is a truth in which we trust, 
 
 That never will deceive us. 
 
 Whose gift is the unconquered will, 
 
 Too proud to fume and fret ; 
 Which baffled oft will buffet stiU, 
 
 And win the battle yet. 
 Courage that will not bend or break, 
 
 Endurance that defies, 
 And purpose which no power can shake, 
 
 'Tis these that win the prize.
 
 44 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 LVT. 
 
 I well remember when we met, 
 
 Oh lovely to my eye, 
 Thy face and form are with me yet, 
 
 And will be till I die. 
 A moment, with the taper then, 
 
 Methinks I see thee stand, 
 As, murmuring, we shall meet again, 
 
 I took thee by the hand. 
 
 A moment, full upon thy face, 
 
 The light all o'er thee stole ; 
 And death itself shall not efface 
 
 That vision from my soul. 
 A moment, every hope of heaven, 
 
 Ideal realised, 
 Burned in that gleam of glory given, 
 
 Too fondly idolized. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 A moment, with prophetic power, 
 
 Love's luxury supreme 
 Blotted out every byegone hour 
 
 In that impassioned dream. 
 A moment, all thy beauty there, 
 
 Full flashed into my being, 
 So calm, so sad, so heavenly fair, 
 
 I could have wept with seeing.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 45 
 
 I would have wept could I have known 
 
 Those years of grief in store 
 Through which I lived unloved, alone, 
 
 Yet never saw thee more. 
 Whde desolate and lonely now, 
 
 In idle grief I dwell, 
 And sadly think, ah, where art thou 
 
 Whom I have loved so well? 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 While gazing on those withered flowers, 
 
 All shrivelled as they lie, 
 I think how hopes of happier hours 
 
 Like these may droop and die ; 
 And as those frail and faded things 
 
 Are fragrant to the last, 
 So round those hopes a fondness clings 
 
 When all their bloom is past. 
 
 Eeturn, and in her bosom dwelL 
 
 Ye gentle flowers, and there 
 Oh whisper to her heart, and tell 
 
 My withered passion's prayer. 
 Tell her the flower that decks the plain 
 
 Once dead reviveth never ; 
 But faded love will bloom again, 
 
 As fresh, as fond as ever.
 
 46 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Tenderly dear in my memory dwells, 
 
 Each glance of thine eyes, love, each tone of thy voice ; 
 Through the night of my loneness that matin song swells, 
 
 Like the hymns of the angels to hid me rejoice. 
 Through long years I wandered the desert alone, 
 
 Nor hoped for the future, nor sighed for the past ; 
 The dreams of my youth all forgotten and gone, 
 
 The fondest, the dearest, the first and the last. 
 
 And lo, as I gazed where the morning once rose, 
 
 "Where long, long, the night hung so darkly around, 
 
 Once again, with red gleamings, the dark ahyss glows, 
 
 Once again the glad dawn leaps in light o'er the 
 ground. 
 
 Once again, like an angel of paradise, love 
 
 Takes a shape and a form I can clasp to my hreast ; 
 
 And thou, the dear gift of the great God ahove, 
 Art sent now to teach me the joys of the hlest. 
 
 LX. 
 
 I love that calm face with its earnest truth heaming 
 
 With a love that my heart never dreamed of before ; 
 I love those dear eyes, with their tender light streaming, 
 
 And the longer I gaze on them love them the more. 
 I love the dear smile, round those lips so entwining, 
 
 When those dear eyes have sparkled with gladness the 
 I love the dear heart, all my hopes now enshrining, [while ; 
 
 That knows how I love it, and live in its smile.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 47 
 
 I love the dear form that I hang so around now, 
 
 And lingeringly clasp, yet again, ere we part ; 
 I love the great gladness, my lost heart hath found now 
 
 As I clasp the dear treasure once more to my heart. 
 I love the dear dream of the future before me, 
 
 Where thou art the sun, I have sighed for so long, 
 Now pouring its brightness so lavishly o'er me, 
 
 My heart, like the soaring lark, bursts into song. 
 
 LXL 
 
 All in my loneliness I looked to heaven, 
 
 Chiding my sad and solitary lot ; 
 And lo, to crown my visions thou art given 
 
 To fill me with the paradise I sought. 
 Oh ! loved and lovely one, how could I clasp 
 
 Thee to my bosom for a thousand years ; 
 And drink thy sighs, and give thee gasp for gasp, 
 
 And melt away in kisses and in tears. 
 
 Oh ! too impassioned for this dead cold age 
 
 Of soulless insufficiency, the spell 
 Of thy entrancing presence doth engage 
 
 My soul to rapture irresistible. 
 The concentration of all life and sense, 
 
 Blends to a focus its intensest rays ; 
 Till passion thrilled to ecstacy intense 
 
 Dissolves in the insufferable blaze.
 
 48 TONES FllOM THE LYRE. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 The dear delusion of a new-born hope 
 
 Speaks to my soul from thy impassioned eyes ; 
 And melting with sweet madness, will not stop 
 
 The heart's tumultuous throbbings as they rise. 
 Time hath no term that could exhaust that joy 
 
 Immortal, unextinguishable love ; 
 Mingling all elements of earth and sky, 
 
 All sense suffused and sated from above. 
 
 The fond enchantment of thy beauty's power 
 
 Woos me to ecstacy and wins my soul 
 With passion's longings to one raptured hour, 
 
 Too heavenly pregnant for the heart's control. 
 The exulting irrepressible delight, 
 
 The unveded heaven, revealed in woman's form, 
 Disclosing beauty to my ravished sight 
 
 Compels my soul with its all conquering charm. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Oh ! vain delusion, fatal to the peace 
 
 Of the o'er pregnant heart in which it dwells ; 
 Infatuation works its own release, 
 
 Or dies endrunken with thy wanton spells. 
 There is no tampering with thy fearfid charms — 
 
 Blasted or scatheless, man's diviner soul 
 Must perish in the circle of thine arms, 
 
 Or burst enfranchised from thy fierce control.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 49 
 
 Hot youth's insatiate ardour may engage 
 
 Love's fierce illusion with its utmost soul ; 
 But passion spending in its idle rage, 
 
 Truth teaches him a wiser self-control. 
 And over all time's reckoning, still we read, 
 
 Eelentlessly enforced, God's awful rule, 
 The greater gifts, more sternly is decreed — 
 
 Peace to the wise, perdition to the fool. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Oh ! for a bosom whereupon to lean, 
 
 And soothe me into passionless repose ; 
 Like a benighted wanderer I have been, 
 
 Who deemed it morning when the bleak moon rose. 
 Oh ! cold and clear above the mountain tops 
 
 Her shivering sphere sailed slowly into heaven ; 
 And the calm waters with a thousand drops 
 
 Of glory trembled where her light was given. 
 
 Like the returning revellers of a feast, 
 
 Drunk with the wine of life, we wander on 
 From youth to manhood, with a power increased — 
 
 Drinking life's gladness, when its gust is gone. 
 Young hope's illusion on the die is cast, 
 
 And vanished in the venture we would try ; 
 The future darkening, as the splendid past 
 
 Sinks in a sunset of immortal joy. 
 
 D
 
 50 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Bitterly taught by experience stern 
 Lessons we never imagined to learn, 
 Slowly evolved the soul's high truth 
 Bursts into bloom from the grave of youth. 
 Youth with its dreams is dead and gone, 
 And we are still dreaming and drudging on ; 
 Dreaming less, and drudging more, 
 Till we cease to hope as we hoped of yore. 
 
 God over all, could we Thee forget, 
 
 The sun of our soul had in darkness set ; 
 
 But come what wilL or come what may, 
 
 "We live in the hope of a holier day — 
 
 A day undisturbed by the pitiless power 
 
 Of malice and meanness that shadow the hour, 
 
 When the long-looked for dawning of sun-bright 
 truth 
 
 Shall dazzle our age with the dreams of youth. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Talk not of childhood and the wreck 
 
 Of fading dreams it shewed ; 
 Our life is but a childhood spent 
 
 Around the knees of God. 
 Our science is an infant's lore, 
 
 Our history a tale ; 
 Our old age is a lullaby, 
 
 And death its closing wail.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 51 
 
 The sceptre is a glittering toy, 
 
 The trumpet and the drum — 
 But tell us that the little hosts 
 
 Are noisy as they come. 
 All the exceeding pomp of courts, 
 
 Is but a childish play ; 
 A decking of their little forms 
 
 To pass the time away ! 
 
 LXVIL 
 
 I will sing a new song, said the prophet of old, 
 That the might and the glory of God be extolled ; 
 But in our generation to help God along 
 We build him new churches to sing the old song. 
 We worship our God with a vain adoration, 
 And prate forth his praises with empty laudation ; 
 For we know not his spirit, and essence embrace, 
 And transfuse all existence with guidance and grace. 
 
 The want of which drives us like raging beasts forth 
 In our madness and crime, making hell upon earth ; 
 The gift of which greatly and graciously given, 
 Is the power that will recreate earth into heaven — 
 A power that like sunlight will flash from the eye, 
 That speaks with its splendour, and propagates joy ; 
 Dispersing delusion, and teaching anew 
 The gospel of gladness eternal and true.
 
 52 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 lxvtil 
 
 'Tis the spirit of Truth, the unsearchable cause, 
 The God we depend on, and live by his laws ; 
 'Tis He who informs the devout human heart 
 With the wisdom of love, with the beauty of art. 
 'Tis the Spirit of God, everlasting and true, 
 That seeks us, and chastens us, all our life through ; 
 That watches our weakness, and wins us at last, 
 When the bitter despair of our darkness is past. 
 
 Then aAvay with the tyrants so rigid by rule, 
 Who would hamper us down to some old effete school ; 
 Then away with the fanatics — frantic in trust, 
 Who know of no truth but of records and dust. 
 Give the spirit expansion, give the heart its free play 
 To know and to worship the God of to-day ; 
 For the God of the ppst, of your legends and lore, 
 Say, what can He be to the God evermore 1 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Not vainly does the poet string his lyre, 
 
 When the wild lightning leaps from cloud to cloud; 
 His soul is kindred with that forky fire, 
 
 And gambols with an energy as proud. 
 As proudly leaps into the vacant air, 
 
 As proudly hovers in its own quick light ; 
 As proudly flings its startling splendour where 
 
 The gloom of darkness hung like primal night.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 53 
 
 Not shovelling lumber of the grand old past, 
 
 Comes he to teach us, but with instant power; 
 Brooding God's purpose, with a sure forecast, 
 
 He is the [Man who first can read the Hour. 
 Accessible to truth, his only art 
 
 Is to distil life's wisdom, drop by drop ; 
 And to give back, from his o'erbrhnming heart 
 
 The inspiration of immortal hope. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Oh ! who hath searched into the soul of man, 
 
 To speak the wondrous mystery of his being 1 
 Not thou, poor pedant, who wilt deftly span 
 
 The cranial arch, and hold it to our seeing. 
 There is a fiery principle of thought 
 
 That lightens in the brain, and forms the skull ; 
 Alike in god-like symmetry, or wrought 
 
 In horrid contrast, brutalised and dull. 
 
 Thy poor philosophy would trace from clay, 
 
 By chemic or mechanic force impelled, 
 The soul that baffles thee, and will not stay 
 
 To hear thy preaching, as thy dupes are held. 
 By education thou would' st save mankind, 
 
 But who will educate thy teachers 1 Who 
 Give the first impulse of the vital mind — 
 
 The essential source of all that's good and true 1
 
 54 TONES FROM THE LYRE. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Turn thy thoughts upward to the living God, 
 
 Who over-rules and animates creation ; 
 His light will enter thee and shine abroad, 
 
 And speak, through thee, new wisdom to the nation. 
 But know, oh man, that wisdom is not thine, 
 
 Nor thine that theme to which all thoughts conform ; 
 Though first on thee hope's aspiration shine — 
 
 A beacon through the blackness of the storm. 
 
 As thou that living wisdom shalt instiL 
 
 To animate and actuate thy soul ; 
 To yield to, and interpret that high will 
 
 Creation's revelation shall unroll : 
 The power and the divinity of love 
 
 Lives over all supreme, and by no law 
 Can be controlled but that of Him above, 
 
 Mute and unspeakable, and full of awe. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Flap thy resounding wings, and soar away 
 
 Lone eagle, far into the empyrean pure ; 
 Thou wert not formed to fret through life's poor play 
 
 Whose vain idolatries its dupes endure. 
 Thy spirit knows not of their vain deceit, 
 
 But in serener exaltation dwells, 
 Where pulses of a heart above them beat, 
 
 And mirth they know not of in music swells.
 
 TONES FROM THE LYKE. 55 
 
 The effort of an excellence supreme, 
 
 Beyond the narrow circuit of their thought, 
 Urges thy sleepless soul, from dream to dream, 
 
 To rest not till that excellence is wrought. 
 Thy lone supremacy of lofty thought, 
 
 Serenely soaring, catches from afar 
 The dawning glory of a truth untaught, 
 
 And, in its radiance, glitters like a star. 
 
 PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR BY A. MANN, LEEDS.
 
 INTRODUCTORY REMARKS 
 
 ON THE 
 
 ORGANISATION OF LABOUR, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO 
 
 JOHN BRIGHT, ESQ., M.P. 
 
 Pre-eminent among your countrymen as the friend 
 and associate of Mr. Cobden, together the two greatest 
 benefactors of the labouring-classes of England, you 
 will, I hope, permit me to connect your name with 
 a question of vital import to our country's welfare, 
 on which I here offer a few remarks, introductory 
 to an humble contribution on my part towards the 
 diffusion of a spirit of liberplity and knowledge of 
 truth, in connection with which your own life 
 labour is now so generally and gratefully recognised. 
 
 Among a people pre-eminently prosaic, in a prosaic 
 age, the issue of a volume of verses will be generally 
 regarded as an act of mild aberration on the part of 
 the author. Nor will such aberration be considered
 
 REMARKS ON THE ORGANISATION OF LABOUR. 
 
 less decided that the author uses verses to inculcate 
 the spirit of religion as a means of bringing man 
 into sympathy with God ; and that the hook itself 
 is issued as a preliminary to grappling with so 
 important a question as the organisation of labour. 
 The author is very sensible that to many readers, 
 between the purpose indicated and the means adopted, 
 there will appear to be a pointless incongruity which 
 might be amusing if it were not absurd. Neverthe- 
 less, accepting the fact that in Leeds our pre-eminently 
 practical men estimate poetic culture at about the 
 same value that a man with no ear for music might 
 put upon fiddle-playing, let us consider for a moment 
 how much else goes inevitably along with this poetic 
 culture which we are so accustomed to despise. The 
 spirit of poetry blends so imperceptibly into the spirit 
 of religion that it is difficult to draw a line between 
 them, and the practical value of both in our daily 
 lives is identical as a means of maintaining moral 
 equipoise, without which man degenerates into a 
 merely superiorly organised animal. The want of a 
 determination of our thoughts in an upward direc- 
 tion inevitably leads to their more and more accele- 
 rated determination downwards, for the very obvious 
 reason that it is difficult to go up, while it is easy 
 to go down. Thus for want of that vital spirit of 
 religion, by which only we enter into the true know-
 
 REMARKS ON THE ORGANISATION OF LABOUR. 
 
 ledge and love of God, towards which the passion 
 for poetry is a preliminary step, we fall back for 
 hope and enjoyment on our mere animal and social 
 appetites, and we make the acquisition and possession 
 of money as a means thereto — the primary object of 
 our lives and the standard by which we estimate the 
 relative excellence of ourselves and our neighbours. 
 Individually we know that such a theory of life is 
 false and unsatisfactory, but individually we are not 
 strong enough to resist the aggregate social tendency ; 
 but we endeavour to compound with our consciences 
 for the secret lie of our daily practice by chattering 
 periodically to each other about God and religion. 
 But, for overt practice of the simplest duties of 
 religion, inculcated in the Bible which we profess to 
 believe, we are beggars in the sight of God, chaffer- 
 ing for the rags with which our nakedness is hardly 
 covered. 
 
 It is not necessary nor desirable to enter into any 
 details to prove that this is a true description of our 
 social condition. It is sufficient to refer to the fact 
 that tbe talent for making money is not a high talent ; 
 and that the tendency of our times is to make this 
 talent too powerful for the moral equipoise of the 
 rich, or for the physical well-being of the poor. 
 Hence the organisation of labour lies before us now
 
 REMARKS ON. THE ORGANISATION OF LABOUR. 
 
 as the great moral duty, incumbent on the rich to 
 faithfully undertake and discharge in the fear of 
 God towards the poor. And in order to effective 
 organisation, religious harmony is an indispensable 
 element, towards the promotion of which this little 
 book is an humble contribution. Respecting which 
 its autbor has oidy further to say that if our critical 
 reviewers will do justly towards it he will accept 
 freely any manifestation of a tender mercy that is 
 proverbially cruel. 
 
 J
 
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