lo 
 
 
 
 
 7
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 i^
 
 THE CHAPLET: 
 
 A IP®SB'I©A3L ®B'B'S3BSSf ©, 
 
 FOR 
 
 THE LYCEUMS' BAZAAR, 
 
 Town-Hall, January, 1841. 
 
 EDITED HV 
 
 JOHN BOLTON ROGERSON, 
 
 AUTHOR OP "llHVME, ROMANCE, AND REVERV." 
 
 MANCHESTER: 
 PRINTED DY RICHMOND AND I'ROGGATT, 
 
 3, OLD MILL-OATE, MARKET-PLACE. 
 
 M DCCCXLI.
 
 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 It is perhaps superliuous to oirer an} 
 prefatory remarks on bringing before the Public 
 the present little work, but it may be advisable 
 to slate that the pieces arc original and gra- 
 tuitous contributions. At this cheerless and 
 barren season of the year, when Nature, like a 
 fond mother, keeps her flowery olFspring closely 
 locked in her embraces, it was thought that a 
 few buds culled from the garden of Poesy, 
 mi''ht not, to our fair readers at least, be un- 
 acceptable. As the most simple wreath gene- 
 rally contains some flowers which arc admired 
 for their hue and fragrance, so let us hope that 
 the purchasers of this, our poetical bouquet, 
 will find in it some buds not altogether unplea- 
 sing to their fancy. 
 
 R4.181.4
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 Page. 
 
 Knowledge. By T. Nicholson 7 
 
 Youth's Return. By J. B. Rogerson .0 
 
 Who arc the Free ? ByJ.CPKixcE 11 
 
 To the Snow-Drop. By R. Rose, (the Bard of 
 
 Colour.) 14 
 
 Childliood, Youth, and Manhood. By E, Ridings 15 
 Sonnets. By T. Nicuolson. 
 
 I. The Stranger 17 
 
 II. Response 17 
 
 Stanzas. By J. C. Prince 19 
 
 Melodies. By T. A. Tidmarsh. 
 
 I. "I'U remember thee." 22 
 
 II. " Oh ! breathe not that word." 23 
 
 II. " As I muse on this bank." 23 
 
 IV. " Marion placed her little foot." 24 
 
 On the Deatli of a Child By M. Depear 2.5 
 
 There is an Eye. By Miss E. Battye 27 
 
 The Meeting and Parting. By J. B. Rouerson. • 28 
 
 To Beatrice. ^ By R. Rose, (the Bard of Colour.) .'iO 
 
 Morning Prayer. By W.J. Birch 31 
 
 The Maid of a Mounfainl.and. Hv. .I.C.Pri.nce. 32
 
 VI. 
 
 To the Deity. By T. Nicholson ... 34 
 
 The Polish Patriot's Altar at Sunrise. By Miss 
 
 E. Battye 35 
 
 Morning.- By R. Rose, (the Bard of Colour) . . 37 
 
 Luies on a Portrait. By J. B. Rogerson 38 
 
 The Aged Jew amidst the Ruins of Judea. By 
 
 W. J. Birch 40 
 
 Mortality. By T. Nicholson 43 
 
 Christmas. By R. Rose, (the Bard of Colour.) 44 
 
 May. ByJ.C. Prince 46 
 
 To Ada. By W. J. Birch 47
 
 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 BY THOMAS NICHOLSON. 
 
 Genus of learning, from thy glowing throne, 
 Illume the nations that in darkness gi'oan ; 
 Rise ! like the glorious sun in gorgeous east, 
 Still higher i-ising, still in strength increased : 
 Pour through the gloom of ignorance thy rays, 
 'Till through the earth one intellectual blaze 
 Shall cheer the people with congenial flame, 
 And mutual instruction be their aim. 
 
 That man who's bom in Nature's desert wild. 
 Rude and untaught, still lives and dies a child : 
 To Nature's follies prone he still cits on, 
 Nor knows, nor cares, for errors to atone. 
 Gross, sensual, and brutish in desire ; 
 Still grovelling he, still wallowing in mire 
 Of deepest ignorance and low conceit : 
 No generous purpose prompts his mind to greet 
 HLs fellow man, intent to learn or teach — 
 A l>encfit reciprocal to each. 
 He, like the hind untilled whereon he lives, 
 Though rich in soil no teeming harvest gives ; 
 For, when it should produce, the wholesome seeds 
 Are choked by baleful and all-thriving weeds ; 
 But see the man, who made by learning wise, 
 With fellow feeling quick to sympathise :
 
 8 
 
 With self he is not filled ui vain conceit, 
 He'll others' wants with his abundance meet. 
 With generous ideas wide expands 
 His ample mind, and far o'er seas and lands 
 His mighty influence the nations own. 
 Who by a wise example wise have grown. 
 It must be so — Franklin, thy works explain ; 
 Or, Locke and Newton, ye have lived in vain ! 
 
 Then imitate in nobleness of mind 
 Those mighty benefactors of mankind ! 
 They have not lived in vain, for well we know 
 The obligations that to them we owe. 
 They rose like planets on the gloom obscure 
 Of intellectual darkness, and endure 
 They shall for ever ! to illume that sphere 
 In which each did in glory first appear ! 
 Although we be not master-spirits all, 
 Each may improve his talent, great pr small ; 
 And, great or snaall, a portion we should deal 
 As contributions to the public weal. 
 
 Stars are not all of the first magnitude. 
 
 But little stars do modestly intrude. 
 
 And, by theii- numbers, shed as great a light, 
 
 As greater planets on the face of night. 
 
 Unite we then : — let i-ich and poor unite ! 
 
 In this great cause. Rise, Knowledge, in thy might ! 
 
 banish folly, by supreme command ; 
 
 Of slavish ignorance purge thou the land ! 
 
 Yes, strike the incubus from sleeping drone, 
 
 And cry : — Awake ! awake ! and be my own.
 
 YOUTH'S RETURN, 
 
 BY JOHN BOLTON ROGERSOX. 
 
 I awoke iii the depth of a starless night, 
 
 And gaz'd on my darken'd room ; 
 I was as one struck down with a blinded sight. 
 
 And doom'd to a world of gloom, 
 Or as a spirit hurl'd from a realm of light, 
 
 Or living man in a tomb. 
 
 Oh, my soul had been bath'd m a blissful dream — 
 
 My youth had retum'd again ; 
 Like the spell-broken rush of an ice-bound stream, 
 
 The blood cours'd through every vein ; 
 Free from sorrow and care did my bosom seem 
 
 As a sunny ray from stain. 
 
 Beaming eyes, that were dimm'd not by sorrow's tears, 
 
 Were mirror'd within mine own ; 
 Blessed voices discoursM to my ravish'd cars. 
 
 With joy ui theii" every tone ; 
 And my soul brcath'd in converse, for doubts and fears 
 
 Were things to my heart unknown. 
 
 On my cheek and my temples the soft breeze blew. 
 
 With a fresh and balmy brcath ; 
 Brightly green were the leaves that above me grew, 
 
 And fragrant the flowers beneath ; 
 Blithely singing the wild-birds past me flew — 
 
 Nought told of decay or dtatli. 
 B
 
 10 
 
 Affection again o'er mj bosom had power. 
 
 In its first delicious spring, 
 When woman appeareth a heavenly dower, 
 
 And love seems a holy thing, 
 Pure and chaste as the dew on an opening flower, 
 
 Or dust on the butterfly's wing. 
 
 I awoke, and my blood it was thick and cold. 
 
 For the vision'd forms had past. 
 And as well might mine arms have sought to enfold 
 
 The fitful and moaning blast : 
 Long, long on those cherish'd and lov'd ones of old 
 
 Had the grave's damp earth been cast> 
 
 The stillness is broken by my child's low sighs, 
 
 My spirit has ceas'd to pine ; 
 I think of my children's love-fraught eyes, 
 
 And the bliss that still is mine ; 
 And fond thoughts, sweetest wife, in my heart arise. 
 
 Which tell of the truth of thine.
 
 11 
 
 WHO ARE THE FREE ? 
 
 UV JOHN CRITCHLEV PRINCE. 
 
 Who are the Free ? 
 Thlv who have scorned the tyrant and liis rod, 
 And bowed in worship unto none but God ; 
 They who have made the conqueror's glory dim — 
 Unchained in soul, though manacled in hmb — 
 Unwarpcd by prejudice — unawed by wrong, 
 Friends to the weak, and fearless of the strong : 
 They who could change not with the changing hour, 
 The self-same men in peril and in power : 
 True to the law of right, as warmly prone 
 To grant another's as maintain their own ; 
 Foes of oppression whereso'er it be : — 
 
 These are the proudly free ! 
 
 Who are the Great ? 
 They who have boldly ventured to explore 
 Unsounded seas, and lands unknown before — 
 Soared on the wings of science, wide and far. 
 Measured the sun, and weighed each distant star — 
 Pierced the dark depths of ocean and of earth, 
 And brought uncounted wonders into birth — 
 llepelled the pestilence, restrained the storm, 
 And given new beauty to the liuniaii form — 
 Wakened the voice of nasuii, ami unfurled 
 The page of truthful knowledge to the world :
 
 12 
 
 They who have toiled and studied for mankind — 
 Aroused the slumbering virtues of the mind — 
 Taught us a thousand blessings to crfeate : — 
 These are the nobly great ! 
 
 Who are the Wise ? 
 They who have governed, with a self-control, 
 Each wild and baneful passion of the soul — 
 Curbed the strong impulse of all fierce desires, 
 But kept alive affection's purer fires : 
 They who have passed the labyrinth of hfe. 
 Without one hour of weakness or of strife ; 
 Prepared each change of fortune to endure, 
 Humble though rich, and dignified though poor — 
 Skill'd in the latent movements of the heart — 
 Learned in the lore which nature can impart — 
 Teaching that sweet philosophy aloud, 
 Which sees the " silver limng" of the cloud, 
 Looking for good in all beneath the skies : — 
 
 These are the truly wise ! 
 
 Who are the Blest ! 
 They who liave kept their sympathies awake. 
 And scattered joy for more than custom's sake : 
 Steadfast and tender in the hour of need, 
 Gentle in thought — benevolent in deed ; 
 Whose looks have power to make dissension cease — 
 Whose smiles are pleasant, and whose words are peace ; 
 They who have Uved as harmless as the dove, 
 Teachers of truth and ministers of love : 
 Love for all moral power — all mental grace — 
 Love for the humblest of the human race —
 
 13 
 
 Love for that tranquil joy that vii-tuc brings — 
 Love for the Giver of all goodly things : 
 True followers of that soul-exalting plan, 
 Which Christ bid down to bless and govern man. 
 They who can calmly linger at the last, 
 Survey the future and recall the past ; 
 And %vith that hope which triumphs over pain, 
 Feel well-assured they have not lived in vain ; 
 Then wait in peace their hour of final rest : — 
 These arc the only blest !
 
 14 
 
 TO THE SNOW-DROP. 
 
 BY ROBERT ROSE (tHE BARD OF COLOUR.) 
 
 Though rudely on thee the loud tempests lour, 
 Yet dost thou burst to life, thou tender flower, 
 With white breast bared unto the wild wind's pow'r, 
 
 Still dear art thou to me, 
 
 Type of simplicity ! 
 
 Do storms on thee their envious vengeance wreak, 
 Because thou art so tender, yet so meek ? 
 Thus, oft the strong attempt to crush the loeak, 
 Who shine in fair array. 
 More pleasing far than they ! 
 
 The peasants pass thee by with careless tread, 
 The soil around thee is all cold and dead ; 
 Yet, gently rismg from thy humble bed. 
 
 Thou calmly comest forth, 
 
 So beauteous to the earth ! 
 
 Ah ! thus may Genius from the lowly sod, 
 
 By Envy, Avarice, and Ambition trod, 
 
 " Look up from Nature unto Nature's God ! " 
 
 And precepts give like thee. 
 
 To proud humanity !
 
 15 
 
 CHILDHOOD, YOUTH, AND 
 MANHOOD. 
 
 BY ELIJAH RIDINGS. 
 
 I WAS a child, a careless child, 
 
 And simple words were taught to me ; 
 
 My mother's eyes upon me srail'd 
 Through all my days of infancy : 
 
 Through every passing live-long day 
 
 I laugh 'd the hours of life away. 
 
 I was a boy, a comely boy, 
 
 And in my hands were pen and book ; 
 My father's hope, my mother's joy, 
 
 They watch'd me with an anxious look 
 And gentle words of love and truth 
 Were whisper'd to my tender youth. 
 
 When 1 was somewhat older grown, 
 They sent me to a village school ; 
 
 Lyceum then, or Parthenon, 
 
 Existed not, with Learning's rule. 
 
 Nor Science pour'd her flood of light 
 
 To bless the intellectual sight. 
 
 But now in region dark and dim, 
 'Mid worldly men and selfisli feai-s, 
 
 She teachetli us to smile on Him 
 
 Who waters not the world with teai-s. 
 
 Hut like the sun sends Ileason's beam 
 
 To guide us down life's devious stream.
 
 16 
 
 I am a man, an humble man, 
 
 With lovmg heart, and thoughtful mind ; 
 Nature's all-glorious works I scan, 
 
 With will suhdued, and soul resign'd : 
 And that great power who rules theEai'th 
 Hath borne me onward from my birth. 
 
 I am a man, and let me crave, 
 That while mine own immortal soul 
 
 Sojoumeth on this side the grave. 
 True as the needle to the pole, 
 
 Virtue, and Truth, and Justice may 
 
 Attend me to my latest day. 
 
 «»
 
 17 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 BY THOMAS NICHOLSON. 
 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 Forlorn and weary to your door I come, 
 A houseless stranger, on my journey drear 
 To mine own land— for now full many a year 
 
 The earth's wide wilderness hath been my home. 
 
 Me, weather-beaten, sore and woe-begone, 
 You will not, sure, despise for being poor. 
 For I have fortune sought the whole world o'er, 
 
 But my stern destiny decreed me none ; 
 
 And yet, my sufferings should some pity move : 
 Of climate I have felt the fierce extremes, 
 
 When donm'd f)n Afric's burning shores to rove ; 
 And Lapland's frozen waste, where the sun's beams 
 
 No cheering ray afford ; — but now I go 
 
 To seek a grave amongst the friends I know. 
 
 RESPONSE. 
 
 Stranger, a sorrj- plight is thine, I trow : 
 
 The rain l>eats hard, the winds :»re piping loud, 
 And vtil'd is heaven by many a gloomy cloud ; 
 
 The sun hath sunk beneath th' horizon low ; 
 
 A desert wild and lone before thee lies ; 
 
 C
 
 18 
 
 Then I should surely have a heart ot stone 
 To shut my door on thee, and say begone ! 
 Exposing thee to the inclement skies : 
 My fire is bright, my cheerful hearth is free, 
 And wholesome fare, such as my means afford, 
 Shall quick be spread upon the welcome board : 
 Christian, or Pagan, 'tis the same to me, 
 Freely partake, I ask not whence thou'rt come : 
 Me it sufficeth, thou art far from home !
 
 19 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 Addressed to the Ctnld of my Poet-Friend, J.B.Rogcrson. 
 
 BY JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE. 
 
 Young Ariel of the Poet's home ! 
 
 Thou fair and frolic boy ! 
 May every blessing round thee come, 
 
 Unniingled with alloy ; 
 And wheresoe'er thy foot-steps stray, 
 Along the woi-ld's uncertain way, 
 
 May hope, and love, and joy 
 Their choicest flowers around thee fling, 
 
 Without a blight — without a sting. 
 
 A spirit looketh from thine eyes, 
 
 So softly, darkly clear ; 
 Thy thoughts gush foi-th without disguise. 
 
 Unchecked by shame or fear ; 
 There is a music in thy words. 
 Sweet a.s the sound of brooks and birds 
 
 When summer houre are near ; 
 And every gesture, look and tone. 
 Make the lieholder's heart thine own. 
 
 Tliou sportcst round thy father's hearth, 
 
 With ever-changing glee. 
 And all who listen to thy niirtli 
 
 firow young again with tliee ; 
 Thy filful song— thy joyful shout —
 
 20 
 
 Thy merry gambols round about — 
 
 Thy laughter fresh and free : — 
 All, all combme to make us bless 
 Thy form of life and loveliness I 
 
 Thou art a frail'and tranquil thing, 
 
 When wearied uito rest ; 
 Like a young lark with folded wing, 
 
 Within its grassy nest : 
 But when the night hath passed, thy lay 
 Hails the first blush of kindling day, 
 
 And from thy mother's breast 
 Thou leapest forth with gladsome bound, 
 To walk in pleasure's daily round. 
 
 Oh ! what a place of silent gloom 
 
 Thy father's house would seem 
 If thou wert summoned to the tomb. 
 
 In childhood's early dream ; 
 With every beauty in thy fomi — 
 With all thy first affections warm. 
 
 And in thy mind a beam 
 Of rare and intellectual fire, 
 Such as hath raised thy gifted sii'e. 
 
 I had a chUd, and such a child. 
 
 Oh God ! can I forget ? 
 So fair, so fond, so undefiled, 
 
 I see his image yet. 
 With breaking heart but tearless eye, 
 I watch'd my spring-flower fade and die — 
 
 My load-star wane and set ;
 
 21 
 
 And still I wTCStle witli my gvief, 
 For time hath brought me no ivlief. 
 
 I mingle with the thoughtless tlirong, 
 
 But even there I feel ; 
 I breathe some sorrow in my song, 
 
 But may not all reveal ; 
 I know that nought of worldly ill 
 Can agonize my lost one, still 
 
 My wounds I cannot heal ; 
 But wander musing — mourning on, 
 As though my every hope were gone. 
 
 Away with this unquiet strain, 
 
 This echo of despair ; 
 Why should I speak to thee of pain, 
 
 Or slow-consuming care i 
 Much have I seen of human strife 
 Along the shadowy path of life — 
 
 Much have I had to bear ; 
 But, ah ! 'tis yet too soon, my boy. 
 To break thy transient dream of joy ! 
 
 Child of delight ! had I the power 
 
 Thy destiny to weave, 
 Thou should'st not know one little hour. 
 
 To make thy spirit grieve ; 
 But earth siiould meet thy radiant eyes, 
 Like the first look of Paradise 
 To lovo-em-apturcd Eve ; 
 And Heaven at last should take thee iu 
 Without one stain of mortal sin !
 
 22 
 
 MELODIES. 
 
 BY THOMAS ARKELL TIDMARSH. 
 
 " ni remember thee, dear." 
 
 I'll remember thee, dear. 
 
 When the morning is clear. 
 When earth seems a land of delight. 
 
 When all nature is gay, 
 
 And the beautiful May 
 Shines forth in its glory and light. 
 
 I'll remember thee, too. 
 
 When the evening dew 
 Refreshes each innocent flow'r. 
 
 When along the wide west 
 
 Heaven bares her red breast, 
 An ensign of beauty and pow'r. 
 
 I'll remember thee, love, 
 While the stars shine above. 
 
 Or the moon-beams dance on the sea ; 
 I'll remember thee, dear, 
 Through each joy, grief and fear- 
 
 'Till Eternity cease to be.
 
 23 
 
 "Oh! breaUte not that word." 
 
 Oil ! breathe not that word, for it grieves me to hear 
 The name of a sister — that once was so dear ; 
 In years that are gone 'twould have lit up my brow 
 As joj-fully bright as it darkens it now ! 
 
 Oh ! speak not her name ! 'tis unhallowed and shorn 
 Of the beamings of virtue that docked it at mom ; 
 'Tis the shade of a How'r, at moru full of light, 
 Now droop'd and dccay'd in the darkness of night ! 
 
 And trace it no more ! — for the day is gone by 
 \Vlien the sight of that name was bliss to mine eye ; 
 'Tis so blackon'd by guilt — so polluted 'tis grown. 
 That it glads me to tliiuk "tis no longer mine o\vn. 
 
 " As I muse on this hank." 
 
 \s I muse on tliLs bank where sweet flow'rs bloom, 
 And mark e\ ei-y wave that passes mc by, 
 
 1 think tliat another, when I'm in the tomb, 
 Will come to this spot o'er these waters to sigh. 
 
 I gaze on the stream, as it sparkles and glows, 
 And think of the day when my heart was as free. 
 
 As griefless and bright as the wavelet that flows. 
 Thus heedlessly bughing itself mto glee. 
 
 But, liappineas like, e'en these waters will pass — 
 A centurj' hence some forlorn one may say 
 
 " I came to the spot where a riv'let once was, 
 
 The btoncs bleep in silence, the stream's past away."
 
 24 
 
 ■' Marion placed her little foot. 
 
 Marlon placed her little foot 
 
 Upon a pretty flow'r, 
 That grew upon a tender root 
 
 Beside her fav'rite bow'r ; 
 I sigh'djfor, oh ! I thought 'twas dead, 
 
 But soon my grief was o'er. 
 Again it raised its little head, 
 - Much sweeter than before. 
 
 I pluck'd it for my Marion's breast. 
 
 And gently placed it there ; 
 It seem'd to smile, as she caress'd, 
 
 And Idss'd its hps so fair ; 
 It bloom'd as if in holy ground, 
 
 More beautiful it grew. 
 And scatter'd perfume all around — 
 
 Her breath to it was dew ! 
 
 But, oh, alas r I could iidt 'bear 
 
 That it should be thus blest, 
 So, jealous, I resolved to tear 
 
 And steal it from her breast ; 
 But scarce I touch'd its tender leaf. 
 
 It droop'd its gentle head — 
 It could not bear the parting gri f. 
 
 Its sweetness sigh'd and fled.
 
 25 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 
 
 nV MATTHEW DEPEAR. 
 
 Lov'd CliilJ ! the coiifliut now is o'er, 
 
 And all thy sufferings at rest ; 
 Thy spii-it wafting to that shore, 
 
 Where live the innocent and West ! 
 Oh ! lightly sail thy little ark, 
 
 With gcntk-st undulations glide ; 
 In calmest haven moor thy bark, 
 
 Borne by a smoothly-flowing tide. 
 
 Ilough was life's vojuge, stormy, dark 
 
 Thy passage through its boist'rous wave ; 
 The tempest howl'd, electric spark 
 
 Of lightning struck thy vessel ; — brave 
 Though the loud thunder roar'd, she kept 
 
 Her gallant way, 'till one rude blast 
 Dread o'er her deck huge billows sw' pt. 
 
 And burst her sides and rent her mist ! 
 In ocean's drear abyss went down, 
 
 Founder'd, became the deep's prnu 1 prize ; 
 On her ripp'd seams bluff breakei-s fiown, 
 
 And heaving surges o'er her rise. 
 Hut rapstiiM strong her hulk .shall weigh, 
 
 Kotittedand in trim repair, 
 Fresii timber'd and stout jdank'd cs-say 
 
 (Gay pennons streaming, canvass rare) 
 D
 
 26 
 
 Tightly her course ; — soft gales shall speed 
 Her to the wished-for, destin'd port, 
 
 And harbour'd safe, no more decreed 
 To be of wmds and waves the sport. 
 
 Though death hath cropt thee, thou fair flow'r. 
 
 In heav'ns parterre thou wilt disclose 
 Thy beauty, and enchanting pour 
 
 The scent of never-fading rose. 
 In that delightful garden bloom. 
 
 Shedding sweet odour all around, 
 And with delicious I'ich perfume 
 
 The grateful fragrance shall abound. 
 In bow'rs ambrosial shall sing 
 
 Enrapt, thy great deliverer's praise ; 
 Through one eternal charming spring, 
 
 Redeeming love attune thy lays. 
 Consorted with an angel band, 
 
 For ever happy, raise thy voice ; 
 In favour, plac'd at God's right hand, 
 
 To laud in peace, in bliss rejoice.
 
 27 
 
 THERE IS AN EYE. 
 
 BY MISS E. BATTYE. 
 
 Tiii:re is an eye whose slightest ray 
 
 Cheers as the suu through wintry clouds, 
 
 And when that beam hath pass'd away, 
 More than night's gloom this heart enshrouds. 
 
 There is a mouth, whose every smile 
 Is dear, too dear for this heart's peace ; 
 
 Though danger lurk'd in every wile, 
 I could not bid the magic cease. 
 
 There is a hand whose slight touch sends 
 .\ thrilling tide through every vein. 
 
 Whose gentle gx'asp the strong will bends. 
 And makes e'en pride forget its chain. 
 
 There is a voice whose winning tone, 
 
 As s<jme glad song-bird's, chaniis mine ear ; 
 
 Life were a desert drear and lone. 
 
 Without that voice to bless and cheer.
 
 28: 
 
 THE MEETING AND PARTING. 
 
 BY JOHN BOLTON ROGERSON". 
 
 We met but once, and parted then for ever, 
 As ships encountering on a sunny sea. 
 
 One doom'd, perchance, to reach its haven never, 
 The other aye to glide on tranquilly : 
 
 Thou wilt be as the glad and prosperous bark — 
 
 Aly destin'd course is clouded o'er and dark. 
 
 We met and parted — in the bright hall ringing, 
 Thy laugh still sounds amid the young and gay, 
 
 Eternal blossoms m thy pathway sprmging. 
 
 For me — few flowers have deck'd my thorny way : 
 
 Of vanish'd joys my heart hath been the shrine — 
 
 Of words and looks — and, most of all, of thine. 
 
 I saw thee with the light of beauty shining 
 
 On cheek and lip, and flashing from thine eyes ; 
 
 Around thy forehead silken curls were twining. 
 And thy breast heav'd, but not with sorrow's sighs ; 
 
 The buoyant gladness of thy spirit shone 
 
 In every glance, and spoke in every tone. 
 
 I felt the music of thy sweet voice stealing 
 Across my soul — I press'd thy lily hand ; 
 
 Within my breast there sprung a joyous feeling. 
 And hopes, like sliadows fi'om the dreamer's land ; 
 
 Blissful aspirings crowded to my brain. 
 
 And my heart throbb'd with wishes wild and vain.
 
 29 
 
 A few short hours of gladness, and wc parted, 
 Thoai to be worshipp'd and with joy elate. 
 
 And I to mu^e on thee all lonely-hearted, 
 And sigh for one who reek'd not of my fate ; 
 
 Thou to an honour'd and a happy lot, 
 
 I for content to seek, yet find it not. 
 
 I pour'd no vows unto thy youthful beauty, 
 I told not how my soul was wTapt in thee, 
 
 Nor sought to win thy pure heart fi-om its duty — 
 I knew that thou wert not a mate for me, 
 
 1 knew our different destinies must lie 
 
 As far apart as are the sea and sky. 
 
 We met and parted whilst the rose was glowing, 
 In bloom and loveliness, npon thy face, 
 
 \\hilst light and joy from thy dark eyes were flowing. 
 And thou wert girt with every witching grace — 
 
 Ere youth's bright glories had been qucnch'd in night, 
 
 Ere one dear charm had faded 'neath Time's blight. 
 
 Had I thine image through long years liave cherish 'd, 
 And mark'd thy beauties vanish one by one, 
 
 'Till biuom, and grace, and every charm had ptrish'd. 
 Could I have look'd on thee when all were gone ? 
 
 No, no ! I shrin'd thee rich in maiden spell. 
 
 And brcath'd at once mv first and List farewell.
 
 30 
 
 TO BEATRICE. 
 
 BY ROBERT ROSE (tHE BARD OF COLOUR.) 
 
 Fair Lady ! melancholy falls on me 
 
 Whene'er we meet ; — 'tis not that beauty bright 
 I disavow, though soon, alas ! it flee — 
 
 Nor that I may not drink thine eyes' pure light. 
 And thrill before thy presence — but I feel 
 
 A chilling weight press on my heart to thmk 
 The influence of years will on thee steal, 
 
 And break the chain of beauty, link by link. 
 O'er Ocean's waters soon my course must be 
 
 To India's climes, but ere departing hence. 
 By memory of hours spent happily, 
 
 Heaven I invoke thy worth to recompense ! 
 To God I pour my warm devotions forth. 
 That thine may be a blessed lot on earth ! 
 
 Thy beauteous aspect — thy complexioia's briglitness,- 
 
 The rosy tints that deck thy seraph face, — 
 Thy starry eye, — and form of fairy lightness,— 
 
 Are wrought in Nature's own divinest grace ! 
 Then much doth it behove thee in thy youth 
 
 Still to love virtue, that thy mind may seem 
 Harmonious with thy form, a ray of truth 
 
 That will not vanish as a meteor-gleam. 
 But will resist the sweeping scythe of Time, 
 And blend thy name with Poesy sublime.
 
 M 
 
 MORNING PRAYER 
 
 BY WILLIAM JACKSON BIRCH 
 
 Oil, Lord, another time I wake to greet 
 
 The dawning morn, and taste the hahny air ; y. 
 
 Thou through tlio night hast wateh'd me, and 'tis mccT 
 
 Tliat I should breathe to thee my thanks in pi-ayei-. 
 'Tis sweet to hold communion with Heaven 
 
 At early morn, ere caiv the «nul enthi-all — 
 Let the fii-st offering of the heaii. be given 
 
 To Him whose watchful love extends to all. 
 
 All Heaven dws homage at the Almighty's throne, 
 
 While universal nature renders praLse ; 
 And shall not man that power and goodness own 
 
 Which bears him u]», and fashions all his ways ? 
 Own them he must, nor can he fully know 
 
 The riches of Heaven's bounty 'till he give 
 Thanks to that God, who daily doth l)estow 
 
 His countless gifts on all who breathw and live.
 
 32 
 
 THE MAin OF A MOUNTAIN-LAND. 
 
 BY JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE. 
 
 I MET with a joyous few last night, 
 Gathered around the taper's light ; 
 Warm hearts were glad, and soft eyes shone ; 
 Kind words were spoken in friendship's tone ; 
 Calm truth fell pure from every tongue, 
 And voices awoke in the spell of song, 
 And one was there of that social band, — 
 The dark -eyed maid of a mountain-land. 
 
 A smile of delight from all went round, 
 
 As she turned to the casket of sleeping sound ; 
 
 On the tremulous keys her fingers fell. 
 
 As rain-drops fall in a crystal well ; 
 
 'Till full on the ear the witchery stole. 
 
 And melody melted the captive soul ; 
 
 She touched the choi'ds with a skilful hand. 
 
 That dark-eyed maid of a mountain-land. 
 
 She sang of the bards of her native plains. 
 But Burns was the soul of her breathing strains ; 
 She sang of bold Wallace of Elderslie, 
 Who died with a spii'it unstained and free ; 
 She sang of the deeds of Bruce the brave. 
 Who fought for the crown his country gave ;
 
 33 
 
 She spoke of" hev home, 'mid scenes so grand, 
 That dark-eyed maid of a mountain-land. 
 
 I have been with the buoyant dames of France, 
 In the pensive hour — in the mirthful dance ; 
 I have looked in the gay Italian's eyes. 
 Sunny and warm as her own blue skies ; 
 I have talked with the Spaniard, proud and fair, 
 With her stately step, and her haughty air ; 
 But I turn from all of a foreign strand, 
 And bow to the maid of a mountain-land.
 
 34 
 
 TO THE DEITY 
 
 BY THOMAS NICHOLSON. 
 
 THOU, Invisible, whose voice I hear 
 
 Loud on the rushing tempest, where thou ridest ; 
 
 Thine airy car through boundless space thou guidest, 
 Where, through the regions of thy dread career, 
 Thy mighty hands the forked lightnings dart. 
 
 And the deep soul-appalling thunders roll — 
 Yet thou. Omnipotent, though great thou art, 
 'Midst the innumerable orbs that through 
 
 The infinity of thuie empyrean move, 
 O show thyself a God of mercy too ! 
 
 Regard us from thy towering throne above 
 "With kind compassion, and benignant eye — 
 Avert the lowering storm when it draws nigh.
 
 35 
 
 THE POLISH PATRIOT'S ALTAR AT 
 SUNRISE. 
 
 nv MISS K. IIATTVE. 
 
 A SOUND was borne, a distant sound, 
 
 On day-spring's early breeze — 
 A people's voice, wliose matin strains 
 
 Made sacred melodies ; 
 Ere battle's liour, from camp and tent 
 
 Came forth a hopeless band, 
 To raise an altar once again 
 
 Upon their fathers' land. 
 
 And not of sod, n<or bough, nor stone 
 
 Was fomi'd that mystic pile ; 
 More noble far that fabric rose, 
 
 And ponderous press'd the soil ; 
 The arms which once their fathers wore, 
 
 Lancf, buckler, sword, and spear, 
 Were rang'd to fomi that sacred pile, 
 
 And hallowed by a tear. 
 
 Round it each patriot lowly knelt, 
 
 And pour'd from his own heart 
 A tide of grief, the woes wh ich prt»ss'd 
 
 And sa])p'd each vital part ; 
 Until the wail and woe became 
 
 As one deep, trouWed whole, 
 n<'aring along each l)urdi'nM sigli, 
 
 Which struggling left the soul.
 
 3G 
 
 This pass'd, and sweeter feelings woke, 
 
 As if some spirit-strain 
 Had breath'd a hope, which said " Your lands 
 
 You shall possess again." 
 Then melody took up the spell : 
 
 " God of our country aid ! 
 Here, on this altar, let our vows 
 
 Be as an offering laid. 
 
 Incense we have not, and no gift 
 
 To offer up to thee. 
 And this dim fane, the silent wood. 
 
 Becomes our sanctuary ; 
 These arms, which once our fathers woi-e, 
 
 We bring to thee to bless — 
 Make them, oh, Lord, invincible, 
 
 A shield in our distress. 
 
 We ask for strength to guard oui* own 
 
 From the oppressor's hand. 
 And that our children yet may be 
 
 Free on their birthright's land ; 
 Look on us, thou Almighty one, 
 
 A crush'd, a fallen race, 
 A people whom th' insulting foe 
 
 Hath left no refuge-place. 
 
 Ere from the deep blue arch of Heaven 
 
 Day darkens in the west, 
 How many here that bend the knee 
 
 Shall have unbroken rest ! 
 The remnant of our shatter'd raee. 
 
 Lord, lead with thy* right hand, 
 To raise an altar worthy thee 
 
 Upon our father-land f
 
 37 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 BY ROBERT ROSE (tHE BARD OF COLOUR.) 
 
 Weeping in dew-drops for the sun's delay, 
 
 Mark von fair flower reclining iu the shade ; 
 But morn's waked eye-lids fling a lustre gay 
 
 O'er its coy beauty, type of modest maid. 
 Aurora trippeth o'er the velvet lawn. 
 
 To nature's God ascends the matin lay. 
 O'er verdant pastures speeds the playful fawn. 
 
 And gladly hails the mantling blush of day ; 
 Man is as joyous in hope's happy hour. 
 
 Ere furrowed is his brow by care or age ; 
 His opening lot like yon fresh budding flower, 
 
 His fancies pictur'd on life's golden page : 
 But, lo ! the day-king mounts in glory bright, 
 .Vnd all things waking spring to life and light.
 
 38 
 
 LINES ON A 
 
 PORTRAIT OF MASTER RIDEHALGH. 
 
 Aged Five Years. 
 
 BY JOHN BOLTON HOGEUSON. 
 
 Fair boy ! thy painted lineaments I scan, 
 And view thy form in Scottish vestments clad, 
 
 Like a young chief of the Mackenzie clan — 
 Plum'd bonnet, philabeg, and motley plaid. 
 
 Thou art no native of the Highland hills, 
 The English rose is blooming on thy face, 
 
 English the blood thy youthful veins that fills. 
 And gives thy form its beauty and its grace. 
 
 Thy sire was born beneath an English sky. 
 Thy mother is a gentle English dame ; 
 
 Thy smilmg lips, thy bright and winning eye, 
 The harsher features of the Scot would shame. 
 
 Young masquer ! decked out by parental love, 
 Thou need'st not blush in any garb to stand ; 
 
 Thy bearmg frank, and limbs symmetric, prove 
 Thee worthy son of any race or land. 
 
 Thy faithful dog is standmg by thy side, 
 Like his young master full of vigorous life,
 
 39 
 
 As tliougli he long'd to roam tlic inuailows wide, 
 And join witli thee in wild and playful strife. 
 
 A mimic gun is lyinij at thy feet — 
 
 Thou ean'st not harm the wild bird on its wing, 
 Nor, as thy sire, with hound and courser fleet. 
 
 Follow the chase, whilst wood and welkin ring. 
 
 They teil me, too, tliou art no common child, 
 That even now fair Science yields thee joy ; 
 
 That thou from ruder sports art oft beguil'd, 
 Wliilst tiny engine gives thy mind employ. 
 
 Farewell ! — I leave thee to thy liappy lot. 
 Thou best belov'd, with health and joy elate ; 
 
 May no dark cloud thy sunny prospects blot. 
 But bright, unshadow'd ever be thy fate.
 
 40 
 
 THE AGED JEW AMIDST THE 
 RUINS OF JUDEA. 
 
 BY WILLIAM JACKSON BIRCH., 
 
 Thou art desolate, oh, ancient land ! 
 
 My father's blessed home ! 
 Upon thy long-lov'd soil to stand, 
 
 A wanderer have I come : 
 On every side, where'er I turn, 
 
 Ruin and waste are spread ; 
 Curst is thy soil— well may we mourn 
 
 Thee, country of the dead ! 
 
 The maiden's song at even-tide 
 
 No more the calm air fills. 
 For gladness has refused to bide 
 
 Among thy barren hills ; 
 Silent the harp which once awoke 
 
 The echoes far and wide. 
 Which erst in full-ton'd vigor broke. 
 
 Or in soft whispers died. 
 
 The voice of birds is gone, the streams 
 
 Now sluggish flow along ; 
 And shepherds court their noon-day dreams 
 
 No more thy woods among ;
 
 41 
 
 Ko Jcwisli maid is seen to move, 
 
 With light and joyous tread, 
 Or weave sweet garlands for her love 
 
 To bind around his head. 
 
 No Uttle lambs now sportive play 
 
 Along the river's bi'iuli, 
 Or thirsty herds, at noon of day, 
 
 Come thronging there to druik ; 
 No flocks on Carmcl's side lie down, 
 
 No bulls in Bassan tread ; 
 And Lebanon has lost the crown 
 
 Of cedars fi'om its head. 
 
 Thy vineyards and tliy olive groves 
 
 Have perished from the sight, 
 Where lovei-s breathed their mutual loves 
 
 Beneath the moon's soft light ; 
 No holy prophet seeks the glade. 
 
 To muse in secret there, 
 Or courts the cool and leafy shade, 
 
 To spend an hour in prayer. 
 
 The sacrifice, of old, at morn 
 
 And dewy eve was given, 
 And the sweet h3'mn was upward.s burnu 
 
 To the high throne of Heaven : 
 A grateful lation worshipping, 
 
 A song by myrbds sung, 
 Tliat floating on the zephyr's wing, 
 
 Through the green valleys rung.
 
 42 
 
 But that deep joy has passed, that song 
 
 Is still'd Uke all around ; 
 The chosen one's of God have long 
 
 Left Judah's hallow'd ground ; 
 In every land they strangers dwell — 
 
 Oh, shall they never come, 
 Theh" sufferings and their griefs to tell. 
 
 In this their ancient home. 
 
 My fathers' land ! my soul doth thrill, 
 
 And all that fire doth burn 
 In me, that once thy sons did fill. 
 
 E'er they had cause to mourn : 
 The hope, through many weary years. 
 
 My troubled life hath bless'd. 
 That, when I left this vale of tears. 
 
 My ashes here might rest.
 
 43 
 
 MORTALITY. 
 
 IIY THOMAS MCIIOLSOX. 
 
 Far in the dim recess of a<;;es past, 
 
 Yet uiieftacM by dark revolving years, 
 
 Mortality's existence may be trae'd ; 
 
 The pensive eye still sees, the wTapt ear hears, 
 
 Deeds done, vibrations of the tongues of all 
 The mortal moulds relaps'd to native dust : 
 They envied, hated, lov'd, were evil, just ; 
 
 Their virtues, and their vices, great and small, 
 
 We do inherit from our mothei"s' womljs. 
 Nature is sinful, then, beyond disguise. 
 
 For men's pure actions look not on their tombs ; 
 Yet all were fomi'd for a design most wise : 
 
 Like gold divested of its dross thall be 
 
 The sou), pure essence of mortality.
 
 44 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 BY ROBERT ROSE (tHE BARD OF COLOUR.) 
 
 Forget, my friends, each daily care 
 
 That shadows memory's glass, 
 For merry Christmas comes again — 
 
 Too quickly it will pass ; 
 Then closely dx'aw your chairs around 
 
 The bonny blazing fire ; 
 Let Mirth now reign, though Grief may mourn 
 
 Some absent friend or sire. 
 
 Oh ! blessed is the boon, ere life 
 
 In clouds is sadly set. 
 To mingle with the friends we love, 
 
 And never can forget ; 
 Some come o'er many a weary mile, 
 
 To cheer our Winter hours — 
 Hours pleasing, yet as transient 
 
 As sweet Summer's fading flowers. 
 
 But if intx'ude a spectral train 
 
 Of miseries rushing on, 
 To cloud the brain, yet like the mists. 
 
 They fly before the sun 
 Which shines, with soft translucent light, 
 
 Upon Hope's fairy stream. 
 While blissful thoughts of days gone by 
 
 Flash on us like a dream.
 
 45 
 
 Then give a welcome, blitlic and free, 
 
 To Christmas once again ; 
 'Twill eliarm, oh, Youtli, thy jovial heart, 
 
 'Twill soothe, oh, Age, thy pain : 
 Come young and old ! come rich and poor ! 
 
 Upspring to the glad call, 
 And gather, as one family, 
 
 In Joy'tj love-lighted hall.
 
 46 
 
 MAY. 
 
 BY JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE. 
 
 Bride of the Summer ! gentle, genial May ! 
 
 I hail thy presence with a child's delight ; 
 
 For all that poets' love, of soft and bright ; 
 Lives through the lapse of thy delicious day. 
 Glad earth drinks deep of thy ethereal ray — 
 
 Warmed by thy breath, upspring luxuriant flowers, 
 
 Stirred by thy voice, bu'ds revel in the bowers, 
 And streams go forth rejoicing on their way. 
 Em-aptured Childhood sallies out to jjlay, 
 
 Mid light and music, colours and perfumes ; 
 
 By silent meadow-paths — through vernal glooms, 
 The enamoured feet of low-voiced lovers stray. 
 In theb, Love reigns with Beauty, whose control 
 Steals joyful homage from the poets' soul.
 
 TO ADA. 
 
 BY WILLIAM JACKSON BIRCH. 
 
 Hail ! thou sweet maid ! how fau* thou art, 
 
 Child of the spotless brow ! 
 I would that thou might'st ever be 
 
 As beautiful as now ; 
 I would thine eyes might never know 
 
 The teai"s which women weep, 
 But that the joyousness thou hast, 
 
 Thou mightest ever keep. 
 
 Yet woman's fate is on thee, child. 
 
 With thy soft and suny aii' ; 
 Thine eye hath language which doth speak 
 
 Of strong affections there ; 
 For Love shall come and seek thy heart. 
 
 And thou wilt give it him — 
 Oh, that a gift so rich and pure 
 
 No sorrow e'er might dim ! 
 
 Laugh on, thou little one, laugh on — 
 
 Thou art all gladness now ; 
 Thy heart knows nought of suffering. 
 
 No care has mark'd thy brow ; 
 Scenes of dtlight uiiBuUied gleam, 
 
 By young Mope wove, through time,
 
 48 
 
 Like to the loveliness which streams 
 From some far brighter clime. 
 
 How sweet the days of childhood seem ! 
 
 How imiocent and fair ! 
 Its dreams of joy and happiness, 
 
 How full of love they are ! 
 'Tia well that our first years are bright. 
 
 Or we might shrink in dread, 
 Was the true picture of our life 
 
 Before our vision spread. 
 
 RICHMOND AND FROGGATT, PRINTERS, 3, OLD MILL-GATE.
 
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