THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES 1 ■MGiH. .'. i^nama}i.< BALLADS AND OTHEE POEMS. BY MARY HOWITT. LONDON: PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, BROAVN, GREEN, AND LONGIVIANS, PATERNOSTER-ROW. 1847. London- Printed hv A. Spottiswoode, Ntf w-Stieet- S /^ And silently at Magdalene ^ In calm surprise he gazed. LADY MAGDALENE. H *' Now, father good," said Magdalene, " This hour, I pray thee, tell, Why iu this grand old house, alone. Year after year I dwell. '^' Thou hast taught me both to read and write, Hast taught me all I know. Yet kept me from my kind apart, I pray, why is it so ? '^'^ " AVhv ? when the lore which thou hast taught Is love in each degree. From God down to the meanest thing Of his great family ? ** Father, I 've seen the children poor. Glad sisters with their brothers ; Have seen the joy within the heart Of lowly village mothers ; " Have seen, upon the Sabbath morn. How many a loving band ^l 12 LADY MAGDALENE. Of Cliristian people churchward go, And children hand in hand. " Have seen them kneeling, side by side, V^ Each to the other known, Like groups of saints together set. But I kneel all alone ! " Oh, 't is a pleasant sight to me ! ^ And yet ray heart doth ache, ^ To see such holy happiness Which I cannot partake ! " Why is it thus ? I pray thee tell Why none with me abide. Oh, for a loving sister To worship at my side ! " Father, I scarce know who I am. Save that my line is great. And that some heavy household woe Vn. Ilath made me desolate. LADY MAGDALENE. 13 " Thou art a righteous man and wise, Thy teachings I revere ; But why I dwell in solitude, I pray thee, let me hear ! " For a moment's space the grave old man No answer made at all ; ' The tears were in his mild grey eyes. Yet he no tear let fall. f— " Hearken to me, my Magdalene," At length he calmly spake ; ''^ " Thou hast been nurtured in this wise For thy well-being's sake. f^ " I can remember when this house Was full of sons and daughters. When its fortunes all seemed flourishing, As willows by the waters. " Daughters and sons, I mind me well What a noble band was there : > 14 LADY MAGDALENE. r The sons all goodly men of might, ^, The daughters wondrous fair. a I can recall this solitude An ever-changing crowd, And the silence of these chambers vast Was riot long and loud. I a I will not tell thee, Magdalene, { Of heartlessness and crime ; Enough, the wrath of Heaven hath scourged \ The evil of that time. 6i There was a blight upon the race. u '1' / They one by one did fall ; Sorrow and sin had stricken them. ' 1 And death consumed them all. i ' There was but one of all her house Whom folly did not win. An angel in a woman's form. Thy mother, Magdalene ! LADY MAGDALENE. 15 " And when upon her bed of death In her bright youth she lay, An angel to her native skies About to pass away, " She made me promise solemnly. Before our imaged Lord, That thou, my precious Magdalene, Shouldst be my sacred ward. " She gave me rules to guide my will. Prescribed a course whereby ^ Thy heart should be enlarged by love. Thy mind have purpose high. " ' Thovi know'st the follies of this house,' Said she, ' its woe, its pride ; And through these errors of the past Let her be sanctified ! ' " She died ! the place was desolate. Her kindred all were The Indian found me in the wood, He took me to his forest-home ; They laid my child beneath the tree. They buried it, unknown to me. In a wild lonesome* place of gloom. ELIAN GEAY. 35 " The Indian women on me gazed With eyes of tenderness, and then Slowly came back each 'wildered sense ; Their low tones of benevolence Gave me my human soul again. " And I have lived with them for years ; And I have been an Indian wife ; And, save at times when thoughts wiU flow Back tlu'ouo-h those dreadful times of woe To my youth's sunsliine long ago, I almost like the Indian life. " But one cloud darkeneth still my soul, I have forgot my fathers' God I I cannot pray ; and yet I turn Toward Hun, and my weak soul doth yearn Once more for holy spiritual food. " Oh that I had an inward peace ! Oh that I had a hope to bless ! A faith to strengthen, and sustain 36 ELIAN GRAY. My spirit through its mortal pain, To comfort my long wretchedness ! " But I am feeble as a child, I pine as one that wanteth bread ; And idly I repeat each word Of holy import I have heard, Or that in early creeds I said. " But oh ! my comfort cometh not ! And, whether God is veiled in wrath And will not heed my misery, Or whether He regardeth me, I know not ; gloomy is my path ! " With this arose old Elian Gray : " My daughter, God hath left thee not! He hath regarded thy complaint, Hath seen thy spirit bruised and faint. Thou art not of His love forgot ! o^ 'T is by His arm I hither came ; Surely for this I heard a voice ELIAN GRAY. 37 Which bade me in my place ' be still ; ' I came by His almighty will, And greatly doth my soul rejoice !" He gave her comfort, gave her peace ; And that lone daughter of despair For very joy of heart shed tears ; And the dark agony of years Passed by, like a wild dream of care. Thus was the old man's mission done ; And she, who 'mong that forest race AYas wife and mother, won his life From torture, from the scalping-knife. And sped him to his former place. 18;50. 38 THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB. Oh ! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain ; It boweth down the heart of man, and duUs his cunning brain ; It maketli even the little child with heavy sighs complain. The children of the rich man have not their bread to win ; They scarcely know how labour is the penalty of sin ; Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin. And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear ; In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share ; They walk along life's pleasant ways, where all is rich and fair. The children of the poor man, though they be young each one. Must rise betune each morning, before the rising sun ; And scarcely when the sun is set their daily task is done. SALE OF THE PET LAMB. 39 Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride, The sunshine and the summer flowers upon the highway side, And their own free companionship on heathy commons wide. Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three ; But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty. It may not have one thing to love, how small soe'er it be. A thousand flocks were on the hiUs, a thousand flocks and more. Feeding in sunshine pleasantly ; they were the rich man's store : There was the while one little lamb beside a cottage door ; o A little lamb that rested with the chikben 'neath the tree. That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee ; That had a place within their hearts, one of the family. But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed. The father laboured all day long that his children might be fed. And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread. That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood. Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued. " What is the creature's life to us ?" said he : " 'twill buy us food. 40 SALE OF THE PET LAMB. " Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed ; And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread." It went. Oh ! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring, But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth clino;. With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing. Therefore most soiTOwful it was those children small to see. Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously : " Oh ! mother dear, it loveth us ; and what beside have we ?" "Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despair Said one strong boy : " let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair ; I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there." Oh vain ! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down. SALE OF THE PET LAMB. 41 With a strong cord they tied hun fast ; and o'er the common brown, And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town. The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow. From every thing about the house a mournful thought did borrow ; The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow. Oh ! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain ; It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain ; It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain. 1830. 42 AN OLD MAN'S STORY. There was an old and quiet man. And ])}■ the fire sate he ; " And now," he said, "to you I'll tell A dismal tliino; which once befell Upon the Southern Sea. " 'T is five and fifty years gone by. Since, from the river Plate, A young man, in a home-bound ship, I sailed as second mate. *' She was a trim stout-tunbered ship. And built for stormy seas ; A lovely thing on the wave was she, With her canvass set so gallantly Before a steady breeze. AN OLD man's story. 43 *' For forty days, like a winged tiling, She went before the gale ; Nor all that time we slackened speed, Turned helm, or shifted sail. " She was a laden argosy, With gold from the Spanish Main, And the treasure-hoards of a Portuguese Returning home again. " An old and silent man was he. His face was yellow and lean ; In the golden lands of Mexico A miner he had been. ^■^ " His body was wasted, bent, and bowed. And 'mid his gold he lay. 'Mid iron chests bound round with brass. And he watched them night and day. " No word he spoke to any on board, His step was heavy and slow ; 44 AN OLD MAN S STOllY. And all men deemed tliat an evil life He had led in Mexico. " But list ve me ! On the lone high seas As we went smoothly on, It chanced, in the silent second watch, As I sate on the deck alone. That I heard from 'mong those iron chests A sound like a d^'ing groan. "I started to my feet, and lo ! The captain stood by me ; He bore a body in his arms. And dropped it in the sea. " I heard it drop into the sea, With a heavy splashing sound ; I saw the captain's bloody hands As quickly he turned round. He drew in his breath when me he saw. Like one whom tlie sudden withering awe Of a spectre doth astound : AN OLD man's STOllY. 45 " But I saw his white and palsied lips. And the stare of his wild eye. As he turned in hurried haste away. Yet had no power to fly; He was chained to the deck by his heavy guilt, And the blood that was not dry. " ' 'T was a cursed thing,' said I, ' to kill That old man in his sleep. The curse of blood will come from him Ten thousand fathoms deep. " ' The plagues of the sea will follow us. For Heaven his groans hath heard. ' The captain's white lips slowly moved, And yet he spoke no word. " And slowly he lifted his bloody hands, As if his eyes to shade ; But the blood that was wet did freeze his soul. And he shrieked like one afraid. 46 AN OLD man's story. " And even then, that very hour. The wind dropped ; and a spell Was on the ship, was on the sea ; And we lay for weeks, how wearily ! Where the old man's body fell. " I told no one within the ship That horrid deed of sin ; For I saw the hand of God at work. And punishment begin. " And, when they spoke of the murdered man And the El-Dorado hoard, They all surmised he had walked In dreams, \- And fallen overboard. " But I alone, and the murderer. That dreadful thing did know. How he lay In his sin, a murdered man, A thousand fathoms low. " And many days, and many more. Came on, and lagging sped ; AN OLD man's story. 47 And the heavy waves of the sleeping sea Were dark, like molten lead. " But not a breeze came east or west, And burnhig was the sky. And stifling was each breath we drew ; The air was hot and dry. " Oh me ! a very smell of death Hung round us night and day ; Nor dared I look into the sea, Where the old man's body lay. " The captain in his cabin kept. And bolted fast the door ; The seamen, they walked up and down, And wished the calm was o'er. " The captain's son was on board with us, A fair child, seven years old. With a merry face that all men loved, And a spirit kind and bold. 48 AN OLD man's story. " I loved the child ; and I took his hand And made him kneel, and pray That the crime for which the calm was sent Might clean be purged away. For I thought that God would hear his prayer, And set the vessel free : 'T was a dreadful curse, to lie becalmed Upon that charnel sea. w " Yet I told him not wherefore he prayed. Nor why the calm was sent ; I could not give that knowledge dark To a soul so innocent. " At length I saw a little cloud Rise in that sky of flame, A little cloud, that grew and grew, And blackened as it came. " We saw the sea beneath its track Grow dark as was the sky ; /l-l AN OLD man's story. 49 And waterspouts, with rushing sound, Like giants passed us by. " And all around, 'twixt sky and sea, A hollow wind did blow ; The sullen waves swung heavily ; The ship rocked to and fro. " I knew it was that fierce death-calm Its horrid hold undoing ; I saw the plagues of wind and storm Their missioned work pursuing. " There was a yell in the gathering winds, A groan in the heaving sea : The captain rushed from his place below, But durst not look on me. " He seized each rope with a madman's haste, And set the helm to go, And every sail he crowded on As the furious winds did blow. E 50 AN OLD man's story. " Away they went, like autumn leaves Befoi-e the tempest's rout ; The naked masts came crashing down. The wild ship plunged about. " The men to spars and splintered boards Clung, till their strength was gone ; And I saw them from their feeble hold Washed over, one by one; " And 'mid the creaking timber's din, And the roaring of the sea, I heard the dismal, drowning cries Of their last agony. " There was a curse in the wind that blew, A curse in the boiling wave ; And the captain knew that vengeance came From the old man's ocean-grave. " I heard him say, as he sate apart. In a hollow voice and low. I I o AN OLD man's story. Ol ' 'T is a cry of blood doth follow us, And still doth plague us so ! ' " And then those heavy iron chests With desperate strength took he, And ten of the strongest mariners Did cast them into the sea. " And out from the bottom of the sea There came a hollow groan ; — The captain by the gunwale stood, And looked like icy stone, With a gasping sob he drew in liis breath, And spasms of death came on. " And a furious boiling wave rose up, With a rushing thundering roar ; I saw him fall before its force, But I never saw him more. " Two days before, when the storm began, We were forty men and five. 52 AN OLD man's story. " Bat ere the middle of that night There were but two alive — " The child and I : we were but two ; And he cluno; to me in fear. Oh ! it was pitiful to see That meek child in his misery. And his little prayers to hear. " At length, as if his prayers were heard, 'T was calmer ; and anon The clear sun shone ; and, warm and low, A steady wind from the west did blow. And drove vis gently on. " And on we drove, and on we drove. That fair young child and I ; His heart was as a man's in strength. And he uttered not a crv. " There was no bread within the wreck, And water we had none, AN OLD man's story. Yet he murmured not, and talked of hope, When my last hopes were gone : I saw him waste and waste away, And his rosy cheek grow wan. " Still on we drove, I know not where, For many nights and days. We were too weak to raise a sail, Had there been one to raise. " Still on we went, as the west wind drove, On, o'er the pathless tide ; And I lay in sleep, 'twixt life and death. With the young child at my side. " And, as we thus were drifting on Amid the Great South Sea, An English vessel passed us by That was sailing cheerily. Unheard by me that vessel hailed. And asked what we micfht be. 54 AN OLD MANS STORY. " The young child at the cheer rose up, And gave an answering word ; And they drew him from the drifting wreck, As light as is a bird. " They took him gently in their arms. And put again to sea : — * Not yet ! not yet ! ' he feebly cried ; ' There was a man with me ! ' " Again unto the wreck they turned. Where, like one dead, I lay ; And a sliip-boy small had strength enough To carry me away. " Oh ! joy it was, when sense returned. That fair warm ship to see. And to hear the child within his bed Speak pleasant words to me ! " I thought at first that we had died ; That all our pain was o'er. AN OLD man's story. 55 And in a blessed sliip of Heaven AYe voyaged to its shore : " But they were human forms tliat knelt Beside our bed to pray, And men with hearts most merciful That watched us night and day. " 'T was a dismal tale I had to tell Of wreck and wild distress ; But, even then, I told to none The captain's wickedness. " For I loved the boy, and could not cloud His soul with sense of shame ; 'T were an evil thing, thought I, to blast A sinless orphan's name ! So he grew to be a man of wealth And honourable fame. " And in after years, when he had ships, I sailed with him the sea, 56 AN OLD man's story. " And in all the sorrows of my life He was a friend to me ; And God hath blessed him everywhere With a great prosperity." 57 THE HUNTER'S LINN. The hound is sitting by the stone, The large black hound, and moaning ever ; And looking down, with Avistful eyes. Into the deep and lonesome river. Afar he looks, and, 'mong the hills. The castle's old grey tower he spyeth ; Yet human form he seeth none. O'er all the moor that round liim Ueth. The hound he moaneth bitterly ; The uneasy hound he moaneth ever ; And now he runneth up and down. And now he yelleth to the river. Unto the shepherd on the hills Comes up the lonely creature's sorrow. 58 THE hunter's linn. And troubleth sore the old man's heart, Among his flocks, the long day thorough. The afternoon grows dark betmie, The night winds, ere the night, are blowing. And cold grey mists from out the fen Along the forest -moor are going. The castle looketh dark without, Within, the rooms are cold and dreary ; The chill light from the windoAv fades ; The fire it burnetii all uncheery. With meek hands crossed, beside the hearth The pale and anxious mother sitteth : And now she listens to the bat That screamino; round the window flitteth : '& And now she listens to the winds That come with moaning and with sighing ; And now unto the doleful owls Calling afar and then replying. THE hunter's linn. 59 And now she paces through the room. And " He will come anon I " she sayeth ; And then she stirs the sleeping fire, Sore marvelling why he thus delayeth. Unto the window now she goes. And looks into the evening chilly ; She sees the misty moors afar, And sighs, " Why cometh not my Willie ? " The gusty winds wail round about ; The damps of evening make her shiver. And, in the pauses of the wind. She hears the rushing pf the river. Why cometh not my Willie home ? AVhy comes he not ? " the mother crieth ; The winds wail dismally to-night, And on the moors the grey fog lieth." She listens to a sound, that comes She knows not whence, of sorrow telling ; 60 THE hunter's linn. She listens to the large black hound. That on the river side is yelling. The hound he sitteth by the stone ; The uneasy hound he moaneth ever ; The homeward shepherd sees him there. Beside the deep and lonesome river. The mother listens eagerly. The voice is as a doleful omen ; She shuts the casement, speaking low — " It groweth late ; he must be coming ! " Rise up, my women, every one. And make the house so light and cheery My Willie cometh from the moors. Home cometh he all wet and weary." The hound he moaneth bitterly. The moaning hound he ceaseth never. He looks into the shepherd's face, Then down into the darksome river. THE hunter's linn. 61 The shepherd's heart is troubled sore, Is troubled sore with woe and wonder, And down into the linn he looks, That lies the broken granite under. He looks into the dark deep pool, Witliin his soul new terror waking ; The hound sends forth a hollow moan. As if his very heart were breaking. The shepherd dimly sees a cloak, He dimly sees a floating feather, And farther down a broken bough. And broken twio-s of crimson heather. The hound clings to the granite crags. As o'er the deep dark pool he bendeth, And piteous cries that will not cease Into the darksome linn he sendeth. Upon his staff the shepherd leans. And for a little space doth ponder, 62 THE hunter's linn. He looks all round, 't Is drear and dim. Save in the lit-up castle yonder. " Ah ! " saith the old man, mournfully. And tears adown his cheeks are falling, " My lady watcheth for her son, The hound is for his master calling ! " 63 THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDOX LOW. 3 i^t'tfsiunmcr ILrtjntii. " And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me ? " *' I 've been to the top of the Caldon Low, The midsummer-night to see ! " " And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon Low ?" " I saw the glad sunshine come doAvn, And I saw the merry winds blow." " And what did you hear, my Mary, AU up on the Caldon HiU ? " " I heard the di'ops of the water made, And the ears of the green corn fill." 64 THE FAIRIES OP " Oh ! tell me all, my Mary, All, all that ever you know ; For you must have seen the fairies, Last night, on the Caldon Low." " Then take me on your knee, mother ; And listen, mother of mine. A hundred fairies danced last night. And the harpers they were nine. " And their harp-strings rung so merrily To their dancing feet so small ; But oh ! the words of their talking Were merrier far than all." " And what were the words, my Mary, That then you heard them say ? " " I '11 tell you all, my moMier ; But let me have my way. " Some of them played with the water. And rolled it down the hill ; THE CALDON LOW. 65 * And this,' they said, ' shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill : *• ' For there has been no water Ever since the first of May ; And a busy man will the miller be At dawning of the day. *" Oh ! the miller, how he will laugh When he sees the mill-dam rise ! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh Till the tears fill both his eyes 1 ' (( And some they seized the little winds That sounded over the hill ; And each put a horn vmto his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill : " * And there,' they said, ' the merry winds go Away from every horn ; And they shall clear the mildew dank From the l)lind, old widowV corn. 66 THE FAIRIES OF " ' Oh ! the poor, blind widow, Though she has been blind so long, She '11 be blithe enough when the mildew 's gone, And the com stands tall and strong.' " And some they brought the brown lint-seed, And flung it down from the Low ; * And this,' they said, ' by the sunrise, In the weaver's croft shall grow. " * Oh ! the poor, lame weaver, How will he laugh outright. When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by night ! ' " And then outspoke a brownie. With a long beard on his chin ; * I have spun up all the tow,' said he, ' And I want some more to spin. " * I 'vc spun a piece of hempen cloth, And I want to spin another; THE CALDON LOW. 67 A little sheet for Mary's bc