THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 POEMS, 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 JOHN WILLIAMS. 
 
 EDITED BY HIS SON, 
 
 THOMAS WILLIAMS, 
 
 
 LONDON: 
 H. SOTHERAN & CO., lo, LITTLE TOWER STREET, E.G. 
 
 1873-
 
 Smith k Ebbs. Peinters. Tower Hill.
 
 
 TO 
 
 JOHN BATTEN, ESQ., 
 
 THIS VOLrME IS 
 
 MOST EESPECTFULLY IKSCRIBED BY THE KDITOU.
 
 C X 'I' E N T S. 
 
 Memoir of John Wim>iam.s 
 
 Boyhood 
 
 The Old School Room .... 
 
 Home 
 
 To a Thuush 
 
 The Sabbath (written in the Country) . 
 
 Little Children (An incident) . 
 
 What is the Goal Thou Hast in View ? 
 
 On the Death of a Sister. 
 
 Spring is Coming 1 ..... 
 
 Cape Cornwall 
 
 To my Child Asleep .... 
 
 The Missionary 
 
 A Birthday Suggestion for a Lady 
 Midnight Reflections .... 
 On the Emancipation of the Slaves in 
 
 Indies 
 
 To the Primi^ose 
 
 On the Death op Mr. John Davy . 
 
 'Tis Summer-time ! 
 
 On the Death of King William IV. 
 
 The Fall op the Amorites 
 
 To a Friend 
 
 the 
 
 West 
 
 PAGR 
 is. 
 
 XXV 
 
 xxix 
 
 1 
 
 8 
 11 
 15 
 22 
 27 
 32 
 36 
 38 
 42 
 45 
 47 
 
 55 
 65 
 » 72 
 75 
 71) 
 82 
 84
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 On the Destruction of the British Forces in 
 
 Afghanistan S9 
 
 His Creed is Better Far Than Thine ... 93 
 
 To MY Sister 1>7 
 
 The Orphans iOO 
 
 On the Proposed Repeal op the Navigation Laws 108 
 
 To the Daisy lU 
 
 The Old Soldier 119 
 
 Departed Hours I2i>:
 
 MEMOIR OF JOHN WILLIAMS. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 :0: 
 
 My father, the author of the poems comprised in thie 
 volume, was the sou of James and Margaret Williams ; 
 and was born at Lecha, in the parish of St. Just-in- 
 Penwith, Cornwall, in the year 1808. His youth was, 
 however, principally passed at Tregaseal, to which 
 neighbouring village his parents removed while he was 
 yet a child. Being one of numerous brothers and 
 sisters, and his father, although a most respectable man, — 
 who was once offered, but declined, a mine " captaincy," 
 or supervisorship, — being poor, the education which he 
 received in boyhood was, necessarily, of a very limited 
 character ; and was chiefly imparted to him by the parish 
 clerk, Mr, Thomas Tregear, At an early age he left school, 
 and forthwith obtained employment at one of the mines, 
 which, in some way or other, engage the services of so 
 large a proportion of the population of Cornwall. 
 
 An assistant at the same mine, was a lad, of about bis 
 own age, named John Thomas, between whom and 
 himself there soon sprang up an intimacy, that ulti- 
 mately ripened into an ardent friendship, which lasted
 
 X MEMOIR. 
 
 throughout the remainder of their joint lives. " It was 
 here," — writes the survivor of the youths, in a letter 
 which I have lately received from him, — " that the starting 
 point in our lives, religious and mental, originated. 
 Thus : one Monday afternoon, we were alone in the mine. 
 Our conversation was, at first, such as might be expected 
 fi'om two boys, — our age was about fourteen years. — Soon, 
 however, a feeliug of seriousness took possession of our 
 minds; and it resulted in our, there and then, on our 
 knees, unseen by mortal eye, vowing to consecrate our 
 lives to God, and His Church. That vow, by the grace of 
 God, was never violated." 
 
 Forthwith, the lads renounced the society of such of their 
 companions as were evil-disposed, and on the following 
 Sunday entered into Christian fellowship. They now, 
 also, commenced together a course of reading and study. 
 But I cannot do better than continue Mr. Thomas' own 
 narrative of this part of my father's life. "At that 
 time," says he, " about the year 1822, books were scarce, 
 and very dear. Our parents had large families to provide 
 for, and but little money to spare for books. Our 
 ' difficultieswere many and formidable. Through a religious 
 agency, we obtained, once a month, a couple of juvenile 
 magazines from London ; I don't remember that we had 
 any other periodicals at that time. There was a society 
 connected with the chapel, consisting of a small number 
 of members, who paid twopence or threepence a month
 
 MEMOIR. XI 
 
 for the loan of a book. Of this, also, we availed our- 
 selves ; and from these two limited sources it was that 
 3'our father drew almost the only aid he obtained in the 
 pursuit of knowledge, " under difficulties," indeed. Very 
 many of the books thus procured, we literally devoured: 
 — I have a list of them by me to the present time. — 
 Your father committed to memory nearly the whole of 
 Thomson's "Seasons," Burns' Poems, and Scott's Poems. 
 He could recite all of " The Lady of the Lake." Bos- 
 well's Life of Johnson, too, in four volumes, he had at 
 heart ; could repeat any anecdote, or incident, in the work. 
 Foster's "Essays," the "Ptambler," Chalmers' "Astronomy," 
 and " PLcligion," " liocke's Essay on the Understanding," 
 Dr. Watts' "Logic," and "Improvement of the Mind,' 
 &c., &c., he devoured, I may say. Poetry was his delight. 
 He committed thousands upon thousands of lines to 
 memory. In fact, literary work engaged his mind at all 
 times, as far as the duties of religion, and daily employ- 
 ment gave him opportunity. I ought to add, that no 
 consideration, personal pleasure, or literary studies, ever 
 interfered with, or unduly absorbed, religious duties. 
 His mental characteristic was metaphysical. 
 
 " Perliaps, you would like to have a few ideas in 
 connection with his youthful habits, and efforts to emerge 
 from the obscurity of his position. He was indebted, 
 more than to anything else, for his advancement, to tlie 
 following: — I told you that, as soon as we decided upon u
 
 Xll MEMOIR. 
 
 religious life, we abandoned all boyish trifling, and set 
 about self-improvement. Yery soon after entering into 
 Church fellowship, we were employed in various offices in 
 connection therewith. Every evening we could meet, we 
 did so, and, after fulfilling our regular duties at meetings, 
 &c., we took rambles into solitary localities, away from 
 observation as much as possible. During these lonely 
 walks, which sometimes extended to midnight, we exer- 
 cised ourselves in questions of science, history, theology, 
 &c., having only one end in view, — self-improvement. 
 These nightly discussions provided thought for the 
 intervening time between the next meeting ; which 
 thought, we, as often as possible, committed to writing, 
 exchanging papers at our next interview. My conviction 
 is, that my friend, as well as myself, were indebted for 
 the future advantages we obtained, socially and inter- 
 lectually, to these meetings. 
 
 " Our native village was " remote and unfriendly " to 
 minds like ours. Thus : we had no bookseller nearer than 
 Penzance, seven miles distant ; and many a time did we 
 walk thither for the purpose of getting a book, or of 
 hearing a lecture on philosophy, &c., and walk home 
 again at night, sometimes at midnight." 
 
 The evening rambles " into solitary localities" to which 
 Mr. Thomas has alluded, are referred to in the first poem 
 in this volume ; as, also, in the verses " To a friend," 
 which are addressed to himself.
 
 MEMOIR. XUl 
 
 Mr. Thomas adds, that both my father and he were 
 accustomed, at the earliest period of theii' acquaintance, 
 " to engage in reciprocal efforts at versification, in an 
 unpretending manner" at their social interviews. 
 
 In further reference to the extraordinarily studious 
 habits of the author, the following incident is related by 
 his surviving sisters. One afternoon, my father left the 
 mine rather earlier than usual. He had not reached his 
 parents' house, however, by the accustomed bed-time ; 
 and the family retired to rest without him. In the night, 
 his mother dreamt that she saw some one being borne from 
 the mine in an apparently lifeless state ; and she started 
 up, afirighted, and enquired if " John" had come home. 
 Being answered in the negative, a fear seized her, and 
 presently communicated itself to all the members of the 
 household, that some dreadful accident had befallen him. 
 Whereupon, his brother dressed himself, and went out in 
 search of my father, whom he eventually discovered at the 
 house of his inseparable student-friend, at close study ; 
 and, although it was then three o'clock in the morning, 
 the young men were indifferent alike to fatigue, hunger, 
 and the advancing dawn, in their ardent pursuit after 
 knowledge. 
 
 At this date, there resided in St. Just two remarkable 
 men, viz.; Messrs. John Davy and Richard Oats. The 
 former was parish schoolmaster, the latter tin-dresser ; 
 and both, though self-taught, were possessed of excellent
 
 XIV MEMOIR. 
 
 mental attainments, particularly excelling in mathematical 
 knowledge, in which science, Mr. Davy, indeed, was a 
 distinguished proficient. As soon as jVIessrs. Davy and 
 Oats got to hear of the two young men's thirst for learn- 
 ing, they assisted them with their aid, — directing their 
 studies, and lending them books, with much advantage 
 to the students. Towards these early benefactors, my father 
 always retained a feeling of deep indebtedness ; and, 
 throughout the remainder of his life, invariably spoke of 
 them with the utmost esteem and affection. They both 
 died many years before him, and my father commemo- 
 rated the decease of Mr. Davy in a poem, which is 
 printed in this volume. He also wrote, not long before 
 his own final illness, a prose article, entitled, "The Old 
 School Room," in which Mr. Davy figures as the hero. 
 That article is reproduced at the end of this memoir. 
 While, of Mr. Oats my father said, in a letter referring 
 to that gentleman's death, in 1842. " Have not the ranks 
 of literature, and the lovers of learning, lost in him an 
 advocate for the truth, one in whom there was blended, 
 with rare abilities, gi-eat discrimination ; who was not to 
 be imposed upon by mere specious reasoning, or the tinsel 
 and show of superficial acquirement ? He thought for 
 himself, he examined for himself; and withstood, with 
 becoming tenacity, every departure from the boundary of 
 real evidence, and every innovation on the laws of argu- 
 ment, and sound philosophy. Yet, but few men enjoyed
 
 MEMOIR. XV 
 
 a greater luxury in the realization of truth, or gave 
 themselves up with greater willingness to acknowledge, 
 to receive, and to applaud it." 
 
 It was but natural that two young men of the habits 
 of Mr. Thomas and my father, should soon find a sphere 
 more suited to their talents than that in which they were 
 originally placed. The former early attained, and still 
 occupies, an honourable and dignified position at 
 Manchester ; and my father, having first, for a year or 
 two, acted as village schoolmaster, procured a junior 
 clerkship in the service of Mr. John Batten, Penzance, 
 one of the most respected of merchants and of residents 
 in Cornwall; and in that gentleman's employ he remained 
 until the date of his death, — a period of over thirty years ; 
 — having, for a considerable while prior to his decease, 
 to a great extent managed Mr. Batten's business. My 
 father died in 1866, of congestion of the lungs, after a 
 long and prostrating illness, endured with much Chris- 
 tian fortitude. My mother, whom he married soon after 
 his removal to Penzance, and who proved one of the 
 most aflFectionate and conscientious of wives, as she was 
 one of the most aflFectionate and conscientious of parents, 
 had died five years before. 
 
 He lies buried in the Penzance Cemetery ; having been 
 laid, at his expressed desire, in the Church of England 
 portion of that enclosure. Mr. Prebendary Hedgeland, 
 Incumbent of St. Mary's, Penzance, with whom my father,
 
 XVI MEMOIR. 
 
 during his final illness, enjoyed several religious conversa- 
 tions, conducted his funeral service. 
 
 Although the author held, as will be seen, a position of 
 trust-and respectability, and was much esteemed by those 
 who knew him, he was not, on the whole, so successful 
 in life as his talents warranted. He was too modest and 
 retiring a man to impress with his capabilities any 
 Ijersons but those who were his intimate friends. "I 
 verily believe," he wrote, at the age of forty, " more than 
 half the world is ahead of me !" This conviction does not 
 seem, however, to have distressed him much ; for he soon 
 afterwards adds (but) "if one is not the headmost, there 
 is, certainly, a flattering unction in the thought that one 
 is not at the tail end of the host." Probably, too, he 
 was sustained by the reflection that the noblest prizes, 
 even of this life, are not of a visible and material kind; 
 nay, more, — that, as a rule, people cannot win both re- 
 wards, inward peace, and outward prosperity ; which, as 
 F. W. Robertson expresses it, would be to "come back, 
 like Joseph's brethren from the land of plenty, with the 
 corn in their sacks, and the money returned, too, in 
 their sacks' mouths." 
 
 Beyond filling some Church offices ; delivering a few 
 lectures before the Literary Institutes of Penzance and 
 St. Just ; and occasionally taking part in the discussions 
 of the former society, my father scrupulously shunned 
 l>uhlicity of any sort. He was, however, a fair speaker,
 
 MEMOIR. XTU 
 
 althoufjh that same diffidence to which I have referred 
 prevented his manner from doing justice to his matter, 
 either as a lecturer, or a debater. His matter, indeed, was 
 generally good, whether he appeared in the capacities 
 just mentioned ; as a conversationist, or a writer. 
 For he possessed an original and reflective mind ; was 
 always a great reader, and retained most that he read. 
 He had a mellow voice, and was a capital reciter of 
 poetry, particularly plaintive poetry, which he repeated 
 with most touching pathos. He was intensely fond of 
 music, especially vocal music ; and, himself, sang tenor 
 well. 
 
 He was much given to country walks ; was an admirer 
 of trees, and flowers, and simple peasant-life. He was 
 also a lover of children ; and frequently engaged in 
 conversation, nor seldom in play, with small boys and 
 girls whom he had happened to meet in his rambles. 
 Indeed, not one of his poems recalls his form so vividly 
 to my recollection as that entitled " Little Childi'en." 
 
 Mr. Thomas has described that my father, even in his 
 boyhood, attempted poetical composition. The earliest 
 printed poem of his with which I am acquainted, is one 
 entitled " A Sunday School Scholar's Address to a 
 Congregation," which is an appeal on behalf of that 
 institution, written for, and spoken by, one of the 
 children at the Sunday school with which the author 
 was connected in his youth.
 
 XVI 11 MP]MOIE. 
 
 I quote a few lines of the poem ; with its very 
 practical termiuution. 
 
 " Shall we in vain implore your bounteous aid, — 
 
 On whom our claims for guardianship are laid ? 
 
 We urge our plea : by nature's stubborn ties 
 
 We are your offspring, then regard our cries. 
 
 Behold these youths, that fain your aid would prove ; 
 
 And let for us compassion's bowels move. 
 
 Cast on your mercy, can ye slight our claim ? 
 
 Or act unworthy of the Christian name ? 
 
 Can England's philanthropic current cease 
 
 For native youths ? For us can it decrease, 
 
 While from our shores its endless blessings roll, 
 
 From East to West, from Xorth to Southern pole ? 
 
 Can ye, — the people of a Christian land, — 
 
 Can Christians' ears, and hearts, our plea withstand ? 
 
 No I While these institutions grace our isle. 
 
 You'll give your efforts, — heaven on them will smile. 
 
 Then let the spells of charity entwine, 
 
 And touch your hearts, as with a power divine. 
 
 Now, let your hearts, hands, pockets, all unite : 
 And in the treasury cast ye, all, your mite." 
 
 The author was, probably, about nineteen, or twenty 
 years of age when these lines were written. At this time, 
 and for many years afterwards, he seems to have given
 
 MEMOIR. XIX 
 
 much of his attention to poetical composition. Indeed 
 the greater portion of the poems contained in this volume, 
 as well as a large number of pieces that are not included in 
 the present collection, were written while the author was a 
 young man. I am not aware that any of the verses so 
 composed were ever contributed to a publication. Several 
 of the poems were, however, printed, and privately circu- 
 lated in the form of a pamphlet, by the author, in the year 
 1858. Most of the remainder of the verses contained in this 
 volume were written in the latter part of the year 1860, 
 and the beginning of the year 1861, after my father had 
 for many years forsaken the muse. They were 
 composed with, — for the author, who usually elaborated 
 very much, — remarkable rapidity ; and were contributed 
 anonymously, — I have said thatmy father always shunned 
 publicity,— to the columns of the " Cornish Telegraph," 
 one of the oldest journals in the West of England, and 
 one which has numbered on its staif of occasional writers 
 not a few Cornishmen of distinction, among whom, 
 — to quote only two recent instances, — are Mr. J. T. 
 Blight, F.S.A. the well known Artist-antiquaiy, and my 
 friend Mr. W.Bottrell,whose first series of " Traditions and 
 Hearthside Stories of West Cornwall " met with so cordial 
 a reception a few years ago ; and who has just issued the 
 second series of those interesting and valuable contribu- 
 tions to legendary lore. 
 
 The poems which the author composed in 1860-1,
 
 IX MEMOIR. 
 
 certainly include many of his best, comprising, as they do, 
 " Little Children," " The Old Soldier," " To the Daisy," 
 " To the Primrose," " Departed Houi's," " 'Tis Summer 
 Time," and " To a Thrush." The old poetic spirit was now 
 strong on my father ; and he might, doubtless, at this 
 time, have written pieces of greater merit than even the 
 beautiful productions which I have named : but the 
 illness, and decease, of my mother, which latter event 
 occurred in November, 1861, so shocked his sensitive 
 frame, that, although he survived his sad loss five years, 
 he never afterwards composed a single line of poetry. To 
 the last he felt keenly my mother's death. Thus : writing 
 to me in 1865, four years after its occurrence, he says 
 with obvious reference thereto, " we shall be glad to 
 welcome you home. The word brings tears to my eyes ! 
 It is not home as it once was." 
 
 Although my father joined himself, in early life, to one 
 of the most exclusiveof religious fraternities, and, despite 
 a strong attachment to the Church of England, continued 
 in the community of the former body to the date of his 
 death, he was not in the least degree tainted by, but, on the 
 contrary,was a constant critic of, the "clannishness" which, 
 he considered, was one of the worst features of his denomi- 
 nation. He was also a warm opponent of the sanctimo- 
 nious school of theology. Thus : writing to me in 1865, 
 respecting a certain minister, then located at Penzance, 
 he says : "W — improves, and, with me, and many like me,
 
 MEMOIR. XXI 
 
 is rather a favourite. He is a liberal, unsectarian, 
 common-sense man, and an interesting preacher: but is not 
 quite " straight " enough for the Puritan class. He quotes 
 in his sermons, andjOften, happily enoughjfrom Shakespeare, 
 Byron, Shelley, Moore, Burns, or any body else." I am 
 not prepared to say that my father belonged, by sympathy, 
 to the Broad Church. He had, however, a strong 
 antipathy to the Narrow Church, which, as Dr. Wendell 
 Holmes so forcibly describes it, " may be seen in the ship's 
 boats of humanity ; in the long boat, in the jolly boat, in 
 the captain's gig, lying off the poor old vessel, thanking 
 God that they are safe, and reckoning how soon the hulk 
 containing the mass of their fellow creatures will go down;" 
 and he was, certainly, " very slow to believe that the ship 
 will be swallowed up, with so many poor people in it, 
 fastened down under the hatches ever since it floated." 
 But, in my father's case, any unwillingness to subscribe 
 to all the doctrines of, what is called, orthodoxy, did not 
 proceed from either of those two common causes of ultra 
 Broad Churchism in the present day; viz. in the first 
 place, the disagreement of the practise with certain pure 
 precepts which are then discarded, as being a constant pro- 
 test against the life lived, — the creed being thus conformed to 
 the conduct, instead of the conduct to the creed : — and, in 
 the second place, that pride of intellect, usually a very 
 shallow intellect, which, because one's religion is, to a 
 great extent, a thing of tradition, on that very account
 
 X.Ml MEMOIR. 
 
 rejects its tenets as " grandmother's tales ; " as though, 
 admitting that the doctrines handed down to us by our 
 arfcestors are not, .therefore, necessarily true, it followed 
 that they were, therefore, necessarily false. The life which 
 my father lived, and the death which he died, both attest 
 that none of his views had any such origin ; which will 
 easily be credited by the reader of the following poems, so 
 full of the warmest religious feeling: — poems, be it 
 observed, that were written so little for the public eye that 
 most of those persons who were acquainted with the author 
 in his life time were unaware that he ever composed a 
 single line of poetry. 
 
 My father was a good writer of prose, as well as of 
 verse ; and was an excellent epistolary correspondent. 
 He wrote long letters, full of news, and most of them 
 embodying some original reflections, bearing on religion, 
 on philosophy, and on the practical duties of life. Indeed, 
 from his articles, his lectures, and his letters, it would 
 not be difficult for an intrinsically interesting volume to 
 be compiled. In the present instance, I content myself, 
 however, with reproducing simply two articles in 
 illustration of my father's literary style. The last of 
 these, to which I have already referred, possesses an 
 independent value, as being a prose supplement to the 
 author's poetical tribute to the worth of his revered friend, 
 Mr. Davy. 
 
 Writing to Mr. Thomas, in 184(S, my father,— after
 
 MEMOIR. XXUl 
 
 expressing it as his opinion that, in life, " the world will 
 do justice to US;" that "if we are pleased, and are pleasing to 
 others, we shall, certainly, make a soft place for ourselves, 
 and, bad as the world is, when we fall, the crowd will not 
 trample upon us," — says," Nor am I sure it is * * wrong 
 in us to hope for the world's benediction, even at the 
 winding-up of the drama : for it seems to be desirable, as 
 the last rites are being performed for us, and we are about 
 to be huddled out of sight, to have one's name coupled 
 with a blessing, and one's memory embalmed in the 
 affections of the living. And, in this respect also, I 
 verily believe the world will not deal with us unjustly, but 
 will be as faithful in death as in life » * * Depend 
 upon it, we shall suffer no wrong." 
 
 The world, as represented by that small portion of it 
 which knew my father in his life-time, proved itself in 
 his case, thus just, as he had anticipated. He died 
 amid general respect for his moral excellencies ; of 
 which, if I ever had the slightest doubt on the point, the 
 letters that have been addi-essed to me during the passage 
 through the press of the present work would have fully 
 assured me. And I am in hope that even his intellectual 
 qualities, which the world is not to be censured for not 
 discovering while he lived, seeing that he carefully con- 
 cealed them from the popular gaze, will, through the 
 publication of this little volume, nov/, also meet with 
 their due meed of recognition.
 
 BOYHOOD. IXT 
 
 BOYHOOD. 
 
 [^By Pater Familias.'] 
 
 Christmas is that season of the year in which the 
 family-circle, still of blessed memory, usually receives a 
 Tery agreeable accession to its members. Then it is that 
 we greet once more the faces of old and valued friends ; 
 and children from school, or from the different spheres in 
 which they are placed, are again here, with cheerful coun- 
 tenances, tinged, we hope, with rosy health ; and, we may 
 safely say, with hearts brim-full of joy, — a joy which none 
 but those we are speaking of can feel. We can only 
 remember it. Describe it we may ; or, at least, attempt it: 
 feel it we cannot, in all its freshness, as once we did. The 
 stem realities of later life, and a few steps in advance of 
 you, juveniles ! on the way, have now seared the warm 
 and plastic texture of our school-boy heart and nature, 
 and rendered them impervious, in some degree, to the bliss 
 which is peculiarly your own. Nor has Tom Brown's 
 School days, with its inimitable and graphic humour, 
 manliness, and honesty, been yet able to restore the old 
 feeling, and again kindle the original flame. Had it been 
 in the power of any mere book to accomplish this, Tom, 
 certainly, would have achieved the task. 
 
 The nearest approach to such feelings as we are now
 
 XXVI BOYHOOD. 
 
 speaking of has, we think, been effected on revisiting the 
 old, and ever-to-be-remembered School-room of our 
 boyhood, — a place sanctified by time, and a thousand 
 cherished remembrances. It stands within the area of the 
 churchyard-wall of our native place ; and may, therefore, be 
 described as a part and parcel of the venerable edifice. In 
 reality, it is only separated from it by a thin partition. It 
 is, therefore, needless to say that hard-by, and around it, 
 repose the dust of ages, the remains of many of our 
 school-fellows, and the bones of our forefathers. And, 
 ashamed should we be of ourselves, were not that alone 
 sufficient to give it a tenfold interest. Of this, however, 
 we thought little, as, with boyish hilarity, we bounded 
 through its low-arched door-way, at the Christmas vacation, 
 — unharnessed, for a while, from school restraint, — and 
 took our leave of the revered preceptor, a man, indeed, of 
 cheerful and agreeable demeanour, beloved by all, and of 
 very considerable attainments. Had we to follow in the 
 wake of Tom Brown, we should select him for our hero. 
 Eugby itself, with all its paraphernalia, so graphically 
 sketched, never came with more of the omnipotence of an 
 irresistible enchantment upon Tom Brown's heart than the 
 associations which this old School-room has awakened in 
 our own. Visiting it, in recent years, with a foot, or more, 
 added^to the perpendicular dimension of the system, we
 
 BOYHOOD. XXVll 
 
 have had to enter the low Gothic doorvray with the body 
 brought to a considerable curve, at least to an angle of 
 a few degrees. In our boyhood, we thought this entrance 
 as high as needs be. And the old tower, — grey with age, 
 — looks now really nothing in height compared with the 
 view which our youthful imagination presented. 
 
 Without digressing further from what, at first, we in- 
 tended to say, you, who are now, for awhile, freed from 
 school restraint, and are again safely housed beneath the 
 paternal roof, may well look cheerful and happy ; and 
 though, as we before said, we cannot participate with you 
 in all that you feel, yet we would augment your felicity 
 by every means in our power. At least, we greet you with 
 the compliments of the season, and do indeed wish you, and 
 yours, happiness and prosperity in this life, and, beyond, 
 the felicity of a better. It should be to you a source of 
 no little enjoyment that, while many a poor youth is 
 houseless and homeless, and their hearts withering with 
 vice and anguish, you have the shelter of a home, and the 
 paternal welcome awaiting you ; that you can again 
 nestle down in the sunshine of that maternal heart whose 
 sympathies for you we cannot describe. Nor is it always, 
 to be placed to the account of youth, if it is not so. 
 Parents who are constantly churlish and ill-tempered, forget 
 how often thev exclude the sunlight from the domestic
 
 XXVlll BOYHOOD. 
 
 atmosphere. In their presence there is perpetual shade. 
 Far be it from us to be dictatory. We would rather 
 admonish ; and we say, with deference to the judgment 
 of others, better relax in the rugged and sterner virtues, 
 and let the heart thaw into real, warm, benevolent feeling, 
 good humour, and cheerfulness, — a demeanour dictated 
 alike by self-interest and the relations of life in which we 
 are placed. 
 
 We think it a capital trait, and indicative of nobleness 
 of heart, and the possession of true good-humour, when a 
 father is seen among the juveniles "leaping the long 
 mare," or "hunting the slipper." Or, if you prefer, it, by 
 all means get down on all fours, with your Johnny or 
 your Jimmy mounted aloft, or both at the same time, if 
 you can get fairly round the room before you give in. 
 And if you do fall, with the urchins rolling you, half 
 BtiSed, on the floor, get up, laugh it right out, and try 
 again. We quite agree with the wi'iter on muscular 
 Christianity. And it may be questioned whether the 
 world is much the better for the development of the de- 
 murer graces. For cheerfulness and good humour ever 
 ptand associated with the noblest qualities of human 
 character. And religion and virtue themselves are seldom 
 attractive where these are not seen.
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL-ROOM. XXII 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL-ROOM. 
 
 [By Pater Familias.'] 
 
 "We did not tell you,— juvenile readers, or any other . 
 readers, — iu our last week's remarks on Boyhood, 'that 
 there was anything more on Boyhood in the back ground 
 to invite attention respecting the old School-room, to 
 which we then merely alluded. Nor are we quite con- 
 vinced, even in our own mind, that, in this said back- 
 ground, there will be found sufficient material to analyze, 
 and work-up into anything like readable matter. 
 For we cannot expect the juvenile portion of the 
 community, who are passing through the educational 
 process, to be much interested in anything that may be 
 addressed to them on such a subject, especially at this 
 season of the year, when the name of School-room may 
 very likely be to them the most insipid and objectionable 
 of all imaginable words. And yet, after all, — speaking 
 from experience, — we think there must ever be a great 
 deal connected with an old School-room calculated to 
 interest most individuals, and to awaken lively recollec-
 
 XXX THE OLD SCHOOL-EOOM. 
 
 tions of the past, — the never-to-be-forgotten old spot, where 
 the first sight of a numeration table met our youthful 
 eyes, and looked so much like a simple musical instrument 
 ■with which we had been familiar, namely, a triangle, 
 that it inspired pleasing recollections, and suggested the 
 idea of easy conquest. We liked its appearance because, 
 begining within a small space at the top, we at once saw 
 that we were to descend, by very gentle steps, to a much 
 wider base ; a process much easier, certainly, than going 
 upward. From this commencement, to the winding up 
 of the whole course, what a field opens up in retrospect I 
 "We soon found it Avas not a downward process upon 
 which we had entered. For, the oblique, ladder-shaped 
 appearance of the sums in long division, and the difficulty 
 we found in working them correctly, caused us many a 
 sigh and sever6 mental struggle ; and early engendered 
 in our youthful minds a deeply rooted hatred of that rule. 
 But, nothwithstanding all this, the old School-room brings 
 with it a thousand cherished remembrances. 
 
 Who, as he grasps the hand of an old school-fellow, after 
 years and years have rolled by, does not feel a thrill of 
 emotion, and his heart beat quicker? What a broad space 
 in our brief histoiy is, in a moment, laid open ! And, ere 
 the hand relaxes its warm grasp, and the eye is turned from 
 the countenance that meets our own, the mind sweeps
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL-aOOil. XXXI 
 
 backward over the past, — over many years of toil and 
 travel, — and, in spite of anything we can oppose to it, 
 every nook and corner of the old School-room, — bench, and 
 desk, and forms, and the faces, too, that once were there, 
 — are again distinctly visible in our imagination. 
 
 But there is one figure in that group more command- 
 ing, more interesting, than all beside. It stands out in bold 
 , relief ; and with it are blended many recollections. The 
 head, gently bent, as if in thoughtful mood, is blanched 
 with the flight of years. The countenance, naturally 
 bland, open, and pleasing, is alternately lighted with a 
 smile as some happy idea, or clue to the solution of the 
 all-absorbing question, is suggested to the mind. And 
 the deep lines of thought in the ample forehead are dis- 
 tinctly visible. The twilight of a November's evening is 
 stealing through the old mullioned windows, coeval, we 
 believe, with the grey old tower, hard by, that has stood 
 unmoved amid the storms of ages, a memento of past 
 generations. 
 
 The impatient fellows within, awaiting their dismissal 
 at half-past four o'clock, are eying stealthily the vene- 
 rated preceptor, hoping lie will soon wake-up to the con- 
 sciousness of the outer world of sport, and the approach 
 of the hour of separation fur the day. At length, all is 
 bustle and momeutaiy confusion, as each one is anxious
 
 IXXU THE OLD SCHOOL-ROOM. 
 
 to escape, and the old School-room, — cleared of its occupants 
 save one, — is joyfully left behind. " Save one," did we 
 say ? Yes ! and he is to spend many hours there ere he, 
 too, will quit it. In the field of mathematical science he 
 is no mere stripling ; no shoAvy pretender. He is, truly, 
 a mathematician of the first water ; and, in general at- 
 tainment, though self-taught, will rank above most men 
 even of liberal education. There are before him, even yet, 
 full six hours of mental toil in his favourite pursuit. Out- 
 side, are seen the pupils in active amusement, straining 
 muscle and limb ; or scattered in groups over the sacred 
 enclosure, for the church-yard was oft the play ground. 
 And some grave-stone that has, or has not, yet been sur- 
 mounted, as the case may be, is the object of general 
 attention ; to pass clear over which is the universal ambi- 
 tion. Or, more important still was the experiment ot 
 placing the left foot against the base of the old tower, 
 and flinging a stone right up, in a straight direction, to 
 the top, sheer over titrret and pinnacle. And, among that 
 group, there were stout fellows, strong in muscle and limb ; 
 for we must tell you that, in those days, and in that rural 
 district, boys really had muscles and limbs. 
 
 But there is another part of the picture yet to be look- 
 ed at. The shades of night have wrapped in oblivion all 
 surrounding objects. The hour of midnight is fast
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL-ROOM. XXXIU 
 
 approaching, and silence is reigning undisturbed, in awful 
 and impressive grandeur. We take our stand on the public 
 thoroughfare, at a little distance from the old School- 
 room, and opposite to it. A faint light is gleaming 
 through the small panes of the old Gothic windo\ys, and 
 shedding a feeble ray on the grave-stones around, standing 
 erect, like so many sentinels keeping watch over the 
 slumberers beneath. Yes ! the light is there. In that 
 old School-room, it has shone forth for five hours, at least ; 
 and the indefatigable man is plodding his way through 
 the mazes of abstruse science, mindless of the outer world, 
 and earning for himself an honourable reputation. 
 
 How strong in the human breast is the desire for know- 
 ledge, and how deeply seated it is in the heart of him who 
 is truly initiated in the ways of science ! The clock has 
 struck the 'midnight hour, and still the light is gleaming 
 forth, — pale, feeble and sickly. Outside, are the living 
 and the dead, locked in slumber. Not so the watcher 
 within. His eye brightens with inward delight as he ex- 
 plores, and demonstrates to a certainty, the great truths 
 of science ; to him, clear as the noon-day beam. His con- 
 clusions are no baseless suppositions, hastily amved at, 
 doubtful, and uncertain ; but sure and evident. He feels he 
 is standing on solid ground, firm as the pillars of the earth. 
 But, you will ask, wherefore is the labour undertaken ?
 
 XXX17 THE OLD SCHOOL-ROOM. 
 
 And why is it that a man thus toils in the thorny paths 
 of science ? The answer is at hand. It brings its own 
 reward. The rational delight which a man feels in de- 
 monstrating great truths is known only to himself. Per- 
 mit us also to remind you that the first of May is approach- 
 ing, — the latest period allowed by the Editor of the Lady's 
 Diary, a work of a gone-by period, for receiving the con- 
 tributions of correspondents. And the name of him of 
 whom we are now speaking stands connected with its 
 pages, as the author and solver of some of the most 
 beautiful and masterly questions inserted in the mathema- 
 tical department of that annual repository. This work 
 is now published under the title of The Lady's and 
 Ge7itleman's Diary. 
 
 Time, on its ever-moving pinions, has borne us onward, 
 amid the jostlings of life's journey, through many years 
 of change. We come unexpectedly, yet agreeably, in con- 
 tact with one who is our fellow traveller. Many vicissi- 
 tudes have occurred in our respective histories since we 
 last sat side by side, in our teens, in that old School-room, 
 no matter where. Half doubtingly, we ask ourselves are 
 we the same ? Let us scan each other's features. Can 
 we trace any resemblance to former identity ? "\Ye can. 
 But time, with all the incidents in its train, has done its 
 work. He is much altered in appearance. The ardour
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL-ROOM. XXXY 
 
 and vivacity of boyhood are exchanged for the soberness 
 and gravity of more than middle life. But, a few words 
 only are spoken before we mark the same shrewd, dis- 
 criminating look. It is there as it ever was. Yes, the 
 same firm grey eye is yet there, though now a little 
 shrunk, and widening the contrast between itself and that 
 bold, projecting forehead, width and fulness of temple, 
 which phrenologists would label with the woi-d ''number." 
 Yes, he was the pale-complexioned little fellow, far from 
 tall for his age, but strongly-shaped, diligent, open, good 
 tempered ; our main stay in dillicnlties, our secret, but not 
 the less our generous, friend ; a little in advance of us in 
 age, and much our superior in all things except marbles. If 
 there was a warm and unbroken friendship cemented, is 
 that to be wondered at ? When was it in your school-boy 
 history that you had not a friend- ; a sort of guide, com- 
 ])anion, and daily arbitrator, to whom all diflbrences were 
 submitted ; one well acquainted with your signal of distress, 
 whether it was a soft whisper, or a fixed and imploring 
 look ; and one who never failed to render assistance when 
 you had lost your reckoning, and were drifting in a wrong 
 direction ? Had jou never such a friend ? We anticipate 
 the answer. And have you, or have you not, forgotten 
 that stout-limbed, square-built, big-shouldered, fair-com- 
 plexioned boy that sat opposite you at the same desk ?
 
 XXXvi THE OLD SCHOOL-ROOM. 
 
 We remember such, and also that we had the honour of 
 being pitted against him in the process of oblique lines 
 and pot-hooks ; and remember, too, the hope we en- 
 tertained of soon outstripping him, after observing that 
 the poor fellow had actually lost two of the fingers of his 
 right hand. But, do we remember how often in our life 
 time we have found that, by what Sir Walter Scott has 
 
 called 
 
 ' The will to do, the soul to dare ' 
 
 difficulties are overcome, and natural defects are more 
 than counter-balanced, by accpired habits ! He was really 
 a ailigenti determined, high-mettled fellow, with whom to 
 stand even a comparison at the next Christmas vacation 
 was a task we were not at all anxious for. 
 
 How many histories and incidents are there, in connec- 
 tion with the old School-room^ that stand out in the long 
 distance of the past as mementoes to remind us of the 
 abbreviated space that lies beyond ! How often will they 
 rise up in retrospect, round which the memory yet 
 lin -ers, we hope with some degree of satisfaction ! It is 
 bv no means a desirable condition when we cannot dwell 
 on our school-boy history without much self-reproach. 
 Nor do we envy the self-accusing reflections of that ever- 
 detested, big, bronze-faced fellow, who was always want- 
 iiicr to mix, and chafe, and cheat, and bully, among his
 
 THE OLD 8CH00L-ROOM. XXXVll 
 
 juniors, had never the courage to face his equal ; and 
 was sure to make off when he was a winner in the game, 
 and when the odds were against him in a quarrel. You 
 may be sure that school-boys had their quarrels in those 
 days, as well as in the present ; and, as a matter of 
 course, you will say the weaker had to suffer. Nay, it, 
 was not always so. Frequently, there were some noble 
 fellows, honest enough, manly enough, and able enough 
 to defend the right, and who, when present, never failed 
 to do so. Don't we all remember such worthies ? We do : 
 and, although we cannot now stand face to face Mith 
 many ofthem, yet we greet the remembrance oftheirnames. 
 And, if there are sympathies existing between the spiritual 
 natures of the visible and invisible world, — a doctrine by 
 no means to be discarded, — then, perhaps, we are not to 
 ascribe entirely to natural causes that inward sighing, 
 deep emotion, and fulness of the heart we sometimes 
 experience when the memory of a departed friend is again 
 revived, and the solemn scene of removal is again re-pasi- 
 ing before us. It was painful to see poor Harry's seat in 
 the old School-room vacant, ever honest and noble-hearted 
 as he was. And a saddening interview was that to undergo 
 when he lay, patient and resigned, awaiting his dismissal 
 from earth, and, extending towards us his thin, white
 
 XXXVlll THE OLD SCHOOL-ROOM:. 
 
 liand, said, with much emotion, " I am going to my long 
 
 home !" 
 
 It is impossible that the mind can exclude and shut 
 
 out, at all times, the memory of the past, ■ How often will 
 
 the scenes of the year so lately gone by, and those of that 
 
 upon which we have just entered, be jjresent with us in 
 
 the future, — even many years hence, should we be 
 
 permitted to live ! Yes, 
 
 " The memory of the past will come, 
 To meet us face to face" 
 
 And though the School-band has long been broken, 
 and many of our youthful companions are now scattered 
 over the " wide wide world," and others, — like poor Harry, 
 — are gone to their long home, yet each familiar name 
 is still remembered. And though the light in the old 
 School-room has long been extinguished, and he who 
 watched there is now seen no more, yet there are many 
 living to testify to his unpretending worth, his blameless 
 and respected life, his reputable attainments, and lament- 
 ed death. And a visit to the little sequestered and 
 interesting church-yard of Zennor, or a look at the old 
 School-room at St. Just, never fails to revive in the 
 memory the name of John Davy.— J. W.
 
 H M E. 
 
 ON. LEAYING IT IN TOTTTH. 
 
 ■PAREWELL, my long, my loved abode, farewell ! 
 Where peace, content, and simple manners dwell; 
 "Where rustic scenes in guileless shades appear, 
 And rural quiet crowns the circling year. 
 No more may I thy loved domain survey, 
 Or down thy vale pursue ray pensive way ; 
 No more may I ascend, with cheerful feet, 
 Thy heath-clad hills, with nature's fragi'ance sweet. — 
 The withering blasts of Winter's dreary reign, 
 That sweep the mountain, devastate the plain, 
 Fall chastened on thee in that lowly dale, 
 Securely hid when angry storms prevail. — 
 
 That rural village, though unknown to fame, 
 What memories waken even at the name ! 
 How oft within that hallowed spot, ray home, 
 
 B
 
 HOME. 
 
 I've passed the lonely hour of midnight gloom 
 
 In unremitted labours, thus to store 
 
 My youthful mind with scientific lore [ 
 
 And, when stern Winter ruled with icy sway, 
 
 And cares subsided with the closing day, 
 
 How oft the villagers would then retire, 
 
 To spend the evening round the cheerful fire 1 
 
 And each, in turn, would some fond theme relate, 
 
 Not of perplexing plans to mend the state, 
 
 Or seriously renew some oft-told tale, 
 
 Or ancient legend of some spectre pale, 
 
 Or wondrous deeds by their good fathers done, 
 
 And stories strange, long passed, denied by none. 
 
 These, oft renewed, affbrded, still, delight. 
 
 Supplied the theme, and thus beguiled the night. 
 
 And though for them no sumptuous boards displayed 
 
 Their ample stores, superfluously arrayed, — 
 
 Our needless wants by reason are denied,— 
 
 Their own were few, and these their means supplied. 
 
 For them no scenes of revelry had power
 
 HOME. S 
 
 To cheat the value of each passing hour; 
 
 Or midnight mirth that lulls to noontide ease, 
 
 So oft debasing while it tends to please : 
 
 To manly toil the honest rustics rose, 
 
 At early dawn, from nights of sweet repose ; 
 
 Their labours, crowned with heaven's approving smile, 
 
 Brought health, and peace, and sweet content the while. 
 
 Though years have passed, I still delight to trace 
 The simple scenes of this, my native place ; 
 The humble cot, the dear sequestered vale, 
 The rippling brook, whose murmurs never fail ; 
 Along whose bourn how often have I strayed, 
 When men and nature in repose were laid ; 
 In pensive mood the midnight hour beguiled, 
 Amid those scenes that lured me fi-om a child ; 
 Heaven's glorious dome surveyed with raptured view; 
 Nor wished for scenes beyond what then I knew. 
 
 Whate'er my lot, where'er my path shall tend, 
 
 While on life's pilgrimage mv steps I bend ; 
 b2
 
 HOME. 
 
 "Whatever spot on earth's domain I see. 
 My memory still will fondly turn to thee ; 
 To thee 'twill turn, to thee this heart is true. 
 Where with my youth that cherished friendship grew 
 Which still survives, and still with it will blend 
 Undying memories, to life's latest end. 
 
 Those days, long passed, of honest youthful prime, 
 Those many interviews at evening time ; 
 Those oft-frequented haunts, and pathways rude, 
 Where other footsteps rarely did intrude ; 
 The sweet repose that wrapped the rural scene, 
 As oped the Sabbath, peaceful and serene ; 
 And youth, and age, and manly prime were there. 
 Bending their footsteps to the house of prayer, 
 While on the ear, in pleasing accents, fell 
 The soothing echoes of the Sabbath bell : 
 These loved mementoes memory still reveres. 
 And will survive amid the waste of years.
 
 HOME. 
 
 Blest is tliat spot whci-e scenes like these abound! 
 'Tis doubly hallowed, consecrated ground ; 
 Where memory fondly lingers, and pourtrays 
 The stirring incidents of other days, 
 Of days and years whose potent spells; combined, 
 Enchain, in pleasing retrospect, the mind; 
 And scenes long passed omnipotently rise, 
 And wake the bosom's hidden sympathies ; 
 And memories now, that in repose have lain, 
 Glow in their native ardour once again. 
 Dear is that nook of earth, where once we played 
 In childish innocence, or fondly strayed 
 In manly prime its pleasing scenes among, 
 While Nature, vocal with resounding song, 
 At morn and evening lifted up her voice, 
 And bade the miivcrse in God rejoice. 
 
 The winding path — my feet may tread no more — 
 The brook, that rippled near my father's door ; 
 The grassy sward, where oft I tranquil lay 
 At evening time, and sighed my cares away;
 
 HOME. 
 
 Friends, yet surviving, or consigned to tears. 
 
 The village matron, and the man of years 
 
 Whose patriarchal reign, with wisdom crowned, 
 
 Demanded reverence from all around : 
 
 These all, in glowing, prominent, array, 
 
 Seem vivid still, as scenes of yesterday. 
 
 But, dearer far than these, than all to me, 
 
 Those household gatherings I no more shall see, 
 
 As round the board, or round the hearth we came, 
 
 A peaceful household, one in hope and aim. 
 
 Parental counsel there, with mild behest, 
 
 Found ready entrance in each youthful breast ; 
 
 And oft the wholesome admonition came, — 
 
 '' Prize, more than wealth, an honest, virtuous, name; 
 
 That, virtue, truth, and industry afford; 
 
 Their priceless blessings, on life's chequered road. 
 
 Lead to a peaceful, honoured, blest, repose, 
 
 When life's tumultuous pilgrimage shall close." 
 
 But ah ! those lips that syllabled for me 
 
 These wholesome precepts from my infancy,
 
 HOME. 
 
 Their accents now salute my ear no more ! 
 Passed are those days, their artless scenes are o'er ! 
 No more shall I, at evening's tranquil reign, 
 Meet those beloved ones round that hearth again ; 
 No more shall I behold each form and face, 
 Within the precincts of that hallowed place : 
 Yet, wheresoe'er my pilgrim feet shall roam, 
 However distant from that humble home, 
 Each form, each face, and each familiar name, 
 In memory's record they are still the same ; 
 And time but hallows the remembrance, dear, 
 Which stronger grows with each revolving year.
 
 8 TO A THKUSH. 
 
 TO A THRUSH, 
 
 TJAST thou commenced so soon thy matin song, 
 Greeting the earliest beams of dewy morn 
 
 With thy sweet melodies, that float along 
 Upon the fragrant-laden zephyr borne ! 
 
 And on my listening ear thy warblings fall 
 
 Like the rich strains struck from some harp unseen. 
 
 So rapid, clear, and sweet, with scarce a pause between. 
 
 And while my anguished heart doth heave with sighs, 
 And from my eyes flows down the gushing tear, 
 
 To think how many woes beneath the skies 
 Hath frail humanity to suffbr here, 
 
 Thou hast a note of gladness, varied, sweet; 
 Like music gushing forth from babbling rills 
 
 It comes ! it comes ! my heart with joy and gladness fills.
 
 TO A TUKUSH. 
 
 Aud oft I'm waking ere the dappled grey 
 
 Of morn is painted in the orient sky, 
 Waiting to eateh tliy first rich, thrilhng, lay, 
 
 Ere downy slumber seals again my eye ; 
 And sure as Morn, in robes of silvery light, 
 
 Profusely pom's his beams the earth to cheer, 
 So Bm*e thy warblings come, familiar, sweet, and clear. 
 
 Sing on thou innocenfe and fluttering thing! 
 
 Still pour thy lays upon the breast of morn! 
 There is enough of discord here to wring 
 
 My anguished heart, that oft with grief is torn; 
 Fain would I hide Avhere misery never comes. 
 
 And thy sweet minstrelsy might yield repose. 
 Till discord be no more, or life's brief day shall close. 
 
 What joyous melody is thine each morn I 
 
 The perfumed breath of fragrant Summer flowers 
 
 Is not more grateful, on the breezes borne. 
 Than is the minstrelsy thy voice still pours. 
 
 May naught alarm, or mar, thy matin song I
 
 10 TO A THRUSH, 
 
 May no rude hand abridge thy little day ! 
 And may thy life but close with thy last thrilling lay! 
 
 And, when the mantling robe of eve is thrown, 
 
 In crim^^on glory, o'er the western main, 
 In some sweet bower may'st thou then nestle down 
 
 'Neath skies serene, and Summer's tranquil reign! ., 
 
 Where teaming wild flowers shed their rich perfame, i 
 
 Where murmuring rills and evening zephyrs play, | 
 
 t 
 
 To blend in sweet accord with thy last thrilling lay. i
 
 THE SABBATH. ]1 
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 IT AIL ! holy Sabbath, day of rest, 
 Oh! what enchantment in the sound ! 
 
 The day, above all others, blest, 
 
 With thousand, thousand, mercies crowned. 
 
 The air is fragrant, soft, and clear ; 
 
 No sound is borae upon the breeze, 
 To mar the calm, or meet the ear, 
 Save song of bird, or huai of bees. 
 
 The din of rural life is sCill, 
 
 The villagers from labour cease ; 
 
 Along the vale, and up the hill, 
 The cattle seem to browse in peace.
 
 12 THE SABBATH. 
 
 All Nature, now, re|)osing lies, 
 
 As if to greet this hallowed morn ; 
 
 And Avide her rich oblations rise 
 To heaven, upon the breeze upborne. 
 
 The city's din is hushed this day, 
 
 And, lol her towers and temples rise ; 
 
 They seem to prompt hei' tribes to pay 
 Their vows and homage to the skies. 
 
 Each Sabbath morn, the knell, how sweet ! 
 
 That charms the ear, and soothes the breast, 
 That calls us forth, Avith cheerful feet, 
 
 To raise to heaven the warm request. 
 
 It sounds o'er moorland, hill, and dale, 
 O'er haunts where late the masses trod ; 
 
 And, as it floats upon the gale, 
 
 It seems as 'twere a voice from God. 
 
 Britannia's cannons' awful roar 
 
 Spreads terror, wide as pole from pole ;
 
 THE SAI5I5ATH. ' 13 
 
 But, oh I her Sabbath chimes steal o'er, 
 And tlu'ill with melody, the soul. 
 
 Her homes where rural joys abide, 
 
 See ! youth and age from thence retire ; — 
 
 The maiden in her modest pride. 
 The matron in her neat attire. 
 
 "Witli cheerful stop, and reverent air, 
 They tread the temple's awful space ; 
 
 And manhood, youth, and age are there. 
 And voices blend in prayer and [jraise. 
 
 But not alone in gothic aisles 
 
 Is worship paid to God most high, 
 
 In noble consecrated piles. 
 
 That lift their towers to meet the sky. 
 
 Where'er the humblest house for prayer. 
 The contrite heart, the suppliant voice, 
 
 God is pre-eminently there. 
 
 To bid tliat foiitrite heart: rejoic?.
 
 H THE SABBATH. 
 
 Till time its rapid course shall still, 
 Or Britain's name shall cease to be, 
 
 Still may her tribes her temples fill! 
 Our Island's pride from sea to sea.
 
 LITTLE CHILDREN. 15 
 
 LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 AN INCIDENT. 
 
 T ITTLE children! on the lea, 
 Laughing, now, at sight of me, 
 Wondering wherefore I appear 
 One among your number here: — 
 Though no talk has taken place 
 I can read it in your face ; 
 Ay ! I guess, while you I see, 
 Such are now your thoughts of me. — 
 Well, my little children ! I, 
 Gladly now, will tell you why 
 I am come to look at you, 
 And to share your pleasures too, 
 At this quiet evening hour, 
 Fragrant with the hawthorn's flower ;
 
 By the munnurint^, crystal ri";!. 
 While the dew is falling, still ; 
 Yon, I come with joy to greet, 
 Little rose-buds at my feet, 
 Opening into life each hour, 
 Fresher, fairer, than the flower ; 
 Lambkins in Creation's fold. 
 Fairest gems of earthly mould 
 Jliniatnres of manhood, ve! 
 i Ian in all his majesty. 
 Not the stars, that beam so bright, 
 Burning in the brow of night ; 
 Kot the rubies, rich and rare, 
 "Which the monarch's crown doth bear ; 
 Nor the flowers that deck the vale, 
 Nodding to the gentle gale. 
 Crystalled o'er with drops of dew, 
 Look so beautiful as you. 
 On those dimpled cheeks so fair. 
 Oil I what innocence is there !
 
 LITTLE CHILDREN-, 17 
 
 In the beaming of those eyes, 
 
 What nnuttered language lies ! 
 
 And those accents, soft and clear, 
 
 Angels now might list to hear : 
 
 Oh ! that ever you should be 
 
 Scathed by sin, or misery ! 
 
 I have come, from noise away, 
 
 Not to scare you fi"om your play, 
 
 Come, and as, by chance, we meet 
 
 In this flowery nook, so sweet, 
 
 Let your little sports abound I 
 
 Crop the beauteous flowers around ! 
 
 Blue-eyed violets near the rill, 
 
 Gather these, and prattle still ! 
 
 And let me be one with you, 
 
 See your bliss, and share it too : 
 
 Let me here with you remain ; 
 
 Let me be a child again. 
 
 Scowl, thou stern philosophy ! 
 
 I would not be linked to thee ; 
 c
 
 18 LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 Here thou shalt not now intrude 
 With thj^ preceptB, stern and crude ; 
 Oft our bliss we make, or find, 
 From the temper of the mind ; 
 True philosophy is this, 
 In the present find your bliss. 
 Let him scowl who will at me. 
 Linked again to infancy. 
 Him, who never, since his birth, 
 Beauty saw, in heaven or earth; 
 He shall not abridge my bliss, 
 In a fairy realm like this. 
 Here, again, I can review 
 Childhood's happy hours, anew. 
 Paint the fields, the flowers, so fair, 
 And the faces that were there; 
 Can, in memory's mirror, trace 
 Each endeared and hallowed place; 
 Where the daisies covered o'er 
 Sloping mead and level moor,
 
 LITTLE CHILDHEN. 19 
 
 And the whole, before my eyes, 
 Like a fairy region lies. 
 Children ! now my heart is full. 
 While I see the flowers you cull; 
 Types of you, in bloom arrayed, 
 Oh! too soon, perhaps, to fade ; 
 Or, like stars, at opening day, 
 Melting in the light away ; 
 Or as pearly dews, that gleam 
 In the sun's resplendent beam, 
 Soon, exhaled, — disappear. 
 Wafted to a higher sphere ; 
 Thus, how oft your life appears 
 Ushered in, then closed in tears ! 
 
 Words I have not to reveal 
 
 All that in my heart I feel. 
 
 I have wept for children, too. 
 
 Fair and beautiful as you ; 
 
 Seen them fade in health and bloom, 
 c 2
 
 20 LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 Laid them in an earlv tomb ; 
 Watched the little heaving breast, 
 Till, at last, it sank to rest ; 
 Marked the hectic cheek inflame, 
 When convulsion shook the frame. 
 Then, I prayed, oppressed with grief, 
 " Let this agony be brief ! ' 
 End, God! these mortal throes I 
 Let this life of suffering close! 
 Take the spirit home to thee, 
 God of awful majesty!" 
 Children! I must now forbear, 
 And the parting hour is near. 
 
 Nor ought I to cloud your mood, 
 Mar your bliss, or here intrude 
 With a plaintive tale, that may 
 Banish cheerfulness away. 
 Fare ye well, in life and death, 
 Sojourners upon this earth !
 
 LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 You will meet, and have to brave, 
 Many a tempest-threatening wave. 
 Fare ye well, when storms shall lower, 
 When shall come the darkest hour ; 
 Blest and prosperous may you be, 
 Over life's tempestuous sea ! 
 Find a haven from the blast 
 In the heavenly home, at last !
 
 22 WHAT IS THE GOAL THOU HAST IN VIEW ? 
 
 WHAT IS THE GOAL THOU HAST 
 IN VIEW ? 
 
 \KJKAT is the goal thou hast in view ? 
 
 In life's career what is thy aim ? 
 Is it to dare some noble deed, 
 
 With which to blend a deathless name ? 
 Is it the lofty realm to reach 
 
 Of intellectual thoufrht sublime, 
 The altitude from whence thy fame 
 
 Shall travel down to future time ? 
 
 God speed thee in this noble aim, 
 This dignified design, that may 
 
 Immortalize thy name ; but, know 
 To this there is a toilsome way ; 
 
 A rugged uphill path to climb, 
 To test thy energies and skill ;
 
 WHAT IS THE GOAL THOU HAST IN VIEW ? 23 
 
 Thy soul's best attributes to try, 
 Thy firm resolve and noblest 'will. 
 
 The hand that never casts the seed 
 
 Within the furrows of the soil, 
 At length may reap, and often does, 
 
 The harvest of another's toil : 
 Not so with thee,, in fields of lore : 
 
 If thou the golden grain would'st see. 
 And reap deserved renown at length, 
 
 Thy toil must unremitted be. 
 
 » 
 
 Art thou a man with life oppressed, 
 
 And doomed to toil the live-long day ? 
 To earn with sweated brow thy bread ? 
 
 Cast not thy fortitude away. 
 My fellow! nobly dare thy part 
 
 In life's career, and know that thou 
 Art dignified by honest toil, 
 
 And bear'st the impress on thy brow.
 
 24 WHAT IS THE GOAL THOU HAST IX YIE\T? 
 
 In God's own image thou wert made; 
 
 Thy manly form, thy noble mouldy 
 Still bears the fashion of His hand, 
 
 Thine origin sublime of old ; 
 And He thine earthly bounds hath set^ 
 
 Thy task in life He hath assigned ; 
 Fulfil it bravelj', as a man 
 
 Of stern resolve and noble mind. 
 
 Nor yield thy spirit to despair ,- 
 
 A magnanimity acquire 
 To stem the roughest tide of life. 
 
 To nerve thee in the fiercest fire • 
 And deeply in thy heart be laid 
 
 An inwrought power, a faith to say 
 That yet the Providence of God 
 Will turn the darkest night to day. 
 
 But, oh ! perhaps, thy hearth has been 
 
 Bereft of those, beloved of old, 
 And thou art stricken down with grief
 
 WHAT rS THE GOAL THOU HAST IX VIEW? 25 
 
 That such no more thou dost behold ; 
 A change hath passed o'er all within 
 
 The precincts of home's hallowed sphere, 
 And sighs are heaved, and tears are shed, 
 
 For those that are no longer there. 
 
 Well, call to mind, and let the thought 
 
 Compose, sustain, and yield relief, 
 That He who made thee wliat thou art, 
 
 AVho bruised thee, will assuage thy grief ; 
 And know, there is a moral power, 
 
 A true philosophy of mind. 
 To man thee 'gainst the ruthless blast, 
 
 Thy heart amid the storm to bind. 
 
 The chastened heart will oft endure 
 
 An anguish man might shrink to name ; 
 
 Nor cans't thou, while untried, define 
 Its strength to bear the testing flame ; 
 
 And, in the midnight of thy woe, 
 While yet thy spirit prostrate lies,
 
 26 WHAT IS' THE GOAL THOU HAST IN VIEW? 
 
 All blasted, lo! the morning ray 
 Is nearing now, to greet thine eyes. 
 
 The wilderness, all parched and dry, 
 
 The smitten rock, the manna given, 
 The olive leaf of Noah's dove, 
 
 The bow that spanned the vault of heaven ; 
 The morn, in clouds and tempest wrapped, 
 
 The evening, calm, serene, and clear ; 
 Remember these, and dare to hope 
 
 A brighter day will soon appear.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER. '27 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER. 
 
 MO idle theme in fancy's mirror wrought, 
 
 No vain, illusive, and fictitious thought, 
 
 Shall prompt me now, or nerve my hand to write, 
 
 Or fan the flame that would to verse incite, 
 
 Or sway my breast, that sorrow's pang hath prored 
 
 For thee, my sister, from this world removed ; 
 
 But all my numbers shall with truth agree 
 
 To sketch thy portraiture, so dear to me. 
 
 Though I may joy thy virtues to rehearse, 
 I mourn for thee, the subject of my verse ; 
 For thee, descended to the grave full soon — 
 Ere thine ascending sun had reached his noon. 
 I mourn that now thy voice no more I hear, 
 Breaking melodious on my listening ear; — 
 Yet may I joy that, on the heavenly plains, 
 That voice resounds in more exalted strains !
 
 -^ ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER. 
 
 How oft, when evening's tranquil reign began, 
 Domestic bliss tlirougli all the circle ran, 
 As round the fireside, still in memory sweet, 
 We Ihcn were wont, with mutual joy, to meet, 
 To pass the hour in music's sweet employ. 
 And all the luxury of home enjoy! 
 How oft thy voice then o'er my spirit stole, 
 And thrilled with ecstacy my inmost soul ! 
 
 And though thy seat beside that peaceful hearth, 
 Where thy loved presence gave our pleasures birth, 
 Is vacant now, and thou no more art found 
 One of the family who that hearth surround; 
 Yet near the eternal throne thou sitt'st among 
 That ransomed and innumerable throne: 
 Whose robes are washed in the all-cleansing blood 
 Of Christ, the spotless, bleeding Lamb of God. 
 Thy wasted form by days of suflFering here, 
 Thy nights of anguish, ah ! those pains severe I 
 Thine eyes undimmed that beamed so calm in death,
 
 ON THE HKATH OF A .SISTER. 29 
 
 Thy christian triumpli witJi thy latest breath, 
 Thy voice, thy smile, thy looks, thy words, so kind, 
 And every virtue that adorned thy mind, 
 In memory's record they are still the same, 
 As when in life my lips pronounced thy name. 
 
 Sister, farewell I thou now from earth art free, 
 And from the sorrows which encompass me ; 
 The ills of life, that o'er my pathway roll, 
 Shall never more disturb thy tranquil soul ; 
 But if 'tis ours on earth to realize 
 The ministry of angels from the skies, 
 And guardian saints around our pathway meet, 
 To save from circling snares our pilgrim feet ; 
 May thy blest shade my watchful guardian be, 
 When hidden snares and sorrows compass me ; 
 When lowering clouds upon my path descend, 
 And gathering storms and thickest darkness blend, 
 To blast my hopes, my fortitude destroy, 
 And quite annihilate my rising joy!
 
 '"^O . ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER. 
 
 Oh I be thou near, thou spirit of the blest, 
 And hush to calm the tempest of my breast! — 
 Point me to realms where joys perpetual rise, 
 And lure my burthened spirit to the skies! 
 
 If grief can move, or melt, a mother's breast, 
 Just on the verge of heaven's eternal rest, 
 'Tis when resigning to a world of cares 
 Her helpless infant, child of many prayers ; 
 That grief was thine, when she, in whom I trace 
 Thyself, was folded in thy last embrace ; 
 For her thy prayer in fervent accents rose. 
 Preferred with all a dying mother's throes; 
 • And still with glowing, yet affections mild. 
 Perhaps thy spirit hovers o'er thy child ; 
 Watches each step when unseen ills are near, 
 Knows every sigh, and numbers every tear ; 
 Delights to see — thy bliss enhanced the while — 
 The self-same actions, still endearing smile. 
 And pleased to hear her lisp a Saviours name,
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER. 31 
 
 In prayers which thou did'st teach her lips to frame. 
 Thy strength, thy ardour, of maternal love 
 Nor time, nor change, nor place, can e'er remove, 
 But shall exist when years have rolled away. 
 Till the last tint of life's protracted day 
 Shall fade, expire, and, on her opening sight. 
 Bursts the full blaze of heaven's eternal light; 
 And thou, and thine, again shall meet, and be 
 From storm and tempest, earth and suflering free.
 
 3^ SPRING IS COMING 
 
 SPRING IS COMIXG ! 
 
 C PRING is coming! Yes, the fragrance 
 
 Of tlie primrose scents the breeze; 
 Ushered in by feathered songsters, 
 
 Opening flowers, and budding trees. 
 Spring is coming ! o'er the meadows 
 
 Seel the sportive lamljkins bound, 
 "While the beauteous blue-eyed violets, 
 
 And the daisies, stud the ground. 
 
 Sjtring is coming! Long and dreary 
 Hath been Winter's ruthless reign, 
 
 With its devastating tempests 
 Sweeping over land and main; 
 
 Hearts and homes are filled with anguish, 
 ^^'lu■r(' tlicrc hilc was joy and mirth:
 
 SPRING IS coming! 33 
 
 And tlic widow, with her orphans, 
 Weep around the lonely hearth ; 
 
 Weep, alas ! for those departed. 
 
 Loved ones, lost ones, now asleep 
 Where kind hands will never wake them, 
 
 In the chambers of the deep ; 
 Raging wars, and fearful tempests. 
 
 Deaths and famines, all have been 
 Since the gentle Spring was with us, 
 
 Robing earth in living green. 
 
 Long and anxious have we waited 
 
 For the vivifying Spring, 
 Waking into life and beauty 
 
 Nature with its pencilling ; 
 Up the mountains while we wander. 
 
 Through the valley, o'er the mead, . 
 
 Twice ten thousand flowers are springing, 
 
 All in beauty, 'neath our tread, 
 D
 
 34 SPRING IS coming! 
 
 Spring is coming ! lict us greet it, 
 
 While, with gladness and delight, 
 We behold the pictured landscape 
 
 Spread before the joyous sight ; 
 See the verdant mead bespangled 
 
 With the crystal drops of dew ; — 
 In those atoms of creation 
 
 There are worlds that meet the view. — 
 
 Spring is coming ! Nature owns it, 
 
 And, responsive, she is seen 
 Waking from her Wintry slumber, 
 
 Swathed in habiture of green ; 
 With the hues of health and beauty 
 
 Broadly o'er her features cast ; 
 Lo ! to life she is returning, 
 Now the reign of death is past. 
 
 And the radiant sun, enshrouded 
 
 Late and long, — in darkness drowned,- 
 Now is shedding his effnlgence,
 
 SPRING IS coming! 35 
 
 Life and light, on all around ; 
 And the flower-bespangled meadow, 
 
 Mountain, moorland, grove, and glen, 
 'Neath his genial influence waken 
 
 Into beauty once again. 
 
 Spring is coming ! Morn and evening. 
 
 Singing birds, and opening flowers, 
 All proclaim it ; lo I 'tis with us. 
 
 Brighter suns will soon be ours. 
 Yes I the odour-laden zephyr, — 
 
 Summer's grateful, fragant, sigh, — 
 With the affluence of flowers. 
 
 Soon our earth will beautify. 
 
 D 'Z
 
 36 CAPE CORNWALL. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A VIEW 
 FROM CAPE CORNWALL, IX 1830, 
 
 'THE toils of the day with the peasant were ending, 
 And homeward the rustic was bent on his way ; 
 
 Aloft was the incense of evening ascending ; 
 And briskly around were the lambkins at play. 
 
 The breeze and the billow their murmurs were blending ; 
 
 The sun in his glory was hastening down; 
 On the crystal abyss was his radiance extending ; 
 
 And grandeur the reign of the evening did crown. 
 
 The ponderous rocks overhanging the ocean, 
 
 The echoes that rise from the neighbouring strand, 
 
 The barque on the waters, the birds in commotion, 
 The burst of the billow so awfully grand,
 
 07 
 
 CAPE CORNWALL. ?~t 
 
 Conspire to strike and command the attention, 
 And fill with a nameless emotion the soul, • 
 
 An emotion that sways it without a declension, 
 As the billows beneath one in majesty roll. 
 
 And, far, far, away, from the din of confusion, 
 
 Where naught inharmonious was borne on the breeze, 
 
 How mean, I bethought, were the haunts of intrusion ! 
 Compared with ray prospect, how seldom they please ! 
 
 And there seemed in the stir of the waters so pleasant, 
 And gentlest zephyr that played on the flood, 
 
 The omnific voice of a Deity present; 
 
 And all things around bore the impress of God.
 
 38 TO MY CHILD ASLEEP- 
 
 TO MY CHILD ASLEEP. 
 
 T\/rY boy ! so cherub-like, and sweet, 
 Unconscious of the cares and fears 
 
 That wait the progress of thy feet, 
 A pilgrim in this world of tears : 
 
 An heir to all the ills between 
 
 The cradle and the oblivious grave ; 
 
 Thy heritage a troubled scene, 
 
 Embarked on life's tempestuous wave. 
 
 * 
 
 Ah ! yes, that tranquil breast and form, 
 
 With angel innocence o'ercast, 
 That breast must soon feel soitow's storm ; 
 
 The flight of years that form must blast.
 
 TO MY CHILD ASLEEP. 39 
 
 Then sleep, my boy ! nor wake too soon, 
 Life's opening morning now is thine ; 
 
 Those golden hours ere sultry noon, 
 And cares that press on life's decline. 
 
 May calm repose prolong, sweet one, 
 Those smiles that o'er thy features play, 
 
 Bespeaking sympathies unknown, 
 Of spirit with the mortal clay. 
 
 Wherefore those smiles ? — perhaps this hour, 
 Commissioned from the spheres divine, 
 
 Some guardian spirit watches o'er, 
 
 And holds communion now with thine. 
 
 What hopes and fears alternate sway 
 My bosom while I gaze on thee, 
 
 And contemplate thy future day 
 Of happiness, or misery!
 
 40 TO MY CHILD ASLEEP. 
 
 Now fear pourfcrays the storms that lower, 
 To blast the fairest form of clay ; 
 
 And life appears a fleeting hour, 
 At best a chequered Winter's day. 
 
 'And now, what joys within me rise, 
 As hope the clieering scene pourtrays, 
 
 And, mirrored in her ambient skies, 
 I see the bliss of future days ! 
 
 I trust, my boy ! when ripening years 
 Shall stamp thy brow with manly mien^ 
 
 No rising grief, or falling tears, 
 
 Will mark my life at thought of thine. 
 
 But, blest in thee, whom wisdom's "ioice. 
 Shall lure to tread the path of joy ; 
 
 Through life this heart will oft rejoice 
 O'er thee, my sweet unconscious bqy-
 
 TO MY CHILD ASIiKEP. 41 
 
 And, when thou on the stream of time 
 
 Shalt, soon or later, near the grave, 
 May steadfast faith, and hope sublimej 
 
 Sustain in death's tempestuous wave ! 
 
 These shall support thy sinking head, 
 As, weary, thou shalt yield thy breath, 
 
 And point to realms beyond the dead, 
 
 Where dwells not grief, nor pain, nor death.
 
 ■42 THE MISSIONARY, 
 
 THE MISSIOXARY. 
 
 TJE is gone from his home, and the land of his birth, 
 And the peaceful retreat of his own sweet hearth, 
 And the smiles that around his childhood played, 
 And the forms that now in the dust are laid : 
 But in memory's view they are still the same, 
 And thrill to his soul with a quenchless flame. 
 
 He is gone from that home of his earliest breath, 
 To the scene of his labours, of dangers and death, 
 Whence the piteous cries the degraded to save 
 AVere borne on the breeze as he crossed on the wave ; 
 To the laud where the sweet Sabbath dawn ne'er smiled, 
 To the land with the rites of the heathen defiled.
 
 THE MISSIONARY. 43 
 
 He is gone where the mother, well pleased, hath stood, 
 With her hands imbrued in her infant's blood ; 
 Where the flames arose with her dying groans 
 As she was consumed with her husband's bones ; 
 And shouts were loud from those who came 
 To gaze on the all-devouring flame. 
 
 He is gone wdiere death and diseases waste, 
 As the scorching sun, or the withering blast ; 
 And the scattered bones of the pilgrim, old, 
 Are white on the desert sands, and cold : 
 And savage hoards, with the murderous steel, 
 Are fierce as the noontide heats they feel. 
 
 He is gone where the rills of crystal stray, 
 And the rustling woods in the breezes play, 
 And the skies are calm o-'er suimy lands. 
 And the seas are girt with golden sands, 
 And nature wears her loveliest suit; 
 But man is depraved as the forest brute.
 
 44 THE MISSIONARY 
 
 He is gone to exalt from the depths of the fall, _ 
 
 For the cries of the heathen have entered his soul : 
 
 And lo ! as the banner is raised on high, 
 
 And the cross, with its marks of agony, 
 
 The darkness of ages is scattered wide ! 
 
 As the mist that rolls from the mountain's side. 
 
 And the isles of the sea, with their tribes untold. 
 And the heathenish wastes, with their idols of old, 
 Have witnessed his toil, and weariless zeal. 
 Till, alas I in the noon of his labours he fell, 
 A victim devoted to death, to save 
 From that whicli impended bej^ond the grave. 
 
 Though he sleeps not nov/ in the land of his birth, 
 With his fathers, who slumber beneath the green earth, 
 Yet the pahn tree spreads its peaceful shade 
 O'er the sacred spot where his bones are laid ; 
 And his spirit hath soared to the realms of light. 
 For ever to dwell in his Maker's sight.
 
 A BIRTHDAY SUOOESTIOX FOR A LADY. 45 
 
 A BIETIIDAY SUGGESTION FOR A LADY. 
 
 TT OW fragrant and fair is the opening- rose ! 
 
 •Kegaling at noontide, at evening, and morn : 
 'Tis an emblem of life as its beauties disclose ; 
 
 'Tis an emblem of life when its beauties are shorn. 
 
 In Spring there's the bud of its future array, 
 In Smnmer it blooms in its richest attire, 
 
 Ere "Winter it fades and dies swiftly away ; 
 Yes ! swiftly its fragrance and glory expire. 
 
 And such is our life as it fleets along fast, 
 And year after year steals tlie vigour ii gave ; 
 
 The Spring and the Summer are hastily passed, 
 
 And the Winter is closed in the gloom of the gi-ave.
 
 46 A BIRTHDAY SUGGESTION FOR A LADY. " 
 
 The forest, all mantled in foliage so green, 
 
 And kissed by the breath of the Summer benign. 
 
 Disrobed bv the blasts of the Autumn is seen : 
 An emblem of life in its youth and decline. 
 
 And all tilings around us are changing, and naught 
 Of this world is to us now as once it was seen ; 
 
 Each period, receding for ever, is fraught 
 
 With hopes that are kindled, or blighted liave been. 
 
 But the gem that adorns and ennobles your youth, 
 And crowns the meridian of life with a grace, 
 
 Ib found in the ways of religion and truth, 
 
 Nor shall Death, with his terrors, its beauties efface.
 
 MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS, 47 
 
 MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS. 
 
 rPHE sun hath sunk beneath the western hills. 
 
 And 'round me now are closed the shades of night, 
 
 Which wrap in darkness, solemn and profound, 
 
 Valley and plain, and mountain towering high. 
 
 With all the complicated works of man. 
 
 Then, may this hour of darkness, deep and still. 
 
 And thou di-ead Spirit of eternal truth, 
 
 Awake to though tfulness my careless soul ! 
 
 Bid me contemplate one profound display 
 
 Of God's Almighty hand, which hung on high 
 
 Those rolling globes of light, unnumbered worlds, 
 
 Which unto man, in silent language, prove 
 
 Some great first cause : those rolling spheres on high, 
 
 And the deep stillness of this awful hour, 
 
 Stirring the inmost soul with thoughts that swell, 
 
 And fain would find an utterance in words ;
 
 48 
 
 MIDXIGHT REFLECTIONS. 
 
 But speech is lost, and man is awed and dumb 
 Jn presence of his Maker and His works ; 
 And silent adoration best befits 
 Where all is awful, deep, sublime, and still, 
 
 Xol not a sound is heard, save of the ripple 
 
 Of yon small stream, that wanders down the vale, 
 
 In murmurs soft, or distant rumbling of 
 
 The ocean wave, that ceases not to heave. 
 
 The noontide gale hath gently died away ; 
 
 The feathered songsters of the leafy grove, 
 
 AVith whose melodious and delightful strains 
 
 The valleys lately rang, have sunk to rest. 
 
 The busy hum of industry hath ceased ; 
 
 The sounds that commerce poured upon the breeze 
 
 Are heard no more, but with the breeze expired. 
 
 J\lan, too, hath ceased to prosecute the day, 
 
 Whose toilsome hours exhaust his hardv stren"th, 
 
 And on his couch reclined his weary frame 
 
 Fast fallen in the arms of balmy sleep ; —
 
 MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS. 49 
 
 Sleep, emblematic of the nij^ht of death, 
 
 "When the lonji;, toilsome, day of life shall close, 
 
 And man lies down fatigued, not soon to wake, 
 
 Or rise at early dawn, with strength renewed, 
 
 To scour, with active step, the upland height, 
 
 Or reap- the fmitful field, or fell the wood, 
 
 Or round the social hearth to sit, elate 
 
 With the sweet prattling of his ofTspring gay, 
 
 But in the grave reposes, till shall come 
 
 The final hour of death's unbroken sleep. 
 
 And he shall wake, an endless course pursue, 
 
 Eternity's unbroken, boundless, day. 
 
 What is that state ? its secrets, who can name ? 
 
 How anxiously the spirit tries to sound 
 
 Its deep and fathomless abyss ! to know 
 
 Its hidden mysteries ! ^Vhat thoughts arise 
 
 Within me as I dwell upon the vast, 
 
 And never yet explored, expanse beyond ! 
 
 Fain would the soul, that ever pants to know 
 
 The future, try to uplift the veil and look 
 E
 
 50 MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Into the world beyond, that spirit land, 
 Flooded with light, unseen by mortal eye. 
 
 "Will there the woes of earth to me be known ? — 
 The widow's sighing, and the orphan's tears ? 
 The tyrant's reign, the despot's cruel sway ? 
 The broken hearted, and down-stricken, ones. 
 Whom the oppressor mercilessly crushed ? 
 Will there the scenes of earth my thoughts engage ? 
 Its weal or woe ? Or will the range of vast 
 Eternity to come so open up 
 Its all-absorbing truths, awful, sublime, 
 That my immortal vision shall remain 
 For ever fixed in steadfast gaze thereon. 
 And earth, and earthly scenes, engage no more ? 
 
 What thoughts crowd on me at this solemn hour I — 
 The world that is, and that which is to come ; 
 Time, and eternity ; immortal life ; 
 My future being ; what that being is, 
 And how sustained. What shall I know, or be ;
 
 MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS. 51 
 
 Or what behold ? "What is a spirit ? Where 
 
 Are now the myriads that have passed away ? 
 
 I feel the stirrings of a deathless soul, 
 
 That fain these mysteries would understand : 
 
 But, no! it cannot lae, till I have put 
 
 This mortal off, and passed the bounds of time. 
 
 Oh ! how cop.foundhio: is the link that binds 
 
 The flesh and spirit ! What disclosures new, 
 
 Awful and great, are pending on what seem 
 
 So simple, yet so marvellous and grand I 
 
 Let but the life-blood of my heart be stilled ; 
 
 The pulse, and labouring breast, but cease to heave ; 
 
 The mortal vision be but closed in death, 
 
 And then, the revelation comes ! the veil 
 
 Is put aside ! the mist dispelled ! and bursts 
 
 The dazzling light of vast eternity. 
 
 All instantaneous, on the spirit, just 
 
 With wonder launched upon the deep abyss ! 
 
 And, what I know not now, I then shall know, 
 
 So fearfullv and wonderfuUv made 
 e2
 
 02 MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Am I, myself I cannot understand ; 
 
 And am confounded when I but reflect 
 
 On what I am. The ever active mind, 
 
 That can, at will, dwell on the ages yet 
 
 To come, can, in an instant, also scan 
 
 The scenes and incidents long since transpired ; 
 
 And at this solemn hour, when all is still. 
 
 How vividly I see the past ! it comes 
 
 All fi'esh to memory, like the daylight scenes 
 
 That passed but yesterday before my sight. 
 
 The school companions, and the school boy feats ; 
 
 Our old preceptor, hale at eighty yeai's, 
 
 Of form so huge, and of such reverend mien, 
 
 That my young heart would palpitate with fear. 
 
 Whene'er his anger and his frown awoke. 
 
 Methinks I see him now, hoaiy with age. 
 
 Yet with an eye so piercing that, whene'er 
 
 His ire was kindled, — as it often was, 
 
 Alas ! too justly, at our heedless ways, — 
 
 His look at once rebuke effectual gave.
 
 MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS. 53 
 
 To note our progress, oft the vicar came ; 
 A man of much benevolence of face, 
 And nature too ; his aim — to live in peace, 
 And harmony, with all. And often, while 
 The last sad, solemn, service for the dead 
 He did perform, around we stood ; and, Avhen 
 The mom-ners lifted up their voice and wept, 
 My youthful breast was oft surcharged with grief 
 To see the dreary grave closed darkly o'er 
 The late departed one, so much deplored. 
 And now the appointed time, by him prefixed. 
 Arrives for us to stand around him in 
 The venerable aisle ; where he was wont 
 To question us in what he, doubtless, deemed 
 Duty to God and man. No irksome task 
 Was ours, but cheerfully fulfilled ; for he 
 Was ever wont to pass our failings by, 
 Nor harshly censure where a fault he saw. 
 Strange that such incidents as these should now 
 In retrospect arise ! but thus it is ;
 
 54 MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS. 
 
 And memory paints them all in fresh array. 
 
 The churchyard, which, in grave and solemn mood, 
 
 I many a time since then have loitered o'er, 
 
 Was oft the play-ground : there, at noon, and eve, 
 
 Each was ambitious to surpass the rest, 
 
 The highest grave-stone to surmount; how yet 
 
 Familiar is the one I've often tried, 
 
 But unsuccessful ! I a junior was, 
 
 And this was wide and high. All is, indeed, 
 
 Familiar yet: — the Christmas morning bells ; 
 
 Anthems and carols at the service time; 
 
 The silvery-headed sires, who duly trod, 
 
 On Sabbath days, the precincts of God's house ; 
 
 The better folk ; the rustics, ranged around ; 
 
 The pillared, sacred, venerable, aisles, 
 
 Which oft re-echoed with such beauteous strains 
 
 That I have heard of aged men to tears 
 
 Melted, as rose the sacred, solemn, swell 
 
 Of music from rich voices, all attuned 
 
 In noble and harmonious concert joined.
 
 ON THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SLAVES. 55 
 
 ON THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SLAVES 
 IN THE WEST INDIES, IN 1834. 
 
 TJA.RK! upon the ear it throngs, 
 
 Cheering as the light of day. 
 Louder than ten thousand tongues, 
 
 Sweeter than the virgin's lay. 
 
 'Tis the voice that freedom pours. 
 Thrilling through the abject soul, 
 
 Nursed in Eden's hallowed bowers; 
 Let it spread from pole to pole ! 
 
 Britain! nobler, dearer, grown 
 
 By the ransom thou hast paid, 
 By those miseries, not thine own, 
 
 Which thy generous hand hath stayed :
 
 56 ON THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SLAVES. 
 
 In thy senatorial voice, 
 
 England! still of matchless fame. 
 Thousands, thousands, now rejoice. 
 
 Thousands, thousands, bless thy name. 
 
 Now are heard, across the wave, 
 Shouts, thy recent laws inspire,. 
 
 Where the poor, the abject, slave 
 Bled beneath the tyrant's ire : 
 
 See him there! — my fellow man. 
 Bent beneath his iron frown; 
 
 Through bis veins what transport ran, 
 As he flung his shackles down ! 
 
 See his soul imbued with fire. 
 Deathless as my own to be ; 
 
 Ah! it throbs with strong desire, 
 Swells and throbs for liberty.
 
 ON THE EMAXCIPATION OK THE SLAVES. 57 
 
 In that soul's convulsive sighs 
 
 Bruised and agonized with grief, 
 There's a voice to God that cries, 
 
 Cries for justice and relief. 
 
 • 
 
 God, Almighty ! from Thy throne, 
 
 Interpose, redress, release ! 
 Yes! where'er a slave is known, 
 
 Bid Ms wrongs for ever cease ! 
 
 Is he not my fellow ? — nay, 
 
 One in essence, name, and mould ? 
 Wherefore, in the light of day. 
 Is he shackled, bought, and sold ? 
 
 Oh ! repress the monster ill, 
 
 Foulest blot on manhood's name : 
 Am I not a man, to feel 
 
 This is my reproach and shame ?
 
 68 ON THE EMA^^CIPATIOX OF THE SLAVES. 
 
 Nature, mth. repugnance brave, 
 
 Stands abashed at, loathes the sound 
 
 Of, a fellow man a slave, 
 Prostrate, helpless, bleeding, bound. 
 
 Slaveiy I be that name accursed ; 
 
 Yes ! from every human tongue 
 liCt the execration burst, 
 
 Till its knell on earth be rung I 
 
 Till erect beneath the sky. 
 
 And his claims acknowledged be, 
 
 Every slave shall stand, and cry, 
 "I for evermore am free I" 
 
 Freedom, — reason's quenchless light, 
 Nature's loud instinctive call ; — 
 
 'Tis the omnipotence of right, 
 God's primeval gift to all.
 
 ON THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SLAVES. f)'J 
 
 'Tis the soul's uplifted cry, 
 
 Breathed by man in every clime, 
 Rising ceaseless to the sky, 
 
 Loud, impassioned, and sublime. 
 
 When the heavens shall flee away. 
 
 And the fate of earth is sealed, — 
 In that last tremendous day, 
 
 When all secrets are revealed ; 
 
 What unuttered wrongs and woes, 
 
 Africa ! so long oppressed, 
 Will that judgment-day disclose. 
 
 Which have wrung thy bleeding breast ! — 
 
 Since thy bruised and broken heart, 
 
 Bared to God's all-seeing eye, 
 Throbbed with sorrow, felt the smart, 
 
 Heaved the agonizing sigh ;
 
 60 ON THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SLAVES. 
 
 Since the tears that first were wrung 
 From thy slaved, degraded, race, 
 
 "When was wrenched the babe who ckmg 
 To its mother's last embrace. 
 
 Say, what tears since then have run, 
 And what hearts since then have bled 
 
 Oh! 'twould break a heart of stone, 
 Slavery's victims, slaughtered, dead. 
 
 Say, ye ocean waves ! that lave 
 
 Afric's broad and burning sands, 
 Say, how many a shackled slave 
 Ye have borne to other lands ! 
 
 What the human forms ye bore 
 Far away, enslaved, and sold; 
 
 To return, alas ! no more ; 
 Bartered for the lust of gold !
 
 ON THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SLAVES. 61 
 
 And, ye groves, and glens, and plains, 
 Haunts where nature's children strayed, 
 
 Where etenial summer reigns 
 In the forest's deepest shade ; 
 
 Say, what tears have steeped your soil. 
 
 And what hearts in ruin lain. 
 Since the monster came to spoil, 
 
 And bear oflF, your tribes, for gain! 
 
 Not the sun's meridian rays, 
 
 Vertical, to scorch the ground. 
 Falling with untempered blaze, 
 
 Stunting nature all around ; 
 
 Nor the fearful lightning-fire, 
 
 Nor the blast that sweeps the plain, 
 
 Ever spread such ruin dire 
 As vile slavery's cursed reign.
 
 62 ON THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SLAVES. 
 
 What a long and woeful night, 
 Africa ! hath closed thee round ! 
 
 When shall break the morning light, 
 To dispel thy gloom profound ? 
 
 When shall burst the glorious day ? 
 
 When shall slavery's reign be o'er ? 
 And its miseries pass away, 
 
 To be known on earth no more ? 
 
 Is it yours, ye worthies ! say, 
 Spirits now in endless light, 
 
 To descry this glorious day, 
 
 Bursting from the womb of night ? — 
 
 Ye, whose eloquence, of old, 
 
 Grew impassioned with your years ; 
 
 In the senate-house it rolled, 
 Till the heart dissolved in tears.
 
 GN THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SLAVES. 63 
 
 Champions, there, ye nobly rose, 
 
 Friends of freedom, and the slave ; 
 Pleading long, and late, his cause. 
 
 Stretching out the hand to save. 
 
 Light, from heaven's eternal tlirone, 
 
 Radiant in your bosoms glowed, 
 Undiminished still it shone, 
 
 On, resistless, still it flowed. 
 
 And compassion's noble aim, 
 
 Mercy's broad and boundless span, 
 Kindled in your souls a flame. 
 
 Roused your sympathies for man. 
 
 Yes ! for man, degraded, slave, 
 
 Remnant of a wretched race: 
 And ye nobly aimed to save 
 
 Manhood from this foul disgrace.
 
 04 ON THE EMANCIPATION OF THE SLAVES. 
 
 Honoured to life's latest end, 
 Ages shall augment your fame; — 
 
 Ye who nobly sought to blend 
 Liberty with manhood's name. 
 
 As the sun's resplendent rays, 
 Crimsoning the glorious west, 
 
 Broader grandeur still displays, 
 As he nobly sinks to rest: 
 
 Thus your deeds have gained renotvn, 
 Which shall echo through all time,* 
 
 Thus your earthly sun Avent down, 
 Broad, majestic, and sublime.
 
 TO THE PRIMROSE, C5 
 
 TO THE PRIMROSE. 
 (an incident.) 
 
 WELCOME ! floweret of the Spring-, 
 With thy soft and modest mien; 
 
 Pleasant memories thou dost bring, 
 ]\Iemories of those days serene 
 
 Wiien my childhood oped as free, 
 
 And as fresh and fair, as thee. 
 
 Here thou art! — a precious gem, — 
 And I view thee with delight, 
 
 Lovely, fi-agrant, diadem, 
 Richly waving in my sight; 
 
 With thy kindred clustering near, 
 
 Early flowerets of the year. 
 
 See! where now that lady stands; 
 Anxiously she looks, the while,
 
 66 TO THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 With her white estended hands, 
 On her countenance a smile : 
 She is grasping thee with pride, 
 And thy sisters by thy side. 
 
 Might I not here moralize 
 
 On what thou and thine will be, 
 
 And on her whose beauteous eyes 
 Longingly are cast on thee; 
 
 When your forms, so graceful, must 
 
 Fade, and mingle with the dust ? 
 
 .Yes! that form and face, so fair, 
 
 Turned so placidly on thee, 
 Like a flower in desert air, 
 
 Ah ! too soon must stricken be : 
 Both must wither 'neath the blast, 
 Ere its ravages be past. 
 
 Fair, but fleeting, things ye are: 
 Seen in sunshine and in shade,
 
 TO THE PRIMROSE. C7 
 
 Flowers and human life appear, 
 Just to flourish, then to fade : 
 Yet shall botli revive, once more, 
 When death's Wintry reign is o'er. 
 
 Thou dids't sleep secure when dread 
 
 Wintry hurricanes were high, 
 Dareds't not to uplift thy head, 
 
 Nor to ope thy beauteous eye;. 
 But, when early Spring was green, 
 Thou dids't beautify the scene. 
 
 Joying in her primrose prize. 
 
 With elastic, airy, tread, 
 See ! that gentle lady hies 
 
 On her path across the mead; 
 With the wreath her home to grace, 
 Pleasure beaming in her face. 
 
 '& 
 
 There she will adjust her prize, 
 Tending it with fondest care: 
 
 F 2
 
 68 TO THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 'Neath her mildly-glancing eyes 
 
 Opening flowers more beauteous are. 
 As the pearly dewdi-ops gleam 
 In the sun's resplendent beam. 
 
 In the vase her treasure stands. 
 Every eye it doth allure ; 
 
 Watered by her gracious hands, 
 Thus a while it shall endure ; — 
 
 Emblem of herself most meet, 
 
 Blooming, beautiful, and sweet. 
 
 But thou never art so fair 
 As when, on thy parent stem, 
 
 Thou art waving free as air, 
 
 Drinking in the noontide beam ; 
 
 Then the hedges, lane, and lea, 
 
 All are beautified by thee. 
 
 Thou art lovely in the shade, 
 
 And, when in the sunlight found,
 
 TO THE PRIMROSE. C9 
 
 Like a blushing, beauteous, maid. 
 
 With thy sisterhood around ; 
 Soft and modest, sweet and fair, 
 Even as drooping lilies are. 
 
 Earth is lovelier for thee ; 
 
 In thy looks a language lies, 
 To the ear of poesy 
 
 Speaking of serener skies, 
 And a myi'iad fragrant flowers 
 Basking in the Summer hours. 
 
 In what region of the earth 
 
 Dids't thou first in daylight smile ? 
 
 Art thou of exotic bu'th, 
 
 Or did'st spring fi'om Britain's isle ? 
 
 On thee did the solar sheen 
 
 Flash in Eden's sweet demesne ? 
 
 When to Heaven there did ascend 
 The first breath of opening flowers,
 
 70 TO THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 Did thine iuccnse with it blend, 
 
 Rising np from Eden's bowers ? 
 Or 'neath skies less fair than those 
 Did thy beauties first disclose ? 
 
 Lovely flower ! all hail to thee ! 
 
 Gem of Britain's favoured isle^ 
 Blossoming from sea to sea, 
 
 Decking nature with thy smile ; 
 Thou wilt wake, where'er we roam, 
 Thoughts, and memories, of home. 
 
 Yes ! thou art an English flower ; 
 
 And the traveller, wandering wide. 
 Pictures every nook and bower, 
 
 And his cottage-home beside, 
 When, in infancy, he played 
 In the primrose-sprinkled glade. 
 
 Thou dost come to greet our eyes 
 When the Winter is no more ;
 
 TO THE PRIMROSE. 71 
 
 Cheering as the stars that rise 
 
 When black midnight's reign is o'er ; 
 Flashing on the joyous sight 
 Like a radiant beam of light. 
 
 While those stars, in vast array, 
 
 Shining since Creation's birth, 
 God's omnipotence display, 
 
 So the flowers that stud the earth,— 
 — Starlit heaven, Jind floweiy sod,— 
 Show the handy-work of God.
 
 72 ox THE DEATH OF MR. JOHX DAVY. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MR. JOHN DAVY, 
 
 AN EMINENT MATHEMATICIAN. 
 
 p OME, pensive muse ! and frame some moving lay. 
 On sorrow's harp the plaintive chords prolong ; 
 
 In artless numbers now the tribute pay 
 To him, the subject of thy mournful song. 
 
 Friendship, the wliile, shall heave the genuine sigh. 
 To think how death has wrecked the mortal clay 
 
 Of him whose soul in Science mounted high, 
 Beyond the precincts of inglorious day. 
 
 Nobly he soared her Alpine heights among, 
 With eye sagacious scanned her wealthy clime ; 
 
 Drank of the streams that flow her realms alonsr. 
 Till doomed to fall by all-destroying time. 
 
 ^o>
 
 ON THE DEATH OF Mil. JOHN DAVY. ^3 
 
 Oh ! deatli, relentless, 'neath whose rutliless sway 
 The sons of science, as the ignoble, fall. 
 
 What skill can turn thy pointed shafts away ? 
 Or from thy grasp the dearest friend recall? 
 
 Ah ! none : the grave enwraps its kindred clay, 
 And Davy sleeps within its cold embrace ; 
 
 While gathering friends their mournful requiem pay : 
 What tears are falling round his resting place ! 
 
 And though no pomp, nor proud display, be nigh, — 
 Too oft in mockery of the unconscious dead, — 
 
 No sculptured stone, to strike the enquiring eye 
 And mark the spot where rests his hoary head : 
 
 Yet worth like thine a noble niche doth claim 
 In bosoms warm with friendship's hallowed fire ; 
 
 And, in the records of ennobling fame, 
 
 Shall live when pomp and pageantry expire.
 
 74 ON' THE DEATH OF MR. JOHN DAVY. 
 
 Methinks I see that undissembling smile, 
 
 Which gave thy countenance its native gi'ace ; 
 
 And hear thy converse flowing on the while, 
 
 And, pleased, the scenes of by-gone years retrace. 
 
 But, ah ! those scenes, those years, so soon are past, 
 So l)rief the span where all our bliss doth lie ; 
 
 Our joys scarce ripen ere some gathering blast 
 Proclaims the end of frendship's pleasures nigh. 
 
 And soon must he who now essays to pay 
 To thy loved shade this tributary wreath, 
 
 Pass, like thy .self, from scenes of earth away, 
 And quiet rest the mouldering sod beneath. 
 
 But there remains, — and may the thought sustain, 
 And soothe our spirits 'mid the storms that rise ! — 
 
 A state where friends unbroken bliss attain, 
 And death no conquest, no dominion, tries.
 
 'TIS SUMMER-TIME ! 75 
 
 'TIS SUMMER-TIME! 
 
 "T^IS Summer-time ! 'tis Suramer-tirae ! 
 
 And, while beneath these spreading trees 
 I sit rae down, a voice sublime 
 
 I heai" upon each gentle breeze ; 
 It comes from out the verdant sod, 
 
 Enamelled o'er with gems so sweet ; 
 And syllables the name of God 
 
 In flowers that spring beneath my feet. 
 
 I hear it in the murmuring rill, 
 Meandering through the leafy shade, 
 
 Rich, liquid, gushing, tones, that fill 
 With harmony the winding glade : 
 
 And on the breath of fragrant flowers 
 'Tis borne, surpassing sweet, along ;
 
 7G 'tis summer-time ! 
 
 From all above, beneath, it pours : 
 'Tis nature's universal song. 
 
 The fields are dressed in living green, 
 
 The trees their leafy robes unfold, 
 And God's omnipotence is seen, 
 
 August and glorious to behold ; 
 The tender blade, the tuneful grove, 
 
 The sun-lit noon, the twilight dim, 
 The songsters through the air that rove, 
 
 Have all an utterance for Him. 
 
 'Tis Summer-time ! beneath my tread 
 
 Unnumbered flowers, with laughing eye, 
 Are sprinkled o'er the teaming mead, 
 
 Like stars that stud the midnight sky ; 
 Or, bathed in showers but lately o'er, 
 
 They gleam afresh, in peerless pride, 
 Like gems along the ocean shore, 
 
 When washed by the receding tide.
 
 'tis summer-time ! 77 
 
 'Tis Summer-time ! the com is seen, 
 
 Luxuriant, waviut^- far and near ; 
 The lambs are sporting on the green, 
 
 The air is fragrant, soft, and cTcar ; 
 And Nature, with her sweet acclaim, 
 
 Rich offerings on her altar lays, 
 And, while ascends the incense flame, 
 
 She hymns her great Creator's praise. 
 
 'Tis Summer-time ! let us away. 
 
 The joyous, fragrant, fields among. 
 To catch the linnet's thrilling lay, 
 
 The lark's yet more transporting song : 
 Or quaff" the hill-side heathery air, 
 
 And freely o'er the uplands roam, — 
 Loosed fi'om the grasp of anxious care, — 
 
 Where purer inspirations come ; 
 
 Where genius, with artistic skill, 
 The while with Nature, face to face
 
 78 'TIS SUMMER-TIME. 
 
 "With graphic power and noble will, 
 
 Hath sketched her with a matchless grace ; 
 
 Lit up with pure poetic fire, 
 How 6ft bard's noblest song hath been 
 
 Of N^ature, in her rich attire, 
 Her summer livery of green ! 
 
 Oh ! be it mine, this Summer-time, 
 
 To haunt the field, the wood, the jjlain ! 
 To realize the true sublime 
 
 Of Summer's sweet, inspiring, reign ! . 
 To kindle into wrapt delight, 
 
 With glad, yet reverent, heart adore 
 The Author of this beauteous sight ! 
 
 God is His name for evermore.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF KING WILLIAM IV. 79 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF KING WILLIAM IV. 
 
 TT ARK ! the wail, what sounds of sadness 
 Fill the bounds of Britain's isle ! 
 
 Silent is the voice of gladness ; 
 Cancelled is Britannia's smile. 
 
 See ! in tears a nation bending 
 Kound our William's royal urn ; 
 
 Honest hearts with grief are rending, 
 And thy sons, Britannia ! mourn. 
 
 There arc loyal hearts within thee. 
 Land of freedom, land of fame ; 
 
 In thy homes what prayers have blest thee ! 
 Round our hearths how sweet thy name !
 
 80 ox THE DEATH OF KING WILLIAM IV. 
 
 Yea ! there are whose prayers ascended, 
 Monarch ! while wc owned thy sway, — 
 
 Prayers, with patriot fervour blended. 
 All effectual, day by day. 
 
 But no more, throughout our isle, 
 Peals the prayer for Britain's king ; 
 
 Yet her sons shall weep awhile, 
 And their wonted requiem bring. 
 
 Though with grief our hearts be smitten. 
 Yet Victoria cheers our night ; 
 
 Y'es ! her reigri shall rise on Britain 
 Beautiful as morning light. 
 
 Strength in undecaying beauty, 
 Loyal zeal, and patriot fire, 
 
 Subjects bra^'e, and prompt in duty, 
 All to makp thee great conspire.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF KING WILLIAM IV. 81 
 
 Hail ! Victoria, may the glory 
 
 Of thy reiji^n, and thy renown, 
 Be enrolled in future story, 
 
 And descend to ages down ! 
 
 Hail ! Victoria, youthful sovereign, 
 
 Scion of an ancient line, 
 Thrice ten thousand blessings, hovering 
 
 O'er thee through thy days, be thine ! 
 
 God Almighty still deliver 
 
 Thee from foes, and shield thy head ! 
 And prosperity, for ever, 
 
 Through tliy wide dominions spread ! 
 
 ({
 
 ^2 THE FALL OF THE AMORITES. 
 
 THE FALL OF THE AMORITES. 
 
 TXTITH armour equipped, in the noon of their pride, 
 Did the kings of the Amorites vauntingly ride ; 
 And chariot and horsemen, awaiting the fight, 
 Were on Gibeon's plains at the opening light. 
 
 But the armies of Israel assailed them, and, lo ! 
 The wrath of Jehovah came down on the foe ; 
 And they fell in their ranks, and their armour of mail, 
 By the blast of the Lord in the direful hail. 
 
 And the bones of the warrior, whose heart was of steel, 
 Unaccustomed the thrill of compassion to feel ; 
 Who was hot with revenge as he drew forth his blade, 
 Have long on the plains of Beth-horon been laid.
 
 THE FALL OF THE AMORITES. 83 
 
 And the brow, unadorned with the conqueror's wreath, 
 Is dejected and pale with the impress of death ; 
 For the arm of Jehovah's unparalleled might, 
 Was signally bared in His Israel's sight. 
 
 And the sun on the wheels of his chariot was stayed ; 
 And the pale moon the sad demonstration surveyed : 
 Then her silvery rays fell on Ajalon grand, 
 Aqd the night was like day throughout Gibeon's land. 
 
 g2
 
 84 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 "nECEMBER'S sky with storm and tempest lowers, 
 The withering blast sweeps through the leafless trees ; 
 
 The murky night, with fast descending showers, 
 Finds me beside the fire, and laid at ease. 
 Coining some lay with which a friend to please ; 
 
 A friend whom once I knew in other guise. 
 
 But now at college, where no clowns can tease ; 
 
 And there, so snug among the learned and wise, 
 
 May well my humbling theme, and grovelling muse, despise. 
 
 And yet, I'll venture to salute thee still, 
 
 Whom naught can lure fi'om friendship's guileless ways ; 
 At least, I ween thy bosom feels the thrill. 
 
 The generous flame, that through thy spirit plays,
 
 TO A FRIEND. 85 
 
 And bids thee hail my simple, artless, lays ; 
 
 Promptly, and cheerful, I'll pi-esent them here, 
 ' To calm thy breast, thy sinking hopes to raise, 
 
 To soothe thy mind, thy solitude to cheer ; 
 
 And woo thee all life's woes with fortitude to bear. 
 
 Too oft, alas ! our sombre spirits brood 
 
 On future ills by fancy bred alone, 
 Gainsay the plan which heaven designs for good, 
 
 And, blindly en'ing, counter to it run ; 
 And, ere the imagined conflict is begun. 
 
 Sink in despair, and life before us grows 
 A di'eary wilderness, where never sun. 
 
 To gild the gloom, his cheering radiance shows ; 
 
 But all around is dark ; beyond, o'erwhelming woes. 
 
 Still may those hopes which oft thy mind have stayed, 
 When life was rough, and darkness veiled the skies, — 
 
 Hopes which reposed on heaven's sustaining aid, — 
 Yield conscious solace 'mid the storms that rise !
 
 86 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 The unseen hand that guides our destinies 
 
 Hath led thee safely through unnumbered snares, 
 
 Brought to thy wants a thousand rich supplies, 
 Redressed thy griefs, and lightened all thy cares : 
 That hand shall guide thee still, even on to hoary hairs. 
 
 Sweet are the memories of mercies past, 
 
 Of years gone by, but still with pleasure fraught ; 
 
 These, mind, tenacious, holdeth to the last, 
 Firm as when first within its records wrought. 
 
 How will those scenes steal on the indulgent thought ! — 
 The home, the hearth, our youthful hopes and fears, 
 
 Friends, far remored, but ne'er to be forgot. 
 And some consigned to silence and to tears, 
 With all the hallowed scenes of long departed years. 
 
 The sacred ties which knit our souls as one, 
 Our souls which, even yet, harmonious chime, 
 
 Are doubly strengthened by events long flown. 
 Events of honest, artless, youthful prime.
 
 TO A FRIEND. 87 
 
 How oft we've trod the vale at evening time, 
 While yet the day hung lingering in the west ! 
 
 Conversed, and mused, on nature's works sublime ! 
 Heard the last songster sing itself to rest ! 
 Ah ! then no weighty cares disturbed the youtliful breast. 
 
 Say ! is the din of city life more dear, 
 
 The hum of thousands mingling in thy gaze, 
 
 Than the loved cot, the quiet valley, where 
 
 We shared those pleasures of our youthful days : 
 
 Or the sweet prattling, and the artless ways, 
 Of the dear pledges of connubial vows ; 
 
 Thine own sweet home, ah ! that endearing phrase ! 
 The soothing counsel of thy faithful spouse. 
 And all those sacred joys domestic life allows. 
 
 Absent from these, methinks thy spirits pine. 
 
 And claim the sympathies a friend would yield ; 
 Well ! let thy thoughts on future good recline,
 
 88 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 'Tis cheering hope will the prospective gild : 
 There are some flowers along life's chequered field ; 
 
 Anticipate their sweets with hopeful breast ; 
 Thou yet shalt taste of joys, ere time shall wield 
 His scythe, to lay thee in the grave to rest, 
 And thy freed spirit rise to scenes among the blest.
 
 ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE lUUTISIt FORCES. 89 
 
 ON THE 
 
 DESTRUCTION OF THE BRITISH FORCES 
 In Afghanistan, 1840. 
 
 'THE swelling breeze had filled the sail, 
 
 That whitened in the sun ; 
 The noble ship had anchor weighed, 
 
 Her destined course to run : 
 And there, embarked, the soldier stood. 
 
 Erect his manly head ; 
 Doomed in a distant land, for mine 
 
 Alas ! his blood to shed. 
 
 But ah ! what feelings thrilled his soul. 
 
 As round his looks were cast. 
 And saw the land that j;ave him birth
 
 90 ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE BRITISH FORCES. 
 
 Fade on his sight, at last ! 
 TJie land whose spells his manly breast 
 
 Had owned with falling tears, 
 "Where childhood played, and manhood met 
 
 The friends of former years. 
 
 Then there were thoughts of blissful days 
 
 That o'er his spirit came, 
 When in a father's smile he learned 
 
 That sweet, endearing, name : 
 The home, the hearth, the grateful tear 
 
 That spake a mother's joy. 
 As rose her morn and evening prayer 
 
 For him, her darling boy. 
 
 At length, by breeze and billow borne, 
 
 Another land he gains, 
 Where suns, and cloudless skies, are bright 
 
 O'er Afghanistan's plains : 
 But ah I to him the land of death ;
 
 ON THE DP:STRUCTI0N of the BRITISH FORCES. 91 
 
 Her soil liatli drunk his gprc ; 
 He bravely with his comrades fell, 
 ' He fell, to rise no more. 
 
 No more the sire, with hoary hairs, 
 
 Shall start to clasp his son ; 
 Or she that o'er his cradle bent. 
 
 And hushed her wailing one. 
 His plumed head is lowly laid ; 
 
 He lies the sod beneath ; 
 A soldier's grave hath o'er him closed ; 
 
 He sleeps the sleep of death. 
 
 Albion ! while less favoured realms 
 
 Shall calmly rest in peace, 
 Must thy sweet hearths be scarred by war ? 
 
 Their matchless joys decrease? 
 How many homes are cheerless now ! 
 
 How many widows mourn !
 
 92 ox THE DESTRUCTION OF THE BRITISH FORCES 
 
 And hark I that infant's plaintive wail, 
 " When will my sire return ?" 
 
 God of Britain ! shield her sons, 
 
 "Whose valour never waned ; 
 Teach her her prowess, and her might, 
 
 By man is not maintained ; 
 A hand unseen shall wield the sword, 
 
 Her destinies shall guide ; 
 Lay prostrate at her feet her foes. 
 
 And blast them in their pride.
 
 HIS CREED ra BETTEH FAR THAN Til INK. 9S 
 
 HIS CREED IS BETTER FAR THAN THINE. 
 
 TTAST thou within thy breast a flame, 
 A quenchless, an immortal, fire ? 
 
 An essence, yes, that still the same 
 Must glow when ages shall expire ? 
 
 It may be, thou hast this denied, 
 Or doubts of it have troubled thee ; 
 
 My fellow man ! tlien, turn aside, 
 
 Look hei'e, and pause : reflect with me. 
 
 Beholdest thou that humble grave ? 
 
 Therein was laid, with many tears, 
 Him whom no human aid could save, 
 
 Cut off, in prime of strength and years.
 
 94 HIS CREED IS BETTKR FAR THAN THINE 
 
 The mountain pine hast thou not seen, 
 , Which hurricanes around had played, 
 A monument sublime when e'en, 
 All blasted, it on earth was laid ? 
 
 So was it with this noble form ; 
 
 This manly, this majestic, frame, 
 Wrecked by the pestilential storm. 
 
 The dire disease, that quickly came. 
 
 Within that grave I saw him laid, 
 And much his aged father mourned ; 
 
 But, when the last sad rites were paid. 
 And dust to mouldering dust returned ; 
 
 I saw that man of hoary hairs ; 
 
 Amid his grief he stood sublime, 
 Hope brightly beaming through his tears, 
 
 Pointing bevond the bounds of time.
 
 HIS CREED IS P.RTTEU FAR TJiAX THINE. '.)J> 
 
 His creed was, that the grave must be 
 
 To life, immortal life, the way ; 
 That death is immortality, 
 
 The passage to unending day. 
 
 Beneath the weight of years and grief, 
 And dense, and deep, surrounding gloom, 
 
 This gave him comfort, brought relief, 
 And lit (he darkness of the tomb. 
 
 So, when the midnight reign is past. 
 That closes round the traveller's way, 
 
 He hails the morn, it breaks at last, 
 The prelude to encircling day. 
 
 When thou, with anguisli, did'st consign 
 
 To death's inexorable power 
 Thy bosom friend, what hopes were thine, 
 
 To cheer thee in that solemn liour?
 
 96 HIS CREED IS BETTER FAR THA5 THINE, 
 
 Did then thy creed with light surround 
 The grave? — that dim and dreary sphere ;- 
 
 Or was it darkness, all profound, 
 "With not a ray of hope to cheer .' 
 
 If go, then he whose faith can show 
 A hope, and fortitude, divine, 
 
 In life or death, in weal or woe, 
 His creed is better far tlian thine.
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 TO MY SISTEE, 
 
 ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 nPHE flower that drinks the evening dew, 
 
 And sweetly scents the morning air, 
 That blooms in colours rich and new, 
 
 And flourishes awhile so fair, 
 Shall fade before the direful blast, 
 
 An emblem meet of youth's decay ; 
 So soon the spring of life is past, 
 
 And its meridian fades away. 
 
 But time's eventful course mav bring 
 A few more years thy youth to crown ; 
 
 And, like the balmy breath of spring, 
 Which gives the fleeting year renown, 
 
 H
 
 98 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 So youth, improved, shall give to age 
 A lustre that shall ne'er decaj^ ; 
 
 And every' birthday shall presage 
 Honours that ne'er shall fade away. 
 
 Though few the birthdays thou hasL seen, 
 
 Lly sister, in this world of tears ; 
 Yet sorrow hath thy portion been, 
 
 And griefs have multiplied with years : 
 I saw thee drain aiBiction's cup, 
 
 "While yet youth's rising sun did shine ; 
 Kor scarce remained one ray of hope, 
 
 That health would ever more be thine. 
 
 Since then, a few more years have passed, 
 And many, I hope, thou yet wilt see ; 
 
 And, as thy life shall run to waste, 
 More joyous may each birthday be ! 
 
 And, when thy day is nearly done,
 
 TO MY SISTER. 99 
 
 And evening's shades o'er tlice [)i'eTail, 
 Be glorious, then, thy setting sun I 
 Thy portion, bliss that ne'er sliall I'ail ! 
 
 H 2
 
 100 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 THE OEPHANS. 
 
 T^HE sun his dying splendour 
 
 All gloriously did shower 
 On lofty spire, and pinnacle, 
 
 One quiet evening hour ; 
 No sounds discordant mingled, 
 
 As on my way I hied ; 
 And naught the woe betokened 
 
 So soon to be descried. 
 
 At length, I reached a cottage 
 Where scarce a sunbeam glowed. 
 
 So dreary was its aspect, 
 So cheerless its abode ; 
 
 A widow, poor and wretched.
 
 THE ORPHANS. 101 
 
 With orphan children, were 
 Its inmates, — when I saw it, — 
 In want, and in despair : 
 
 One hapless boy had fallen, 
 
 All prostrate, on the ground,- 
 Had swooned away, exhausted, 
 
 And bleeding from a wound : 
 He lay, poor helpless infant ! 
 
 As if in death's embrace, 
 With agony depicted 
 
 Upon his pallid face. 
 
 Another, so afflicted. 
 
 So wasted, thin, and pale. 
 Lay, blasted like a flower 
 
 Before the ruthless gale. 
 A few brief hours subsided.
 
 102 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 And then the struggle ceased ; 
 The stricken one lay quiet, 
 The sufferer was released. 
 
 The mother, — she had hastened, 
 
 With misery half wild. 
 To seek, if she might find it, 
 
 Some succour for her child : 
 Her heart was anguish-stricken, 
 
 Such anguish who can name ? 
 None but a mother knows it ; 
 
 She who has felt the same. 
 
 Six children, poor, afflicted, 
 AVere in that wretched shed ; 
 
 Xo father's hand to shield them. 
 Or earn them daily bread ; 
 
 Life's wilderness before them ;
 
 THE ORrHANS. lOi) 
 
 And never more will they 
 Receive a father's counsel, 
 Along life's weary way. 
 
 When snares their path encircle, 
 
 Unbridled passions reign, 
 Or human frailties mingle 
 
 The mastery to gain ; 
 When life is rough and dreary, 
 
 And sorrows cloud the way. 
 Who then shall guide the fatherless, 
 
 And be the orphans' stay ? 
 
 O Thou ! in pity boundless. 
 The oi'phans' changeless friend, 
 
 What hand but Thine can shield them ? 
 Guide, succour, save, defend ? 
 
 God ! in mercy help Thou
 
 104 
 
 THE OEPHANS. 
 
 The orphan in distress ! 
 Up-raise the crushed in spirit ; 
 Relieve their wa'etchedness. 
 
 Thongh earth is clad in beauty, 
 
 And from the heavens the lioht 
 Is richly streaming earthward, 
 
 So beautiful and bright ; 
 What souls are dark with sorrow ! 
 
 What bosoms heave with grief I 
 How many broken-hearted 
 
 Are sighing for relief ! 
 
 The affluent, surrounded 
 With luxury, and ease, 
 
 And every creature-comfort 
 The appetite to please, 
 
 Alas 1 are often mindless
 
 THE ORPHANS. 105 
 
 Of those who sigh for bread, - 
 TJie widow, and the orphan, 
 Half naked, and half fed. 
 
 Though wealth may claim distinction, 
 
 And thousands, every day, 
 AVill cringe, and fall, before it, 
 
 And homage to it pay, 
 When even its possessor 
 
 Is poor in all beside. 
 Too poor with what is noble 
 
 Ever to be allied ; — 
 
 The sigh, the wail of anguish 
 Ne'er move their callous breast. 
 
 Nor sympathy, nor pity, 
 
 Dwells there for the distressed ; 
 
 No sigh, no tale, of misery
 
 lOr, THE ORPHANS. 
 
 That ever may be told, 
 Allays, one single moment, 
 Their ceaseless thirst for gold. 
 
 That wretched orphan, trailing 
 
 In rags along the street, 
 All deeply foul with mire, 
 
 With bare, and bleeding, feet, 
 No friend, no food, no shelter 
 
 That may for home atone ; 
 His miseiy and anguish 
 
 Mi"ht move a heart of stone. 
 
 Tlie woes of earth are many : 
 The sorrows of my race, 
 
 hapless fellow mortal ! 
 Are stamped upon thy face 
 
 The eye where pity lingers
 
 THE oiirnAxs. loi 
 
 Is wont the tear to shed, 
 To mai-k the path of suffering 
 Humanity must tread. 
 
 The truly noble hearted, 
 
 The generous in mind, 
 Would fain assuage the miseries 
 
 That press upon mankind : 
 But miser, muck-worm, mortals. 
 
 So dwarfed in soul, and poor, 
 Would even spurn the orphan, 
 
 Who beirs from door to door.
 
 108 NAVIGATION LAWS. 
 
 ON THE PROPOSED 
 
 REPEAL OF THE NAVIGATIOX LAWS, 
 In 1847. 
 
 TT has often been said, and there are who yet teach, 
 
 That an Englishman's heart through his throat you must reach 
 
 His liuraour, and courage, depend, they declare, 
 
 On the rum and beefsteaks that may fall to his share. 
 
 Though self-preservation be nature's loved way, 
 And the doctrine just named is correct, you may say: 
 Yet others will firmly maintain that John Bull 
 Will contend for his rights, whether empty, or full. 
 
 But the worst of all evils that John has to dread, 
 So Brougham, Disraeli, and Stanley, have said, 
 Is hatched, and is pending, and will be revealed 
 If the laws of Protection are ever repealed.
 
 NAVIGATION LAWS. 1 O'J 
 
 Our commerce at sea, and our maritime force, 
 'Tis alleged on all hands, will be crippled, and worse ; 
 That John, the first maritime power in the world. 
 Will soon from this lofty position be hm-led. 
 
 The nations of Europe will not entertain 
 This matter, 'tis said, so will pocket the gain ; 
 And, though the example by England be set, 
 They will not espouse it, or copy it, yet. 
 
 • 
 
 There is truth, we believe, and philosophy, here ; 
 And time, and a trial, will make this appear. 
 You speak of philosophy ! can it be so ? 
 Can a measure be bad, and yet popular too ? 
 
 Has the matter not ably been handled throughout, 
 By men of gi'eat tact, in the Senate, and out ? 
 And has it been shown, by philosophy's aid. 
 That the measure will injure our maritime trade ?
 
 110 NAVIGATION LAWS. 
 
 The proof now demanded is this : it is plain, 
 That nations, in general, are anxious for gain, 
 &) much so that, like individual man, 
 They grasp at the profit whenever they can. 
 
 And hence, from analogy, people shoukl learn, 
 That the nations around us will quickly discern, 
 \\ hen the measure propounded is law, as too soon 
 It may be, it will yield them a very gTeat boon. 
 
 Hence, then, they will prize it as bringing them gain. 
 And from the like measure, will, doubtless, refrain ; 
 For, while the concession is all on our side. 
 Theirs will be the profit : this can't be denied. 
 
 If only their laws they would also repeal. 
 And so deal with us as we with them deal ; 
 Why, then would the benefit mutual be. 
 And all 01). the subject proposed would agree.
 
 NAVIGATION LAWS. Ill 
 
 John Bull (loth, however, a generous trait, 
 In matters to state appertaining, display, 
 A sort of large-heartedness, prone to transcend 
 All regard for himself, or the sum he may spend. 
 
 It is with him just now, as it has been of \i^\v, 
 To battle for others, and then pay the score : 
 'Tis generous certainly, noble, and brave, 
 'Tis very magnanimous thus to behave ; 
 
 But is it judicious, or prudent, or wise. 
 This one-sided scheme to suggest, or devise ? 
 "VVe can but predict, — may it never prove true I — 
 John Bull for this measure will certainly rue. 
 
 It is argued by some that we must lead the way, 
 And set the example, without more delay. 
 In all things relating to progress ; and, though 
 We may suffer awhile, 'twill not always be so.
 
 112 NAVIGATION LAWS. 
 
 jMoreover, 'tis said that the fame, and renown, 
 Will be ours, and go to posterity down ; 
 That this, to a people so noble, and strong, 
 Is a motive sufficient to prompt us along. 
 
 This seems rather specious, but does not apply 
 To the matter in question ; do you ask why ? 
 "Why, simply because other nations will say 
 Our interest lies quite in the opposite way. 
 
 How think you will look our brave tars, all the while, 
 On their mess of fi-og-soup in the foreigner's style ? 
 Think you not that the quid will have many a turn, 
 While Jack's weather-eye will vrith enmity burn ? 
 
 England I old England, of ancient renown, 
 Must thy sons' noble spirit be broken thus down ? 
 Must the shaft of destruction thus at thee be hurled ? 
 Whose prowess is echoed through all the wide world.
 
 KAVIGATION LAWS. 113 
 
 Still may the proud ships of our ocean-girt isle 
 Yet cause her in riclies. and commerce, to smile ! 
 And her mariners, cradled in tempest, shall ride, 
 Victorious as ever, upon the blue tide. 
 
 Act nobly thy part ! on thy rulers depend ! 
 
 There are yet those to guide thee, and God.shall befriendj 
 
 " Britannia for ages shall yet rule the waves, 
 
 And Britons shall jstever, no, never be slaves !"
 
 lU TO THE DAISY. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 TTOW shall I speak of thee, sweet flower ? 
 
 Since mighty bards thy praise have sung ; 
 And Burns, with glowing, glorious, power, 
 
 Hath from his lyre such numbers flung 
 That, but for thine alluring spell, 
 
 My humbler muse would droop her wing, 
 Nor would she ever aim to tell 
 
 The memories tliou hast power to bring. . 
 
 Didst thou not bloom amid the bowers 
 
 Depicted still in childhood's page, 
 And tinge with golden hues those hours 
 That fade not with the snows of age ? 
 Around my cottage-home wert thou, 
 
 With thy compeers, like pearls from heaven ; 
 Sweet diadems in nature's brow, 
 Lit up, and to my childhood given.
 
 TO THE DAISY. 115 
 
 Bathed in the radiant beams of light, 
 
 And late with genial dews refreshed, 
 How oft thy looks rejoiced my sight! 
 
 Of all the flowers, I loved thee best : 
 Thou beauteous, waving, gem ! so free 
 
 "When storms arouse the troubled air, 
 An angel's wing might shelter thee, 
 
 As not unworthy of his care. 
 
 Thou liftest up thy little head, 
 
 And grace, and comeliness, are thine; 
 And, in thy looks, who can but read 
 
 A language simple, yet divine! 
 It speaks of Him who did create 
 
 Thy lovely form, and bade thee spring. 
 In living bloom, to decorate 
 
 The green earth with thy blossoming. 
 
 Hadst thou thy birth in Eden's clime ? 
 
 And didst thou feel the gentle air. 
 
 All tremulous, at evening time, 
 I 2
 
 IIG TO THE DAISY. 
 
 "When angels' wings were hovering near ? 
 And didst thou drink the dews that fell, 
 
 And bud in Eden's bowers so sweet ? 
 Oh I tell me, I beseech thee, tell, 
 
 Thou beauteous flower beneath my feet ! 
 
 Suffice for me thy looks, so mild, 
 
 Flashed on me in the light of day, 
 "When I, — an artless, playful, child, — 
 
 Roamed freely o'er the fields away : 
 Those looks allured, and charmed me, then ; 
 
 And still, where'er thy form I see, 
 On moor, or mead, in grove, or glen. 
 
 More beautiful are they for thee. 
 
 I would not bruise thy lowly head, 
 JSTor mar thy graceful form : of old, 
 
 The bai-d of Scotia did that deed, 
 Then in immortal numbers told : 
 
 He gladly would have sought thy weal.
 
 TO THE DAISY. 117 
 
 And sighed to crush thy early birth, 
 For poets, oft, are keen to feel, 
 And love all beauteous things of earth. 
 
 Thou art an'ajed in modest bloom, 
 
 A Summer's sun is o'er thee now ; 
 But soon, full soon, alas ! will come 
 
 The Wintry blast, to scathe thy brow ; 
 For fate decrees both I and thou 
 
 Must rue the bleak, tempestuous, hour, 
 Beneath the storms of time must bow 
 
 When skies are black, and tempests lower. 
 
 And many a dark, and sunless, day. 
 
 And tempest-hour, have o'er us rolled. 
 Yet here thou art, in glad array, 
 
 And I to greet thee as of old : 
 While He who gave us life, and form. 
 
 Who framed the earth, the tenderest blade. 
 Hath oft allayed the raging storm, 
 
 And raised us up, when lowly laid.
 
 118 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 And now, farewell ! I must away, 
 
 Life's noble purpose to fulfil, 
 Pursue with earnest aim its way, 
 
 "With firm, and unrelaxing, will ; 
 And may'st thou live and bloom : and, when 
 
 Shall come the bleak, tempestuous, hour ; 
 Oh ! may'st thou find some shelter, then, 
 
 Thou blithefnl, beauteous, little flower. 
 
 Yes ! thou wilt bloom when life, with me, 
 
 With its conflicting scenes, are o'er ; 
 And genial suns will visit thee, 
 
 "When I behold thy form no more ,- 
 And, when the verdant grass shall wave, 
 
 And leafy woods with warbles ring, 
 Oh ! do thou then my humble grave 
 
 Adorn, thou precious, darling, thing !
 
 THE OLD SOLDIER. 119 
 
 THE OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 npHE sun had crimsoned all the west, 
 
 The day was near its close, 
 And evening gently drawing round 
 
 The curtain of repose : 
 Inimitable beauty seemed 
 
 On all below impressed, 
 And sweetly were the feathered choir 
 
 Singing themselves to rest. 
 
 At this auspicious hour, I sought. 
 
 In meditative mood, 
 Some respite from tumultuous life, 
 
 Some place of solitude. 
 Beside my path, as on I passed, 
 
 A poor old man reclined ; 
 His scanty locks, all silvery wliite, 
 
 Were floating in the wind.
 
 120 THE OLD SOLDIER 
 
 His eye was dim ; and care, aud want, 
 
 And age, had on him told ; 
 He spake of eighty years, or more. 
 
 That o'er his head had rolled. 
 And, like an ancient tree that falls 
 
 Wlien time hath sealed its doom, 
 This venerable man appeared 
 
 Just ready for the tumb. 
 
 Life's long, aud toilsome, day, with him, 
 
 Was nearing to its close, 
 And, travel-worn, this aged man 
 
 Sighed for the grave's repose ; 
 Yet meek submission, patience, trust, 
 
 Hope, fortitude divine, 
 His countenance, serene, pourtrayed. 
 
 As it was turned on mine. 
 
 Philosophy may proudly scorn, 
 
 The infidel despise 
 The good man's inward solace, hope.
 
 THE OLD SOLDIER. 121 
 
 His hold upon the skies : 
 His faith, his trust., is in the Lamb, 
 
 The one oblation made, 
 His comfort this amid life's woes, 
 
 And death's approaching shade. 
 
 The liard realities of life, — 
 
 Privation, labour, jjain, — 
 This aged man had oft endured. 
 
 On battle-field, and main ; 
 In manhood's prime, amid the brave. 
 
 The battle's dread array, 
 He fought, he bled, for England's weal, 
 
 Where War's red carnage lay. 
 
 The current of his soldier-life, 
 
 Impetuous, and strong, 
 At length was calmed, and changed, when years 
 
 Had rolled their course along : 
 And, as he sought his father-land,
 
 122 THE OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 Where friend, and kindred, slept, 
 And saw his cottage-home again, 
 He sat him down, and wept. 
 
 He wept that now no father's smile, 
 
 No mother's fond embrace, . 
 Awaited him, for both were borne 
 
 To their last resting place : 
 The loved companions of his youth 
 
 Were scattered wide, or laid 
 Within the precincts of the grave, 
 
 Beneath the elm-trees' shade. 
 
 And, as he lingered near the spot 
 
 W^here once his childhood grew, 
 And all the past was reproduced 
 
 So vividly to view, 
 He breathed a prayer sincere to heaven, 
 
 A suppliant groan, a sigh, 
 That he forgiveness might obtain, 
 
 And then, at home, might die.
 
 THE OLD SOLDIER, 123 
 
 This man of valour, stern and tried, 
 
 That oft the foe withstood, 
 And firmly braved the blast of war, — 
 
 The shock, the charge of blood, — 
 Now, with an anxious, broken heart, 
 
 With misery oppressed, 
 Sought, till he found, the heavenly balm 
 
 That bealed his bleeding breast. 
 
 A radiant beam of light divine 
 
 Dispelled his midnight gloom, 
 Illumed the wilderness of life, 
 
 And shone upon the tomb. 
 The Christian's armour thence he wore. 
 
 And, counting all things loss, 
 He fought, the victory to 'win, — 
 
 A soldier of the Cross. 
 
 ^nd now, his sun was going down. 
 
 Serene, and broad, "and bright, 
 And, at the evening time of life,
 
 124 THE OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 There beamed the heavenly light ; 
 And, leaning on his staff, he said 
 
 "My conflict now is brief. 
 Life's passage has with me been rough 
 
 Across this world of grief : 
 
 "I've in my countiy's service bled, 
 
 Amid the battle's roar ; 
 My sole reward the victor's joy, 
 
 When the hard fight was o'er : 
 Enlisted in my Saviour's cause, 
 
 How poor the service given ! 
 Yet here, how rich is my reward ! — 
 
 To be prolonged in Heaven." 
 
 He paused, with deep emotion swayed ; 
 
 His tears then copious fell, 
 Which more of inward joy revealed 
 
 Than even words could tell : 
 And, contemplating death as near,
 
 THE OLD SOLDIER. 125 
 
 Like Israel of old 
 He with his fathers fain would rest 
 Beneath the parent mould. 
 
 " How oft when I, at duty's call, 
 
 In distant spheres did roam, 
 My thoughts," he said, "would dwell on this, — 
 
 On kindred, and on home ! 
 And, God be praised ! that I, at last, 
 
 Shall lay my bones with those 
 Of loved ones in my native land, 
 
 In undisturbed repose." 
 
 And, as upon his face I looked, — 
 
 Time-furrowed, pale, and wan, — 
 Instinctive nature in me urged 
 
 The Brotherhood of Man : 
 The common sympathies we feel. 
 
 Of action, thought, or mind, 
 God, in His wisdom, gave us these 
 
 To benefit our kind.
 
 126 DEPARTED HOURS. 
 
 DEPARTED HOUES. 
 
 A H ! think not that departed hours 
 
 Have left no trace behind, 
 Like dewdrops, kissed from Summer flowers, 
 
 Or echoes on the wind : 
 For still, in memory's page appears, 
 
 In prominent array, 
 The record of preceded years, 
 
 For ever passed away. 
 
 'Mid silence, or the busy hum 
 
 Of life, — in every place, — 
 The memories of the past will come 
 
 To meet us, face to face ; 
 Will come, to yield us joy or grief, 
 
 As acts of days gone by 
 Shall colour out in bold relief, 
 
 And good, or ill, im^jly.
 
 DEPARTED HOURS. 127 
 
 The clouds, all tinged with golden hues. 
 
 That round our childhood spread, 
 Have disappeared like Summer dews, 
 
 And are for ever fled ; 
 But still the memory doth remain 
 
 Of all this fairy scene ; 
 In retrospect it lives again. 
 
 Though years have rolled between. 
 
 • 
 
 No more the patriarch of the vale, 
 
 Beside his cottage door, 
 Shall greet our childhood with the tale 
 
 That charmed us oft, of yore ; 
 But ah ! to memory still endeared, 
 
 Nor may we soon forget 
 How beautiful the scene appeared ; 
 
 The vision lingers yet. 
 
 No more the warm, endearing, smile, 
 
 That like a sunbeam came, 
 And dried our infant tears the while
 
 128 DEPARTED HOURS. 
 
 TVith its maternal flame ; — 
 Though now no more, as when of old. 
 
 That smile be on us cast, 
 Its sjjells no language may unfold, 
 
 Endearing all the past. 
 
 • Departed hours, \yho may forget ? ' 
 
 In retrospect arrayed, 
 •^'hat visions linger round them vet. 
 
 All tinged with light, or shade ! 
 The hallowed scenes of early years, 
 
 The forms, and faces, there. 
 Are yet beheld, through smiles, or tears, 
 
 All fresh, as once they were. 
 
 The day, with sunlit morning crowned, 
 
 Oft yields to early gloom ; 
 And thorns, and flowers, spring up around 
 
 The pathway to the tomb ; 
 And, where along life's road we've passed,
 
 DEPARTED HOUR.S. ' 12'.i 
 
 Momcntoos still there be 
 ()[' sunlit hours, or hours o'ereasL 
 \^'ith clouds, full suddenly. 
 
 T]ien,t,hiuk not that d(>part.ed hours 
 
 Have left no trace l)ehind, 
 r^iko devvdrops, kissed from Summer flowers, 
 
 Or echoes ou the wind : 
 At niuiii. or eve. at noon, or niirht. 
 
 Or wheresoe'er we stray, 
 Ah : what mementoes meet the si<rht, 
 
 Of iiuurs Umw pii.s>t;i itwiiy I 
 
 THE END.
 
 Smith ."c Ebbs, Pbintebs, Toweu Hill, 
 London.
 
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