>..^.-. ,9?^i^^>*>y»« THE LAST PLAGUE OF EGYPT, THE GERMAN GLADIATORS, GREAT KING HEROD, AND OTHER POEMS. <^ Jttctrical JtteliUu oi Originiil |Jicccs, WRITTEN AT VARIOUS TIMES, FOR THE AMUSEMENT OF THE AUTHOR'S CHILDREN, AND ALSO FOR GENERAL READERS. BY THE REV. JOSEPH B. McCAUL, HONORARY CANON OF ROCHESTER CATHEDRAL, AND RECTOR OF ST. MICHAEL BASSISHAW, CITY OF LONDON ; AUTHOR OF 'a COMMENTARY ON THE EPISTLE TO THE HEBREWS,* 'dark sayings of OLD,' 'SUNDAY REFLECTIONS ON CURRENT TOPICS,' ETC. LONDON: LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO., PATERNOSTER ROW. 1880. [All Rights reserved.} LONDON : PRINTED DY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. TO HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN, THESE FEW PAGES ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED THE AUTHOR. *-\ir»r»«~>#~»^ P R E F A C E. " Good Wine," says the well-worn proverb, " needs no bush." In like manner, a book that tells its own story sufficiently, requires a preface of veiy moderate dimensions. The writer is by no means of the opinion that the purpose of language is the concealment of one's thoughts. Language is the mirror of the mind. In proportion to its clearness does it reflect the thoughts of the speaker, or writer, to the readers or listeners, with greater or less distinctness. Much pains have therefore been taken to make the following pieces as intelligible as possible. Many of them have been, for years, a source of amusement to the author's children. He trusts that they may now prove acceptable to a wider circle of readers. As for the author himself, they have beguiled many an hour, when severer work was prohibited. He trusts that any possible tinge of melancholy which may perchance cling to some of them, may not prove altogether distasteful to his readers. As to others of a lighter character, the only palliation for their publication may be found in the fact that they would be sadly missed by those for whom they were originally written, were they omitted from this " metrical medley." They have long been, with many others not herein contained, as Household Words in the family circle. London, November^ 1S79. CONTENTS. PAGE lAGE The last Plague of E^ypt . I Mother Dear ! . 82 The German Gladiators 6 Despondency . 8j Great King Herod lO The End of Grief 84 Paid in Copper . 17 A Dream of Summertide" . 85 Absence .... 20 Sympathy 86 Stormy Sunset . 20 Little Joys S7 Moonlight. 21 The Quest of Joy 88 Spring Morning 22 Sunset . 89 London Bridre . 22 The Death of Winter. 90 All round the Clock in the Drivelling 91 Tropics .... 28 Taken by Assault 93 Autumnal Glories 33 The Sacked Town 95 Squire Tough, or Buried Alive 34 The Sound without a Name 97 Waiting ..... 44 Colourlessness . 97. The Perfect Day 44 Silent Meditation 98 The Rupert Correspondence 46 Making Game of a Donkey 99 The Storm Child 49 Gleams of Sunshine . 100 Ploughing and Sowing 49 Daybreak 100 Catharine Spence SO Swagger . lOI The Stolen Bride 52 Dying 102 The MiUiner . 53 Moping . . 103 The Tailoress to Darkness . 54 Out on the Moors 104 Building Sepulchres . 55 Gibraltar . . 105 Voices of the Bygone . 62 The perfect Roman Gentle The Rising Storm 63 man to his Slave 106 Bullying .... 64 Spellbound 107 Ex uno disce omnes . 64 The Bells of Amsterdam 108 The Emigrant and the Sun 65 The Wolves 110 The Village Smithy . 65 Pile up the Turf III Memory's Dreams 66 Betrayal . 112 Kindness .... 67 The Phantom Chase . 113 Love's Garlands 68 . Dejection . 114 Despair .... 69 Modern Witchcraft . 114 Hope .... 70 The March of May . 116 The Residue 71 Griefs Livery 118 What the Nightingale said . 72 Presumption 119 Toleration. 74 Success 121 The Afterglow . 75 Mrs. D. H. Stone {in Me- Advancing Age . n moriani) 122 By a Perpetual Decree 79 To the Marquis of Salisbury 122 Misunderstood . 80 Ready, aye Ready 123 The Broad Arrow 81 Lord Chief Justice Whitesid e The Matron 82 {in Meinoriain) 125 VIU Contents. PAGE U.T. (Jn .}femormm) . 125 W. W. Willson, Esq. {in Memoriavi) . . .126 W. B. {in Memoriani) . 127 In remembrance of a Young Englishman . . ,127 Mrs. \{7!i\&xg2\{in Memoriani) 128 C. A. C. Libosan {in Me- vioriavi) . . .129 Joseph Tiley, Esq., Mus. Doc. {in Memoriam) . 1 30 Memory . . . • 131 Envy . . . .132 Backbiting . . -133 Outward-bound . . ' . I35 Homeward-bound . . 137 The four Travellers . . 138 To the Swallow's Departure 139 ■ The Night Wind in Amstcr- dam . . . . 140 Peace and War 141 Storm Deferred. i^fi The first Snowdrop . 143 Dead Loves 144 Ambition . . . . 145 The Road to Jericho . 146 For Evermore . 147 Love's Eclipse . 148 The Unconscious Bore 148 The Mudbuilt Town . 149 The Strong East Wind 149 Tommy Shephard and the - Leopard 150 Nightmare 152 The Phantoms' Picnic 153 Xantippcj . 15s Passing Storm . 156 The Birth of Spring . 157 Winter's Fogs . . 158 Truth 159 Lying . 165 Boorishncss . 167 Too clever by half 169 The School-girl's Dream 172 I'Llegy to a Canary-bird 174 Alice, Princess of England {in Memoriam) 175 IVL N. {in Memoriam) Der Nix . Betrothal Epithalamium . The Phantom Ship Sea Song Der Husar Joy's Eclipse The Cloud-draped Sea Summer and Winter . James Dignam, Esq. {in Memoriam) . The Stormy Sea Song of the Midnight Breeze The idle Summer Wind Edged Tools The Lost Husband and the Fish Dinner . On a Picture of a Man slain by a Hydra . Voices of the Night . Earthbound May-day . Death-struck Anacreontic Drowned . Boast not ! Boast 4iot of the Morrow . Only a Waiter . A Chat with Pussy Early Winter Trust not the Waves . The Hunter's Dream . A Tale of a Tiger The Lion and the Boar The Syce and the Tiger " Taking the Chair at Morning Meeting " . Lovers' Jars Rose Leaves Bandusia's Fount Prince Louis Napoleon {in Metnoriam) . A Tiger Behind Nightfall .... The Lion and the Eaglt Woman's Tact . PAGE 176 176 177 178 178 181 182 183 184 184 185 186 187 190 191 192 196 196 197 198 199 200 201 204 206 207 208 210 213 215 218 219 220 221 222 22c 226 228 THE LAST PLAGUE OF EGYPT |HE anxious sun went down beneath the sands Of queenly Egypt, whilst foreboding sighed The chill spring breezes ; and the dubious sky Flashed with an orange glamour streaked with black — Impatient darkness waited to begin, Eager to pass away a night of doom That would be lurid with the Last sore Plague — Against that weird, that awful, gruesome light Which glared behind them like the kindling flush Of conscious guilt, the Pyramids stood out, Yes, and the stubborn Sphinx till sunrise dumb ; Whilst whispering palm-trees waved aloft their arms As if to " hish " away from coming death All wayfarers, all simple travelling folk — Palms, Pyramids, and Sphinx they all stood out, They all awhile stood out in black relief Before that fearful orange-coloured sky ! * * , * * * If. The kindly arms of dimness soon embrace The stately fanes of Luxor and Carnac — From lake and stream, from seething cataract, The snow-white ibises and pelicans. The red flamingoes have long since flown home To their moist, reedy lairs beside the Nile. No sound is heard along the fertile banks B The Last Plag7ie of Egypt. Of Father Nilus save the foamy plash Of crocodile, or mouseing screech-owl's hoot, The croak of bull-frogs, or the gusty sighs Of the lone night wind wafting to the moon — As though she listened — the weird evening chant Of dusky oarsmen paddling to their huts Along the sedgy creeks, and thickets dense Of rank papyrus. So the night wore on — Yes ! — All was dark except the starlit sky. Yes ! — All was dark, save where the glimmering lamp In some lone lattice on the river's side. Told of love's vigils by the couch of pain. Or by the feebler lamp of fading life — Yes ! It ivas dark — Pithom and Raamses, Great Egypt's treasure cities, all were still. Thebes, hundred-gated Thebes was hushed in sleep ; Alone the watchful sentinels' slow tread Was heard before proud Pharaoh's palaces. ****** As we have told, accustomed night had stilled The roar of cities and the breezy hum Of village life, in Egypt's fertile land — Yet, at that hour when king and peasant slept, The glare of tapers from the casements gleamed Of slumb'ring Pharaoh's shrewd prime-minister, And flashed upon the obelisks outside, As though the curious flame would seek to read Some hint, some presage that had shadowed forth Egypt's sore Plagues in stone-cut hieroglyphs. Jannes,* first minister of Egypt's king. And first magician, held high converse with Jambres his brother cheat, and chancellor Of Rahab, that is Egypt's treasury. " I was at prayers to-day," Jannes began, " In yonder fane, and thus I heard a man " Address the image of his patron god " — * 2 Tim. iii. 8. The Last Plague of Egypt. -3 The Prayer. Plague upon plague, that mystic three times three, Nine plagues have smitten with successive stroke Our Fatherland, long envy of the world ; Have ruined thousands — scattered to the winds Long years of patient avaricious thrift ! On the exchange our merchant-princes wince, So many first-rate houses have succumbed. Folks say those wretched Hebrew curs again Have been a-praying (Curse the slaves, ye Gods !) To their "Jehovah," Maker, so they boast. Of heaven and earth, and e'en of Holy Nile — Oh, Great Osiris ! I am sore perplexed — Speak, speak, Osiris ! Great Osiris, tell, Will the tenth Plague of which they talk so much Slay all the Firstborn ? — " So he maundered on " — I HAVE ONE SON — Oh, say it is not true ! I won't believe it ! — Nay — I want to know Why we, in vain, before thy image bow ? — Speak up, misshapen stone ! — Hast thou no tongue ? I charge thee answer as thou art a god ! — No word .'' — No hint .'' — No sign of sympathy 1 Speak up ! Speak up ! — Thou misbegotten dolt ! Explain why thy sleek priests accept our gifts — Jannes and Jambres — (These — yes ! — ^These, I mean — ) Accept our presents firstlings of our stores. Gold, silver, jewels, "offerings," — so they say — To thy Divinity !— Osiris ! Wake ! Base, slumb'ring stone, awake, and tell me why Those nine sore Plagues have gutted Egypt's land, And why myself, thy constant worshipper. Am threatened with the loss of all my slaves ? I gave them straw, when I, at last, found out That bricks could not be made without sovte straw — B 2 The Last Plague of Egypt. Osiris ! ! — Oh, Osiris ! ! ! — Tell me why Those clownish slaves — those Hebrew herdsmen talk Of one more Plague, and now are almost free ? Oh, brutish God ! ! ! — No more sweet cane I'll bring- No more frankincense — till I understand Why Jannes shrinks, and Jambres trembles so When Moses speaks, and Aaron waves his rod — I think — yes — I dare say it — Yes ! I think Jannes and Jambres are infernal cheats. And Egypt's gods will get the worst of it ! " Did he say so ? ! ! " shrieked Jambres to his chief, " Art thou Grand Vizier ? Wilt thou tolerate " Such treason ? — Gods ! — The man must be put down- " Just send and fetch the villain from his bed, " The headsmen soon " Hist ! Jannes, what is that ? " What is that piercing scream ? — There 'tis again ! — " Oh, Gods ! " It's midnight ! " Hark ! " The screams ! — The screams ! " From every house ! — The city is alive ! " Look out ! " Look out ! " The city is alive — " Look out ! — Look out ! A hundred torches flame " In the full streets — " The last sore Plague has come !- " I too have got one son ! " Oh ! Jannes, don't !— " Don't turn so pale — " Thou art Prime-Minister ! — " Thou must do something — " Order out the Guards ! "■ Jannes turned sick, and swooning murmured out — The Last Plague of Egypt. " Do what ? — Do what ? Oh, Jambres, save my son ! " The Plague had come indeed — unmarked by men, God's Angel had come down amidst the gloom, And lighted on the highest Pyramid — The evening star went out when his bright sword Flashed from its sheath. Awhile the angel paused, And then spread out his wings and slowly flew Down from his height, as though his awful eyes Would pierce into each cranny and each nook Of Egypt's every house ! He sailed along And marked e'en slave-girls who had got a son, A firstborn son, and where He passed he died — Even the flocks and herds were not exempt. Not Pharaoh only, but his sheep and kine Sent up a moan of grief and wild dismay — No hut, no stable where was not one dead ! Oh, what a night was that in Egypt's land ! The frightful tidings spread, and men rushed forth, And frenzied women dancing with despair, Into the roadways shrieking, " Shut your doors ! " Bar up your windows ! " Keep the Angel out ! "Jehovah walks abroad ! " We're all dead men ! " Swift messengers afoot tore through the streets. In chariots flew, on swifter horses rode To fetch the medicine-man in magic skilled, To fetch the leech to heal the Firstborn slain. A chariot stopped before great Jannes' door. And as it stopped one foaming horse fell dead. Whilst a daft mother rushed inside the house, • Tearing her hair, and crying, as if possessed, " He shall not have him ! He is only mine ! " He shall not have him ! He's my only son ! " Come, Jannes ! Come with me and save my son ! "— She spoke to Jannes but she did not mark — The Ger?nan Gladiators. She was distraught, and so she did not mark That Jannes sat stone-dead upon his chair Clutching the body of his only son ! ****** That very night the sons of Jacob marched With wives and little ones, with flocks and herds, Marched out of Egypt— Pharaoh's slaves no more ; God set them free — Their servitude was o'er ! -«K»OiO THE GERMAN GLADIATORS. N the arena deathlike silence reigned ! Yes, deathlike silence, for upon the sand, The blood-soaked sand, lay palpitating yet The hacked and mangled corpses of brave men ; Fierce Teutons, sons of Germany, lay there. Once, in their forest lairs, the rivals keen And stalwart slayers of the boar, the wolf, The shaggy bear, and deadlier wild cat. Brave, savage captives — there they stiffening lay. Their clotted flaxen locks all intertwined ; Their massive left hands on each other's throats, The right still clutching trident, sword, or club ! Yes ! Silence reigned. The fight had been so keen. So fiercely mighty, betwixt man and man — And countless couples fought that bloody day — The battle was so keen that Roman maids, And Roman matrons yet sat quite transfixed With eager interest in the horrid sport. And quite forgot that they were interested In the success of those they'd bet upon. Yes — Roman maids and matrons were so dazed, The German Gladiators. The fight, the struggle, it had been so sharp. So far beyond what Cruelty had hoped, That Avarice itself was thrust aside, And no one asked who'd lost, or who had won ; The greatest loss were cheap at such a sight ! The Roman beauties were completely dumb, The spectacle had been so wonderful — Those fair-haired savages had died so hard ; None claimed her bet — She was too much inflamed By the grand show, the horrible pastime — Yes, none had won, and every bet was lost. Because the fighters all were dead alike. It was a stirring struggle ! Each fair face ' Had flamed with fury, or grown pale with rage. As she beheld her favourite go down. But now the glut of blood defeated gold — • The last two men had only just succumbed. And brazen Beauty had not realised That all her bets were lost — But to resume : In the arena deathlike silence reigned ! A surfeit of delight reaction brings ; So still it was, that women's throbbing hearts (Oh gems, how falsely shrined !) might e'en have heard Their pulses beat, their life's blood eloquent With lust of pain that drove out love of gold, With joy at seeing so much human woe. 'Twas frightful silence, like the pause which storms Make 'twixt each blast. And from the deep-scarred sands Of the arena, on the bloody steam Which the fierce sun drew up from their own gore, The fretted, furious souls of murdered men Compelled to kill each other for the sport Of Roman " ladies " — Heaven forgive the word ! — Were mounting slowly to Walhalla's halls. 'Tis lunch-time now — the real feast comes yet. Hist ! How the trumpets blare — gates wide are flung ; 8 The German Gladiators. And men and horses all caparisoned In circus glories ('Tis a play, you know !) Come tearing in, and tossing up the sand Of the arena save where drenched with blood — 'Tis but a moment, and the hook is fixed In some poor German's body — then away ! The garish cavalcade whirls swiftly out, And then returns to drag away some more. And so it comes and goes till none are left. The ladies are at lunch ; they do not look At such displays. By Jove, they are too tame ! The doors are shut. No valiant eyeballs glare Glazed with the gloze of death, at that fair crowd Of chattering Loveliness which talks again— But lunch is over. The Falernian's quaffed ; The empty wine cups for small odds are chucked Down from the boxes by voluptuous hands At the red spots where such and such men died ; Hits are to win, but misses they must pay ! The arena's empty — but new sport begins — Again the hinges of the portals creak, And through the doors are thrust an unarmed crowd Of Christian martyrs — men and wives, and babes ; Then with a mighty thud the doors are closed, And as the echo travels round the mob, A savage shriek of ecstasy breaks forth, " Noiv for the lions I " " Let the tigers loose ! " For now behind the several massive doors / From whence wild beasts are goaded forth to fight, Is heard the savage scream, the frantic yell, Of Indian tigers starved to make them fierce : The furious roar of black-maned lions from The Lybian deserts whets the appetite Of the accomplished audience for fresh blood. " How fierce they seem ! " each rosy mouth exclaims, " We sJiall have sport ! Look how those children clutch The Ger77tan Gladiators. g " Their mammies' garments. Oh ! ye gods, prevent " The dear wild beasts from killing them too soon. " Those Christians are the foes of human kind — " The world's worst foes." And what a world it was ! But yet we see that even that world prayed — 'Twas scant they knew of God's great fatherhood ; But yet these Pagans felt there was a God. 'Twas Christ's to teach men truly how to pray ; And why ? Because He taught men how to love. One moment more — the iron doors fly ope — Tigers from these, lions from those swarm forth With blinking eyes beneath the August sun ; The laggards driven out by flaming pitch : And then the portals of the dens are closed. They fain must fight, because there's no retreat. The audience rises, stands upon tip-toes, And drowns the roar of beasts with one vast cheer ! Each other first the rival monsters spy, And straightway leap in furious bounds across The wide arena, sniffing up the blood. The too fresh blood of those poor German braves. And then ensues a devilish whirligig Of beast round beast, each raving mad for blood ; A carnival of hate, like fiends that vie To drown each other in Hell's boiling tides, All sore tormented by the fiery surf, Yet rising on the crest of each red wave. To rend and tear, to buffet, and to spit Hot maledictions at each fiend they see. And then is seen the helter-skelter chase — The headlong charge — the furious wrestling match. Again the sands are scarred, as each lithe brute Pins down his rival, or leaps nimbly by To roll and roll next moment in the sand — lO Great King Herod. The boxes cheer no more — They're too absorbed — They hold their breath — The beasts alone are heard The horrid snap of gleaming, dripping fangs, The crunch of breaking bones — the piercing screams Of disappointed rage, as beast borne down By stronger beast, yells vengeance forth, and rakes His adversary's ribs with twitching claws — The strangled growls of royal tiger choked By lion's giant grip upon his throat — Or lion's stifled howls before he dies ; Until at last, when weary of the fight, At which the women are in tears of joy, The grim survivors of the bestial strife Spy the poor Christians — Then the fun, The business of the day begins at once. They lash their heaving sides, all sweat and gore, And with exulting snarls make for the prey ! Great God of Love ! — Is this what Science, Arts, Without thy Gospel, taught poor human hearts ? >J*io GREAT KING HEROD. WAS in the days of Great King Herod's reign — " Herod the Great " folks dubbed him. We prefer To call him " Great King Herod" — great in crime, In lust, and cruelty and every sin — Great in vain-glory— that enchanting fault. So odious in self-seeking, foppish men, But which in woman makes her try to please, Unconscious that all hearts were long since won ; Churls call it " vanity," but men adore The winsome self-respect that yet would charm — Great Kino; Herod. 1 1 Which, like the sunbeam, gladdens every one. But ne'er forgets that it was sent by God To purify the earth, as well as cheer. No cloud of fragrance would go up to heaven At early morn, except the flow'rets waved Their golden censers, conscious of their grace. And softly wooed admirers to look on. All goodly women * have a looking-glass Within their hearts, which shows them half the truth. They see they're fair, but know not how divine — True loveliness is always musing how To be more lovely — Is this Vanity ? All know how females of a certain type, Pert, fly-blown slatterns far more wise than nice, Scowl at a match-girl with a pretty face. And always count frank kindliness a sin. But men are juster — They more fairly judge That honest Nature rarely does by halves What she has will to do. A comely face, A shapely form, bespeak a gentle soul. But we have quite digressed — We pardon crave — Our theme was Herod and his worthy deeds 'Twas in the days of Great King Herod's reign, Fit prototype of bluff, wife-slaying Hal — Half man, half goat, sagacious Edomite — Folk say, a satyr after Herod's death — " Demise " we should have said, if quoting from The Morning Post of those punctilious days — Folk say, a satyr with a pimpled face. Pot-bellied, bloated, of unsteady gait, Oft prowled about fair Csesarea slums ; f * By the word "goodly" the writer would allude to, he cannot define, that unselfish graciousness which Divine Goodness has assigned to woman, in ample compensation for physical strength which is man's prerogative. His is the lot of labour. Hers is the joyful ministry of consolation. t Herod the Great adorned and beautified Cresarea at great expense, and in the style of Pagan Rome. The orthodox Jews abhorred all heathen innovations. The "sect of the Herodians " were free-thinkers who acquiesced in these tokens of modern civilisation. 12 Great King Herod. The face was Herod's, but the spectre's legs And cloven feet at once proclaimed the fiend A ghostly chip of hairy Esau's block. Yet Esau made it up with Jacob, and forgave The mess of pottage, though he'd sworn to kill His crafty brother, when blind Isaac died ; Hot Esau fumed when Jacob got clear off To his long exile in the Syrian land ; " After those days " the brothers met again And Esau's hearty grip made Jacob wince ; They met to kiss, and talk about old times ! But the Great Herod, though of Esau's line, Out-Esau'd Esau in his savage hates. His dark suspicions, and undying grudge. He ate men's pottage, sat at their brave boards. And gormandised till he could hold no more. Then, when the cloth was drawn, and " Grace was sung," And the Judaean Harker * cried aloud " Pray fill your glasses I — Silence for a toast ! " Herod looked pleased — He knew his health came first ; He knew his trembling host had well prepared A mess of flattering lies dear to the king ! Suppose a case — King Herod sits half-drunk (The Tyrian sailors called it " half-seas-o'er"), Sits crowned with flowers at a Levite's board. Who was Lord Treas'rer of the " Den of Thieves," A very millionaire, but did not shrink To pocket now and then a widow's mite, But yet a very influential man — The halberdiers pace up and down outside. The lifeguards walk their horses to and fro. The house and streets are bright with colour'd lamps. And gay transparencies provided by The smug contractor of the Board of Works, « Mr. Harker is the well-known " toastmaster " to the City of London. His stentorian voice and special experiences make him a sine qua itou at civic feasts. He stands behind the Lord Mayor's chair, and proclaims each toast in due order. Great King Herod. 13 The royal carriage waits — the horses champ Their jangling bits, and paw the dusty ground ; The King's state-coachman puts a tankard to His thirsty lips, and hands it back well drained To an Egyptian " Jeames," all tags and plush, And with a most portentous gold-topped cane. A rabble-rout of larking men and boys, And frowsy women pass their time in "chaff" And rowdy horse-play — real " Philistines," Waiting to see " Great Herod's" coach drive off, And mock the " awficers," who cry " Move on ! " Until some livelier varlet gets locked up — Here lounge a knot of Moabitish sheiks : There a rapscallion thief from Jericho, With his hard shrewish wife now first in town, Stands gaping on — She leans her head upon Her dirty hand, almost with toothache blind ; Her husband grins, and with an oath exclaims, " You've learnt at last, old girl, to hold your jaw ! " The gentle reader doubtless will forgive, That we translate the slang of those queer times ; 'Twill charm Max-MuUerites to know the source Whence costermongers have derived the phrase But to return to that brave banquet-hall — The " Loving cup " has passed, dessert is on : The host stands up endeavouring to be brave, And Herod cocks his ears and forward leans — 'Twas Herod's custom to destroy his hosts If they seemed rich — But yet the host stands up, And smiling, says, although his husky voice Clings to his jaws — " My Lords and gentlemen, *' Here's to our King ! — Our gracious Sovereign Lord, " Whose kindly deeds are known throughout the world ; " Deeply I thank him, condescending Prince, " For honouring to-night this humble board ! " And yet the sneak, he trembled for it now. Was a repeater of the trite bon-mot, 14 Great King Herod. " The very pigs in Herod's royal sties " Are to be envied before Herod's sons ! " Augustus meant to say, the swine would live Till they were fit to kill, but Herod's sons Lived on from day to day in fear of death. Forgive ! — We left the Levite on his legs ; We need not add the rest. He thus concludes, " My Lords and gentlemen, upstanding drink, " With three times three, benign King Herod's health ! " Benign King Herod, with pleased, tipsy nods. Acknowledges the toast, and then drives back To his self-widowed home — Ye Gods ! How so ? " Self-widowed .-' " — Yes — his chaste, most beauteous wife Lies stark and dead — The executioner's Hard, callous gripe is printed on her charms ; Her snowy arms and neck are black and blue — Last night they slew her — Yes — the hangman's hands Last night destroyed her ; for her jealous lord Was drunk, the sot, and fancying her false, Raved out the warrant for her instant death ! The deed was done — dead Mariamne lay As yet unburied, for affection feared To pay the last sad office to her dust ! After some days the Great King Herod had A sober interval, and knew his loss. Beast that he was, his Mariamne's smile Was the one charm that drove his fiend away. But now the devil crept up to his side As soon as he got back from that grand feast ; He scarce had donned his flowered dressincr-o-own, Before his slaves had put his slippers on, Ere he had time to sip his custom'd glass, His fiend, his own familiar cruel fiend. Crept to his side, and mockingly began : " The King's alone — I humbly audience crave — " King Herod waved him off, the demon hissed, " I will be heard ! — Nay — put not up those hands — Great King Herod. 1 5 See how they drip with Mariamne's blood ! There is thy kerchief — wipe them, or thy robe, Thy dressing-gown will be unbearable — I thought the King was scrupulously neat — Mariamne made it — Come now — be a man — I'll not torment — Let's choose another theme — Hast thou forgotten that the Jewish lord Who gave thy health to-night is very rich, Is popular — and dangerously rich ? But Great King, harkee ! — he's a traitor too, Didst not thou notice he left out the toast Of ' Queen and Royal Family I to-night ? And yet it was perhaps excusable. Because thy murdered Queen lies stark and dead. But for all this, the bungler might have framed Some dext'rous, happy toast all full of jokes At which the craven guests perforce had laughed ; Although those lying Newspapers are full Of how Mariamne 'struggled with the brutes ' That quenched the fairest light of Judah's land.' And then they add, as if to spite the King, ' His Majesty, considering his loss, '■ Has borne up nobly and his health is good ' ! Canst thou forgive the lord .'' A well-turned jest Oft, for the moment, puts aside the shaft, The envious, poisoned shaft of outraged Truth When the mob laughs, ill-humours are forgot : That Jewish Crcesus might have tried the trick, Although his voice had stuck within his jaws — He did not do it — don't pass by the slight. Then think how rich he is ! Dost thou love gold .'' Ha ! blood and gold are the delight of kings ! Remember too he is a nervous man — Didst thou not mark how all his muscles twitched When he proposed thy health .'' Brave subject he For red-hot pincers, or the thumb-screw's nip ! Send for him now, and bid thy friends in masks. 1 6 Great King Herod. " With leathern aprons and strong, brawny arms, "To bring their tools ! It will divert thy thoughts ; "And, better still, a good example make. " For things look serious, and as I came in " I heard a ballad-singer in the street ; " She sang a plaintive ditty, whose refrain " Called on the daughters of Jerusalem "To weep for Mariamne foully slain, " The last princess of Asmonaean line ! " A crowd stood round her, grim, but all in tears, " And though a brave centurion ran his sword " Right through the wench, the furious mob at once " Disarmed the man, and kicked him till he died ! " Now, Down with Herod ! Kill the beast ! they cry, " In every street of fierce Jerusalem ! " Farewell, Great King — think over what I say. " Thou know'st the Jews ; they are a ticklish lot. " The stinging-nettles must be firmly grasped. " Make an example, Croesus is thy man ! " ^ * % * * * Benign King Herod took the kindly hint. He fetched the Jewish lord — the torturers Were ready in the room when he arrived ! Suffice to say that Herod fell asleep Lulled by the dying groans of his poor host ; But when he woke, there Mariamne stood. And by her pallid shade the mocking fiend, Who pointed to her throat, and jeering drawled, " The evening papers impudently say, " 'There'll be no luck about the house henceforth ! ' " ****** That horrid fiend, until the dying day Of " Great " King Herod, never left his side. And closed his eyes when he blaspheming died ! * * The descriptions of the Heiodian period in " The Life and Words of Christ," by Cunningham Geikie, D.D., are worth perusal. The book is in 2 vols., and was publislied in 1877 by Henry S. King & Co. It is splendidly got up, and printed in a clear, bold type. See especially vol. i. pp.48, 49, for the murder of Mariamne. Paid in Copper. 1 7 PAID IN COPPER. A TRUE ART-STORY OF OLDEN TIME. NE of the Masters of that godlike art Which paints on canvass all that men have seen^ Or dreamt and fancied, and not only that, But limns the fluttering Soul of Poesy, The Sunbeam-Spirit of ideal grace Which flits round homely things, and lights them with That subtle rainbow loveliness which comes But once to cheer us in the self-same form, And, if not caught by painter's instant wit. For ever melts away like sunset's clouds. One of the masters of that God-like art Was by Lord Abbot and his holy friars Retained to paint their Chapel's altar-piece. He did the work, and did his task so well That all who see it, yet are awe-entranced, Although delight o'ermasters wondering awe. He did his work, and sent his bill — it was— Well, say, two hundred ducats, but the churls, The holy churls, refused to pay the score. Their heirs won't take ten thousand ducats now, Because the picture is of priceless worth. They went to law. Lord Abbot and his monks. But they were " cast," and had to pay the bill. And hozv they paid it ! That's the ghastly joke, A devil's masterpiece of cunning spite. * * * * * * ' All history tells — Europe's cathedrals tell How culture throve in those dark days of yore, C 1 8 Paid in Copper. In cloistered cells. How Art alone survived Those hurly-burly times, in quaint retreats Where the recluse could undisturbed design. Or patronise such miracles of grace. So — there were monks "and monks," and Abbots too ; Those whom we tell of were not quite the best. ****** They wrote a letter, and the letter ran — " To-morrow, Caitiff, thou mayest come and fetch, " At midday, that which, by the quirks of law, " Has been awarded thee— It will be paid ! " But, if a moment after twelve o'clock, " Lord Abbot will not see thee — Then he dines ; " So tramp betimes, for August suns are hot, " And thou hast far to come, and far to go, " But curs like thee are always fleet of foot ! " The painter came. For several leagues he trudged Along a dusty, blazing, treeless road, To fetch his money in the August sun ! He was too poor to ride, so walked perforce, And, as the hour drew on, strained every nerve. And stood exhausted at the Abbot's door. There was no inn — the Abbey's buttery Alone could furnish needed meat and drink ; But yet the holy fathers let him stand. Without a drop of water or a crust. And cracked small jokes, yes, very little ones. At the poor great man's evident distress. With such weak gibes, fiends " out on holiday," Mock suffering saints, endeavouring to forget That " sharp to time " they must be back in hell ! And so it was with those malignant friars. They kept him standing long, insulted him, And when he'd signed the bill, the porter brought Two hundred ducats all in copper coin. Tied up in sacks ; which first they made him count. Not once, but five times, for they mixed the heaps Paid in Copper. 19 Of wretched pennies he had counted out, That he might have his work to do afresh ; And then they bade the porter push him out, Crushed with the weight of those accursed bags, Into the glare of that fierce August sun ! In vain he asked them " for the love of God " To let him rest, and buy a cup of wine. Lord Abbot cursed him for his impudence. And bid the fevered wretch a tavern seek. " Yes ! Sirrah, harkee," cried the holy man, " What is dispensed at this religious gate, " Is given in charity, but never sold. "The Black Plague* take you, sot! you are half-drunk, " I see it in your gait and blood-shot eyes." In vain he craved that he might sit awhile Beneath the trees within the Abbey's grounds— They spat upon him — he was bundled forth Outside the gates, into the blazing sun. To limp those weary leagues with those curst bags, Gasping and faint, upon his blistered feet, To the bare garret where he used to paint. Lord Abbot and his monks had reckoned well — The fever struck him on that frightful tramp ! He tottered home — his wife, at their poor door Just as he fell, received him in her arms, And laid him on his bed — his bed of death In three more days he slept within his grave ! Was it malignant fever — Doctors tell ! — Or curst Malignity, that robbed the world Of a great genius who had just begun To leave his mark upon the Scroll of Time .-' Yet, Christian folk, when of your charity, For souls in purgatorial fires you pray, Be not Lord Abbot and his monks forgot ; They still are there, and find it very hot ! * See Hecker's "Epidemics of the Middle Ages." Loud, 1844, Svo., transl by Dr. Babington. C 2 20 Stormy Sunset. ABSENCE. HE captive linnet in its cage Pours forth unceasingly its strains, As though its very voice must break, Or with its pathos burst its chains ! The denizens of sunny climes Sing languidly of flowers and sun ; Surfeit of too much changeless bliss Enchantment's self has oft undone ! The heart of man is far too small — Wider than empires though it be — To vibrate always to the touch Of ever-present ecstasy ! No ! Absence from the things they love, The stranger land — the climate rude, Kindle the fairest dreams of home In exiles in their solitude ! oJ*io STORMY SUNSET. N wrathful red the sun went down In silence, to his resting place, — Like troublous thoughts, grey streaks of cloud Passed slowly o'er his angry face. Hot stillness reigned, — The voiceless glare Was eloquent with coming storm ; Thin vapours hovered in the sky. Of every quaint, fantastic form. Moonlight. 2 1 And yet the cloudlets sailed away, The threatened tempest seemed to pass ; The stars shone down upon the sea, Reflected as in looking-glass. But hist ! far out from sea, a moan Comes sweeping o'er the ruffled tides — In one short hour the hurricane In giant might, unbridled rides ! Then was the skipper glad who'd marked The angry sun's prophetic frown ; His ship was safe in port that night, When many a gallant bark went down ! oKKo MOONLIGHT. EN US now is swiftly setting. Peerless star of early night. But the moon the world is flooding With her own most wondrous lisrht. 'fc>^ 'Tis as though with molten sapphires Dewdrops glittered on the grass, With a silvery sheen flashed in them. Blue as heaven, yet clear as glass. Tell me, O my soul, what is it In the moonbeams, that they seem Not alone to light, but quicken. With their pale, translucent gleam ? Why so like a glorious pathway Gleaming down from Heaven to men. Whilst good angels, on its brightness, Come and go, and mount again ^ 22 London Bridge. Yes ! oh, yes ! I've often seen it, When tlie air seemed paved with light. And the whispering tread of spirits Echoed softly through the night ! oj«=:c SPRING MORNING. GLITTERING mist hung o'er the fields, Soft sunshine bathed the landscape fair. As though the golden dust of Heaven Were floating in the warm spring air. The radiant mist was like a veil Which maidens wear, yet not to hide Their loveliness, but to enhance With mystery, their beauty's pride. Too exquisite to last, the morn Soon ripened into perfect day. And with its dream-dispelling light The dim enchantment passed away ! -^i«4c LONDON BRIDGE. IVING waves, O London Bridge, Roll along thy granite ridge ; Ceaselessly they ebb and flow. As the turbid Thames below. To and fro, from shore to shore, Oscillating evermore. Now in sluggish shoals they drift, Now like weaver's shuttle swift — London Bridge. 23 Throbbing pulse of London life ! Artery with commerce rife, Bridge of turmoil, bridge of sighs, Bridge of twice ten thousand cries ; Bridge of business, bridge of tears, Viaduct of hopes and fears. Weary grows the brain, and reels. Listening to thy hoofs and wheels ! How shall pen, in outlines dim, Hope thy changeful scenes to limn ? When the lamps are bright, and day Groping through the twilight grey, Wakes the weary artisan. And the snoring husbandman. Then thy living tides begin Rolling, sweltering, tumbling in ! — Ringing on the pavement damp. First is heard the workman's tramp ; Teeming swarms of labouring men Flocking come, to toil again ; Men who follow out-door trades, Men with hods, and men with spades, Men with wallets on their backs. Can in hand, and shouldering axe ; Stalwart navvies carrying tools, Bricklayers with plumbs and rules, Painters, smiths, and carpenters. Masons, paviours, plasterers. Men with blunt, ungainly ways. Smoking short, discoloured " clays ; " These the footpaths overflow. Whistling blithely as they go. Fish-cart, butcher's cart, and dray. Carts of cabbage, carts of hay. Milk-carts filled with jingling cans. Railway-waggons, Pickford's vans. 24 London Bridge. Dust-carts, coals, and timber wains, Hansoms to the early trains ; Royal mail, and news-carts fleet Block the bridge, and fill the street ; Thus, with ceaseless stream and straight, On the current flows till eight ! Swifter then the tides set in, And their serried waves begin Like a cataract, to grow More resistless as they flow, Sweeping on in wild turmoil, Wood and stones, and clay and soil ; Fed by tributary rills. So thy seething channel fills — Business men, whose faces wear Furrows deep of settled care, Ticket-porters, merchants' drudge, City swells with gentish trudge ; Messengers and lawyer's clerk. Shop-girls flitting to their work. With a myriad more unite, Surging swiftly out of sight ; Thus the stream keeps rolling on. Till the hour of nine is gone. Then in very sooth begin Forenoon's bustle, strife and din ! Could a man the grains of sand Count upon the ocean strand. He the mixed and medley tribe Might sufficiently describe, And the moving myriads tell Swarming in to buy and sell. Or the vehicles portray, Passing all the livelong day — Doctor's bustling equipage, Gracechurch Street, and Clapham stage \ Lo7idon Bridge. 25 Brompton 'bus, and " Favourite" " Citizen" and dog-cart light, Chariots drawn by spanking bays, Broughams drawn by blacks and greys, Mildewed cab, and Hansom smart, Costermonger's donkey cart, Nobby "tandems," four-in-hands, Ethiopians and brass bands ; Men on horseback, men on foot. Newsboys, sweeps, and bags of soot ; Beggar's brat and millionaire. Women dark, and women fair, Women dingy, women clean, Cotton prints and crinoline ; Women splendid, women neat. Ankles trim, and sluttish feet ; Punch and Judies, acrobats, Nigger minstrels with white hats, Dog-stealer and burglar fell. Pens and spectacles to sell. Pickpocket and well-dressed thief. Seedy tradesman come to grief, Glace silks and satin's sheen, Broadcloth, fustian, velveteen. Life-guards, linesmen, grenadiers. Pensioners and volunteers. Foreign seamen, British tars, Cripples, wooden-legs, and scars, Negroes, Turks, and Polish Jews, Spaniards, Portuguese, Mossoos, Yankees, Yorkshiremen, and Paddies, Arabs, Welshmen, Highland laddies, Russians, Germans, Refugees, Danes, Norwegians, Cingalese, Walking-sticks, and orange girls. Penknives, pencils, and false pearls, 26 London Bridge. Dog-collars, and dancing Jacks, Jewelry and French gimcracks. Meerschaum pipes and mild cigars, Plaster casts, tobacco jars, Best fusees and smuggled shags ; Sponges, combs, and oiled-silk bags. Mingled shadows, mingled lights. Mingled smells, and sounds, and sights All confused, with wild fanfare, Stun the senses, fill the air ; Such the torrent, London Bridge, Flowing o'er thy granite ridge. Such ! ah no, this is the spray, Foam that shines to melt away. Veiling with its rainbow wreath Darker floods that roll beneath ; Bubbles these, one moment bright. Ripples fading out of sight, Surf upon the billows' crest, Empty show and vain unrest ! Black unfathomed deeps there are. Deeps unplumbed by sun or star. Deeps that to each other cry. Sweltering waves of misery, Restless deeps that aye declaim Trumpet-tongued of death and shame ; Dullard man looks on, nor hears Sounds that ring in angels* ears ! Yes ! O London Bridge, the lost, Hopeless, wan, and tempest-tost. Famished, sick, oppressed w^ith care, Countless forms of woe are there ! See amidst the heartless whirl, Yonder pale, not graceless girl ; She was once her father's pride, Nestled at her mother's side> London Bridge. ■ I'j Shame has made her now his own, Friendless, homeless, and alone. Innocent ! no more she fears Drunken gibes, or brutal jeers ; Delicate ! her only dread. Want of shelter, want of bread ! See that palsied workhouse crone. Affluence was once her own ! Here are infants driven forth Till they beg a " quartern's worth," Infants reared to want and sin. Trained to steal the price of gin ; Seamstresses who walk the street That their orphaned babes may eat. Lo ! here comes the nodding hearse, Stretcher'd martyrdom, far worse. Accidents and suicides, Corpses hooked from Thames's tides, Drunken shouts that rend the air, Undertakers' men that bear Noakes's shell, or velvet box Silver-gripped for richer Cox ; Strapping constables that hail Shrieking women-kind to jail ; Rowdy brawlers, liquor-blind, Maudlin brutes with drink grown kind ; Such thy understreams that run Evermore, from rising sun. Till it sets, again to rise, London Bridge, thou Bridge of Sighs ! 2-8 All round the Clock. ALL ROUND THE CLOCK IN THE TROPICS.* OW wane the stars, and sultry night Prepares to flee away : The eastern sky is streaked with light, The safiron flush of day ! Brighter and yet more brightly burns, With fiery glow, the air ; Each sated beast of prey returns To his dim forest-lair. With stealthy tread the leopards seek Their den, in jungles deep : The jackall and hyaena sneak To pass the day in sleep. List to the elk's deep-throated bark Receding to his glade ! The elephants, in forests dark. Regain their sylvan shade. One moment more, and daylight breaks In flaming red ; behold. The trembling mists, like writhing snakes. In volumed coils are rolled ! Each leaf, and fern, and blade of grass Is spangled o'er with dews, And gossamers, like threads of glass, Shine with prismatic hues. * See Sir E. Tennent's " Ceylon." All round the Clock. 29 A dancing cloud of butterflies Flit forth into the sun, And beetles of metallic dyes Amidst the damp leaves run. First of the birds, the early crows. With cranes and parrots, soar From inland nests, where rivers flow Down to the seagirt shore. Loud crows the jungle-cock, and, hark, The flute-voiced oriole ! — Grass-warbler, bulbul, jocund lark, Their tuneful carols troll. Bronze-winged pigeons softly coo From brake and leafy bowers ; The eager-fluttering sunbirds woo The coyly opening flowers. In circling wheels, the swallows glance Above each pool and stream, And burnished insects swarm and dance In morning's fiery beam. Thus teems the early air with life. Until the sun is high ; Each clod and grain of dust is rife With new vitality. Apace the sun grows hot and high, The living swarms retreat ; Falcons and kites to sweep the sky Aspire, on pinions fleet. The elephants with fanning leaf Noon's ardours seek to cool ; And buffaloes have sought relief Immersed in lake and pool. 30 All roimd the Clock. From bough to bough the squirrels leap, The monkey chattering springs, The dragonfly abroad doth keep Alone of living things. Fiercer and yet more fiercely gleam The noontide's early rays, Until the crisp blue air would seem With liquid fire ablaze. Palsied each leaf, and mute each breath, Untraversed lie the plains ! In flaming might a living death O'er prostrate nature reigns. The dreadful calm no sounds awake. The beasts and birds are still. Save tortoise plashing in the lake. Or chirp of cricket shrill. Each copse and leafy haunt is filled With creatures seeking shade : In solitude the fields are stilled, And mute the sultry glade. Prone on the ground extended lie The panting dogs, and men Resign their tasks, and languid sigh For night's reviving reign. O deathlike peace ! O doleful heat ! O wished-for night's return ! The fluttering heart is heard to beat. The vocal pulses burn ! Now fades the noon. — The creatures wake From their meridian trance ; Nature revives — o'er bush and brake A myriad insects glance. All round the Clock. 31 To watercourse and pool the herds Slow saunter forth to drink : Awake to life the drooping birds, And man to work and think. And, as the orb of daylight sets Beneath each distant hill, Discordant troops of paroquets Each tope and palm-grove fill. The crows beside lagoon and lake Are pluming for the night, Sea-birds and pelicans betake Themselves to inland flight. Now sinks the sun, and twilight brief Falls on the drowsy plain. Evening descends, and brings relief. Till day returns again. On whirring wing the hawkmoths fly, As fall the shades of night, The snoring beetle brushes by In short, uncertain flight. The glow-worm shines on herbage damp ; By fits, the brihant spark Of fire-fly, like a waving lamp, Gleams out from foliage dark. The orange-trees and jessamines Sway languidly above. And whisper to the curious winds The story of their love. And flaming through the village trees A thousand lanterns glance. Whilst mingled sounds float on the breeze Of revelry and dance. 32 All round the Clock. The vampire leaves his cobwebbed nook, Their holes the owls forsake, The night-jar skims the pond and brook His insect food to take. To life each forest-beast awakes. Puts off the sloth of day, His bristling mane the lion shakes. And prowls in quest of prey ! A moving tumult fills the air. Of strife and bestial fray. As though the gate of hell were there, And fiends kept holiday ! List to the wild dog's hungry bark ! The jackal's famished moan ! List to the leopard's roar, and, hark, The dying zebra's groan ! Thus wears away the tropic night ; Till darkness 'gins to wane. And the glad east with morning's light Is crimsoned o'er again. Then fly the sons of spoil and death. And fade the spectres wan. Before the morning's perfumed breath. Like magic talisman ; As though the footfalls of the light Were spells of potent sound. By which the creeping things of night In wholesome thrall are bound ! A7itumnal Glories. 33 AUTUMNAL GLORIES. jUTUMN is here ! Summer has had his day, And silvery mists obscure the morning sun — All joys must die — But yet the queenly YEAR Holds her last court in true imperial guise ! Oh ! stately AuTUMN, dressed in crimson robes Of royal majesty, and golden-crown'd — Hang out thy banners ! — See the forest kings, Ash, oak, and maple don thy livery, As though enthralled in splendid vassalage ! — Oh ! heartless Autumn, gayest when the world Folds her rent mantle round her, e'er she dies ! — Love's dreams may fade, and the stripp'd cornfields mourn The loveless blank of hopes for aye cut down ; — No pity moves thee — no regrets disturb ! — Vain, lavish spendthrift ! — thou art quite content To reign in purple for thy little hour! — For thee, the peach its downy sweetness gives — For thee, the garden still its garlands weaves Robust of hue, though gentler flowers are dead — For thee, the gossamer its tearful pearls Floats in sad homage, through the morning mist ; For thee, the vine its bloom-clad clusters yields — All men contend to praise thy ripened charms Far more voluptuous than Summer's prime ! Ah me ! for those on whom no AuTUMN smiles, Whose hopes too early sown too soon are reaped — The heart's broad fields, where golden promise springs, Bear no more fruit, but fallow lie for aye. Where Disenchantment's cruel scythe has passed. Seed time is over — Harvest comes no more, Though flaunting AUTUMN would herself the scene restore ! D 34 Squire Tough ; or, Btiried Alive. SQUIRE TOUGH; OR, BURIED ALIVE. T was a solemn scene in Blank churchyard When Squire Tough the wealthy bachelor Was laid to rest, in his strong manhood's prime ! His death had come with joyful suddenness Upon a circle of expectant friends. 'Twas known, some years, that he had made a will, And distant kinsfolk, in their carriages, Flocked to the funeral in poignant grief — Of course the " County People " all sent theirs. The sad cortege extended half a mile. Oh ! how " impressively " the Vicar read, So said the Papers, and so well they might ; He'd been the Squire's dear familiar chum ; His college chum, and knew that he was left The fishing rods, the cob, a handsome fee. And such a precious bin of tawny port ! But yet, he mourned for Tough with honest grief, He would not look upon his like again ; And how he missed him from the Squire's pew ! For he'd just bought a batch of sermons from Millard * in Newgate Street — But now it was too late ! The Heir-at-Law was there all bathed in tears. As rich as Croesus now — but very mean. He'd given instructions for the funeral, And bid the sexton, Giles, who also was The undertaker, lay his kinsman in The very cheapest coffin he could make, Provided that the " box " would muster pass — " You'll get a brand-new velvet pall, of course, "And let Us use it first," the miser said, " It will come in for other funerals, " But We, you know, must look respectable ! " * A celebrated bookseller, now removed to 79, St. Paul's Churchyard. Squire Tough; or, Buried Alive. 35 Old Giles obeyed — He dared not disobey, Nor forfeit in the County Press the puff Which ran, of course, in these most flattering words, " The Obsequies were feelingly arranged "By Mr. Giles, the well-known furnisher, " And undertaker, of the Town of Blank ! " 'Twas, as we said, a very solemn scene Upon that soft November afternoon ! The robins sang their thrilling songs — The sun Lit up the old church tower with mellow rays, And peeped into the aisles, as if to read The Epitaphs, which told how every one Long years ago was " most respectable — " The Vicar looked the pattern of a saint. The Squire's favourite pointer had stolen in, And sitting by the coffin howled aloud, And vexed the real mourners till kicked out — The relatives " bereaved " of the deceased. With bent-down heads, were touching in their grief — Oh, yes, it was a spectacle for Holbein's art ! — 'Twas Holbein painted the weird Dance of Death — Yet not for Holbein's, but for Hogarth's wit. He could have painted in veracious tints The gross hypocrisy of that smug crowd — He could have caught, and on his canvas fixed Priscilla Tough's inviting, coaxing leer. Whose eyes seemed on her Prayer Book so intent. Yes ! yes, the leer of Miss Priscilla Tough At that cold, fishy, skinflint Heir-at-Law Of Squire Tough's, whom she had thrice refused. Miss P. was rich. But now her wooer had An income of ten thousand pounds a year In acres broad, beside bare cash and plate That quite made up three hundred thousand more. Oh ! how a legacy, a thumping legacy. Knocks all aversion out of human hearts ! Well, well, we've done with Hogarth, he is dead, D 3 36 Squire Tough; or, Buried Alive. And cannot paint the little comic scenes, The overtures of peace made by rank foes Who only thought of what perchance had fallen Most probably, we'll say, to their Betes noires. It is indeed a happy circumstance That when a rich man dies he makes fierce foes To love each other for a little time, Until they know how he has made his will. Great expectations are great peacemakers — A monied " Quilp " a true Adonis is, Xantippe rich is not a foul-mouthed frump, And real gold has no unpleasant smell ! But we've digressed — All solemn scenes have end — The mourners all drove off to hear the will. The crowd dispersed — The town of Blank took tea. Old Giles and " bandy George " the gravedigger Went home to tea before they filled the grave. Old Sexton Giles had been " much exercised " To do the " proper thing " for scanty pay — In fact he'd pawned his wife's best Sunday silk, And his gold watch, and ancient silver spoons. To " do it prime " — But yet, the County's eyes, He fondly thought, that day were fixed on him The Undertaker of rich Squire Tough! Things had gone well, and so Old Giles asked in The gravedigger, old "bandy George," to tea. 'Twas little Giles had earned — But yet he hoped To be repaid by new celebrity — They sipped their cups — Perhaps a little drop Of " something good " was put into their tea, By Mrs. Giles, who was a thoughtful soul And sadly was " afeared lest Giles might catch " Them bad rheumatics " — As for " bandy George," His crooked legs betokened he had had " The wust rheumatics " since he was a child. And so kind MRS. Giles prescribed for him. To cure his pains, the same preservative Squire Tough; or, Buried Alive. 37 Which she compounded to protect her lord. The muffins were well buttered — The poached eggs, And well-fried ham were cheerfully discussed. Until at last the Sexton said his " grace," And winked at " bandy George," and said " My man, " We'd be ashamed to beg, but we can dig ! " They lit their lanthorns, and they sallied forth To the churchyard, where by the willow tree The grave of Squire Tough yet yawned unfilled. Each took a shovel, and they went to work — But, agony ! Gramercy ! What a sound Of anguished horror filled their frightened ears ! Strange, gurgling sounds, and cries for help came forth From Squire Tough's unsealed-up sepulchre. No wonder " bandy George " was sore afraid — Yet he was only Undertaker's man. And so cute Giles, at once, bade him go first. " No man's a hero to his own valet," Napoleon said, at least so people talk. So " bandy George " was thrust into the breach Lanthorn in hand, and looked into the grave. Great Heavens above ! Oh, what a sight he saw ! There was the coffin — But the lid of it Was broken up, and through the ghastly chasm Appeared a death-pale face and waving arm — The face was frightful, but the gravedigger Knew it was Squire Tough, or else his ghost — To tell the truth, both took it for his wraith. Or else an evil spectre prowling round A Christian's corpse, in hope to catch his soul ! When Giles perceived that George had got no pluck, He buckled on his courage, and peeped down Into the yawning grave, but what he saw Made his experienced undertaker's heart With a new terror leap, nay, turn quite sick. He whirled his shovel with a braggart shout And flung it down at the poor Squire's skull ! 38 Squire Tough; or, Buried Alive. The truth be told — Giles was in such a funk, So blue a funk, he could not hit out straight : He scarcely saw what he was aiming at. He'd put out all his strength, and headlong fell After the shovel, with a fearful scream, Upon the coffin into that dread grave ! The Squire clutched him, and with whimpering voice Moaned, " Don't you know me ? I am Squire Tough. " Dont kill me, Giles ! You buried me to-day ; " I am the man — Don't kill me, Giles, oh, don't ! "You buried me to-day ! — Did I say so ? " I've been asleep — How came I in this box ? " Oh, do undo it, Giles — Please let me out — " I'm weak — I've been so ill — Where am I now ? " This dreadful hole can never be my bed — "Just call the nurse to give me my beef tea ! " Old Giles's fall — He was a lusty man — If truth be told, quite smashed the coffin lid. And covered him with rattling, tumbling earth. He screamed, and roared, and kicked, and said his prayers, Then scrambled to his feet, and " bandy George " Just plucked up heart to put a ladder down. And like a squirrel the sexton tumbled up ! When once his weight was off poor Squire Tough, He too sat up amidst the splintered boards. Up to his waist in soil which Giles brought down. Old Giles had felt his breath whilst in the pit, Had felt his grip, and was just half convinced He was no ghost, but real flesh and blood ; And Sexton Giles was no unkindly man. When therefore " bandy George," pick-axe in hand, Drew near to give poor Tough his coup de grace, Giles pushed him back, and stammered nervously, " Come up, you sir ! — You may come up this time ; " 'I'll help you out. For I have got my fees " For burying you — Yes, here they are, by Jove ! " Squire Tough; or, Btiried Alive. 39 He fished them from his pocket reassured — His senses he had doubted, till the fees He felt in coin, all jingling in his hand — He had been promptly paid that afternoon. The Heir-at-Law first cut him down as low As meanness could — Then offered him to pay Down on the nail — He knew that Giles was poor — If he'd take off a further five per cent ! " Now I advise you, Squire," old Giles went on, " Don't try this game again, my jolly buck ! " Or, if you do, be sure all dues are paid, " Paid in advance — Look at that shovel there ! •' I'll not conduct a funeral for naught, " And ' bandy George' will only work for pay. " The graves he fills must only hold dead men — " When next time you come here, if you're not dead, ',' Take care the bill is settled in advance ! " You've got no money now ; it's willed away — "Your friends might try it on— and you revive. " If they refused to pay, Gravedigger George — " Not I, of course — might knock you on the head, " Just to make sure he'd get his proper wage. " He is a very poor, hard-working man, " And knows the Heir-at-law is dreadful mean, " Look at that coffin ! " Was it suitable ? " But thank your stars, the niggard bid me make " That burst-up box of thinnest, cheapest wood, " Why, bless you, sir ! you'd never have broke out, " If you'd been buried like a gentleman ! " The honest Sexton thought — he did not say — That when the Heir-at-Law next called him in To bury Tough, he'd not be quite " so near," But bid him make a triple coffin of The very thickest, most expensive oak ! When Sexton Giles had given this good advice He went into the grave, and helped the Squire 40 Sqttire Tough; or, Buried Alive. To mount aloft — Who found it difificult To climb a ladder in a lengthy shroud. He stumbled oft, but was too dazed to think, It had gone better if he'd held it up. But Giles climbed after him, and " bandy George " Gave him a hand when nearly at the top. Thus once again Tough breathed the " upper airs," And now knew where he was, though very weak. He saw the well-known tombs in the Churchyard, And shuffled in his shroud towards the gate. Meaning to call a fly, and so get home. "What are you thinking of?" the Sexton roared. " Have you no senses ? — Why, your'e all in white ! "Just step into the vestry — George will run " And fetch your clothes from home — No — that wont do "They'd lock him up — they'd take him for a thief." The night was dark — the flaring lanthorns shed A ghastly, dancing light upon the group ; And, worst of all, the shouts of larking boys Were heard approaching, full of wildest fun. Old Giles and George each took Tough by an arm, And hurried to the Church, and dragged him in, And set him on a chair, whilst Giles exclaimed, " Thank Heavens, we're in ! For if those rowdy lads '• Had only seen us, we had lost our lives — " They would have stoned us three for playing ghost ! " The door was barred and locked — the shutters shut. The Sexton found poor Tough a glass of wine. His teeth were chattering from nervousness. Although the cheerless vestry-room was hot, Compared with the dank hole where he had bee When he had drunk his wine, and found his wits. Or some of them, his rescuer began ; "There's paper, pen, and ink — Just write a line — " Your valet surely knows your writing well. Sqinrc Tough; or, Buried Alive. 41 " He'll send a suit of clothes, and a great coat — " Though, I forgot — Your servant may refuse " To lend you clothes that you have left to him — "But yet — we'll try it — what a jolly lark ! " The Hall is full of those dear relatives — " As I came by with George, all windows blazed " With lights, and countless figures came and went — ■ •' They were all quarrelling about your will ! " Old Giles was right — It was a jolly lark ! He carefully unbarred the vestry door, and George Caught up his light, and hobbled to the Hall. He rang the bell, and gave the letter in. The valet knew his master's fist — The ink Was scarcely dry upon the envelope — And in a swoon he fell down on the mat. The page rushed in, half dead with fright, and gasped To the awe-stricken mourners, " Here's a go ! '• The Sexton's man is come for Master's clothes ; " He have come round — And I'm to bring the brougham And then he whirled aloft the dreadful note. And danced, and shrieked, with an hysteric yell, " I cannot, will not go to fetch a ghost ! " Old Giles was not far wrong — It was a lark ! The will had been read out at five o'clock. The worst was known to all — So people thought — And many pensive folks had driven home — But even these had got some souvenir. Some thing of virtu, or a mourning ring ; Whilst others had gone round and helped themselves. Here some point-lace, and there enamels, missed From their accustomed places, showed the greed That could not wait until the will was proved. But many still were prowling round the house, And taking stock of what would come to them. The Heir-at-Law and Miss Priscilla Tough Remained of course — For they in that short time 42, Squire Tough; or, Buried Alive. Had " made it up between them," and were then Doing a little courting — Happy pair ! The golden dawn of new-born, blinding love Prevented them from seeing what was prigged. Perhaps the cooing Doves, as serpents wise, Winked at the legatees. For- what was filched Before the Valuer had done his work Would make the probate-duty something less. The will directed it should all be paid Out of his mighty haul, by the new Squire. This was the moment that the note came in From Squire Tough to order clothes and brougham ! The plunderers put down, as if red hot. The things they'd stowed away to carry home, And stood transfixed with superstitious awe. Priscilla Tough swept fuming to the bell — Ordered her carriage to be brought round " at once" And bid the coachman lash the horses up, For she had " urgent messages from home ! " The coachman grinned, but did as he was bid. As soon as she got home, she tore upstairs. She did not cry — but locked her boudoir door. And then and there wrote off this formal note To her enamoured swain ; " Miss Tough presents " Her compliments — And very much regrets "An unforeseen and painful circumstance, " Which she could not control, must hinder her " From carrying out her promise of to-day. " I am, sir, as before, " Priscilla Tough." The scene was ludicrous, but terrible To see the legatees' appalling woe — The Heir-at-Law blasphemed, spun round, shed tears. Swore frightful oaths he'd " take the law " of Giles, Squire Tough; or, Buried Alive. 43 Saddled his horse himself, and galloped home. Some fainted — Others raved and gibbered trash. Nay ! It was horrible to see the look Of baffled, covetous Sincerity, Which sat upon each haggard countenance Of every rich, but greedy relative Of that resuscitated millionaire ; But all made off before the Squire came home. The Vicar only — he had nerves of steel — Waited until the brougham was brought round. The coachman trembled so he could not drive ; The Vicar took the reins and briskly steered, With clothes and great coat, to the vestry-room. And helped his friend to dress, and brought him home. That night — that wondrous night, the Squire sat up Propped with down pillows in his well-known bed And sipped his beef-tea — Whilst the Vicar's chair Was drawn up close to his old College friend. He knew that he was in for tenfold fees, And smilingly discussed " the tawny port " And smartly read out paragraphs to Tough, Which had appeared in many Newspapers, About himself, his will, and '' sad demise" ! But we must end — Suffice to say, that George, Grave-digging " bandy George," was not forgot ; Next week he shambled to the Savings Bank, With a round sum against a " rainy day." And as for honest Giles — We wont reveal How much he got — We are no gossips — But This much will not betray his confidence — The Squire sent him such a splendid cheque, That his wife's Sunday silk, the watch, and spoons Came out at once, and never more were pawned. And ere he gave up business, which was soon, 44 The Perfect Day. He was elected Mayor — The town of Blank, When he retired—" for his great services," (He vowed he'd '^ do it prime'' — he kept his word) Set up his marble bust in the Town Hall ! oJS^c WAITING, E wait for light, till darkness comes instead — We watch for summer whilst it passes by — The things we fancied would prove golden joys, But half-enjoyed, like withered roses lie ! We watch and wait ! — It is our cruel lot — And when things long-expected come at last. We know them not — They come in strange disguise, Or else the time of longing long is past ! The things that soonest dazzle soonest fade. We are like children chasing butterflies, Which, when they're caught, their glittering wings are crushed ; Their beauty with their flashing freedom dies ! Vanity of vanities ! — All things are vain, Except in Him who to the spirit gave Its being, hopes, desires, ambitious thoughts, Wide, vast, exhaustless as the hungry grave ! o>9>4c THE PERIT'CT DAY. ROAMED through the far-off meadows Soon after the midnight hour ; Weird darkness sat on her ebon throne In the pride of her witchlike power. The Perfect Day. 45 The stars shone bright in the dew-drops And the river running by ; The night-wind whispered amongst the reeds, And the ripples made reply. With its silent slumbering myriads The City oblivious lay, And drank, in a draught of Lethe cool, Strength for the coming day ! Those were moments of solemn stillness, And darkness that might be felt — As the woodbine's smell and the glowworm's spark Seemed in glory and fragrance blent ! Nothing portended the dawning. Save a feeble streak of grey In the far-off East — and the sleepless chimes, As the moments slipped away. But anon, through the wavering darkness. Stole the faint glimmering light Of the lamp of love, by the couch of pain, Watching the weary night ! Then darkness changed into gloaming. And the grey streak brighter grew — A cock crew here, and a cock crew there — And the weary stars withdrew. From the hearths of a hundred homesteads Ascended the curling smoke ; The heart of the City throbbed loud again, And the children of toil awoke. I saw men " walking abroad as trees " Or the shadows of a dream. As the milkmaid tripped to her labours. And the ploughman yoked his team. 46 The Rupert Correspondence. For a short time longer the darkness Wrestled against the light, And then the misty battalions all Spread wing, and took to flight ! The portals of light flew open. And the Heralds of the Sun, In their gorgeous robes of crimson state, Spoke another day begun. In the thin, clear air of morning, Baptized in rosy light As a newborn babe, the world shone out Purged from all stain of night ! At last, from his Orient palace In the caverns of the deep. Nature's High-Priest the Sun came forth, Like a giant refreshed with sleep. Ineffable floods of glory He poured over city and wood ; Each hamlet and cot, each bush and brake, In radiance transfigured stood ! Ten thousand flowery censers He touched with his flaming ray, And a cloud of incense and melody Greeted the perfect day ! THE RUPERT CORRESPONDENCE. A LETTER FROM PAPA ABROAD, TO HIS LITTLE ONES' MASTIFF AT HOME. H Rupert, * Rupert ! gentlest of the brave. My darling children's dog — strong, tawny hound, What would I give to see thy wistful face Thy form so full of kindliness and strength ! * Rupert is a cross between the old English mastiff and the bloodhound. The author's children bought hitn withtlieir pocket-money when he was six weeks old. The R^ipert Correspondence. 47 — There play my Violet, and Stella too, And pretty Frank ; I see them in a dream — I see their gambols, listen to their shouts ; I hear thy deep-toned bark as they run on So nimble-footed daring thee to catch! — I am alone ! My Stella's welcome tap At " daddy's study-door " I think I hear ; I see her creeping in, to leap upon My joyful knees, whilst with a sounding kiss, She says, " Oh dear Papa, I love you so ! " I make no answer, but I hug her close ; And then, with pettish coaxing, she explains, " Oh silly Dad ! You do not understand, " I don't want kisses — I would like some sweets ! " She strokes my whiskers with her baby hand And says, " You dear old Tom-cat ! — Daddy do " Just come along with me — you know, Dad, where ; " The side-board cupboard in the dining-roOm ! " — I take her hand and we together go — Rupert jumps up — he hears the jingling keys ! He leaves off basking on the warm hearthrug. And follows us, for he, sagacious dog, Well understands the music of the keys, And knows there is a bit of cake for him. Where his young mistress seeks her sugar plums. The dream is past ! — I now am quite alone — Oh Rupert, Rupert ! my sweet children's dog, Could'st thou but thrust thy brave, black, honest snout Into my hand, or standing on hind legs, Put on my shoulders both thy kindly paws, And brush away the tears of lonesomeness That will run down, in spite of self-control Down my bereaved cheeks — I'd shout and sing ! But, bless thee, Rupert ! thou art safe at home Whilst wintry seas divide me from my pets, But they are safe with Him who ne'er forgets ! Amsterdam, Christmastidc, 1876. 48 The Rupert Correspondence. RUPERT'S NEW-YEAR'S LETTER TO HIS MASTER IN AMSTERDAM. Most Honoured Sir ! Big Rupert greets thee well ! He wags his tail at very thought of thee ; No ! not " Most Honoured Sir " — Beloved Friend, I cannot use a stiff formality Tow'rds one I've learned to love, but not to fear ; Fear has its torment, but Big Rupert loves With his large, blund'ring heart, both thee and thine. He'd send his "duty," but he thinks that "love," True love, quite fresh from home, will better please. E'en though it comes from Rupert ; for he played With Violet, and Frank, and Stella too. Up to the moment he dictated this ! Dogs cannot write, and so the gentle hand Of my beloved Mistress, thy dear wife, Took down all that I meant — She read my eyes ; The little ones looked on, and where she failed To guess my thoughts, the children well supplied All that was lacking, for we are such friends ! I love each child and each of them loves me. We have no secrets — Perfect openness And trustful love pervade our intercourse. And now. Good Sir — No, no ! Beloved Friend, Let me inform thee that my doggish heart Was like to break, to see thy wife and bairns, With Uncle Charlie and his little ones. And kind Aunt Amy, sitting at thy board On Christmas day — I saw no chair * for thee ! — I watched, I did not stare — My black eyebrows O'erhang, and so prevent my seeming rude — I watched. Oh, yes ! I watched each face so dear To thee, my absent Friend — In every eye I saw a tear, when Stella drank thy health. Oh what "a love" thy youngest darling is ! * Rupert used often to sit at table, on a chair, the tallest of the party, and always behaved with the strictest propriety. Ploughing and Solving. 49 I could not drink thy health — Dogs drink no wine. I feared I'd howl, so I sneaked off downstairs, And had a quiet cry in the back-yard. Hoping to see thee soon, Dear Friend, Adieu! Rupert to guard thy home his best will do ! New- Year' s-tide, 1 877. -^»oJO«@«<0<>- HOPE. HEN the broad sea is salt no more, And planets fade from darkened sky, Should chaos fill the spheres with wreck, And every thing of lustre die ; Should Nature fling aside her crown, And primal silence hush the glade. Should sun and stars withdraw their light. To set in cold funereal shade ; Should desolation reign supreme, And every golden scene of earth Be blurred, or wholly blotted out. With each dejected thing of mirth ; Should Music's witching tongue forget Its magic charm, its healing power ; And every bird of song grow dumb, Dismayed at skies that always lower ; The Residue. 7 1 Hope would at least remain with men, And cast her wistful eyes abroad, Until she found the light again, In the sure Promise of her God ! -ool^oo- THE RESIDUE. CHANGE of grief which simulates repose, The residue of pain is Happiness To countless thousands, slowly-martyred souls. Or else the salvage of a wave-tossed life, The wreckage of the goodly bark on which The soul set forth upon the sparkling sea That glittered so in boyhood's early dawn ! Content and gratitude are oft mistook For full-blown Happiness, by lookers-on — The placid lull that ends a day of storm, The afterglow that, by comparison. Seems perfect peace to life's lorn wayfarers. The consciousness that, for a night at least, The strife is over, and the battle fought. E'en though chagrin and disappointment's hosts Have but drawn off to furbish up their darts For a worse conflict, at the coming dawn. These make true bliss to many a hope-sick soul — Talk not of joy to downcast hearts like these ! The broken viol shall discourse no more In leaping harmonies, or wake to dance — 'Tis calm delight to nurse the glimmering spark That now remains of once consuming fires — Absence of hope, absence of fluttering dreams, A drowsy sense of brief immunity From curst ambitions, every pondered scheme. Which all lie sleeping in their several tombs, This makes the sum of millions' Blessedness ! 72 What the Nightingale said. Man's prayed-for Eden proves itself to most A hortus siccus * of once brilliant hopes, A well-trimmed garden of loves dead and gone. The outspread world which once we coveted, Which was too small for our imperial sway, Unwished for lies wrapped up in sombre mists ; A scant horizon bounds our view at last ; And he's most blest who watches most resigned Beside the stone that marks the resting place Of cherished projects vanished into space ! ol*io WHAT THE NIGHTINGALE SAID. HE day was over, and the rayless sun Glared through the darkling trees like fiery eye Of some tall Cyclops who would catch a glimpse Of the fair Naiads in the rippling stream ! The shapely flags stood silent and erect, A bank of golden clouds reflected shone In the broad Rhine ; and on the mountain tops, Where yet the eagles soared above their nests, A dazzling veil of rosy light had fall'n : The honey-bees hummed in the meads no more ; The crickets chirped ; and gaudy dragon-flies With folded wings, swayed on the bending reeds. The water-lilies closed their glistering cups. Lest the night-dews should dim the gold within. Belated swifts, to catch the dancing gnats, Like elfin arrows flashed o'er flood and field ; Lights, here and there, showed in the village panes. Whilst in the orchard, hid by apple blooms, The nightingale declaimed her tale of woe So full of vivid grief — and thus she sang : A collection of dried flowers. What the Nightingale said. 73 The Song. LEEP sorrowing men ! ye can forget your grief When sultry daytime and the sun are gone ! I know no respite ; night brings no rehef ; In dreaming moments, I must yet sing on ! Poor lonesome, russet bird ! My life is grey — Grief my song's burden — mourning its refrain ; If trouble for a moment goes its way, It soon returns, and I must sing again ! I have a sorrow fathomless and deep ; Men love my song ; my tale they've never heard. Oh, woe is me ! — I sing, but cannot weep — For such distress I am a little bird ! Music consoles my overburdened heart ; All night I sing till other birds awake — To tell my pain assuages half its smart, I must keep singing, or my heart would break ! In hopeful Springtide, when all Nature's glad. When daylight lengthens and the buds appear. The evening star itself looks calmly sad, And every glist'ring dew drop seems a tear ! E'en May and June bring no delights to me ; When hawthorn blows, and carmine roses blush, I still wail on, or listen wonderingly To the gay ditties of the jocund thrush ! When apple-blooms are pink, and pear trees white, Twilight's my sunshine, gloaming is my day : For ever doomed to be the Bird of Night, My life's long hours in shadow pass away ! And so, till death's release, I must repeat My strain of anguish, weird and passionate ! Ah, mocking world ! thou call'st me warbler sweet — But dost not care how lone — how desolate ! 74 Toleration. TOLERATION. ISTORIANS tell, in mediaeval times There ruled a custom full of quaint conceit ; Blasphemers were to Satan given o'er* To get well basted, and to teach the rogues The sin of straying from the one true fold — Shepherds were then most careful of their flocks ! The varlets ! Sickly sheep were "heretics " Miscalled " blasphemers " who perversely chose To seek for truth, and find it in God's Word — The cure they underwent was somewhat strange ! How Satan's company could ever prove A cure for blasphemy is past belief, Unless upon the homoeopathic plan Where " like cures like," and the fierce oaths of friends Can work amendment in the speech of men ! We can't suppose the demon, like the Dean, Minds the " Queen's English," or could ever prove An apt "Professor of Humanities," As our shrewd brothers say, across the Tweed. The remedies in vogue in those queer days Were prompt and sharp and hot, and made by fire. With fagots and the stake, and torture first And shirts of yellow blazon'd o'er with imps ! — Those that would sing \hQ\r paliuodiam,\ might Be treated to a rope, and strangled ofi". Or lose all rights, with " lifelong infamy ! " — This grisly cruelty of darker times Was but the outgrowth of impatient pride, Love of dictation, avarice, or lust. * " To deliver such an one to Satan for the destruction of the flesh" (i Cor. v. 5, 2 Cor. ii. 5, and vii. 12, etc.) meant simply solemn, but not necessarily perpetual, exclusion from Church privileges. t Recantation. The Afterglow. 75 Bigots are shallow — Those who persecute Have small convictions, and must hate the light, Because the quest of Truth is troublesome. By slow degrees the human mind arrives At firm persuasions, and can sympathise With those who grope for knowledge by the help Of dawning knowledge, and a firm resolve To hold the treasure fast when once it's found. Thus staunch Believers are most tolerant. They do " rejoice in Truth," feel charity For those who toil along the devious ways, The dim-lit paths of speculative lore, And seek some rock, some " anchor of the soul," On which to fix the heart's eternal hopes. Thus the Great Teacher evermore was kind ; The heavy-laden gladly came to Him, Nought but pretence provoked His patient love ; None were cast out adrift upon despair — So, like "beloved" John, upon His breast, All trusting souls shall find their long-sought rest ! o>S>io THE AFTERGLOW. HEN great men die their failings are forgot, If only honest purpose was their aim ; The instinct of mankind remembers that Few, very few who've greatness at their feet, Have strength or nerve to climb the slippery rungs Of its most dizzy ladder up to fame. If all grew really great, where were renown ? Heaven would itself be quite monotonous, Did star not differ from its brother stars In Glory — But God loves variety — He never made two creatures just alike. 76 The Afterglow. Resemblance strong is not identity — No leaves, no grains of sand are quite the same ; And as for men — Is not each separate man A fresh creation of high, Sovereign Will Which ever joys in grand diversity ? Each single note in the vast harmony Which Nature sings to God, might be alone Perhaps a discord ; but He blends all things Into a chorus of unjarring praise Which celebrates His Wisdom in His works — Thus Providence all-wise itself ordains That some men should attain to greater things And more renown than fall to common folk. And so it comes to pass that savages Alone cast dirt upon a great man's grave, Or wrangle in the presence of the dead. When men are living men, lithesome and strong, Nature ordains they should as rivals meet, And fight life's battles in a manly way. So grieves the athlete long inured to dare A worthy foeman on th' arena's sand. Who sometimes throws, and then at times gets thrown- Oh, how he grieves to hear that nevermore He'll meet that mighty, brave antagonist With whom it was an honour to contend ! All bitterness is past — He only weeps To think a " Prince is fallen," a great man dead ! He truly mourns, and lays the choicest wreath Which he knows how to cull, upon the bier — Yes, this is why the Afterglow of life Often excels in pensive loveliness The sterner hues of its meridian prime. The generous fingers of Forgetfulness Blot out all blurs, all failings, lesser faults, Whilst fond Regret before the picture sits, And holds her taper up to beautify And show the greatness of the mighty dead ! Advancing Age. 77 ADVANCING AGE. T is no use for those who've seen the prime, Nay, not of joy, but of afflictive cares, Though not so old in years, but old in grief, To fancy, when the troublous days are past, That a keen world will wrinkles overlook. And take no note of grey-besprinkled hairs. Good heavens above ! If it were left to man, There'd be no wisdom in a world of youth — None would grow old or gain experience ! But Providence has ordered otherwise. That men may learn that here is not their rest. The teeth of gnawing anguish will leave scars Upon the mind, although they bleed no more — The cancer's cured — It does not burn and scald, With quivering shooting smarts as in years gone ; But yet the white and jagged seams of grief Remain for ever ineffaceable Upon Contentment's once unwrinkled brow ! Times change with us, and we, alas ! with them. We think we yet are young, and capable Of doing things which once we could do well ; But when we seek to do them, what avails The jaunty air, the gay resolve, the pluck That were embellishments of what we did Without much effort in our younger days ? They now scarce serve to varnish o'er defeat ! Heroic deeds of body or of mind, Great deeds of strength, of bold audacity Demand, at least in ordinary men. That they should have their nerves unshattered by The w^earing fever of continual care. By constant strain the stoutest bow gets warped. 78 Adva7icing Age. Some men there are whose mighty souls surmount All contradiction, all calamities ; Who, clutching Fortune's wheel with their last strength. Hold on just long enough to be whirled ofif Into the lap of blind Prosperity. Prosperity herself is quite as much Amazed, we doubt not, as these iron men. That she should dandle on her knees such folk ; But these strange turns occur to very few. Most men are not born heroes — Rare they are Who, like the hippopotamus, have hides Which trouble's darts and disappointment's stings Are far too weak to vex, much more to pierce ! When the bold eagle's eyes grow dim with years, He still remains as full of fierce resolve To fly in turbulent, hot, whirring haste Through the crisp airs, above the mountain tops. As when he first sped forth from crag-built nest, And spied his prey below, and pounced on it With the quick glitter of a thunderbolt ! But failure makes e'en him distrust his powers — His whirlwind wings are now not quite so fleet ; He sees the hare or lamb in distance dim, But when he swoops — Behold, the prey is gone. His once unerring eyes have played him false ! Ah ! — One such miss suffices to unhinge The confidence in self that does brave deeds — We think before we leap, and so fall short ! Happy it is that Nature compensates Declining strength, and energies impaired, By larger, wiser views of men and things. And by the steadier glow of Wisdom's lamp Trimmed by the hand of ripe Experience ! The strong may conquer empires with the sword ; 'Tis easier far to conquer than to keep ; And when the sword is sheathed the task begins, The real task which calmer heads work out. By a Perpetual Decree. 79 Youth is the soldier, but Old Age secures The dear-bought conquests, in the Senate House. The mellow light that in the binnacle Shines on the needle, guides the mightiest fleets Safe through the rocks and waves of winter's storms. The silent flash of the sagacious lamp, The slow revolving spark far out at sea Does more to benefit mankind, although It speaks at fitful intervals — does more Than red volcanoes' lurid, boastful glow. Volcanoes burn, destroy, and desolate — The light-ship beacon cheers, and leads men home ! '^'^fi" — BY A PERPETUAL DECREE. ITH swashing, swishing, hissing snarls. In rolls the tide, on mischief bent ! Yet, by the sandgirt pebbly shore, Back to the sea it's baffled sent ! The waves may storm, the surf may foam ; Billows declaim, and tempests shriek ; But yet, against loose shingle stones. And grains of sand, their force is weak ! Why is atomic sand so firm ? Can pebbles curb the breakers rude } By God's decree they are ordained, In silent strength and fortitude ! Learn from the sea-shore sands, ye souls — Ye timorous souls, learn from the beach, That wildest, rudest, howling waves Their bounds can never overreach ! Trouble may press, dangers may storm ; Waves may leap up, and clap their hands ; God rules the boastful waterfloods — They cannot pass their barrier sands ! 8o Misunderstood. MISUNDERSTOOD. HE idle man deserves no sympathy, His vacant hours are dedicate to sloth. His torpid spirit basks in indolence ; The listless fingers of his craven soul Are too benumbed with self-indulgent sleep To pluck the fruit that ripens at his door. That man were lonesome in the streets of Heaven. The tongues of angels could not interest him — Their burning zeal to do the kind behests Of ever-wakeful, watchful Providence, Would chafe the sluggard into stark despair ! No, 'tis the man whose thoughts are all on fire, Whose spirit yearns to benefit mankind, Whose rare, well-pondered schemes misunderstood. Or damned unheard by a self-seeking age, Are mocked as mad — as visionary waifs From the dim realms of mist-bound phantasy ; This, this is he for whom the laggard world. The fit abode of smirking self-conceit. Seems full of emptiness. Like eagle chained To the sad precincts of a wired cage, He frets and pines to bathe his eager wings In the keen airs, the crisp, pure atmosphere Of crystal space where other eagles soar ! Call not the eagle idle who is doomed To pine away his days a captive bird. Though king of all the birds that fly through air ! Unbar his cage — He will not mope, nor lag To seek his compeers on the cloud-topped cliffs — The mightiest soul must ever lonesome be. Cut off from kindred souls and sympathy ! The Broad Arrow. 8i THE BROAD ARROW. EEK not, fond mortal, to inscribe thy name Upon the passing clouds, or shifting winds ! The ospray * cannot find the wave again Which bore aloft its glittering prize, the fish ; The sea-shore pilgrim prints his foot in vain On the smooth sands, for tides to wash away. The breeze that fans us so caressingly. As though it had true being, goes its way. And leaves no trace to mark its fickle course ! The things we touch and fondle, call our own, And almost think too real to decay. Elude us first, and vanish into space. So that we scarce recall what shape they were ! God's hand alone, on transitoriness Can mark abidingly His awful Name With the swift finger of eternal change, So that the world may read His attributes Writ at full length upon the lightning's flash, Broidered in hoar-frost on each jewelled spray. Stamped by His footstep on the changeful tides ! All things proclaim that power belongs to God — Earth, sea, and sky are marked indelibly With the Broad Arrow of His sovereignty, And lonesomeness is but the plenitude Of omnipresent, all-controlling Power ! * The sea-eagle. G 82 " Mother Dear !" THE MATRON. HEY say " she's past her prime," because her step Is more majestic in her womanhood, Than when she tripped along, a blithesome girl. But look at her ! — She blooms with that best charm. The charm of ripened innocence which knows How to guard others from the nameless snares Through which she walked herself, but shunned them all, With the pure instinct which the sunbeam shows, That draws up wholesome dews from this dank earth, But passes from the world pure, undefiled. Back to the sun, who sent it forth to shine, At God's command, on good and bad alike ! 'Tis not the rose-branch beautiful with buds. It is the blossom-laden tree that fills The air with fragrance that enchants the world. Buds are but promise — Roses vows fulfilled ! o>*:c "MOTHER DEAR!" ASK not much, but yet I ask the world, For thou art all the spacious world to me ! I ask thyself — thy ever gentle smile That fills the very atmosphere with rest — Thou art my sunshine, my reviving dew — The sparkling fount at which my spirit drinks, And quaffs new vigour at each several draught — Thy converse charms my melancholy mood, Despondency. 83 And puts despondency itself to rout, Retunes the unstrung fibres of my heart, Braces my courage — bids me draw the shaft Of lofty thought up to the glittering barb. And launch it whirring at the mark of Fame ! — Before thy presence, like the kindling dawn, The homeliest things put on new comeliness — Rebuked by witnessing thy children's love. As though their " Mother Dear ! " were talisman That puts ill-omened things at once to flight. Envy, abashed, creeps to Detraction's cave. Where the curst sisterhood of Malice born Conceal themselves till darkness walks abroad, And muttering doze, awaiting night's return ! -00:^0 DESPONDENCY. ROLLING, anxious sea of troublous thought ! O sea of joyless grey, from whose dark deeps. Wan sorrows rise on crests of ghostly foam. And sink to reappear on other waves, Like spirits seeking rest and finding none ! Despondency ! When will the sobs and sighs — The hollow moaning of thy winds and tides Cease to oppress — to weigh my spirit down ? My soul would spread her wings — would fain take flight Above thy vapours that shut sunlight out. Oh ! that some angel sent to comfort men Would take his course across thy torpid gulf. And from his crown, his crown of flowers, let fall One single leaf — one little spray of hope ! Then would the fogs roll back, the clouds disperse. The sullen waters, that appear morose, G 2 84 The End of Grief. Would sparkle with delight. The breezes too Would cease to moan, and leap in mirthful scuds Across the crisp, blue, laughing, shimmering waves, And I — yes I should pass, from grief to joy. Oh ! I adjure thee, cheerful sun shine out, And put the armies of despair to rout ! »o>»4oo THE END OF GRIEF. PEAK not of friendships dead, but yet embalmed, Enshrined in hearts long desolate but true ! Speak not of days that long have faded out — Skies grey with sorrow, flecked with transient gleams Of fitful, flashing, dancing, spectral light ! O life of man ! How like the northern skies, Whose winter-months, so many and so long, Are only cheered by the Aurora's flash, By the Aurora's petulant outbursts Of fiery crimson, hurtling through the sky. Noiseless and warmthless as the flickering stars. Speak not of days that long have faded out ! E'en Nova Zembla and the granite coasts Of Labrador have their short summertide. Summer ! — ah, yes, in which the pitying sun Sets not at all, but shines both night and day. And bids those almost God-forsaken cliffs, And frost-enchanted plains to wait in hope. Until a cycle comes of mightier good, And pinching want and cold shall be no more. Then thunder on, ye vast Atlantic waves ! Blow hurricanes — ye earthquakes rend and tear — Thou ruffian Frost torment the shivering babes — Bereavement torture — Pestilence destroy ! There is a Litany which mounts to God From every crevice of the groaning earth — A Dream of SiLmmertide. 85 Kyric Eleisoul all creation chants — " Oh God, have mercy on the helpless ones ! " Groans are but Collects — sobs grief's strong Amens ; Tears but the beads of Anguish's rosary, And God's all-seeing eye — all-hearing ear, His all-embracing, patient Fatherhood Has marked the time — has fixed the day and hour ; And then, in endless rest the Prince of Peace Shall give the grief-bound earth its great release ! A DREAM OF SUMMERTIDE. LOOKING-GLASS sea and a fleckless sky, A glinting, glittering, gold-spun haze, A humming of bees, and a wafted scent Of blossoms that bask in the sun's warm rays ! A warbling of larks, and a distant low Of dappled kine in the far-off plains. The milkmaid's song, and the creak of wheels, In the village street, of the rustic wains ! A rustle of leaves, and the coaxing sigh Of the West-wind stirring the half-ripe ears. Unveiling the poppies in scarlet state Like warriors waving their shapely spears ! A glow of health, and of life renewed, A bounding pulse and a beating heart — Oh, simple enjoyments of trusting youth. Like Summer's morning, ye soon depart ! Then Winter comes with its cold, chill rains. With its blinding sleets and its drifted snow ; With cruel, relentless, killing frosts. When the stars shine bright, and the East-winds blow ! Fix not your hopes on a world of change — Think not to live in a world of death ! Joy is a bird of passage here — Life is unhinged by a sigh or breath ! 86 Syjupathy. SYMPATHY. HAT is a heart bereft of sympathy, Yet scarce bereft of what it seldom knew ? What music shimbers in the unswept chords Of the neglected lute ? Let cunning hand, And voice long silent but too dearly loved, Awake its trance of tuneless, lonesome grief, Or let e'en stranger who has wit to charm Its timid strings so full of coy caprice. Invite and coax to sweet garrulity. Oh, how it trembles to the kindly touch. And tells its joy in sounds of liquid fire ! — What is the heart bereft of sympathy ? — Oft full of burning thoughts that would leap forth, And, like the comet-stars career through space. Shine through all lands, and ever leave behind A train of beauty to delight the world ! Ye unculled flowers that in the wilderness Are by the tyrant Sun compelled to bloom, To fade unseen, or by the wild beast's foot To be down-trodden, trampled in the dust, No passer-by, no child of man regards With grateful joy your matchless, radiant hues ! — This be at least your one consoling thought. That angel-forms that fly from Paradise, Bound on swift errands from the throne of God, Pause to admire the alchemy divine That fills a vase so fair with scents so sweet. Oh, Sympathy ! — E'en vivid words of hate Are better far than soulless, dumb neglect — See yon two thunder-clouds approach for war. Each charged with tempest, eloquent with strife — The crashing peals that roll among the hills Little Joys. 87 Speak to a listening world in tongues of flame — Flint kindles flint, though each mishapen stone In fiery words could not discourse alone ! LITTLE JOYS. LL men to Eldorado hope to come ! A little world, a microcosm just made Expressly for themselves, they picture forth : Some sunlit height which yet they hope to scale — Some far-off island of untroubled joy — Some perfect clime where winds are never harsh — Where heat and thirst, and feverish cares and grief, And sorrow's troublous shadows enter not ! Such are the day-dreams of our golden youth, And e'en of early manhood's sanguine prime. We feel that we have strength to do large deeds — We know exactly, so we think, what things Would make us blest ; on these we set our hearts ; And some live long enough to win the prize. They fight — they strive — they wrestle with the world — But when the world is floored and at their feet. And Victory calls them to receive the crown. It does not glitter as once far away — They're oft ashamed to wear what they have won, Or cannot wear it, for their lot is changed, And grief has stolen ambition from their hearts ! — What is a diadem, when laid upon The bier of one with whom we thought to share The happiness of seeing each other great .'' The sweetest flowers — the most refreshing fruits Come not from far, but by the wayside grow, Like primroses, and those wild strawberries Which thirsty wayfarers stoop down and pick. And bless the gracious hand of Providence That cheers the pilgrim's path with little joys. 88 The Quest of Joy. THE QUEST OF JOY. ■ 0« HINK not, in lands where skies are always blue, And airs are warm, and the lithe, boastful surfs Leap evermore across the coral reefs, Like snow-wreaths flaunting in the tropic sun That has no power to melt their beauteousness — Think not, that where the graceful palm-tree waves Festooned with vines and flowers of gorgeous hue, And glittering birds flit through the woods and fields — Think not that Death is never busy there. And dull-eyed SORROW never hopeless weeps ! — Joy has no proper home in the wide w'orld, And at the princely gates of emperors, Care and Bereavement, weary sentinels, Pace to and fro, with unremitting tread, Loth to admit IMlRTH e'en as a guest ! Oft Mirth herself returns dissolved in tears From the proud halls w^here mortals think JOY reigns — Joy had departed, and the stately rooms. The gilded corridors were dimly closed, And no glad colours through the painted glass Danced as of yore upon the marble floors ! Ah me ! A weary, weary pilgrimage Lies before him, who roams in quest of Peace ; And Pleasure, like the wild bird on its nest. Flits from its home, at sound of stranger's tread — To take the prize at all, it must be slain ! — Contentment dies when once within our reach, And like a golden chain that lacks the clasp, It slips away from round the wearer's neck — Those things elude us which we covet most ! Sunset. 89 SUNSET. SAW the blood-red sun go down Beneath the brimming sea ; All nature seemed to wear a crown Of Immortality ! Tipp'd was each solemn mountain peak With tongues of ruby fire, Pregnant with thoughts that angels speak In their celestial choir ! The western sky was all aflame With amethystine light, And rosy cloudlets went and came Seraphically bright. Each glistering vapour seemed to float On wings of blinding gold ; Each distant tree and rock remote Assumed a faery mould. 'Twas as the gate of Heaven were there, And the angelic host. In burnished panoply, repair To guard its glittering coast ! But soon the tired king of day Sank 'neath the voiceless waves ; Each flashing glory stole away Like spirits to their graves. Abroad in spectral beauty sailed The evening's crescent queen — The wdtch-like Moon, with charms unveiled, And robes of silver sheen. And legions of attendant stars Their shining lamps on high Lit up, as mounting to their cars, They roamed the trackless sky! 90 The Death of Winter. No longer voiceless was the sea, No longer mute the breeze, The night-wind sighed caressingly, And rustled in the trees ! A briny odour from the deep Passed o'er the slumbering world ; The waters woke as if from sleep In crisped wavelets curled ! O fickle-bosomed, trackless sea, Symbol of mortal life ! Thy slumbering waves shall kindled be, By the first blast, to strife ! O moonlit, fragrance-breathing deep — Fit type of boundless rest, How many weary myriads sleep Clasped to thy heaving breast ! o'iHifi THE DEATH OF WINTER. INTER'S pale, livid brow is marked with death ; But no one pities him who loved to kill All that was lovely, beautiful and sweet ! Great Heaven is just, and no repentance now Will turn aside the tyrant's well-earned fate. He joyed to torture with a lingering death. And watch his martyrs pine away and fade. But now, abhorred by all, he slowly dies ! Yes, Heaven is just — We reap as we have sown. Oppression, wrong, malignity and spite Prosper awhile. But after that, a cloud Of never-ending, baffled hopelessness Creeps o'er the cruel man, like a curst spell That turns his heart to stone — drives out all joy. And dooms him never more to feel the sun Drivelling. 9 1 Of happiness within his blighted soul, But to consort with fiends from those dim plains, Those weary fields of ever-drifting sands Which Mercy's footprints never yet have marked To lead the merciless to realms of Hope ! -oo^Stioo- DRIVELLING. RIVEL is well intentioned — drivellers Like the soft coneys, are a " feeble folk," They nibble things, but seldom masticate. Their microcosm is peopled with mere dwarfs ; Like the inverted glass, they make things small. But what a gift they have for teazing folks ! They are the midges sent to vex mankind — They buzz and trumpet in their gnat-like way, Makine all round them restless as themselves. Your driv'ller, if he comes to make a call, And forces you to lay aside your pen, And leave your study, much against the grain, Has scarce sat down, before he must be gone ! This restless emptiness so aggravates. That it might drive a Job to swear at large. A drivelling male is always bad enough, But a she-driv'ller is a thing of dread ! She has no conscience — no propriety — No woman's sense of the ridiculous — Without perception, she goes stumbling on. Driving folks mad at her inane discourse — And yet she is quite happy in herself, No curt sarcasm can ever cut her short ! She'd even call the Bishop out of church To kill a spider or admire a snail, Had she not been decorously brought up — We'd almost said she joyed in giving pain. 92 Drivelling. But fiends and cats alone torment their prey ; She's neither cat, nor fiend — good, simple soul ! And never takes rebuff" or quiz to heart — Unruffled, calm, cool as a cucumber, V Whilst you are fuming, ready to break out. She smiles, and chirrups like a dickey-bird, And brings out home-made presents, scraps, and shreds Of tissue-paper, ribbon-ends, and paste ; Or worse than all, blurred, smeary little daubs. Crude sketches by the hopeful brood at home,* Presenting them with comic, stately pride ! — Such are the nauseous gifts that tadpoles bring From " sense of duty " to their kindred fry — The pond is reeking with the self-same stuff ; But yet there's merit in the gift itself, It is " home-made, and very plain," like cake With which mammas regale young visitors, When plum-cake stands beside it on the board ! f But when the tadpoles have turned into frogs, • And learned to jump in knowledge as in space, The frogs perverse retain their tadpole views, And still opine, " there's nothing like the pond ! " — Such gifts your bland tormentress sidles out From her dread reticule, with knowing winks ! — On " children's dress " she is magnificent. Although such guys as hers ne'er scared the world ; The boys like little girls — the girls, poor things. Long-tailed, and trapped like horses in a hearse, A suffering to themselves, a laughing-stock To every one who sees them out of doors — * The spontaneous gift of a little child, like its first misspelt letters, is above price. Happy are they who are so favoured as to attract to themselves the love of little children. But a childish gift from an adult savours of insult or imbecility, or both together. A little one's estimate of character is not lightly to be set aside, or overlooked. t Will such discreet matrons never learn common humanity in the distribution of their refreshments ? The v/riter is free to confess that in his juvenile days the very mention of "plain cake," under circumstances such as are described above, awakened feelings of resentment akin to the risings of justifiable homicide ! Taken by Assault. 93 But banter never alters Madam's views ; As she chirps on, you're like to split your sides, But cannot bear to hurt the trustful soul — To cut my story short, she-driv'llers are Superb at correspondence. All their notes, Crossed and recrossed, are over-weighted with Some lumbering trash cut from the newspapers, Thumb'd pamphlets, shreddings for their " little friends," Which cost you extra postage every time — How savagely you blame the code polite (Whilst to the basket you consign the trash) That has forbidden sounding expletives ! — Don't think it enmity, or mean revenge For some infliction quite unbearable. That we of driv'lling pests have said so much — We have no enemies, or they'd be such ! ojacjo TAKEN BY ASSAULT. HERE was no "sound of revelry by night ;" The anxious city slept its broken sleep ; The river rolled in solemn darkness on, And all was gloom, save when the scudding clouds Drifting aside, unveiled the rainy moon, And showed the rushes bending to the wind. With fitful glimpses of the bastioned town, And the white-tented camps of friend and foe ! — No voice was heard save sentry's challenge-call, Or cry of wild-bird in the sedgy pools ; No sound, but stifled cough of lone vedette Wrapped in his cloak, upon his patient steed — Thus waned the night, till one by one the clocks Chimed out the hour of twelve ; and then a plash Of muffled oars came stealing through the gloom ! 94 Taken by Assault. One moment more, and from the citadel A gun flashed out ! — The ramparts took it up, And each deep-throated cannon woke to strife ! Shrill trumpets brayed — the drummers beat to arms— The tumbrils rolled — the air was filled with sounds Of trampling horses, and of rumbling wheels, Of voices of command, and rifle-shots Which girt the city with a belt of fire ! Within the streets the shrieking bombshells crashed ; Above the roofs the hissing rockets flared — By three o'clock on that grim morn of March, The breach was entered, and the town was won ; Yet hardly won, for in each lane and street. From roof and housetop, in the market-place, The stubborn townsfolk made despairing stand ! Their wives and children fought like things possessed And plied the struggling foe with boiling pitch. With red-hot hoops, with massive furniture ; Yet none craved quarter from the brutal hordes Who strove with reckless fury, till they'd won — Then came a scene like Scio's butchery, Or the most Christian sack of Magdeburg ! — With ripping kandjar, and with stabbing spear. With yataghan, and knife, and blunderbuss, With every tool of torture and of death. The yelling hosts rushed in, a panting mob, Trampling each other down in furious haste ; Circassians, Turks, Arnauts and wolf-like Kurds, Bashibazooks, grim, lithesome Bedouins, Hot-blooded cut-throats from the tepid Nile, With red-fezzed renegado miscreants — Marauders all, and practised sons of hell Raving, blaspheming, each foul brute agog For Christian beauty, or for Christian blood ; They all rushed in and spread themselves abroad ! The tongue refuses to rehearse the tale, The oaths, the cries, entreaties and despair. The Sacked Tozvn. 95 The horrid joy, the abject wretchedness, The crimes of cruelty and deeds of shame — Suffice to say, Christian ambition gave The wanton challenge to the Pagan hosts. And they avenged themselves with fire and blood ! o>S®- COLOURLESSNESS. HERE are some folks, at first sight, colourless ; Devoid of attributes, without a charm ; A kind of fungus on the human stock ; But yet, like mushrooms, full of piquancy, II 98 Silent Meditation. Imparting savour when combined aright ; And having gifts pecuHarly their own, And though not ornamental, never bores. Some latent talent lurks beneath the plain, Uncouth outside of unobtrusiveness, Which when it's wanted, nothing can replace. It is not dulness gives that rayless tinge, That whitey-brownness to these harmless folks- Like remedies for burns, they're not in vogue, Except occasion calls for instant use ; And yet be sure, beneath that quaint reserve. That shy withdrawal from the brisk parterre Of flaunting vapidness and giddy show. There beat true human hearts, with all the fire Of noblest passions, which alone demand The breath of sympathy to make them burn. And set them all aflame with kindly zeal To do such deeds as they alone can do. How many springs run buried underground — But* call them forth. — They leap abroad to bless And make a garden of the wilderness ! oX«c SILENT MEDITATION. HE downcast heart is never less alone When Memory lights her torch, and spreads a glow Of tender radiance over scenes bygone. Recalling angels to their haunts below ! This is not solitude — 'tis perfect bliss ; An hour for timid souls to bask awhile In the glad thought, that a harsh world like this Has times unmocked to weep, ungrudged to smile ! Making Game of a Donkey. 99 Give me the stillness of the solemn night, To wander in the starlight far afield, When garish day has sped its fickle flight, And Silence casts round Grief its wondrous shield ! How soothing 'tis to pensive ones to note The amber sunset fade behind the trees, To mark the clouds in ruby glories float Home to the mighty sea, upon the breeze ! To watch the planets on their flaming cars, Like angel chieftains rushing on to war ; To mark their peerless course amongst the stars, And note their flashing armour from afar. To trace the Milky Way, with wondering eyes, Like martial high-road through the upper spheres ; With tread of seraphs' feet it glowing lies, Heaven's clashing minstrelsy one almost hears Who calls this lonesomeness is but a fool ; His portion is the swirling scene of day ; But holy stillness is Heaven's vestibule Where all God's wearied ones resort to pray ! MAKING GAME OF A DONKEY. RADITION tells, when centuries ago There were no asses in the Low Countries, A Flemish boor tramped in his wooden shoes Along the road to Germany, and met A lad upon an ass, and awe-struck, cried " Sancta Maria ! What gigantic hares These Germans have, that they can ride on them ! Yes, it's a hare — I know it by its ears — But though a hare, its pace is very slow ! " Such hares in Flanders may be seen to-day. But when first introduced we cannot say. H 2 lOO Daybreak. GLEAMS OF SUNSHINE. HERE are places and times that we'd gladly forget, So full of vexation and care ; But grateful remembrance soft whispers that yet Kind hands and brave hearts linger there ! 'Tis thus that the wild storms of springtide have gleams That shine through its passionate tears : The brook in the desert its harshness redeems And its desolate bleakness endears ! The pilgrim o'ertaken by tempest stays not To gaze, whilst the thunder-cloud lowers ; When the rain-flood is o'er, and the thunder forgot, He has time to rejoice in the flowers ! So the darkest, most sombre, tempestuous days But a moment God's goodness obscure ; When the trouble is past, in glad wonder we gaze On His mercies that ever endure ! ooJOfJo* DAYBREAK. OW dawning wakes the gently slumb'ring skies. That blush and kindle at his genial call. Although the valley still in darkness dreams, And rolling mists enshroud the mountains tall ! The night is passing, and the stars grow dim ; Yet, in the river shines the waning moon ; Still sobbing grief at last has fallen asleep, And pity watches lest she wake too soon ! Swagger. i o i No insect swarms yet fill the chilly air ; The fishes torpid lie among the reeds ; Night-flying moths and beetles still are seen, And hooting owls flit homewards through the meads ! The scudding hares still scamper through the corn ; And Reynard prowls the poultry yards around, With stealthier footsteps as it lighter grows. And stops to listen at the faintest sound ! The wakeful clocks, and watchful minster-chimes As ever sleepless, tell of coming day. Which on the threshold stands to call the sun, And bid him chase the things of night away ! Mysterious Daybreak ! Harbinger of dread To countless thousands of the waiting world, Pale janitor of day, what wilt thou bring, When sunrise shows his crimson flag unfurled ? 3>&;o SWAGGER. O look important is the butler's place, And he who keeps one, ought to feel relieved From all, except vicarious swaggering ; Just as the flunkey does the thund'rous knock That tells how great a man waits at the door ! Your real heroes are oft little men. Of nervous presence, insignificant. So unpretending that they're overlooked Amidst the mob of self-proclaiming folk. They know they're great, and it suffices them To take precedence when occasion comes ; But till they're wanted, they'd be unobserved — The pushing fulsomeness of vulgar men Their noisy, fussy over-courtesy 102 Dying. They take at what it's worth — for well they know, Such people only seek to show themselves In light reflected from their famous friends — No doubt the children of the parish-schools Form their ideas of the better world From what they see at church, and picture forth The blest departed, in churchwarden's pews Curtain'd with damask-red, silent, apart, But yet, obtrusively conspicuous, And guarded by those mitred, crown-topped sticks Which local dignitaries bear in state Before the Bishop, when he comes to preach. Such quaint parade at times has need to be, But oft repeated is vulgarity ! t>o>Q>0>©:;CK>- MOPING. AKE up, ye craven souls that fret and shiver, As though the sunshine had no heat nor ray ! Shake off the clammy coils of earth-born vapours, And walk exulting in the light of day ! The world is not made up of peevish sadness, Untempered sorrow is not all our doom. The nightingale sings with a plaintive sweetness. Although its song-time is the evening gloom ! Its notes are echoes of bygone rejoicing, And what has been shall surely come again ; Requited love has known its hours of anguish. And what is happiness but rest from pain ! We cannot tell — we know not — ah, we know not What makes us happy ! — 'Tis a scent or breath Borne swiftly past us on the wings of angels, A waft of Heaven breathed on a world of death ! But yet there are soft, calm, ecstatic moments When all earth's griefs seem swallowed up in bliss ; The worn-down, fretted soul then flutters upwards. In beatific worlds forgetting this ! Wake up, then, grieving ones, and mope no longer — Spread fancy's pinions — Flit abroad a space ! The butterfly with folded wings looks sombre, But on its flight, a miracle of grace ! I04 Out oji the Moors. OUT ON THE MOORS. jlHE swallows cease to fly before the gale ! The water-rats alone, with fearless thrift, Go on collecting for their winter home — * Pity the vagrant out upon the moors Ill-clad, unsheltered from the coming storm ! Far as the eye can reach, no farm, no hut ; No boat upon the lake ; no tree or shrub To rest the eye, on all the drear expanse ! — Gorse, bramblethorns, and heath alone grow sparse On that wild scene of utter solitude ! The gale has dropped — a sudden calm succeeds. Blacker it ever grows, as though the sun, Deposed from his estate as King of Day, Had left his throne, and grim usurping Night Sat brooding mischief on his royal seat ! Big rain-drops fall, like tears of anguished Shame Too glad to weep on Nature's awestruck breast. At last the soughing of the wind is heard. Driving before it scudding cataracts. With hissing hailstones clattering as they fall — With one loud shriek, as of unchained despair, And long-pent agony, the storm breaks loose ! The thunders boom like cannon singly fired ; There is no echo to repeat their peals — And as the lightnings flash, they bounding leap Right o'er the plain, to the horizon bleak. When gorse and thorns and heath all fade away. And earth and sky unblent yet seem to meet ! * The writer has often watched, with admiration, the patient industry of those sagacious Uttle creatures. The number of journeys, to and from their homes, which they undertake in quest of straws and other dry material for their nests, is astonishinrr. Gibmltar. i05 GIBRALTAR. HEN Hercules is heard to swear That Calpe's* mount in twain he'll tear, Great Jove himself the boast derides With laughter fit to crack his sides ! Alcmene's son the rock sui"veyed, Before to rend it he essayed — Abyla's crag he took in hand To fling across to Afric's strand ! One foot the panting hero placed Against its sides — His arms embraced Its giant girth — Then stooping o'er His task, the mount in twain he tore ! Amazed, all heaven beheld him stand Poising the fragment in his hand, Till, like a child in wanton play, He flung it hurtling, far away ! The feat was done, and Jove forbore To scoff — Olympus laughed no more ; For salt sea-waves triumphant rolled O'er sands where granite tow'r'd of old ! Britannia, mistress of the seas. Holds Calpe fast like Hercules, But when she flings the " Rock " away She's seen the zenith of her day ! * Calpe is the ancient name of the rock of Gibraltar. The mythical tradition tells that it was united to Abyla, until Hercules tore the mountain asunder, and admitted the waters of the Atlantic to mingle with the jMediterranean. Gibraltar was taken by the British under Sir George Rooke, from the Spaniards in 1704. The great siege in which Sir John Elliot so bravely distinguished himself, lasted from July 16, 1779, to February 5, 1783. — Haydn's Diet. 0/ Dates. io6 The Perfect Roman Gentleman to his Slave. Her ships no more shall fearless ride, The tyrant's dread, the freeman's pride ; Palsied the hand — and curst the day That give what Elliot saved away ! Gibraltar ! Oh my country's boast, With cloud-capped head and surf-washed coast ; Thy flag shall wave, thy cannon roar. Till Britain's arm can strike no more ! THE PERFECT ROMAN GENTLEMAN TO HIS SLAVE. A CLASSICAL MONOLOGUE. TELL thee, Titus, thou art half a man, Although thy appetite outruns a beast's ! Does any dog object to mouldy crusts ? And as to "wholesome " drink — why ditch-water Sufificeth to assuage the thirst of hounds ! What, caitiff! — Drunk again, by Jupiter — Maundering about the " dignity of man ! " Call thee a man ! Great Jove avenge me now ! I bought his carcase very, very dear. And now, the dog, the slave, the menial swine Quotes " Scripture " — Hark'ee ! in support of rights Which, if he ever had, I bought long since ! ***** Come hither, TiTUS ! Put me into bed — That Massic wine has rather fuddled me, Although my aching head is clear enough To know that slaves are far below the brutes — Their wives and daughters — Well — for vermin, they Are very charming creatures now and then ! There, get me into bed, thou drunken beast ! But, sot ! Dare breathe one single trait'rqus word About the " BOOK " that says that " of one blood " God made all " things " that look like human kind, spellbound. 107 I'll have thee tortured, racked, torn up by dogs, Put in the pond * to fatten up those carp Which thou, dog, know'st so whet my appetite ! — Hast thou forgotten JUNO, called thy " wife," r The Christian convert ? Why ! She's in the lake — To-day I dined off her and splendid eels ! Pull off my boots — TiTUS, I feel so bad — Beast ! mind my corns ! There, run and fetch the leech. And bid him bring emetics.f Don't forget ; I've dined too freely, TiTUS— and to-night I have a supper-party of choice friends. All noble Lords and Roman gentlemen — Run, Titus ; fetch the medicine-man, or else. At supper-time I shall not eat one bit ! When we have finished, thou may'st pick the scraps — Titus, I am in pain ! Prithee, make haste ! If I enjoy my supper, thou, methinks, Shalt gain thy freedom, or at least shalt taste The toothsome leavings on my golden plate ! 'Twill make thee proud, perchance ? — Remember then Thou art a slave — thy " betters," Gentlemen ! oJ*ic SPELLBOUND. CRUSHING silence weighs upon the world ! My thoughts arc languid, and each pulse is still ; Dumbness has seized upon the very birds ; Torpor and emptiness the landscape fill ! I have no power to muse — no strength to mourn — No least ambition — no desire to die ; No heart to live. All is a formless blank — A listless void of aimless apathy ! * This allusion points to recorded facts. t In the degenerate days of Imperial luxury emetics were had recourse to, to stimulate fresh excesses in gluttony. io8 The Bells of Amsterdam. The rose is crimsonless, and cold the sun ; Tears have no bitterness, and pain no smart ; Death seems to reign, and yet it is not death, But tranceful nothingness that kills the heart ! Sleep-waking shadows feebly straggle by Impalpable, like phantom cobwebs spun By spider-ghosts, or filmy silkworm's threads, From dreamland nooks that never felt the sun ! I know I am — and yet I do not know ; All consciousness is numbed, I vaguely drift Now towards my real self, and then away ; Now all is fog, and then the vapours lift ! O dreadful torpor, joyless, griefless spell — Paralysis of hearing, touch, and sight j O mind becalmed upon a tideless sea. Awake ! arise, and look upon the light ! * dJ«)-o>Q^oo- MODERN WITCHCRAFT. jSKED to describe a witch of modern times, We'll tell our tale with brief simplicity. Fair reader, don't expect a high-peaked hat, A spanking broomstick, or a scarlet cloak ; A howling heath, or lonesome, naked rock. With precipice, and gruesome chasm below ! — Our fancy type of modern sorceress. Is not a mumbling crone devoid of teeth ; She has a mouthful of such ivories ! Modern Witchcraft. 1 1 5 White as a dog's, which her thin, twitching Hps Are ever showing with a baleful smile. The teeth are real, it's the tongue that's false. A witch ! Why, bless your simple hearts, she is Only a cross, pernicketty old maid ! She uses glycerine to smooth her hands ; Her cuffs and collars are of snowy white ! Her kerchiefs over-scented with vanille ! She has no " evil eye" both are the same ; Deep-sunken, restless, black as ebony, With a strange glamour of uncanny sheen ! She's high cheek-bones just like a Japanese, And scanty locks like horsehair in a twist ; Her features like a windfall apple bruised. Her dress clings tight — is scant to meagreness ; Of decent black, with bow of Indian red, As counterfoil to the vermilion patch That lights each cheek with a scorched, feverish look. She has a dread of cats, for, people say, " Something " has scared her into fits ere now, By dancing round her as a sable Tom ! As for her witchcraft, that is all " moonshine." She has the craft, but is no witch at all. Luais a non Iticendo, she is called A "witch " by a perverse propriety. She's not bewitching, and she never was ; She can't use charms for she has none to spare. Those on her chain are not available. Her palm is never crossed, her temper is. She does not spoil your beer, or turn your milk, The cook would turn her out if she should try ; The only thing she spoils is peace of mind. She plays no pranks but of old-maidish spite : Her witchcraft does no harm, except to set The village where she lodges by the ears. As for her threats, they are ridiculous. Where she is known her whisi3ers do no harm, I 2 1 1 6 The March of May. Her tongue's proverbial, which disarms its sting. Her real power lies in distorting facts, Or in the gusto with which women-folk, More wicked than herself, improve her tales ; A lie set rolling like a snowball grows. She's no enchantress, that one glance reveals. She's pitied, laughed at, quizzed, but seldom feared ; And though she is a prophetess of ill, Her baleful prophecies come seldom true, I think I've said enough, so that must do. o;»io«- THE MARCH OF MAY. H, Prince of months ! " Desired " * May ! Why is thy pageantry so brief ? Why are thy lieges always doomed To pine for thee in wintry grief ? Oh, May ! Oh, May ! we fain must wait ; We cannot speed thy rainbow flight ; We crave, we yearn for brighter days- How long shall yearning end in night .-' — May comes ! May rides in regal state. The rightful heir of all the year ! In gala dress all things troop forth Their longed-for, chosen prince to cheer ! Behold the jovial, gallant boy Upon his palfrey Zephyr sit ! Before him, herald butterflies In bravely painted tabbardsf flit ! * A title of affection at first given to Louis XV. of France. Folks changed their opinion afterwards ! t The State costume of heralds is the tabbard. The March of May. 1 1 7 Your carpets spread, ye spangled fields Of velvet-pile and tapestry ! May, gracious prince, takes rare delight In gallant show and bravery ! Wave ! wave ! ye woodland chieftains wave Your broidered flags of priceless green ! Festooned with honeysuckle wreaths. Let every forest tree be seen ! Wake harps ! — Ye silver trumpets bray ! Roll, roll, ye festive kettle-drums ! — Wake, clarions ! wake the " MARCH OF May," For he in princely triumph comes ! Ye crimson roses, pour your scents, Like hippocras * from ruby bowls ! The world is drunk and wild with joy — Hark, how its chorussed anthem rolls ! The prince's features beam with smiles, He bows his thanks like Charles of old ; Largesse \ he scatters right and left, Coined in his pure laburnum gold ! May's come at last ! — 'tis fond to wait For joy at stated times, or mirth ; God changes grief to full-blown bliss, And Mercy waits on trouble's birth ! * A drink made of wine and spices, called "hippocras." t Largesse, a gratuity given chiefly on State occasions by people of high degree. 1 1 8 Grief's Livery. GRIEFS LIVERY. OY has its symbols here below, Which bring the downcast soul relief ; Her emblems too has sable woe, That speak unchangingly of grief ! The yew-branch whispers of the tomb, Twine it with roses as you will ; And, though enwreathed with myrtle-bloom, The cypress will be cypress still ! The nightingale, that from the earth Might soar to heaven on music's wings. Can move to tears, but not to mirth. For 'tis a plaintive dirge he sings ! The tinted leavefe of forest fanned By autumn's soft and flattering breath, Are but a doomed, though gorgeous band, Decked out to tread the Dance of Death ! * Death envies not their little day, He knows how soon they perish all ; For 'tis the hand of false Decay That paints the woodlands in the fall ! In vain the chilling winter vaunts Her stainless garb of bridal snow ; It is a mourning robe she flaunts. To hide a world of death below ! In vain she boasts her spotless wreath ; Before the sun it melts in tears, And all the ruin hid beneath. In melancholy truth appears ! Death ever struggles to disguise The symbol of mortality Stamped on his brow — but vainly tries — 'Tis written there indelibly ! * Holbein's ' Dance of Death? Presumption. 1 1 9 PRESUMPTION. HE little cock that on the dunghill crowed, Straining his neck, and flapping his proud wings. For joy that he the older cock had thrashed, Had doubtless held his peace, had he foreseen That when he cried so loud, the farmer's wife Would call to smock-frocked Jock, the carter's lad, "Just go and wring that noisy cockerel's neck — " I had forgotten him, had he not crowed "Just in the nick of time — I want one more " To make my dozen up for the hotel. " Go wring his neck, and pluck him very clean ! " Rely upon it, that unlucky bird Looked very different when his neck was wrung, And all his glossy feathers clean stripped off, To the same cock that screamed his foe's defeat. And bustled up and down, and to and fro Amongst the hens, defiance in his eye, His spurs yet reeking with his old friend's blood ! All have their masters — most men find their match. And 'tis not things we fear that conquer us. Athletes know fairly well how strong they are — What they can do — and what they mayn't attempt. A toe-nail torn, a scalded hand, a sprain Undoes the champion for the coming " mill." He is as strong as ever otherwise ; But this small blemish beats him from the field. The bravest man on crutches cannot fight. Let no one boast, or on his strength presume. The braggart often finds, to his sore cost, He takes too careless views of time and chance ; 1 20 Presumption. And like the cock, his noisy pride provokes Him on to aggravate his own downfall. All kind of boasting is a littleness To which brave men are often too much given ! They are too careless — too in love with self, To note that every word, however true. Which tells their prowess, by a smaller world Of mediocrity and envious spite, A puny world of very littleness. Is always treasured up, and kept in store, Thought over, nursed, like pickled rods or whips To scourge them wath, if they perchance fall short ! Presumption is imprudence, for this earth Is full of malice, envy, hatred, strife : And though men more than doubt what boasters say, They always fear " it might be true, and we " Will take good care he shall not cut us out ! " And so they plot, lay snares and traps, dig pits ; And when he trips his foot and comes to grief, Through their own wacked, envious villany, They raise a hellish shout, and tell abroad The story of the strong man's overthrow. Oh, how the pit and children of the pit Sing Jubilate when a man is down ! Severer critics will perhaps demur, And say we've flogged on-lookers, not the vice. But this is custom with the Esquimaux — Team-drivers in those frozen latitudes Where men must use the little wits they've left. Always hit out with their dread seven-leagued whips At some poor dog they know will howl aloud. The lesson is not lost — The wiser dogs Take the sharp hint which spares " the cut direct," And drag the laggards over ruts and chasms. O'er hill and hummock, over rotten ice, Until the snow-hut glimmers through the fog : We fain would hope we've whipped the proper dog ! Success. 1 2 1 SUCCESS. ID-ocean's storms are harmless, when compared With rocks and reefs which compass round the port ! The narrow straits that lead to hopes fulfilled Are often bound by shoals and hungry sands, Whose envious maw is never satisfied ; O'er them the cruel surf for ever breaks. And howls aloud for joy when seamen drown ! How odd it is few know the safe way home ! A stranger hand must pilot the brave ship Into the haven — Though with swelling sails She dared the tossing of Atlantic waves ! 'Tis not the voyage — 'Tis the rock-bound coasts Of priceless home, which the bold skipper dreads — He sees the goal, but knows it is not won, Until the anchor's cast — -And his fond wife Sits on his knee, scarce listening to his tales Of foreign lands, for joy that he is safe ! So felt the youth who in Corinthian games Contended manfully — All diffident He fought the fight — He ran the breathless race, Nor dared to hope for conquest, till his ears. Amazed and doubting, heard his own small name Pass with electric thrill, like lightning flash, All down the throng — the " cloud of witnesses — " The surging mob too glad to shout " hurrah ! " Then first the panting, faint competitor Knew he was victor, and the crown was won ! Alas ! to think that glorious wreath was made Of leaves — like earth's best guerdon born to fade. 122 The Alargnis of Salisbury. MRS. ALDERMAN DAVID HENRY STONE. Lady Mayoress of London, 1S74-75.* |n Pcmoriinn. HE mellow night of August is not dark — The quiet fields are glad with rustling gold — Orchards and vineyards promise store of fruit, And queenly moonlight floods the wood and wold ! Not till November's deathlike lonesomeness, When East-winds blow, and fields are white with frost, The world bereaved but long time hoping on. In desolation knows how much it's lost ! Sleep, gentle lady ! rich in kindliness — Rich in good works — thou hast not lived in vain ! Like August's sunshine, bountiful though brief. Stored up in grateful hearts thy fruits remain ! D>»iC TO THE MARQUIS OF SALISBURY. On his DEP.VRTURE for CONSTANTINOrLE. jjOME men there are whose lives are History, With all the feelings common to our race ; With acres broad, and wealth almost untold ; With love of home, of children's winsome ways. With keen enjoyment of life's lighter toils, Of pleasures of the chase and sylvan scenes. * The writer trusts that these lines may be accepted as a very sincere, tliough very inadequate expression of the grateful remembrance which he cherishes of tlie many graceful kindnesses shown, not only to himself and his wife, but also to his children, by Mrs. Stone in the year that he had the privilege of performing the office of Chaplain, during her husband's splendid Mayoralty. Ready ^ aye Ready \ 123 There are such men whose lives are History : They toil not for their own but others' good. On such, a wise discriminating fate Takes early hold, and drives from common cares, To serve their country and their fellow-men ! To them the dalliance soft of wedded joys, The ecstasy of toying with their babes, Of training up their offspring with fond care, Are all denied. The weighty helm of rule Is thrust into their hands, and millions trust Their present weal, their whole prosperity. To men like these to guide the ship of State ! Oh, happy England ! that her nobles deem The public service ample recompense. For hardships which mere common folks would shun ! . Let foreign millionaires their riches boast, And pay their governments at second hand, Whilst riot and disgraceful license stir The unfed crowd to vengeance and revolt ! England's proud notables are foremost aye To labour for her good. — The populace Will never grudge the well earned-coronet. i The best-born of her sons are ever first To serve her bravely when the times are worst ! November 1876. -ooja- READY, AYE READY! DEDICATED TO THE CITIZENS OF LONDON. HERE lives here yet the love of human kind ! England is not so sunk in " stocks and shares,' In petty gains, or wealth-amassing schemes, I3ut that her mighty heart beats tremblingly At the recital of all brethren's woes ! The world is large — but England's sisterhood. Her kindly love embraces every land ; 1 24 Ready, aye Ready ! Let but the wire discourse with flashing tongue, In accents curt, with haste too brief for sighs, Of famine, flood, or kindred miseries Which God, to us immeasurably kind, All-wise permits to ravage other lands, England at once puts forth her sympathy ! Let but the cause be good, the object just, Her gentle soul, all sisterly, is touched With kindest pity for the desolate. No widows weep in vain, nor orphans cry ! The treasuries of boundless wealth unbarred Pour comfort on the children of despair ; And like heaven's rain, where all was barrenness. The kindly weepings of her charity Revive the death-doomed, bid the dying live ! But woe to those who, with ambition drunk, " A nation of shopkeepers" dare to flout ! England was first to manumit the slave, She earned the gold that set the negro free ; She yet has well-earned stores which she will spend. Nay, pour like water forth, if need demands ! The men of London know their history — There freedom lives — the fires of liberty On Christian altars yet perpetual burn ! Let but the trumpet's sound call Englishmen As erst their sires, to stand alone in arms " For God and Queen," and Europe's liberties, The mighty power of London's companies ; The untold wealth of London's citizens ; The joyful aid of prelate, peer, and squire ; The manhood stern of nonconformity ; The priceless, unbought aid of artisans ; The sturdy hands of toil-stained rustic men : All these will testify to autocrats That England lives — is strong, and has the will, With God's good help, " to do her duty " still ! December 2, 1876. H T , Banker. 1 2 5 LORD CHIEF JUSTICE WHITESIDE. |T last the high, commanding form lies low ! The mighty heart is still — the tongue is dumb, And Whiteside's clarion voice shall speak no more ! Silent the lips that senates once could thrill — That could with scathing jest annihilate, Or with majestic floods of fiery words Delight, confound, and stir the hearts of men, As the strong wind upheaves the listening seas, And bids them clap their hands in wild delight To listen to a voice as grand as theirs ! Weep, Erin, weep ! Whiteside, almost the last, The stateliest of that long, that glorious line Of orators who swayed the mighty past. Is here no more ! — Then write his worthy name Upon the scroll, where others pass'd away. Both friends and foes, for ever live in fame ! Oh ! kindly tomb, where each competitor Forgets the strifes of earth, and peaceful sleeps ; Whilst Glory o'er his dust fond vigils keeps ! Amsterdam, December 5, 1S76. H T , BANKER, OF LOMBARD STREET. Died January 2, 1877, Aged 61. |it HTcmonam. ENTLE, and rich like Joseph, whose new tomb Contained three days the body of our Lord, The true disciple has gone home to Him Who bought us with His blood, and taught his friends 126 William Wynne Willson. To love each other e'en as He loved them ! No narrow bigot was that Christian man ; His charities were great, but silent as The sun's glad heat which blesses everything. Too soon, alas, for those he loved to cheer With his beneficence, he's fall'n asleep ! Yet, like the spices in that sepulchre Where angels sat, and told the glorious news That Christ is ris'n indeed, he leaves behind A grateful odour of accepted works, Done modestly in honour of his Lord ! 0>@400- WILLIAM WYNNE WILLSON, CHRISTIAN PHILANTHROPIST. .Died in a Ripe Old Age. January io, 1S77. fit ^tmoriHin. r last ! The gallant veteran is gone Where sword and shield are but as trojjhies hung Of triumphs gained — in that grand Temple where No sound is heard of war, but ceaseless shouts, " Thanks be to GOD, who's given the victory ! " Our brother laid to rest not only prayed. But laboured daily to promote the peace Of earth's Jerusalem ; and now he walks In that more radiant city Salem, where His guides are rescued souls in garments white. Whom in this life he helped to bring to God ! Sleep on then. Brother — thy appointed time ; And " after many days " thou shalt arise — At the Last Trumpet's sound, and stand within Thy lot of glory — when the SAVIOUR says To God's great FATHERHOOD — " Time is no more — " Redemption is complete. Behold the sons " Which Thou hast giv'n me. Take them every one ! " Of those Thou gavest me I have lost none ! " A Yotuiz Enzlishman. 127 W. B., BURIED AT SLOTERDYK, January 18, 1877. Aged 6 years. |it llTcmoriam. jHE violet was plucked, ah me, too soon ! " So wept the gardener who had watched the bud Mature its matchless, fragrant loveliness, Amidst the frosts and rains of the New-year ! " Yes, it is winter ! — Cruel freak to pick " The one sweet violet I've nursed so long, *' They might have left me that dear winter's pet ! " So mourned the gardener ; but he had not mourned, Had he but seen how gently that sweet flower — Ah, yes ! — how lovingly by angel hands The violet was plucked, and laid upon The altar of frankincense, by the throne Of Him who bids the children come to Him ! Nay, weep not, sorrowing friends ! Your pretty flower Is gone to Heaven. It lives in deathless bloom. The Saviour wears it on His mighty heart And beckons us to come where none can part ! o>a>^c IN REMEMBRANCE OF A YOUNG ENGLISHMAN Drowned at Amsterdam, July 19, 1878. |iT P^fmoriam. WATCHED a leaflet on the wind-swept lake. And saw it drift, like bark without a helm — At last it found a quiet resting-place, Far from its brethren-leaves beneath the elm ! The wilderness is full of lost ones' graves — Each distant clime some sainted dust contains ! 128 Mrs. Haver ml. The wild men note, in uncouth wonderment, The cross that tells the tale in modest strains ! But yet the world is not so wide as once, For travel makes all human kind akin ; And places, nameless since the world began. Immortal names from buried heroes win ! Death is not dumb^ — 'tis eloquent of speech. And gives renown to each lone resting-place ! Round the chill swamp, where dear ones sleeping lie, Love's halo shines, and fondness gives it grace ! Weep not too sore the gallant sailor lad By Amstel's * river laid in lonesome peace ! God's acre welcomes all — none strangers there — And in the grave the feuds of nations cease ! Drowned in the deep and swiftly-flowing Y, In Holland, far away his ashes wait — The river caught him in its mighty arms, And bore him swiftly to the Golden Gate ! ^ol^oo — MRS. HAVERGAL. |n 3^£morram. OFTLY she passed to her rest,t Wearied with life and its pain ; Gently she faded from earth, Never to suffer again. Spirit unselfish and pure ! Intellect sprightly and clear — Blessing in silence like dew — Loving like sunshine to cheer ! * The city of Amsterdam is built upon the rivers Amstel and Y. From the former river it takes its name. The Y (pronounced eye) unites the Zuyder and North Seas. t Tliis admirable gentlewoman was stepmotlier to tlic late Miss Frances Ridley Havergal. Carel Adriaan Constans Libosan. 129 Face full of archness and wit — Glance ever lustrous but kind — Lips full of wisdom and grace, Dauntless, yet feminine mind ! Alas ! like the rainbow that paints With its own matchless colours the sky, She's vanished, and left us to mourn The days she was with us gone by ! But yet as the evening star sets, As with shining on earth it were tired, She shall rise in fresh beauty again, When the King " in His saints is admired ! " o-o.^gt^oo— CAREL ADRIAAN CONSTANS LIBOSAN. Assistant at the Laboratory of the University of Amsterdam ; died September 23, 1878, aged 22 years and nine months, in the dawning commencement of deserved fame. |ir P^cittoriam. GOLDEN cloud rose in the crimson West, Amidst a cluster of superb compeers ; It did not quench their brightness, but enhanced Their kindly shining in this vale of tears ; On angel wings the cloudlet seemed to fly. And darkness mounted to the evening sky ! Athwart the gloaming of the starlit night, A meteor grandly rose, and slowly crossed ; It cast a train of glory far and wide ; But like the cloud, ah me ! it soon was lost ! — Thus friendships fade, and those we love depart To leave a solemn silence in the heart ! * * The writer, with considerable diffidence, ventures here to insert an address which was presented to him on his leaving Amsterdam. He is emboldened to do so, because of its deserved tribute to his wife's dauntless perseverance, under diffi- culties which would speedily have discouraged many other ladies, and because K 130 Joseph Tiley, Esq. JOSEPH TILEY, Esq., Mus. Doc. Oxon. For Fifteen Years Organist at St. Michael Bassishaw. HE minstrel's gone ! — His music-loving soul, In his last slumber, caught the clarion call Of trumpeters above the Golden Gate ! The light of heav'n flashed in his dying eye ; And, with alacrity and joyful haste. He passed away to that far distant land Above the sunny skies, where Music reigns In gracious sweetness o'er the seraph's choirs ! And now his spirit walks in wonderment Upon the " sea of glass mingled with fire," Whose waters flash and scintillate beneath The kindling tread of harpers crowned with gold, And join exulting in the chorused praise That peals majestic round the throne of God — Sleep, gentle dust ! Sleep till the Lord shall come, With Sinai's trumpet and the angels' shoutj To fetch His saints, and wake the sleeping dead ! >/,/ 1879. her self-sacrificing efforts were crowned with entire success. He also rejoices in the opportunity thus afforded of expressing his lasting obligations to Thomas Swindells, Esq., and Mrs. Swindells ; to F. J. Tresling, Esq. and his admirable sister, Miss K. Tresling ; to L. C. Schwab, Esq., Assistant at the State Laboratory at Amsterdam ; to J. P. Janse, Esq., Lecturer at Liumviis ; and lastly to his ever- to-be-remembered friend and next-door neighbour, Libosan, whose upright sweet- ness of character and extraordinary abilities made it a delight and a privilege to hold converse with him : — '• Dear Friend, " We cannot permit you to leave Amsterdam without an earnest expression of our sympathy and love. With this object, a few members of your congregation at Amsterdam have united in presenting you with a slight offering, which, however trilling in itself, represents much good feeling towards yourself. W'c have enjoyed, during two years, the great privilege of hearing the Gospel, in its simple and Memory. 1 3 1 M E M R Y. H, Memory ! Thou quenchless taper light That shed'st weird glamour o'er the seething waves Of past events, as when the fickle moon Or sleepless stars flash out on midnight seas, And show the mariner what way his ship Has groped its course through rocks and pitchy gloom ! Oh Memory! Thrice doubtful boon to men — Why is it that thy cold, capricious flame Will kindle up the bygone scenes of grief — Will shine into the darkened corridors— The lone-closed chambers of the silent heart ? Let me but woo thee to light up past joys, No eager prayers will stir thy drowsy spark — Like smokincr flax it smoulders — will not flame ! 't> comforting truth, proclaimed from your lips, and not only are we thankful that the Episcopal Church here has again been opened for divine service, but all who have visited you must feel that your heart and home have also been ever open with a gene- rous hospitality to all comers. During each summer, how many English travellers have not only heard God's Holy Word, but received a hearty welcome, and been permitted to rest for a moment, during their sojourn in a foreign land, in the sympathetic house of an English family ; and to carry away with them happy memories of f.iendly kindness shown them for Christ's sake. Some pilgrims to 'the better land,' among whom you will especially recall our poor Friend LlBOSAN, have passed away, soothed by your ministrations, to rest in Jesus. We cannot allude to the brightness, and heartiness of our Sunday services, without asking your permission to offer our especial thanks to Mrs. McCaul, for her energy, and the untiring zeal with which she has organised and conducted the choir, prepared the elegant Christmas decorations, and in every way endeavoured to make the services, bright, attractive, and inviting. In asking your acceptance of a purse containing so trifling a sum, we would assure you, that it is accompanied by our earnest prayers and wishes for the welfare and prosperity of yourself and family, wherever it may please God to call you ; and we say to you, with earnest hearts and true, ' God speed ! ' "Amsterdam, February, 1879. {Hcrefolloio the sigiuititrcs.) "To the Rev. Canon McCaul." K 2 132 Envy I cannot see the faces that I love — I can't discern forms once as dear as life. They flit before me all impalpable — Pale shadows from the graves of dead delights ! Oh, cruel Memory, wake ! Thy taper trim — My grieving heart would fain revisit scenes Of long lost joys and guileless happiness — My soul puts out her hand to grasp thy lamp — Oh ! mock me not, nor bid me grope in vain, In search of comfort through the realms of pain ! E N V Y. HERE are some men so eaten up with spleen, So anxious for applause and flattery, That praise of others is a slight to them ! Commend a calf, and say it has good points, These jealous fools are all on fire at once, And think the calf has robbed them of their dues — Perhaps he has — for he's " the better man ; " He envies not, but grateful chews his hay. But those quaint people are so sensitive — They think the world is " making fun " of them ! Good Providence ! How men deceive themselves. On water-gruel none waxed "jolly" yet — And protoplasm is not a theme for mirth ! Oh, how they hate that calf! — In one degree Alone less fiercely than its eulogist^ We said, they think that folks poke fun at them ! That means, that people "enviously decry" Their splendid talents, and distingue mien ; Whilst the " Old eld " men, crying down the street, Grin as they pass — but never ask to deal ! Backbitino-. ^' ^ aa 1 1 And yet such folk will bear the smarting jest, The cruel gibe that, like rat's poisoned tooth. Gnaws slowly through the vitals of the soul Of men more sensitive to real wrones ! Your praise-sick glutton is too great a dolt — He hugs himself too much — is too far gone In self-esteem, to fancy men could jest, Could find a joke to crack on his dull hide — They smile indeed, he knows, but, " at his worth ! " And so, dissolved in tears of mirth, the world Laughs till it weeps, at such conceited fools Who strut and gibber, fish for compliments, Nay, gobble down the scum of nauseous praise Thrown broadcast at the mob by public men — Swine eat strange things. He is the dirtiest swine Who dines himself, but won't let others dine ! o>Qt;o«- BACKBITING. HOSE nimble creatures that can bite and hop, And which evade infuriated grabs ; Which worry kings and queens, as well as dogs. Although, like dogs, kings may not scratch themselves — Noblesse oblige ! And so these insect foes Torment great folks who may not show distress ! What king or queen their Lord High Chancellor Ever commanded thus ? " Sir, catch that flea ! " Bring in a bill, and make them felons all ! " Those nimble creatures — there's where we left ofF-^— They have impunity of littleness. And yet small worries goad the greatest souls, Because they cannot scotch them, as they would Real big troubles, with one might}' stroke ; And so these creatures tease and aggravate, 134 Backbiting. Until the lion roars and lashes up His palpitating carcass with his tail ! Such little worries make him quite forget That he is king of beasts, and should not yelp ! This is the secret which makes human " things " Too small, too petty for a real blow, To feel impunity, and wreak their spite Upon the men whose goodness makes them mad. They are so different to their craven selves. They are " so reticent," and never tell An evil tale. Because the tale may do Some harm, some cruel wrong to those who kneel At the same altar at " Communion time " — Sneaks love iniquity, and not the truth, And so they loathe, with all their currish hate, The man w^ho always makes them feel abashed By the bright contrast of his words and deeds. He is a puzzle. He's no " business man" He never sees what Mrs. Jenkins wears ! But to resume — Your backbiters are " smart " — Are talkative. But sometimes make mistakes — They've always got on hand a dirty tale — A wretched tale of gossip, only fit For kitchen-maids — and yet not fit for them. Because, though lowly in estate, those girls Have often honest, upright, kindly hearts — We'll not be personal. Say, Robinson — Jabez, or Jim perchance, his Christian name — Without the great Accuser's devilish wit. Unfolds his tale — or rather blurts it forth To the wrong person — thinking that he, too. Must feel delight in garbage fit for swine ! The backbiter pours forth his wretched tale — His entertainer fidgets in his chair — Then shakes his head, looks sad, and kindly says, "We have no right to use our neighbours"' names Outward- Boiiiid. i JO " About such things, supposing they were true — "But you have just assured me, you can't vouch " For what you say. Then why repeat the talc ? " So devils whisper. Slander gets about, " Whilst the backbiter thinks that he is safe, "Because he ^ cannot guarantee' what he's been told. " No, my Good Friend. Let's talk of other things — " Satan each night accuses you and me " Of many things which God won't listen to ! " The hall boil rings ! The very man walks in, Of whom the Backbiter has told the tale — He changes colour — but gets up and says, " My Dearest Friend ! How do ? I am so glad " To meet you thus. Your name was on my lips, " Just as it should be, when you rang the bell ! " And then he shakes his hand till the bones ache. But this is mere bravado. For he looks With bully's threatening at his honest host. " You dare to tell him ! Yes, you sneak, you dare ! " Just tell him what I said — I know you will ! " And then he takes a cordial leave of both, Convinced that he's " betrayed," and hatches up, "Just to protect himself" ! some filthy tale Against his host who could not tattle brook. But we have said enough. You know the man — Beware of dogs ! — and — slander — if you can ! -ao'fiif^fyo- OUTWARD-BOUND. ROLLING sea— a rattling gale ! A regular '' Nor'-wester." To-day our ship sailed out of port, Now is the time to test her ! She bounds, she leaps, she skips, she dives — 136 Ontward-Bonnd. She pants, she creaks, she shivers ; Whilst mountain-waves crash o'er her decks And bows, in hissing rivers ! Her engines puff, and pound, and snort ; They groan, they shriek — they rattle ; But yet the ship careers along, Like war-horse to the battle ! Away ! away ! On, ever on, The mighty craft goes tearing, Like giant trampling on his foes, Defiant, baffled, swearing ! She beats them down — She leaps their crests — She charges headlong o'er them ; Or cleaves a passage through their ranks Too mad to look before them ! Oh, ship ! brave ship ! fight proudly on ; Defy the waves, subdue them ; Pour forth your volumed smoke and sparks, And battle grandly through them ! A gallant sight it is, at night. Upon the stormy ocean. To watch the sparks, and see the waves In impotent commotion — To mark the ship's unflinching course Amidst the storm uproarious ; And see her fight the blustering gale, And reach the port victorious ! — Homeward-Bo7ind. 1 3 7 HOMEWARD-BOUND. HE midday sun is high o'er Albion's heights, The rolling tide comes proudly flooding in, Clapping its hands, and shouting to the cliffs, As, in their giant arms the billows bear A multitude of ships with outstretched sails, And thunderous paddle-wheels, right into port. Oh, what a scene of eager stirring life Of seamen hailing and of pilots' cries ! List to the rattle of the ponderous chains, As with a crash the anchor is let go ! — What volumed coils of black, far-reaching smoke — How gay the streamers — and how bright the flags ; As though a flight of tulip-painted birds Had perched upon each yard and tapering mast ! See the dense crowds of friends upon the shore, As each frail skiff puts off from every ship, Freighted with men from every clime and land, Eager to know what dear ones yet survive. After long absence from beloved homes. And weary wanderings over floods and fields. In search of treasure, health, or martial fame ! How glad the sight of England's happy shores. Its well-known steeples, and its village spires Nestling amongst the trees, and far-off hills All bright with cornfields and heath-covered moors ; Or yet, more glad to those from sun-scorched lands, Vivid with green, and flecked with snowy flocks ! — But day soon closes in, and twilight comes. The August moon rides high above the bay ; The crowds are gone — and many coloured lamps Flash from the shipping, o'er the slumbering sea — The tides are out — The breeze has died away. 13^ The Four" Travellers. No sound is heard except the dip of oars, Or seamen's song, or the sweet tuneful chimes That tell the hours, and thrill the traveller's heart With the dear thought that he is safe at home ! 3;©ic, THE FOUR TRAVELLERS. OUR gentlemen, in good old coaching days, Alighted at the ' Crown and Sceptre ' Inn, And ordered supper of the choicest things In season then, with wines and all to match. A jovial set these new arrivals were, In their snug, cosy, private sitting-room ! They played their rubber, drank their bowl of punch ; Then rang for John, and bade him bring the lights — The waiter came, with many scrapes and bows. It was past one, and he had been asleep. As soon as he came in, one gentleman Called out, "Ah, John ! just kneel down, and unscrew " My wooden leg — There — Put it by that chair ! " When that was done the second gentleman Cried also, " John ! Pray, be so very good, " And take out my left eye — It's made of glass." John did it ; when the third the waiter called, " Step here, my man, and take out my false teeth ! " Poor John was sore perplexed, and yet obeyed. But then the fourth, most burly gentleman, Began to wag his head as if 'twere loose. And in a stern, determined voice bawled out, " Here, John, you villain ! Come, undo my head — " Lay it face upward, very carefully, " In cold spring water, close to my bedside." This was too much for John, obliging soul ! He gave a shriek, and bounded to the door, And tore downstairs at three unheard of jumps ! To the Siuallows Departure . 139 Next morning, when the travellers rang the bell At breakfast-time, mine host himself appeared. Looking most ghastly pale, but yet polite, And stammered, " Gentlemen ! — There is your bill — " I have receipted it, but take no pay. " I've ordered round a chaise — Your things arc in. " It is beyond our skill to take off heads — "John might be hanged for murder if he tried. " Pray get your breakfast at some other house ! " -ool^s^o TO THE SWALLOW'S DEPARTURE. -*8!^c THE FIRST SNOWDROP. ALE, patient flower, that droops its gentle eye, In meek entreaty to the ruthless winds Of February's loud and gusty month, That finds its joy in lashing up the waves ; The eager, hungry waves to swallow up The hapless ships, or crush them on the rocks ! All hail ! dear snowdrop, first to break the chains. The dreadful bondage of the ruffian Frost — We greet thee, pallid envoy of good cheer. Escaped from death, to tell all Nature how The locks and bars, the rusty bolts are worn. Of Winter's jails, where he had hoped to kill All his sad captives by slow, pining death ! All hail, sweet flower ! We welcome thy frail bell That chimes in timid whispers the glad news, How all the tyrant's spite, how all his hate Has not sufficed to slay his prisoners yet. 144 Dead Loves {a- fragment). Who in long-suffering silence wait to hear Glad April's breezes clamouring at the doors, And bringing freedom, and long-hoped release To all the beauteous brotherhood of flowers ! DEAD LOVES. A FRAGMENT. II, Love ! Oh, love ! — How cruel to tie down A soul bereaved to an Eternal blank ! . And yet, in time, the captive loves his chain, And kisses oft the iron staple which Binds him to griefs which once were golden joys ! He hugs his heavy gyves, and joys to think, In his poor prison-holidays — -How few ! — - When his sad heart, by chance, by seldom chance, Forgets to grieve — forgets its life-long pain, And basks in sunlight of remembered days — —What do I think ? I think !— I think of this— How free I was to love ! — How each dear bird, Thrush, linnet, blackbird, soaring lark, all sang. And e'en the darling robin. Winter's pet, Sang but one song — " I LOVE AND AM BELOVED ! " ****** Winter remains, but all the birds are gone ! No redbreast pipes outside my prison bars Its cheery ditty to the frost-bound fields ! The world itself seems tranced, and Silence goes It's voiceless rounds outside the rusty grate — Deaf sentinel betwixt the past and me — But they are dead ! — Dead loves return no more ! Hast thou forgotten, oh, my soul, thy chain, That binds thy halting foot to loves long dead ? Why not ? Why not ! — The Roman martyr, linked To the poor clay of what was once his friend. Ambition. 145 At times forgot, in beatific dreams, That he was chained to death, and doomed to die ! Yet come, kind Death, and lay my loves and me Within the catacombs, when life's long pain Can smart no more and never throb again ! 3j€>io AMBITION. IFE is a trance, a nightmare of unrest, A very sea of pathless enterprize, To the ambitious, egotistic soul. Ambition ! That means lawful honest zeal To take high place amongst the kings of men — To wield the sceptre of a throne well won. But there are men who never can be taught That Nature formed them in a rarer mould ; That greatness is their birthright, if they knew How to make use of Heaven's supremest gifts — Men envy tliem, whilst they, with grudging, eye The abject dogs that starve about the streets. Folks fling a bone to those forsaken curs, And straightway Genius thinks itself o'erlooked ! So prates the fool whose coffers are surcharged With diamonds, rubies, and all kinds of gems. " He's doomed to starve because stones are not gold ! " " Bite and devour," is his philosophy ; " Grin like a dog and never have enough." And yet, some men there are most truly great, Could they but know what mighty gifts are theirs, And leave off hating other smaller men On whom such sunshine comes as may suffice To raise their thrifty crop of cress or beans. They will go grumbling on, and grudging sore — Is it because the windows of the mind L 146 The Road to JericJio. Are never opened to let in the air, The soothing air of thankfulness to God ? — So they go on, but never have enough Of worldly homage, or congenial fame, Till Death steps in, that potent leech from whom There's no appeal ; who knows no brother leech To ask opinion of! — He lays his hand, His bony hand, upon the fevered wrist. And tn a whisper which the deaf might hear. The true " stage-whisper " of High Tragedy, But oft inaudible to dying folks. In accents slow, but yet inflexible. He thus discourses to the egotist ; " The hour has struck — Eternity begins ! — " Life's fight is fought — Clutch not at shadows now, " Nor buffet phantoms of supposed neglect. " None would supplant — None now would take thy place. " Sleep mortal, sleep ! Thy passing dreams be peace ! " Death is no seer the future to unfold ; His healing art, quaint leech, is just to kill. One moment more — The spirit flutters forth To stand alone in presence of its God — Could but the dead return to mortal scenes, He'd learn he'd won the field he thought was lost ! His name is famous — Though he passed away Unconscious that mankind were truly just, And owned his greatness, whilst they pitying smiled To see true Genius peevish as a child ! o>S3>^oo- FOR EVERMORE. OW after row, the waves roll in, And make obeisance to the shore, Chaunting the self-same melody, For Evermore ! For Evermore ! Rank after rank the tides advance. Libations on the rocks to pour — • This is the chorus of their songs For Evermore ! For Evermore ! Since seas have ebbed and seas have flowed, With soft-toned plash, or shout of war, But one refrain they've always sung. For Evermore ! For Evermore ! When Time shall droop his wings, and die Upon the Everlasting shore, The weaves shall chaunt his dirge, and wail Oh, Nevermore ! Oh, Neverxmore ! Then shall the Sea of glass and fire — The Jasper Sea — exulting roar. Cast up its jewelled sprays, and cry For ever and for Evermore! L 2 148 The Unconsciotis Bore. LOVE'S ECLIPSE. FROM THE GERMAN OF MICHAEL BEREND. THOUGHT the roses were blowing still, But they were sear and dead ! I thought the stars were glowing still, But they were quenched, or fled ! I thought your oath was plighted still, But it was gone from you ! I thought love's torch was lighted still. But it had gone out too ! And now that roses, and stars, and love In death's embraces lie, Thou too my solitary heart Would'st steal away and die ! -x.^C^c THE UNCONSCIOUS BORE. FROM THE GERMAN. ND SO I have at last forsaken The town in which I loved to dwell ! Yet when I left, my hand was shaken. By none, and no one said " Farewell ! " No down-cast neighbour said he'd miss me, Nor pulled a melancholy face : None bit my cheek, in haste to kiss me, Nor tore my coat in wild embrace ! The reason I shall ne'er unravel. That, when I went, the folks seemed glad ! But this I know — Where'er I travel. For one at least, my heart is sad ! The Sij'onc East ]Vind. 149 THE MUD-BUILT TOWN. A MEDI/EVAL LEGEND. OME little folks had built a town of mud, With mimic streets, with square, with church complete, All quaintly modelled out in clay and dirt. The priest passed by, and praised their cleverness — " But children — What ! " — the holy man exclaimed, " The church is there, but why is there no priest ? " — " Please sir," an urchin cried, " our mud gave out — " We had no dirt to spare to make the priest ! " The priest was known to be a shabby man : He asked no more, but briskly walked away, Resolved his queries should be more discreet, At least, outside the Church Confessional ! -»oJ^c NIGHTMARE. N three swinging hammocks we slept, Wife and I, and small Tommy between ; We were slung up to trees, whilst the keen evening breeze Waved the leaves to and fro, just to screen ! — - I remember 'twas awfully cold — W^e did nothing but shiver and shake ; Every swing of each tree seemed to bring do^^•n on me, Or the wife, or small Tommy, a snake ! Whenever the little one cried, 'Twas a question, " which should disembark ? " Each hammock, you know, was hitched high, and so 'Twas a ticklish queer jump in the dark ! The grizzly bears grumbled around ! And then came the jaguar's wild scream — Whilst the vampires and bats, and those dreadful wild cats Kept myself and my wife in a steam ! At last, came a horrible din Of scalping knives, jaguars and bats ; And Indians, that cried with a devilish pride ; " Now, Gentlemen, off with your hats ! " The PJianfoiiis Pic-nic. Do "My dear," calls my wife, in a pet, " That child is uneasy — poor dove ! At the foot of that tree is a cup of cold tea ; There — ^jump out, and fetch it, my love ! " With a horrible shriek and a bound, I sprang out of bed, quite made up For the cannibal feasts, and the roaring wild beasts Which love on a white man to sup ! That leap from my nightmare and bed Awoke me, to think of the cause — I had been at the tea, giv'n b\' sweet Mrs. B., For those darling, scalp-taking Chocktaws ! -ooJ-StJO THE PHANTOMS' PIC-NIC. [NE beautiful midnight of summer, Tom wandered Near the lichen-grown gates of a country church- yard ; The sheep-bells were tinkling — The glow-worms were glinting, And myriads of dewdrops bejewelled the sward ! Tom mused and he pondered, and thought of his sweetheart. And sniffed up the odour of woodbine and rose ; When a flashing and fizzing, like corpse-candles smoking, Real " Will-o'-the- Wispers,'' offended his nose ! Good Providence ! — What was poor Tommy's amazement, As he crept to the lych-gate, and peeped through the bars — Ghosts ! Ghosts upon ghosts, in their hundreds arriving ! Cried half-fainting Tommy, " A pic-nic, my stars ! " So it was ! — So it was ! — a most festive occasion ; For the shades of a Sneak and a Slandress had wed ; And they'd planned an excursion to visit the graveyard. To talk of old times, and bespatter the dead ! 154 ^/^t' PJicintoms Pic-nic. Poor Tom ! Trustful Tommy, he never imagined He should thus be "let in," when "just out " for a walk, To witness an orgie of spirits on pic-nic. To see goblins waltzing, and hear their small talk ! Poor Tommy ! — He always imagined his duty Was first to tell truth, if the whole truth were tasked ; If he heard a bad word of a friend or a neighbour, He never would blab, nor repeat it unasked ! But the horrible tales which the spectres related, The cannibal gusto with which they were told. The shrieks of applause, and the devilish laughter Made his hair stand on end, and his heart's blood run cold ! Tom shivered, as sprites like an ice-wind brushed by him. Whilst others in passing almost singed his hair ; The cold ones, he knew, had no power to hurt him — The hot ones ! — He pretty well guessed what they were ! When the churchyard was thronged, and refreshments dis- posed of. Fifty couples stood round where the sleepers were urned ; The band-master goblin struck up, on his fiddle. The jig* to which Rome and the Christians were burned ! But "how," some may ask, " were the spectres attired ? " — The dowager phantoms had black ostrich plumes ; The gentlemen danced in the bones that they stood in. Young ladies were draped in long, sheet-like costumes. With a jump and a whoop, and a skip and a rattle, With a grinning of teeth and a clatter of bones. And a whistling of wind through each skeleton carcase, The dancers whirled off over hillocks and stones ! With bald skulls cocked sideways, and backwards and forwards, With symmetrical ribs and the moon flashed between. With hollows, for ages bereft of their eyeballs, The revellers indeed were a sigrht to be seen ! * A cclclMated Allegretto vivace composed by the Emperor Nero. Xantippc. 1 5 5 Half dazed by the music, and snappinc^ of fingers Like ivory castanets beating the time ; Amazed by the whisking, the vaulting and capers, Tom plucked up his courage, and thought the sight " prime ! " The spectres buzzed round Tom, and past him, and o'er him, Till the churchyard itself got so crowded and full, That the dancers, perforce, took a flight round the steeple, Or sat in the belfry awhile to get cool ! Then down they came swooping whilst others replaced them. To take up fresh places again on the sward ; The fiddles kept scraping, the banjos kept twanging, And all the best dances were three times encored ! The reels and the waltzes, the jigs seemed unending ; The sprites danced as though they'd for ever dance on ; When a cock crowed aloud, and the Eastern sky kindled With a glimmer of dawn, and the spectres were gone ! oJS^oo- XANTIPPE. ^ANTIPPE was the famous wife Of a most famous man — So was Therese — henpecked Rousseau In dread his queer life ran. That Socrates, in every way. Was model spouse, who'll swear ? But prematurely bald, the gems * Depict him short of hair. Was it Xantippc plucked his locks ? She clouted him 'tis said ! Was it Therese of quaint Jean Jacques A brusque curmudgeon made ? * The portraits df Socr.'itcs cut in i^cms. 156 Passing Storm. The moral is, Philosophers Should be in wedlock wise — " Domesticated Housekeepers " Philosophy despise. A sixpence earned for chopping wood They can appreciate — But as for merit's slow reward, For that they cannot wait ! And so your Socrates is led A most infernal life. He only has himself to blame Who takes a vulgar wife. Language, she thinks, was chiefly made To scold the fish-fag down — Woe to his peace, if on a book Her husband spends a crown ! With shrewd foresight, Moses forbade The ox and ass to yoke Together to the self-same plough ; He of Xantippes spoke ! oj^oo- PASSING STORM. PARK and defined before the narrow belt Of dusky red that girt the sullen heavens, And saved the sky from being horizonless. The solemn trees stood motionless and still, As if arraigned by the dread clouds that soared In lurid threatening o'er their stately heads ; They all stood motionless, as wrapt in thought. Like giants listening for the word of doom ! No leaflet whispered, till a moaning sob, A surging wail, an angry, rolling roar The Birth of Spring. 157 Swept o'er the forest, and the tempest broke In passionate, uprooting, furious wrath ! The lightnings leaped abroad and rent the rocks, The floods descended on the foamine lake ; The waves arose, and scudded to and fro. Crying aloud responsive to the wind, Like army panic-struck, or howling mob In stark dismay, or fierce, vindictive rage ! And so the savage tempest thundered on. Until its mad, capricious breath was spent, And the glad sun broke through the scattered clouds. And laughed the storm to scorn for all its spite, And made each little raindrop smile and flash. With sparkling gaiety, at his return ! -.^X«o THE BIRTH OF SPRING. HE crocuses bring forth their cups of gold, And priceless, purple Sevres-ware to pledge The new-born Spring, on his auspicious birth !- All nature joins in one applauding shout. That Winter's King who reigned so cruelly, Deposed prepares to die, and ere he goes, Each day sets free some captive thing of joy, Some form of beauty which he hoped to slay, But which survives, in spite of all the chains And doleful rigours of his prison house ! Delighted Nature strews the fields with flowers. As zephyrs bear upon their blithesome wings The infant Spring to lay him on his throne All hail ! Deliver — Unclouded be The early days of thy long-prayed-for reign ! Grow strong and mighty — Ceaseless sunshine play Around thy beautiful, angelic form ! 158 Winters Fogs. Until, matured to perfect royalty Thou shalt put on thy rainbow robes of state, Which Summer weaves against the days of June, And summon all the world to thy glad court. To see thee crowned as King of Flowers, and keep For many weeks exulting holiday ! 3j«Ko WINTER'S FOGS. UN, and stars, and sickly moon All are faded out ! — A gloom Broods upon a silent world Waiting as for day of doom ! Frosty fetters, iron gyves Hold all nature as in death ; Wheezing, icy, foggy airs Gasp like dying men for breath. Still the pond'rous mill-wheel stands Thick with icicles and snow. Dank the fields, the hedges white ; Stifled sounds the cock's faint crow. Feebly through the choking mist Comes the sheep-bell's tinkling sound — Lusty watch-dog's muffled bark Seems as by enchantment bound ! Soundless the deserted heath, Echoless the distant hills. And the dim-lit village street Voiceless desolation fills ! Is then this the joyous scene Where the linnet and the thrush Sang their gay, exulting songs To the perfume-laden bush ? Truth. 159 TRUTH. HE prophet tells us how, when he would ht)ld His peace, and preach no more to listless ears, A fire was kindled in his very bones. Which, like a seraph's torch, consumed him with Its eager flames, until he found his tongue ! But when the spell of mute despondency Was broken through at last, he spoke again, With all the scathing fire of fervid Truth — He could not hold his peace, but cried aloud, In words dictated by the mind of God. But yet his hearers laughed the Truth to scorn. And sought to slay the " mad enthusiast ! " But, what is Truth } So craven Pilate asked, Afraid to kill the Just One, more afraid To be reported by those vengeful priests Who only had the Truth in those dark times. And yet God's WORD and TRUTH they gibbeted Upon the Cross, because they hated Truth ! — ■ Yes, what is Truth 1 — They'd have reported him — We mean poor Pilate — miserable cur ! To his meet master, swoll'n Tiberius With the red visage, and suspicious scowl. Was it Tiberius who a bodkin kept — • A golden bodkin — ^just for killing flies ? — When once a nervous Senator drove up, And asked goldstick-in-waiting, tremblingly, " Is great my Lord Sebastus now alone .-* " He got this answer — " Yes, my Lord's alone — " Yes, quite alone — Not e'en a fly awaits " His mighty pleasure, for he's killed them all ! " Domitian was the prince — Tiberius not,* The bodkin-man who loved to torture flies. * Tlic author has availed himself uf a ihclorical aililki; to hit twu uncanny birds witii one stone. 1 60 Truth. He was the prince who called his House of Lords Together to advise him how to cook The very biggest turbot he'd e'er seen ! But about names its folly to dispute These wretched deeds were done — That's what we mean, And done by thrice-illustrious potentates ! The world's seen things as quaint in modern times. There was a Hapsburg Emperor who broke Canaries' legs and wings to see them wince, And bawled for joy when some poor little thing Showed more than wonted signs of agony.* Great God ! What monsters have sat on the throne Of stifled justice, mercy, goodness, truth, And how mankind have flattered, crept and crawled, Around the footstool of such evil beasts. Forgetting that, in God's own image. He Has made us all, to stand erect as men. Thank Heaven, in Europe we've near done with that ! — But we've digressed again, as is our wont — We were discoursing on the theme of Truth. Yes, what is Truth } There lies the crucial test — We mean no flippant joke on " lies " and lies — But first we'll say, whatever is is true. No cleverness can make a deed undone. The smallest blade of grass is yet a fact. If a man picks it, holds it in his hand, And yet denies he has it, knowingly, A miserable sinner that man is ! A lie offends and breaks God's holier laws, But also violates His Nature's creed. To say a thing is not, when it is so, Insults the pure self-conciousness of things Which know they do exist just as they are. As to their really knoiving what they are. That is a riddle which we've not quite solved — At any rate, of this we are quite sure, God made each thing as it was meant to be. * See Baron Treiick's Memoirs. TnitJi. 1 6 1 It is a fact — a real fact that lives For ever, on the Great Creator's mind, Who ne'er forgets what once He's willed to be, And to deny it, is to mock the Eye, The awful eye of Him who never sleeps ! A falsehood, therefore, is a true offence Against the primal code of primal being, Embalmed in rocks, and stones, and everything — Against the code of daily life, by which We hope to find to-morrow things just like The very things we see and use to-day. A lie is always base, for it's untrue. What now is upright, straight, direct and clear. May be, nay is, too often, bent awry, But while it's straight, to say it's bent and curved, Or while it's bent, to say its lines are straight. Gives honest, homely facts the lie direct. Naught is so shocking to a downright man, A true, God-fearing, fearless gentleman. As to be forced to hear a craven lie, Which prudence tells him " you can't contradict, " It's not your business — Meddle not in strife ! " •With what contempt he looks upon the man Be he prime minister or scavenger, That deals unblushingly in bare-faced lies ! A lying parson most of all he loathes — Lies may be clever, dexterously framed — Glib unveracity is always smart, And helps the liar to be very proud Of a neat quickness which the devil prompts. The world would sooner listen to a lie. Provided it be sland'rous, and well told, Than hear an angel's tongue proclaim the truth. Your ready liar is so " businesslike " — That miserable phrase of shabby cant ! — As pious rogues do things " on principle," Which honest Hottentots would blush to own. M 1 62 Truth. " He is so businesslike " — That means a man Who never knew a moment's real pinch, And never did a kindness in his life. When such a fellow dies, his epitaph Sets out to future ages, how he ran, Jaunty and smug, a bright unbroken course Of affluent respectability. And how in heaven he holds a harp of gold. That can't be true ! Heaven's not monotonous — The screw had harped on gold so long on earth, That doubtless, in the other, juster world, He spends his leisure time far differently !— Your " thorough man of business " is well groomed. Wears faultless linen, and the daintiest boots. But how he mocks, and gibes, and laughs to scorn That " seedy Dickens " who has lost his all, And " will not pay," because his bones were picked By the shrewd brethren of the vulture tribe ! But yet your " man of business " has a name For being just — he keeps within the law. He's such a "just man " as St. Paul describes " For whom a man would scarcely dare to die," Although for " good men " some have even dared. But let us now come back, and speak of Truth, Which was our theme, till we our friend espied In the quaint prism of thought's varieties. Just ask his clerks — It is no scandal — no — Just ask his clerks, in your simplicity, If their rich master does not treat them well ? You think, of course, that they are amply paid. Good heavens ! They're learning to be liars too — They'll tell you " yes ! " but add perhaps, a joke About poor Tompkins who was "sacked " last week- The Latin moralist reminds us, that The bitter truth is often safely told. Under the cover of a laughing jest. But what of Tompkins — guileless, truthful soul ? Tritlh. 1 63 Poor dog, his wife was just confined of twins, He'd left his meagre home with anxious heart ; A customer came in, and Tompkins asked " What is the quaHty of so and so ? " I care not for the price, if it be good." Blunt, stupid Tompkins told the honest truth — He asked the proper price as it was marked,^ And was o'erheard by our bland " business-man," Who stepped up to the would-be purchaser. Who, he perceived, was in the mood to pay A tip-top price, to get things really good ; " My clerk, Sir," he explained, " makes a mistake — " The price he named is for third quality" — That was a fact, and so the articles Displayed by Tompkins were the same low class — " But, Sir, the goods you see are quite the best — " Forty /^/' cent, we must advance the price." The goods were sold, and paid for in hard cash ; But when the customer had gone his way, Believing in the lie so " businesslike," The " governor " went to his counting-house. Sent for poor Tompkins — soundly swore at him, Called him a lot of names — Without the oaths, " You scoundrel thief to rob me ! " sounds quite tame "You'll never make a business-man ! " summed up John Tompkins' "just " employer's coarse tirade — When he had done, he wrote a curt receipt For a week's wages — Tompkins was dismissed "Without a character," — He could not lie ! Next Sunday came — His children ate dry bread. When they and their sad father came from church ! The "governor" had also been at church — He had a very xz.x& falsetto voice. And always sang in the choice, surpliced choir* This is no unworthy gibe at surpliced choirs. The writer regards them as the happiest means of giving laymen a i)crsonal interest and pride in the services of the Church. M 2 164 Truth. All filled by volunteers of good estate. On " Sabbath mornings " he was mostly there, But, as at seven o'clock he always gave A little dinner, to a chosen few Of worthy chums, he sang but once a day, Which was enough to " look respectable." That Sunday night he made the table roar With his dry, waggish humour, when he told How " Tompkins called last night at nine o'clock ; " I let them show him in — Because I knew " I'd have some fun — He's such a stupid fool ! " He cried, and asked me for the love of God, " For his sick wife's sake, and the little ones, " Not to refuse to give a character. " I said. My man, you should have thought of that, " Before you told my customer that lie ! " Yoii want a character .'' — I'll give you one, " If you will use it — This is what I'll say, " ' He's honest, sober, very punctual ; " But, I regret, he's most unbusinesslike! " If that will serve you, Sir, I'll write it now. "You want a character! You Jackass — you ? " I hope to see you in the workhouse yet — " The character I'll give will help you there ! " This witty speech convulsed the jovial guests — But strange to say, the " governor " it was Who came upon the parish, poor and old ! Tompkins was then a wealthy vestryman, And never visited the " House " without Some snuff and half-a-crown to give his foe ! Falsehood is mad, when truth is blurted forth By men whose lips are not so nicely framed As to spit lies into the face of facts. And, with a bully's wink, defy the world To contradict him, and reveal the truth. Justice seems slow to our impatient wills — Truth oft is elbowed roughly to the wall, Lyijio-. 165 That gilded Falsehood may ride by in state, Whilst Wickedness lifts up its horn, and strives To push and trample honest purpose down. But every lie is registered in heaven — The angel notes it in that awful Book Which the great Judge Supreme alone admits As " written evidence " against us men ; If Truth prevail not now, let none be vexed- - This life's appeals are settled in the next ! -»o^:o LYING. HIS is an age of sleek mendacity — lliough truth is often told by accident, Or if it be upon the winning side — A plain, unvarnished tale of real facts Is set aside at once, as " barefaced lies," Or else, as garbled, hacked rcsidi/nm Of something which at some time did take place. Men are so false, and women too alas ! — They feel no shame in lying sturdily, Disowning things they said, and did, and wrote, * Which every one that hears them, knows they did, And which their very children heard and saw ; Of which there is at hand proof positive ! Yet, unabashed, they brazen out their shame, And make ears tingle with their shamelessness ! — Yet e'en such folk must sometimes feel a pang, At being despised by their own flesh and blood ! — Do simple-minded readers ask amazed, * One cause of the prevailini; untruthfulness and dishonourable dealing of the present time, is doubtless to be attributed to the disgraceful manner in which the honest, impartial witness is browbeaten and tortured with odious insinuations in our law courts. The Advocate's calling, it would seem, now-a-days is to blacken the guiltless, and to stifle the voice of truth, in the interests of rascality and chicane. Is this not very nearly akin to what is called in Scripture " taking a reward to slav the innocent " ? 1 66 Lying. '* How is it then such folks are not found out ? " Heaven bless their trustful hearts ! The reason's plain — Ill-doers always brand the man who knows The awkward truth, the inconvenient fact — Brand him as LIAR, everywhere they hear His upright name, as a precaution, lest He might be forced to tell the things he mourns, Facts must be spoiled beforehand of their sting — None will believe him, if he's known as " liar " — Prevention of betrayal, so they think, Is better far than any after-cure ! — So, many a man goes up and down the world, Guarding his lips with " fervent charity " — Seeking the welfare of his enemies, Grieving o'er crimes he never would disclose ; And yet pursued by a malignant spell That bars all confidence, shuts friendly doors — Chills kindly feelings, makes him desolate, Until at last — baffled, perplexed, sore grieved — Rebuffed and shunned by people he would love. His heart within him dies, and turns to stone — Little he dreams that he has been denounced As slanderer,* liar, venomous mad-dog. Lest he should blab the secret things he knows. But which the culprits in their " self-defence," Have told beforehand, in distorted shape. As base inventions of this dangerous knave ! j 'Tis thus wrongdoers, with the devil's shears, Contrive to clip the wings of Honesty, And hedge its footsteps in with thorns and briars, But yet, have patience ! — Envy not the liars, Who hug themselves upon their clever spite. Shall not the Judge of all at last do right ? * It is upon this principle that detected rogues cry " Stop Thief ! " to cover their own retreat. t The writer had before his mind the case of one of the most upright English gentlemen, now deceased, that ever he knew. The malignant perseverance with which he was hunted down, because he knew the inconvenient truth, is almost past belief. And yet he was a man of fervent Christian charity, though he would have no fellowship \y\\\\ deeds of darkness. Boorishness. 167 BOORISIINESS. J^OW does it happen, brusque imperiousness Is oft assumed by men who phmic themselves On boorishness, and utter disregard Of all those little decent courtesies That ease the jarring wheels of social life, And help the jolting, crazy vehicle Across the hundred ruts and stumbling-blocks That threaten overthrow at every turn ? Some people pride themselves on vulgar tricks. On shocking " prejudice," on doing things Which would seem quaint amongst the Hottentots. Of such it's hard to speak with charity. Call them ill-mannered — That were calumny ! Manners forsooih ! — They have got none at all. A spruce "Jack-pudding" in an M.B. vest, In truth, is bad enough ; a clown far worse — We mean by " clown " a clerical Yahoo, One too unworldly to behave himself. As gentlemen in decent circles do. This comes from selfishness, or self-conceit. Sham eccentricity, or envious spleen At feelinsf less at ease than other folk — To little purpose is it that such boors Preach like John Baptists, but behave like swine. Gathering wild-honey would be good for them. For if done roughly, they'd be stung to death. Or driven headlong to the wilderness, There to reflect, in sufiering discipline, That gentle handling, after all, is best ! Such men as these are always blurting out, Before the wearer's face, some rude remark On lady's dress ; yet know no more of dress, Or what's becoming in a woman's garb. Than Adam diel before he got his skins ! 1 68 Boorislmess. Such slovens feel their hopeless slouchiness, And so revile clean linen and white hands ! They call it " faithfulness " to flout a host, And hostess too, for their solicitude To honour them, by asking friends to meet (With great misgivings lest they misbehave) The great Unwashed, at a well-cover'd board. We call to mind a solemn nobody. At whom folk laughed some fifty years ago, He was " on deputation," so it's called, " Pleading the cause " of some benighted race * Who ate up men without a pinch of salt, But yet, in person scrupulously clean — They swam like fishes, and that kept them sweet — After the Evening Meeting, where he spoke For two long hours, a stranger brought him home. To a fine " spread " extemporised for him. Once in the supper-room, he glared around, And then and there began a fierce tirade Against " extravagance and sinful waste " — Yet, before supper closed, the pious bear Was snoring loud, his head upon the board. With a duck's leg between his greedy teeth ! * The writer would feel deeply grieved, were it to be imagined that he sneered in the slightest degree at Missions. They are the glory of our land, and the best indication that a vital Christianity is far from extinct among us. He simply deprecates the delusion that a semi-savage brusqueness, and a vulgar and fanatical defiance of the decent Humanities of life, are the requisite externals of an earnest- minded piety. He well remembers being at a formal evening party, at the house of a clergyman many years ago, where a young married lady was, in the course of the evening, invited to sing, and accordingly did sing ''''Kathleen Alavoiirneeji.'" Before the last note of the ballad was concluded, the hostess bustled up to the piano, and, almost pushing her guest off the music-stool, commenced singing a hymn, in stern reproof of the levity of her guest, who, when she next called at the house, was gravely lectured on the impropriety of secular music, and also informed that " low dresses " were an " insult to the Almighty." The fair lecturer herself happened to be, almost literally, as tall as a giraffe, and as thin as a slate pencil. It may therefore be charitably supposed that she was, at the moment, thinking of her own personal disqualifications for running counter to Providence in the matter of evening costume, with a somewhat uneasy acquiescence in irs inscrutable decrees that had added at least a cubit to her stature, without a corresponding "breadtli in the beam," as the Tyrian sailors cited on p. 12, might have called it. No sensible person requires to be told, that all fashions, pushed to the extreme, degenerate into vulgarily, and sometimes even into indecorum. Too clever by half. 169 TOO CLEVFJ^ BY HALF. |0 wise in their conceits some people are, So confident that they alone have wits, That downfalls and rebuffs have no effect To teach the dolts their utter mawkishness ! They see by intuition ever prompt ; By inborn, all-embracing cleverness, What other people always overlook — They could suggest improvement in the stars ! Their mental paint-pot always is at hand, With which to daub God's finest masterpiece — They'd give the rose a smack of lavender — They'd teach a seraph how to fly with grace — ■ They'd add a " touch of colour " to the snow— They'd put a giraffe into four-legged drawers, And give " crude" Nature's course a " healthier tone ! " Nothing so lovely, but they carp at it — Nothing so witty, but they're wittier still — Woe to the wight that is " befriended " by These paragons of pert rash-mindedness ! At bitter cost, he finds how dearly sold Was independence, quiet, everything That makes the life of man supportable. From that day forth, like Jericho, his house Has no more walls — Less happy than the town, The trumpets' clangour brays for evermore ! Invading hosts are always marching through. And treading down all privacy, all rest. All independence, every thought of peace — Until the victim eyes the neighbouring pond, With wistful looks, as promising escape ! 1 70 Too clever by half. Better to have his ashes thus infused For thirsty steers, or even swine to drink, Than be provoked to madness every day ! * Presence of mind— That means advice to g'ive On every mortal thing, these ogres vaunt. On all emergencies they're to the fore, With their revolting old wives' remedies. They swear, the mole is blind because " perverse ; " Its hebetude of sight is its own fault — " Taken in time," the thing was curable ! They'd seize the snuffers to "job " off a leg — " Better to have it off at once" they cry, Never inquiring, could the leg be saved ? And if the wretch, who owns the damaged limb, Demur to amputation on the spot, Or dare to hint that he would keep his leg, The amateur SangRADO bridles up, And sweeps off, huffed at " want of confidence ! " — But Education is the dismal string On which these nuisances for ever harp. Your clever pests are great at "training up" The " youthful mind," on some transcendent plan — That means, they take delight "on principle" To make small children swallow nauseous things, Which, left from dinner, are brought up for tea ! They set them SCRIPTURE, as a punishment For every trivial fault, to learn by heart ; And if they cannot learn it, set them more ; And send them faint and supperless to bed. To wake to torment fresh at breakfast time ! Such " training " 's naught but domineering spite. And " Christian firmness " of the MURDSTONEf type — It shrinks within itself, if firmly met. But plays its cruel pranks on hapless babes ; * The writer fully expects that his book will be tal^oocd by the Too Cleverly i%^ community, ostensibly, as advocating suicide ! t See "David Copperfield," by Charles Dickens, Too clever by half. i 7 1 It joys to see small people in distress ; And gloats on tears, and helpless agony, And whips the " rebels " if they look cast down — * But little ones have rights as well as men ; And know they have, and only bide their time ; And treasure up injustice, sense of wrong, With all the simple, singlemindedness Of small experience, and straightforward thought ! They smell the rat of arbitrary will Beneath the coney's fur of guilelessness, And flout the cant that masks brutality With "sense of duty," and soft, mealy words ; But vents its spleen, in savage kicks and blows. On their defenceless skins and aching heads ! — But why say more of such repulsive folk ? Had they but power proportioned to their will, They soon would set the universe on fire, And hug themselves for making such a blaze ! All know their pompous leer, and knowing wink ; Their pert pretence to every kind of lore. If they knew all they hint, they'd beat at once Wise Solomon himself to fiddlestrings ! Yet strange to say, no Queen of Sheba cares To go on pilgrimage, to hear their words Of self-conceit, and crass vulgarity ! * Nothing is more unjust or injurious to children than needlessly, or heedlessly, to expose their faults and failings before strangers. Those who are in the habit of visiting the poorer classes, will call to mind the abominable practice of mothers rating their children before the visitor, for the sake of showing how admirably they have them under discipline. This is generally done whilst the parental sneak sits oa the very edge, or on one corner of her chair, with a depre- catory humility, as if it would be far too great a freedom to occupy the entire seat, before so august a patron or patrons ! Happy for the little ones, if they are not, as is too often the case, cruelly knocked about, into the bargain, as soon as the visitors are out of hearing, for being "such a wicked" boy or girl, as the case may be. 172 TJic School-Girr s Dream. THE SCHOOL-GIRL'S DREAM. ISS LOVELL fell asleep in Church — (Next day poor Nelly got the birch) — ■ And dreamt, her sweetheart BiLLY DoVE, In rhyming accents, told his love. Our lad and lass, from neighbouring schools, Made love on Sunday — Little fools ! — That night the gas was hot, and Nell Into a dreamy slumber fell ! She saw her lover by her side ; He asked her to become his bride. She dreamt, a lovely lute he played,— And thus, in rhyme, his suit he made — Were I a bird, I'd heavenward fly, And fetch down music from the sky : I'd learn the songs that angels sing, And for my Nell to earth I'd bring ! Were I a fish, the seas I'd swim, And dive for pearls in caverns dmi : The coral reef should yield its store, With amber from the Euxine shore ! Were I a breeze, I'd fan thy face, And give it ever fresh'ning grace ; I'd speed thy boat with perfumed gales, I'd flaunt its flag, and fill its sails ! Were I a roving planet star, I'd bid thee mount my flaming car — At flashing speed, all night we'd roam. And ere daybreak. I'd drive thee home! The ScJiool-Girr s Dream. ] ']'iy " Were I a flower " — the youth began, When Mamselle dropped her book and fan ; Frenchwomen are, it's widely known To terrible hysterics prone ; She gave a whoop, a shriek, a yell And down in strong convulsions fell ! — Poor Nelly woke with sudden start, And in her throat she felt her heart ! At first, around she wildly stared — Her whereabouts to know too scared ; At last she saw she'd slept in Church, The punishment for which was birch ! — The organ played — the Church broke up — The girls walked two and two to sup ; Nelly went supperless to bed, And sad forebodings filled her head ! — Nelly was flogged when Monday came, Which all the girls declared a shame ; Yet vowed they thought, for such a sleep. And such a dream, a whipping cheap ! Moral. Girls overworked and underfed Are sure to sleep in church — The pillory is far too good For those who rule by birch — Scholastic harridans that thrash, Should tarred and feathered be ! And ride face-tailward on an ass, For all the world to see ! * * Some ominous disclosures have recently appeared in the public journals respecting the ]5ractice of corporal discipline in girls' schools. One duly authent- icated instance of such illegal torture ought to be sufficient to exclude the perpetrator for ever from civilised society, and human sympathies. Whipping is the proper disciplme for crimes of violent and deliberate atrocity. A girl that deserves flogging is no fit companion for the less hardened of her se.x. She is on a par with the degraded vixen that glories in the severities of the rod. The latter ought to be a loathing and abomination to every one that claims the privileges iustly due to the gentler sex. , A savage woman is the nearest approach to a she- devil that fallen humanity can exhibit. 174 Elegy to a Canary Bird. ELEGY TO A CANARY BIRD. E^RE lies the cold, but priceless clay Of my beloved Dickey ! How good he was — how blithe — how gay How winsome, tame and trickey ! Think not the strange costume he wore Mark'd him an empty fellow — A faithful heart was cover'd o'er By that quaint suit of yellow ! Oh how I loved his voice to hear, So musical and ringing ! As though an angel from the sphere Of heaven had taught him singing ! Sweet bird ! He would delight me still, But for his fatal illness — I knew my precious pet was ill, By his unwonted stillness ! Oh ! how it wrung my inmost heart. To watch my darling moping ! Until I saw his life depart, I could not give up hoping ! Faintly he hung his little head. And drooped his wings about him, And sinking on his groundsel bed. He flew away without them ! One little pant ! one little sigh — One little troublous shiver — Oh ! Happy bird — Is this to die, With scarce a groan or quiver ? Alice, Princess of England. 175 Know then, ye Wayfarers, that I, In hfe, dear Dick respected ; And when my darHng came to die, I this small stone erected ! ALICE, PRINCESS OF ENGLAND. Died December 14, 1878. |it piEmorinm. ND can kings die ? Does dreadful death invade The noble halls of princely palaces ? Oh, Alice ! Alice ! queenly England's pride ; Pure pattern of the Nation's womanhood ; Unlike the ill-starred ship that bore thy name, Thy early doom we mourn, with grateful tears. Like the physician's death, who gives his life To heal and soothe the bed of others' pain ! Oh, proud distinction on the muster-roll Of the world's heroes, who have sacrificed Their own dear lives beside the suffering sick ! Oh Alice ! England mourns thee, but with sighs Of sweet remembrance of thy saintly life. Death has no bitterness for such as thee ! Rest, gentle lady ! called betimes away From bleak December's melancholy skies. To bloom an angel in the world of joy ! Thy home bereaved shall not be desolate, Filled with the holy calm of thankful love ! Alice ! thy father's soul has welcomed thee. Fond daughter, at the Golden Gate of Heaven ! Thy little ones so early gone before, On shining wings flit round thee, come to rest With them, until God's saints are all brought home ! Thy epitaph is writ in England's heart, "Alice a Martyr died to Woman's Love!" 176 Der Nix. M- N- - DIED AT AMSTERDAM, February 20, 1878. Aged 17. HE cruel month of February's blast Has sent your flow'ret to its early doom ! Yet the same Month has giv'n wreath Of snowdrop beauty, to adorn her tomb ! The early Springtide is a time of tears, But yet a time of promise sure to come ; A few more weeks — and then all Nature hears The bird's sweet singing, and the bees' soft hum ! Sleep on then, maiden ; thou shalt yet arise ! God's garden waits for such a summertide As never blossomed under earthly skies — A time of vanquished grief, and death defied ! the virgin 3j<5;;o-o- DER NIX. CH sass am Meeresufer spat, Im Donner, Blitz und Regen ; Vom Wasser sprang mir etwas auf, Gar sonderbar, entgegen ! Sein' Stirn war blass ; die Locken grlin Und langer wie gewohnlich ; Sein Angesicht hochst sonderbar, Halb Mensch, halb Fischlein ahnlich ! " Wer bist du, Fremder ? " fragte ich Erstaunt, doch unerschrocken. "Es regnet stark ; willst du den Schirm ? So bleibst du warm und trocken ! " BetrotJial. 177 Als ich die Frage endete, War er hervor gekrochcn Und lachelte und sagtc : " Nix," Doch hat cr auch gcsprochcn ! Er sagte : " Nix " und niedcrsank, Als ware nix gcschehen — Die Leute glaubten fest mit niir, Ich habe Nix gesehen ! -o-o'aa^Oo- BETROTHAL* ^RE that dear night when Mary's pleasing thrall My fluttering heart, in willing bondage, felt, I little thought, with children of the Fall, Joys so divine, such godlike rapture dwelt ! The burnished sheen of her resplendent eyes Dethroned the stars, and shone instead on earth — The harvest moon in vain illumed the skies. Eclipsed below by beams of brighter worth. Her dainty feet, when climbing up the hill, From the glad flowers a fragrant welcome pressed ; The lovesick brook grew amorously still. And took her mirrored beauties to his breast. Her breath was incense, and her voice was love ; Her willing lips the rubied gates of joy. Keep far each word, ye Guardian Powers above. And envious breath, that might such bliss destroy ! * The above lines and the " Epithalamiuiu ' that follows are invested with a melancholy interest to the writer. They were sportively addiessed to his late friend and colleaj;ue in the Library of the British Museum, Carl Joseph Thanisch, on the occasi<-n of his betrothal and niarriaj;e respectively, in 1S59. He was a generous-hearted, acconiplishetl man, and a Iriend of unswerviny lideiity. N 178 The Phantom Ship. EPITHALAMIUM. ANN und Madchen fest zu binden, Hymen wahlt nur Blumenketten ! Dass sie nichts darunter finden, Pflegt der Bube oft zu wetten. Selten ist zuerst entdeckt, Was bei Rosen liegt versteckt ! Spricht die Braut so sanft und leise, Wie des Veilchens susser Hauch ; Brautigam auf gleiche Weise Ist den Engeln ahnlich audi ; Und die Heimath sclbst soil scin Gleich dem Himmelreich, so fein ! Wird die Kette erst geschmiedet, Klingt das Eisen, welkt die Ros' — Weg mit Blumen ! Unermlidet Geh'n die beiden Zungen los — Dann wird erst mit Gram gefunden, Wie der Pfaff sie fest gebunden ! -o-ojo^oo- THE PHANTOM SHIP. SAIL ! a sail !" the boatswain cried ; " A ship ! a ship on fire !" And lo, from out the brimming sea, Her masts kept rising higher ! She seemed to scud before a gale, With lightning wings endued ; She flew ! — She flew like vulture bird, Or horse by wolves pursued ! The Phantom Ship. \ 79 We saw her hull ; we saw the surf Right o'er her bulwarks break. On, on she rushed with swerveless course, Right in our vessel's wake. With every stitch of canvas set. From helm to bow alight, She seemed resolved to run us down, In wanton, reckless spite. Nearer, and yet more near she came — A gruesome sight to see ! We heard hoarse laughter on her decks. And hideous revelry. Her every rope and spar was traced In strange, unearthly light. In trembling awe, our seamen shrank From such a fearful si^^ht ! Ablaze the grisly craft appeared — Ablaze from stem to stern, And yet the stinking, brimstone fires Seemed not to scorch or burn ! Her shrouds were strung with grinning skulls, Aloft the black flag floats, Huge coffins from her davits hung In ghastly jest for boats ! Her steersman was a skeleton, Her captain was a ghoul, And on her deck and yards a crew Of jabbering demons foul ! The spray athwart her sides and bows Flew up in crackling sparks — And helter-skelter in her wake Swam shoals of horrid sharks ! N 2 i8o The Phantom Ship. We heard the spectres yell for joy, We saw them dance for glee, As they bore down upon our ship. And mocked our agony ! In mortal dread our skipper gazed. And bit his trembling lip, And bid the helmsman put about, To dodge the Phantom Ship. We tacked in vain ! — The cursed craft To foil in vain we tried ; She closed with us, and ran stem on, Full tilt against our side. We had no power to speak or move ; Our palsied tongues grew dry ; We waited for our ship to sink. Without a prayer or cry. 'Twas like a weird and grisly dream. That Phantom Ship and crew — Some hellish vision of the lost, That we were sailing through. We felt the demons' fetid breath Upon each ashy face ; They swarmed like vampires in the air, Or bats of devilish race ! The fiend-ship seemed to leap our decks, Our riggings did not lock ; No single rope or spar was harmed ; We felt no jar or shock ! The barnacles upon her keel We saw as clear as day; We saw the sharks spring o'er our decks And dive and swim away ! Sea Song, i8i Great Heavens above ! How glad we were To see them disappear ; And as the Fiend-ship faded out, We gave a ringing cheer. Our skipper vowed it was the Cross That saved our ship from harm ; The double Cross upon our flag, That broke the devilish charm. -oo^asjc SEA SONG. I FT up your heads, ye stately waves ! Join hands, and measured cadence keep, And sing to me in chorussed strains The war-songs of the mighty deep. Lift up your heads, and clap your hands, Like giant cymbals' clash sublime — Like kettledrums, or castanets To marching Titans keeping time ! Ring out, ye gales, a brave fanfare ! Blow, clarion winds, your loudest blast ; Call up the legions of the deep. To ride in serried squadrons past. Wave, white-plumed warrior-billows, wave Your dancing, snow-white crests, and crash Against the cliffs — as men-at-arms Their swords against their bucklers clash ! O sea ! O sea — Swash-buckler sea ! Thy war-songs are but empty boasts — Thy pirate-waves arc laughed to scorn. By grains of sand that guard the coasts ! 1 82 Der Husar. Sail on, ye fleets ! Glide on, ye ships ! Beat down the waves ; the surfs defy — Spread your white canvas to the winds ; And let your painted streamers fly ! Fly on ! Fly on ! Bank up your fires — Ply thundrous paddle-wheels or screw, Until at last Old England's cliffs And Dover's heights appear in view ! o>3»^<<«>- SUMMER AND WINTER. UMMER comes and summer goes, Roses bloom and roses fade ! Ere the summer's half enjoyed, Winter strips the sighing glade. Summer shines, and summer wanes, Roses fade and roses bloom. But. when all their joys depart. They for other joys make room. Fulsome7iess. \ 85 Winter days have keen delij^hts To the summer heats denied ; See the jovial curHng match ; See the kisty skaters ghde ! Fading summers leave regrets, Fading winters comforts bring ; Snowdrop bells and swelling buds, Whispered promises of spring. Bright the stars of winter's skies, Crisp beneath the foot the snow, Robins sing on jewelled twigs, Clear the frosty fires glow ! Winter may have frozen charms, Frigid beauties — I prefer Summer's heats, and jovial sounds. Summer's radiant life and stir ! JAMES DIGNAM, ESQ. Died March I2, 1877, aged 75.* |iv ItT^moriam. IFE is a river rushing wildly on, Bearing us onward to the pathless sea — Friendships are beacons set upon its banks, To mark our progress to eternity ! Friendships are many when we first embark, We scarcely note them, until, one by one. They dimly fade, as we approach the sea — In solitude life's closing years we run ! Farewell ! Brave soul — thy guileless rectitude, Thy gentle life, thy fervent charity Live in our hearts, we mourn thee not as lost — Example bright of sweet integrity ! * One of Nature's own Nobility. iS6 TJie Stormy Sea. THE STORMY SEA. HE skies are grey ; the clouds are leaden-hued ! With lunging rolls, the heaving ships toil on ; With swaying masts, they rock from side to side, Their hulls uplifted in the billows' arms, And then deep-sunk in troughs of roaring brine ! Awed by the breakers on the surf-beat rocks, No lesser craft dares venture out of port! The sea-birds dip between the crested waves, Or beat up slowly 'gainst the driving gale. Earth, sea, and sky look wan and colourless ; Discomfort flies abroad on sounding wings, And deafening tumult stuns all sense of joy ! Is this the scene, so dull and comfortless, That was but yesternight ablaze with gold ? Is this the sea with molten sapphires paved — The glowing type of soft, voluptuous rest. And on whose bosom lusty sunlight basked ? Where is the South- Wind gone, and where the Sun ? — Where are the briny odours breathing life. Kindling the cheek, and filling the glad pulse With bounding sense of freedom and of health ? Where are the jocund songs — the painted skiffs With laughing freights of living beauteousness ? Gone like the rainbow ; faded like a dream ! O life ! O life of men ! How like the sea ! One day unmatched, alluring loveliness. The next, a sunless blank bereft of light, Grey, desolately grey, joyless, forlorn, Like harvest field despoiled of its ripe charms, Or mildewed arras — faded tapestries That hang in banquet-halls deserted, closed. Where spiders weave, and fretting moths destroy. Song^ of the MidnigJit Breeze. 187 SONG OF THE MIDNIGHT BREEZE. HAPPY spirit once I was, Brought up in Eden's bowers ; Thrice evil day for me in which I left my native flowers ! Oft, standing at the gates of bliss, I'd seen the world afar ; And many wondrous tales I'd heard About that peopled star. And so one morn I wandered down. Resolved to see the place Where Paradise had bloomed, and where Yet dwelt Man's godlike race ! In wonderment awhile I roved Midst Western lakes and floods, By Egypt's foaming cataracts, And India's fields and woods. 'Twas there a maiden I beheld On Gunga's sacred shore ; The moment that our glances met I lived for heaven no more. Oh, v/ondrous fair she must have been, That lovely earthborn child. To win an angel's love like mine, When first on me she smiled ! I thought not of my radiant home, Or fields that gave me birth ; The only wish I knew was this. To live for her on earth. 1 88 Song of the Midnight Breeze. Then I was hers, and she was mine — Oh, how the seasons passed ! I never thought, how cruel death Forbids earth's joys to last. One night we roved, and many a tale I told of Eden's land ; My beauty stooped to pluck a flower ; A serpent stung her hand. I saw that she was dying fast, But, in her mortal pain, She pointed to the skies, and said, " Love, meet me there again." With many tears I buried her, In that still eventide ; And then, like thought I upward flew To seek my angel-bride. All through that night, I travelled on. To reach the realms above ; And asked each spirit that I met. If he had seen mv love ? Oh joy ! whene'er they smiled assent, And praised her beauty rare ; One told me she was safe arrived, And did await me there ! Up, up I flew swifter than light, Beyond creation's bound ; And when the morning broke on earth, I stood on holy ground. Once more the melody I heard Of the celestial rills ; I saw the glow that shines upon The Everlasting Hills. Song of the Midnight Breeze. 189 Yet think not that to gaze upon The prospect fair I stayed, For heaven was now no heaven to me Without my beauteous maid. I heeded not the perfumed airs, The songs from every wood, But still sped on, till at the gates Of Paradise I stood. But when beneath those gates arrived, Their crystal bars were closed, And cherubim with fiery swords My entering in opposed ! And now, amazed, I trembling read Inscribed above the door : " He that compares the world with Heaven, " Is meet for Heaven no more !" And, oh, despair ! as mute I wept. Too faint for grace to call, My bride stretched out her radiant arms Upon the shining wall ! To scale those battlements of light It was in vain to try ; The flaming swords appeared to reach Through all immensity. The angels cried : " Concerning thee, " 'Tis writ in Heaven's decrees, " To follow Darkness round the world, -And be the Midnight Breeze ! " And then, in spite of all my tears, I through the air was hurled ; And lighted on this earth again, As night closed on the world. I go The Idle Summer Wind. And ever since, I've followed night From North to Southern pole ; And in the twice twelve hours we make The circuit of the whole. But nightly, as through India's land We pass, I to the grave Repair, and sigh o'er her who sleeps By Gunga's flowing wave. My only thought is of the day, The day that shall restore My bride to these fond arms again, More radiant than before ! o>»<00- EDGED TOOLS. SMOCK-FROCKED clown strolled gaping at the shops Of a great city, dazed with what he saw. He'd never seen a town in all his life ; And as he sauntered down the glittering streets, He passed a Bank, and was sore " exercised " 192 The Lost Husband and the Fish Dinner. To guess what could be sold at such a house ! A clerk lounged at the door. The yokel asked, " Tell me, good sir, what sort of wares you sell ? " The clerk looked at him with serene contempt — " You want to know, wiseacre, what we sell ? " We deal in asses' heads ! — Can I serve you ?" Chaw-bacon scratched his pate, and thus rejoined : " I might have guessed it ; and I pardon crave " For my stupidity. Forgive me, sir, " We young men from the country are so dull ! " But I would fain congratulate you on " The roaring trade you must have done to-day ; " You seem cleared out of stock ; besides your own " I see no ass's head about the place — " Do you stand here as an advertisement ? — " I'd tie you up, lest you should trot away, " And not be found ; an ass's head so prime " Will surely make the fortune of the firm. " They never sold a donkey's head like yours !" — And then he added, as he turned his heel ; " Don't think, my man, that all who wear a blouse, " And know not ' City manners,' have no wits — " You've had your answer for to-day, at least — " I tell you what — Beware how next with ' fools ' "You handle repartee, and such edge-tools!" THE LOST HUSBAND AND THE FISH DINNER. ADAPTED FROM THE GERMAN. ICROSS the blue sea-wave away ! " In yonder painted steamboat gay, " Unmoved by wind or rushing tide, " As in a fiery car I'll ride ! " 'Tis time to start. Dear wife, farewell ! " The steam is up ; I hear the bell — The Lost Husband and the Fish Dinner. 193 " It sounded twice, and when again " It rings, yon ship must plough the main ! " Thus spake a brave and gallant youth, With heart of oak, and tongue of truth. His bride a parting kiss he gave, And sobbed aloud, that husband brave ! By force himself away he tore. And left his weeping friends on shore. The captain gave the word, and then His troubles all began again ! With hammer, pound, with hiss and shriek, With groans and moans, with crack and creak, Like courser of tremendous might The vessel soon flew out of sight ! Where'er he turned his swimming eye Our hero saw but sea and sky ; And oh ! those waves of tempting blue. How false they were he quickly knew ! With pitch and toss, with heave and roll, The ship flew swiftly to the goal. Until in port she anchor cast. And Richard was himself at last ! I should, ere this, the cause have told, And reason why our traveller bold Left hearth, and home, and loving bride, To sail across the salt sea-tide. He went to seek what love, nor wealth, Nor friends could ever give him — Health ! He did not rove to do the gay thing. But rest his mind, and take sea-bathing. The day he came the tide was in— His story is short — He must begin ; And so he posted off to reach. At once, the shell-bespangled beach ! A nice machine he quickly chose — Went in, and laid aside his clothes ; And then, with laudable emotion, O 194 T^fi^ Lost Htcsband and the Fish Dingier. He plunged into the German Ocean ! — But as he blithely swam about, And ducked his head, and popped it out, Some monstrous fish — Forbear to laugh — Seized Richard tightly by the calf ! — The monster thought it veal no doubt : But soon the luckless man found out A fact before he didn't know, That fishes' weal is human woe ! In vain he shrieked and clutched the line. The fish was quite resolved to dine, Held gamely on, and dragged him under, And gulped him down — Oh monstrous flounder ! The people standing on the shore Beheld him writhe, and heard him roar ; They saw him disappear, full well. But where he went they could not tell ! His mother sits at home and says, " I wonder Dick so long delays ! " And, closely crouching at her side, Lou'd weeps his lone, distracted bride. Week after week no husband came ! At last outspoke the aged dame — ' " To starve, as well as weep, is folly " Good cheer's a cure for melancholy ! " This child won't fret so much, when in her " She has her pint of stout and dinner. " We'll try it for to-day at least, " And have a really rousing feast ! " That day smoked on the board a dish Of flounders, most gigantic fish. And mother, sister, bride, with zest. Themselves to eat the fish addressed ! The bride, as suffering most from griet, Resolved to seek and find relief. She took the very biggest flounder. And 'gan to eat, as duty bound her. On a Picture of a Man slain by a Hydra. 195 Great Jove ! When she had cut it open, Her horror and amazement no pen Of mine could paint — for leering at her She saw her husband, on the platter ! oj«4oo- ON A PICTURE OF A MAN SLAIN BY A HYDRA. F great excess in hydromel Died Attila, on wedding day : Depicted here a man that fell. You see, in fierce hydra-melee ! Long time unscathed this warrior fought. And scarred the hydra's scaly hide. Hydraulic pressure on his throat His enemy at last applied ! Then drooped the fainting hero's head, Triumphant hydra hissed elate — Yet smiled the dying man, and said, " Mine is at least historic fate ! " Friends, bury me, but don't embalm ; " And wTite," he to his comrades cried, " Here lies a man in slumbers calm " From hydra's bite, but not high dried !" His comrades heard with bursting heart. And when they had the hydra slain. They tried, by hydropathic art. To bring their friend to life again ! But when they saw 'twas all in vain, Not being in hydrostatics skilled, They sang, in high dramatic strain, The dirge of him by hydra killed ! 2 196 Earthbonnd. The first hydrographers shall tell, How he the hydra's force defied — High-minded fought, and fighting fell, Nor then of hydrophobia died ! 3>&iO• MUSING stood, and gazed at vacancy. Through the bleared windows of that dingy inn — How it did rain ! The dogs ran dripping home ; The draggled cocks and hens had given it up, And steamed beneath the moisture-dropping eaves. None stirred abroad. At last a funeral Passed down the street of that quaint foreign town. Just five or six, in threadbare, well-worn black Followed the coffin ; but all wore dress coats, And white cravats, and trews of "evening" cut. I was absorbed — But yet the little train Only a Waiter I 203 Of real mourners woke me from my dream, And brought some idlers to their doors to gape. It was an humble group — a scant cortege. Few hats were lifted as the dead passed by — It was a poor man's funeral, you see — No nodding plumes ; but little faded crape ! The undertakers walked as if ashamed To be conducting such a paltry pomp. But yet the quaint simplicity of woe, The air of grief unfeigned the mourners showed. Made me at last awake, and say aloud — " Those honest chaps at least seemed really sad ! " I cried Gar^on ! The waiter bustled up Expecting some good order — " Whose," I said, " Is that poor corpse that now is passing by .-' " " Only a waiter's. Sir ! " the man exclaimed. In not unkind, but deprecating tones, As though I'd wished to hear some famous name. I heard a sob — kind soul, he was in tears ! " Excuse me, Sir ! But how I loved that man. " He was a real gentleman at heart, " Although a waiter must wear evening dress. " Like cabmen, waiters have their enemies. " Some people say we're a rapacious tribe. " They little think how hard we have to work. "And who befriends the waiter when he's ill } " No, he must stand, and smile, pay compliments " Half the night through. Then, when the spoons and forks " Are counted over, he's allowed to go, " In wind, and rain, and sleet, and winter's snows, " To his hard pallet in his garret home ! " Another waiter, who spoke English less. Just then stepped up, and for his colleague spoke — "Juste ask ze Cure, vot zat vayter v^oss. "He'd say 'Monsieur, his heart voss verrah large ! ' 204 A Chat zvith Pussy. " His brosser's vidow, and her shildren too, " He fet and closed, although he voss so sick " For monss before he dite ! But his small hoard " At last gave in, and zen poor Jacques hisself " Passed slowly to the grafe. Yes ! There he goes- " And vee his frendts have paid ze funeral " Pardon, zat you have seen ino7i camarade veep ; " But zo a vayter, it is sat to die, " And leaf von's brosser's leetle vons to starfe ! " oJ«^c A CHAT WITH PUSSY. H Puss ! Dear feline friend ! There — lap your milk — Example snug of true felicity ! Red glow the coals, and in the chimney roars The freezing East wind, that with gusty whirls Piles up the snowdrift, and then scatters it With fickle fury, to take refuge in Some other sheltered nook, some porch or coign — And then again with storming, panting rage Catches the flakes and strews them o'er the fields. Yes, Pussy, lap your milk. It is no night For man or beast to be abroad. Oh hark ! There falls the ancient elm. He stands no more — Uprooted giant — What a sounding crash ! How sad to think when April comes again. To comfort wood and field for winter's frosts. And bid the forest trees put forth their leaves. Our uptorn patriarch will know him not ! Yes, there he lies across the lawn. That gleam Of sudden moonlight showed me he was down ; But yet he waves his arms defiantly, And battles with the blast, the choking blast, Early Winter. 2,05 That shrieks because it cannot strangle him, But must be dead itself weeks ere he dies. Oh Puss ! All cats, they say, have got nine lives — Unlike the elm, they fall upon their feet. But who would live a second life like this ? Look at the Elm ! — He now indignantly Beats back the blast with his strong, sounding arms. But when the wind goes down, he'll yield him to The fate that dooms him to a lingering death ! For weeks his arms will point imploringly — Will point to heaven, and ask for leave to die. Perchance he'll see the other trees put on Their spring-tide robes. And then the axe and saw Will finish what the storm began to-night. Men will forget the once majestic elm. Forget the spot where centuries he stood — He'll only be sixpenny-worths of wood ! o>8>»' With sabres, sticks, with forks and guns. The swarthy, turbaned posse runs, And all fall on combined— With shot and stab, with cut and thwack. They ply the brute's devoted back Till he the ghost resigned ! Scared by so horrible a fray, The other leopard did not stay To see his partner's fate ; Awed by the ensign's glittering blade, A speedy exodus he made Out through the garden gate ! Brave Griffin now his hold released, And smiling scanned the prostrate beast, Each pulse with triumph beating ; " By Jove," he cried, " I should not care " Too soon again to take the chair " At such a Morning Meeting ! " oJOio LOVERS' JARS. OVERS' jars are but the rattle Of the pleasing chains they wear. And when lad and lass do battle, Kisses soon the cuffs repair ! Rose Leaves. 219 When the fray grows hot and fiery, Love boils up in even ratio, For 'tis said " amantiuin ir(B " Est anioris integratio ! " So at least the poets tell us. And for aught we know they're right ; Since they're most likely fellows To be learned in love or fight ! ROSE LEAVES.* HO would not read, if roses could but write The secret chronicle of their sweet lives ? Hear from their crimson lips what cares can blight Their fragrant bosoms, whence their joy derives ? ' Queen of the garden, ENGLAND'S RoYAL Rose, The sunny story of her youth has told ; How roses live her written thoughts disclose, And how they love we read in words of gold ! No high-flown story, no imperial flights, No dark intrigues her chronicle records ; But rustic pleasures, innocent delights — Guileless endearments writ in loving words ! In artless strains, unconscious of the spell Which Woman's sympathies around them cast ; With thankful wonder, hear the MONARCH tell How all her subjects hailed her, as she passed. Matchless in grace, but knowing not her power, Victoria tried to captivate and please — Least witting of her charms — the Royal flower. With grateful tears, records her victories ! * " Leaves from the Journal of our Life in the Highlands." 220 Bandusias Fotmt. Dear mother of our land ! In days of yore * I saw a girl uncrowned drive forth to see Her coronation pomps, the day before The sceptre's heavy weight had fall'n on thee ! The streets were blocked ; thy carriage could not pass ; Thy lieges thronged the roads ; but, what a " cheer " Greeted the " Queen ! " — " God bless thee, Royal lass ! " Widow'd Victoria, thou art trebly dear ! Victoria, how we love must be untold ! — Thou art adored wherever England's drum Rolls round the globe ; it says in accents bold, " The reign of truth and purity has come ! " BANDUSIA'S FOUNT. HoR. Carm. III. Ode 13. AD FONTEM BANDUSI^. EAR babbling, bubbling, bustling rill ! Swift flowing down Bandusia's hill — Thy streams are glass — thy glittering spray In rainbow radiance leaps away ! Wert thou a god, on altar made Of verdant turf, a kid were laid ; A dancing lithesome thing like thee, Fit emblem of thy jollity ! Its crimson blood should tint thy tides, And the sweet juice of grape besides — Forget-me-nots, woodbine, and rose Aye flourish where thy torrent flows — * The writer of these lines saw the Queen, on the day before her coronation, in her open carriage, in Parliament Street. She had driven out to see the pre- parations. The carriage was blocked in by the immense crowds- But her girlish Majesty was recognised, and what a reception she had ! Prince Louis Napoleon. 221 No dogstar's heats, no summer's sun Spoil thy cool waters as they run ; The tired steers, the thirsty flocks Drink, as they bubble from the rocks. Dear fountain — as in rustic rhymes I sing thee now, all future times Shall revel in thy oak trees' shade, And watch thy streams leap down the glade o>>e;o NIGHTFALL. ^^^IGHTFALL spreads her holy calm O'er a tired world. The plains Pant no more. The setting sun Spake not false of genial rains ! 2 26 The Lion and the Ba^le Nightfall ! — Countless anxious men Hail thee, soother of their cares ; Myriads, on their beds of pain, Dread thee, and thy fevered scares. Nightfall ! — How the invalid, Tossing to and fro for ease. Hearkens to the soughing wind Wailing ghostlike through the trees ! Nightfall ! — How the hours he counts. Listening to the crowing cocks. Watching till again the sun Healing's hopeful gates unlocks ! THE LION AND THE EAGLE. AN ABYSSINIAN ALLEGORY. LION sent some whelps abroad Far distant lands to see ; And bid them cultivate with all The kindest amity. The travellers, in their wanderings came To Abyssinia wild ; Its royal Eagle for a while Upon the strangers smiled. In course of time, a scoundrel Wolf* The grateful whelps maligned. And told the jealous bird that they To take his lands designed ! The Eagle heard the wicked tale With cries of vengeful zest, And fell like thunderbolt upon Each unsuspecting guest. * A rascally Frenchman was iheir traducer. The Lion a?id the Eagle. 227 With mighty wings he sorely beat, With beak and talons mauled The unresisting guests, and then Up to his eyrie hauled ! In durance vile, four years he kept, His captives closely chained ; The envoys which the Lion sent To free them he detained. The Lion hitherto had borne The outrage patiently ; He could not brook this last affront With equanimity ! He chose him out a goodly band Of valiant beasts of war, And bid them set their brethren free, Or else return no more ! To Abyssinia straight they went, To seek the Eagle's rock ; Once at its base, they set them down. And for admittance knock ! The Eagle from his precipice A shrill defiance screamed ; That lions such a dizzy height Should scale, he little dreamed. Oh, foolish Bird ! — With gleeful roar From rock to rock they leap ; And, with a mighty spring, alight Within the castle keep ! The Eagle soon is rent in twain. The captive whelps set free ; The lions wag their tails, and set Off home complacently ! 2 2 28 Woman s Tact. WOMAN'S TACT. HE potent leverage of loving tact Lifts mountains, where a fuming Titan fails ! The winsome hand of coaxing gentleness Unravels knots which giants dare not cut — And this is how weak Woman rules the world. She steers the ship with quick, observant eye. Her intuition sees the brewing storm, Whilst yet the sea is calm, the sky serene ; Ere faintest mists the fair horizon dim. Thus, when the tempest breaks it daunts her not — Her nimble wit is equal to each wave ; She takes their measure as they forward leap, And, with a skilful touch, evades their stroke- Not till the danger's past, nor always then, Does she admit how sorely tasked she was. Oh, admirable gift of self-control ! Woman prevails where Caesars miss their mark. She can divert man's peevish waywardness — Her loving smile can win him from despair, And set him forward on the road to fame, When, baffled, foiled, undone, sore tempest- tossed, He folds his arms, and gives up all for lost ! _ THE END. INDEX. rAGE PAGE A Chat with Pussy 204 Canary-Bird, Elegy to 174 A Dream of Summertide . 85 Carel A. C. Libosan {in A Tiger behind . 222 Memoriafn) . . 129 Absence 20 Catharine Spence 50 Advancing Age . n Chat with Pussy, a 204 Afterglow, the . 75 Clever by Half, Too . 169 Alice, Princess of Englan Cloud-draped Sea, the 184 {in Memoriam') . 175 Copper, Paid in . 17 All round the Clock in th Tropics . 28 Darkness, the Tailoress to 54 Ambition . . 145 Day, the Perfect . 44 Anacreontic . 199 Daybreak . 100 Amsterdam, the Bells of 108 Death of Winter, the . 90 Amsterdam, the Night-wind in 140 Death-struck 198 Assault, Taken by- 93 Dead Loves . 144 Autumnal Glories 33 Dejection . . 114 Der Husar 182 B., W. {in Memoriam) 127 Der Nix . . 176 Backbiting 133 Despair • 69 Bandusia's Fount 220 Despondency 83 Bells of Amsterdam, the 108 Dignam, James {in Memoria m) 185 Betrayal . 112 Donkey, Making Game of 99 Betrothal . . . . 177 Dream of Summertide, a 85 Birth of Spring . 157 Drivelling . 91 Boast not ! Boast not of the Drowned .... 200 Morrow. 201 Dying .... 102 Boorishness 167 Bore, the unconscious. 148 Early Winter 205 Breitenstein, W. ' {in Me- Earthbound 196 moriam) 127 East Wind, the Strong 149 Bride, the stolen. 52 Eclipse, Love's . 148 Broad Arrow, the 81 Eclipse of Joy, the 183 Building Sepulchres . 55 Edged Tools 191 Bullying . . . . 64 Egypt, the last Plague of . I Buried,, Alive, or Squire Elegy to a Canary-Bird 174 Tough . . . . 34 Emigrant and the Sun, the . 65 By a perpetual Decree 79 End of Grief, the 84 Bygone, the Voices of the . 62 Englishman (/;/ Meinoriain) . 127 230 Index. PAGE Envy .... 132 Epithalamium . . .178 Evermore, For . . .147 Ex uno disce onines . . 64 First Snow-drop, the . . 148 Fish Dinner, the, and the lost Husband . . .192 Fogs, Winter . . .158 For Evermore . . .147 Four Travellers, the . . 138 Garlands, Love's . . 68 Gentleman, the Perfect Roman, to his Slave . 106 German Gladiators, the . 6 Gibraltar .... 105 Gleams of Sunshine . . 100 Great King Herod . . 10 Grief, the End of . . . 84 Grief's Livery . . . 118 W.T. {in Memoriam) . . 125 Havergal, Mrs. (/« Memoriaiii) 1 28 Herod, Great King . . 10 Homeward-Bound . . 137 Hope .... 70 Hunter's Dream, the . . 207 Husar, der . . .182 Idle'Summer Wind, the . 190 In remembrance of a Young Englishman drowned at Amsterdam . . .127 James Dignam ijn Memoriavi) 185 Jericho, the Road to . . 146 Joy, the Quest of . . 88 Joy's Eclipse . . .183 Joys, Little ... 87 Joseph Tiley {in Mevtoriani) 1 30 Kindness .... 67 King Herod, Great . . 10 Last Plague of Egypt, the . i Libosan, C. A. C. (/// Me- moriam) . . .129 PACE Lion and the Boar, the , 210 Lion and the Eagle, the . 226 Little Joys. • 87 London Bridge . . 22 Lord Chief Justice Whiteside {in Meinoriain) • 125 Lost, Husband and the Fish Dinner, the , 192 Louis Napoleon, Prince {in Meiiioricun) . 221 Loves, Dead 144 Love's Eclipse . 148 Love's Garlands 68 Lying 165 M. N. {in Memoriam) , 176 Making Game of a Donkey 99 March of May, the . 116 Marquis of Salisbury, to the 122 Matron, the . 82 Memory . . 131 Memory's Dreams . 66 Midnight Breeze, Song of the 187 Milliner, the 53 Misunderstood . 80 Modern Witchcraft . 114 Moors, Out on the 104 Moonlight. 21 Moping 103 Mother Dear 82 Mrs. Havergal {in Memoriam) 128 Mrs. David H. Stone {in Memoriam) . • 122 Mudbuilt Town, the . . 149 N., M. {in iMemoriatn) . 122 Napoleon, Prince Louis {in Memoriam) . . .221 Night, Voices of the . . 196 Nightfall . . . . 225 Nightingale, what it said . 72 Nightmare . . . 152 Nix, der . . . .176 On a Picture of a Man slain by a Hydra . . -195 Only a Waiter . . . 202 hidex. 231 FACE I'AGE Out on the Moors 104 Spring Morning. 22 Outward-Bound. I Spring, the Birth of . Squire Tough, Buried Alive 157 Paid in Copper . 17 or . 34 Passing Storm . 156 Stolen Bride, the 52 Peace and War . 141 Stone, Mrs. David H. {in Perfect Day, the 44 Memoriam) . 122 Perfect Roman Gentleman 1 Storm-Child, the 49 the, to his Slave 106 Storm Deferred . 141 Perpetual Decree, by a 79 Storm, Passing . 156 Phantom Chase, the . 113 Storm, the Rising 63 Phantom Ship, the 178 Stormy Sea, the. 186 Phantoms' Picnic 153 Stormy Sunset . 20 Pile up the Turf. I II Strong East Wind, the 149 Plague, the Last, of Egypt I Success . . . . 121 Ploughing and Sowing 49 Summer and Winter . 184 Presumption 119 Summertide, a Dream of 85 Prince Louis Napoleon (/; Summer Wind, the idle 190 Memoriain) . 221 Sunset 89 Pussy, a Chat with 204 Sunset, Stormy . 20 Sunshine, Gleams of . 100 Quest of Joy, the 18 Swagger . Swallow's Departure, tc lOI ) Ready, aye Ready ! . 123 the ... 139 Remembrance of a Yount Syce and the Tiger, the 213 Englishman, in 127 Sympathy . 86 Residue, the 71 Rising Storm . 63 T., H, (/;/ Memoriaffi) 125 Road to Jericho. 146 Tailoress to Darkness, the . 54 Roman Gentleman, the Per- Taken by Assault 93 fect, to his Slave 106 "Taking the Chair at i I Rose Leaves 219 Morning Meeting " . 215 Rupert Correspondence, th( I 46 Tiley, Dr. Joseph {in Me moriam) 130 Sacked Town, the 95 Toleration. 74 Salisbury, to the Marquis f 122 Tommy Shephard and th( Sea-Song . iSi Leopard . 150 Sea, the Cloud-draped . 184 To the Marquis of Salisburj 1 122 Sea, the Stormy 186 To the Swallow's Departure - J39 Sheppard, Tommy . 150 Too Clever by Half . 169 Silent Meditation 98 Tough, Squire . 34 Smithy, the Village 65 Town, the Mudbuilt . 149 Snowdrop, the First . 148 Town, the Sacked 95 Song of the Midnight Breeze 2 187 Travellers, the Four . 138 Sound without a Name, the 97 Tritton, Henry, Esq. . 125 Spellbound 107 Tropics, all round the Clod Spencc, Catharine 50 in the . . • . 28 232 Index. Trust not the Waves . 206 Truth • 159 Turf, Pile up the III Unconscious Bore, the Village Smithy, the . Voices of the Bygone . Voices of the Night . W. B. {hi Memoriam) Waiter, Only a . Waiting . 148 65 62 196 127 202 44 PAGE What the Nightingale said . 72 Whiteside, Lord Chief ]\\s- ixct {hi Memoriam) . 125 Willson, W. W. Esq. (/// Memoriavi) . . .126 Winter, the Death of . . 90 Winter, Summer and . . 184 Winter's Fogs . . .158 Witchcraft, Modern . . 114 Wolves, the . . . 1 10 Woman's Tact . . . 228 Xantippd . . . .155 LONDON : PRINTED liV Wll. 1,1AM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHAKING CROSS. RECENT WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. Price \is. 6d., THE EPISTLE TO THE HEBREWS, In a Parxphrastic Commextary, with Illustrations from Philo, the Targums, the Mishna and Gemara, the later Rabbinical Writers, and Christian Annotators, Sec, Sec. Longmans, Green, & Co., Paternoster Row. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. " Such a book as this has long been a desideratum with us. . . . To real students the volume will be a real treasure. . . . It is one of the most useful books we know." — Literary Chtcrchman. " As a paraphrase and commentary the book is far the best extant." — Globe. "In no one single portion of tlie New Testament could a more important or difficult Epistle be met with for elucidation than that to the Hebrews, and scarcely could any one better adapted for the work than Mr. McCaul have undertaken to explain it critically and doctrinally, since the mantle of his eminent father, the late Dr. McCaul, the most eminent Hebraist of his time, seems eminently to have fallen upon him. It is much to be desired that an exposition, at once so learned and so sound, may meet witli the attention and consideration it deserves from the Episcopal Bench ; for it will most certainly be the best modern book upon its subject which can be placed in the hands of candidates for ordination." — BelFs Weekly Messenger. " Mr. McCaul is never ashamed of being too orthodox. . . . We heartily commend this godly and well-learned writer to the Christian student." — John Bull. '* We welcome this work with more than ordinary gratification. . . . There was a feeling amongst many devout students of Holy Writ tiiat the Church of England, as well as orthodox Christendom, had lost their ablest and firmest champion by the lamented death of Dr. McCaul, the late revered Rector of St. Magnus-the-Martyr. Such of our readers as are conversant with the powerful writings of the deceased divine and scholar will find, on perusing the work under notice, that the departed theologian is not unfitly represented by his eldest son, the respected Rector of St. Michael Bassishaw. We could not help fancying, now and then, whilst perusing some forcible, clearly reasoned-out passages in the learned treatise before us, that it was with the late Professor of Hebrew and Old Testament Exegesis of King's College himself that we were holding converse, so cogent and conclusive are the expositions and illustrations found to be. The Rector of St. Michael Bassishaw has not only produced a sound and lucid exposition, . . . but has illustrated it with an amount of learning which very few possess. We cannot speak too highly of the patience and perseverance of research which, page by page, the work makes manifest." — Rock. " There is a passage in the Rev. Josepli B. McCaul's ' Parajjhrastic Commentarj',' on the Epistle to the Hebrews, p. 131 (on Heb. ix. 16, etc.), which, to my mind. OPINIONS OF THE FRESS—cofi/hiued. is perfectly conclusive on this vexed and much canvassed question. If the Revising Committee have any doubts as to the correctness of the Authorised Version, they cannot, I think, do better than consult Mr. McCaul's book in loco. It has recently been put into my hands by a literary friend and neighbour, as a scholar and theologian second to few, who thus expresses his opinion of its merits, written in pencil on the inside cover :— ' This is the ablest book on the Hcbrcii's I have ever read, not excepting my favourite Carpzof, who wrote the preface to the " Piigio Fidel " of Raymwidus Martinns.^ '* — Correspondent of ' Notes at id Queries' " This is a solid and learned work, worthy of the writer, who is one of the gifted family of the late Dr. McCaul. . . . Such a work as that which is now before us was much needed. . . . We believe the book is of high value, both to the student and the lover of theology. We wish it all success, and we should be glad to see similar volumes on other parts of Scripture prepared by Mr. McCaul, in course of time.'' — Record. " 'The worthy son of a worthy father,' was our unpremeditated criticism, as we laid down this admirable book, after attentive perusal. Mr. McCaul has produced one of the best exegetical commentaries we have seen for some time on a portion of Scripture confessedly requiring all the illustration which learning and ability can give it." — English Churchman and Clerical foitrnal. " A most learned and scholarly work. . . . We have tested it at many points, and always with fullest satisfaction. We mean to use it in our college work, for which it is well adapted. Emphatically a book for advanced students." — ' Sword and Trowel, ' edited by Rev. C. //. Spiirgeon. " This work is full worthy of the name which is never mentioned by Christian scholars without a feeling of profound respect. The volume before us illustrates the old adage, ' The apple does not fall far from the tree.' The Rector of .St. Michael Bassishaw shows the same soundness in the faith, the same zeal for the truth, the same diligent research, the same cogency of reasoning, the same versatility of learning, the same true, unfeigned, unaffected love for our nation, as his sainted father, the late Rector of St. Magnus-the-Martyr, displayed. All these characteristics are plainly perceptible in the ' Paraphrastic Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews.' Our esprit de corps, as Churchmen, which is so creditably a prominent feature in this country, will be gratified by the publication of this exposition. It is one of ihe most able commentaries which the Church of England has of late years produced. Churchmen have good reason to be proud of the work and its workman. The author will, henceforth, occupy a place in the first rank of Biblical scholars, and this his volume will be held to be one of the most important contributions to sacred literature. The work is dedicated ' To the Bishops and Clergy of the sister Churches of England and Ireland." If we had any influence with the ' upper ten thousand ' of our Church, we should strongly recommend to their notice the excellent ' Paraphrastic Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews' which is inscribed to them. — Hebrew Christian IVitness. " This work is deserving of high praise. . . . The Commentary deserves to stand on the scholar's shelves, . . .for its being a storehouse of unusual learning, drawn from sources inaccessible to the ordinary student ot the New Testament." — Church Times. " We would once more recommend to our readers the Rev. J. B. McCaul's ' Paraphrastic Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews.' Both critically and exegeiically it is the very best commentary on the Hebrews that we have ever seen." — Hebrew Christian Witness. OPINIONS OF THE VRV.'>9,— continued. Recently published, price ']s. Gd., SUNDAY REFLECTIONS ON CURRENT TOPICS. With an Introductory Essay on the meaning of the word " Christianity," and on the Interpretation of the Old Testament Scriptures, in reference to certain statements contained in Vol. I. of the ' Speaker's Commentary.' Longmans, Green & Co., Paternoster Row. Crown 8vo. "Mr. McCaul has given the critical student of Holy Scripture a valuable commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews ; and now, in the book under notice, we find ample proofs of his faithfulness in preaching, as well as of his diligence in reading. These are no ordinary sermons. There is in them much learning ; at the same time, the language is simple enough for the understandings of the poor and the young. Mr. McCaul is so full of ancient theology that he cannot keep it in. He enriches a plain discourse with choice extracts from books that too many clergymen know nothing about. . . . It is refreshing to read these strong fearless sermons, so sound in the faith, so zealous for the honour of God. We feel that the preacher is more than a match for the small critics who deal in second-hand rationalism and profanity. At times he rises to impressive eloquence in defence of the lively oracles, pouring out exhortations and warnings in language worthy of the cause. . . . W^ith clear eyes the preacher sees the evils in our land, and, dreading worse, he speaks with prophet-like solemnity and boldness. . . . We make no extracts ; the book is small, and deserves not only to be read, but to be kept and used." — Record. "Mr. McCaul applies himself with a happy mixture of earnestness, enthusiasm, and bold remonstrance, to expose and protest against the current popular errors of the day. . . . We cordially wish this volume could be placed in the hands of every clergyman, and be sounded out in the ears of all English Church- men. . . No one is more eloquent than Mr. McCaul [facil iiidignatio versiini) in his remonstrance against the prevailing sentiments of the day. With him the preacher is not only the exponent of doctrine, but he is the bold unscrupulous censor of the errors of the times. The hasting to be rich, the deceitfulness of our tradesmen, the greed of our merchants, the temporising of our legislators, the sacrifice of truth to expediency so prevalent in our statesmen, are all rebuked as with the burning zeal of an ancient prophet in the exhortations of this volume. This criticism may be suspected of eulogy ; but the readers of these Reflections (and we hope they will be many) will admit that the language in which the book is described is not in excess of its merits." — English Churchman and Clerical Journal. "We heartily welcome this valuable and most opportune volume of 'Reflec- tions.' " — Church Herald. " Mr. McCaul's logical pages, which we heartily commend to all interested in the defence of our common faith." — Evening Standard. " We heartily wish every clergyman would not only read, but ponder over the valuable Preliminary Essay on the meaning of the word ' Christianity,' and on the interpretation of the Holy Scriptures." — Rock. "Not the least interesting portion of the volume is the Introductory Essay." — Belts Weekly Messenger. "There is a hearty vigour and sympathy, and manly frankness, which we cannot but \i]!iQ.''^—iWonco!t/orviist. " Mr. McCaul is well known as a scholarly defender of the faith, and as the author of a valuable Commentary on the Hebrews. . . . The pulpit, men say, is losing its power. Not the pulpits of which McCaul, Brock, and Tuck are the representatives." — IFeekly Revirw. OPINIONS OF THE VRESS—co/i tinned. " Every discourse may serve as a model to clergymen. . . . Every dis- course proves that Mr. McCaul is an original and deep thinker, as well as a scholar of a richly-stored mind. How far his Biblical Exegesis transcends ordinary commentary-mongers, the reader will discover by a tlioughtful perusal of his Introductory Essay, and his third discourse, * The Prophet like unto Moses.' . . . Mr. McCaul's literary labours, even thus far, will secure his name an honoured place of those who shall read his works in ages yet to come. We trust and pray that he may l)e long spared to the Church, to enrich her with the treasures of his learning and research." — Hehrrdu C/irisiian IVUness. " Of the staunchest orthodoxy." — Church Times. "Always sound, practical, and Scriptural. . . . The remarks in the Introductory Essay on the education of candidates for Holy Orders are worthy of note." — Chn7-chtnan''s Shillinir Magazine. Recently published, price One Shilling. THE DUKE OF SOMERSET'S RECENT ATTACK UPON CHRISTIANITY CRITICISED. With some Vindications of the "Mistakes" alleged by the late Dean Alford against St. Stephen's Speech. A Series of Letters. 8vo. Longmans, Green & Co., Paternoster Row. " A pamphlet has come into our hands which we should like to hear was more generally circulated than probably it has yet had the opportunity of being. A pamphlet exposing the Duke of Somerset's recent foolish though plausible attack on the Bible, by the Rev. Canon McCaul. , . . W^e beg to thank the Rev. Canon for what he haj tone so wisely and so well ; and we would repeat the expressions of our hope that his able exposure of the noble duke's infidel superficiality and superciliousness will be widely circulated." — Leading Article of the ' Church Herald: "To say that the Duke's propositions a'-e easily refuted by Canon McCaul, would be but to pay a slight compliment to the latter." — Church Opinion. "You have put the defence of St. Stephen in a clearer light than, to my mind, it has been put before." — Rev. Professor Breioer. Price 5^., %vo. DARK SAYINGS OF OLD: Being an Attempt to elucidate certain Difficult Passages of Holy Scripture in a Series of Ten Lectures, with a Preliminary Essay on the Pretensions of Modern Unitarianism as set forth in Dr. G. Vance Smith's recent work entitled, ' The Bible and Popular Theology.' James Nisbet and Co. " There is no danger of the Pulpit losing its power so long as it is occupied by such preachers as Mr. McCaul." — Edinburgh Daily Review. " Mr. McCaul inherits an honoured name, but he has made his own reputation. His paraphrastic commentary on the Hebrews . . . gave him at once an original and authoritative position in the ranks of Biblical exposition." — Revierc. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. REC'D LD-URl JUL 2 1983 Form L9-32m-8,'57(.C8680s4)444 m- McCaul - 14964 Last plague of .25- J^ — E§yp^^- m 4964 M125 1 uc SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACIU]^ n AA 000 370 436 8