s«^>;a^."i',^ PR 1175 B33 XX 3 =^ 'W9is^!ii!SW9^&!iHis&^smmmm ^ ■»»ii> Ni ' y ■*i* >" * — ^1 :■▼«*■' ^ t t ^ (:TTr^- BEAUTIES OF POETRY GEMS OF ART. P^ / i / jy^p wii^iHii^iif - ' .r r '< n w m ww< 1^ I « ^ H :^%' it Subject. ALL PLEASURE IS A PAINFUL THING BESSY AND HER SPINNING-WHEEL . CHRIST-CROSS RHYME HABITS HYPERICUM PULCHRUM .... JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO . LADY MARY LITTLE MARY AND HER CATECHISM . LUCY'S FLITTIN' NATURE AND ART OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW OLD FATHER MARTIN ON LEAVING MEOPHAM .... ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL . ON A SET OF YOUTHS LEAVING COLLEGE ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE ROBERT BURNS TO DAVIE SILLAR SIMILES ON A SWALLOW . SIR ROLAND GRAEME . SONG OF THE BRAVE MAN STANZAS TALE OF THE COAST-GUARD THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN THE BOATIE ROWS THE BUCKET IHE BUTTERCUPS . THE DEATH OF THE BRAVE ©*0iitents A tithnr From Boethius \S.R.\ BURN.S Rev. R. S. Hawker Rev. I. Williams S. R. Burns Rev. H. Ai.ford Scenes of Childhood W. Laidlaw . Church Poetry Burns Mahlmann Rev. E. Smeulev Burns Mrs. Butler COWPER . Burns A nonyiiioiis Allan Cunnin(;ha Burger . Rkv. C. Wolfe Rev. H. Ai.kokij Sir W. Scott Joanna Ijaillik woodworth S. R. Collins 53 43 13 67 51 56 9 36 59 5 13 74 58 45 70 49 3? 48 65 27 26 ■20 64 16 ^\ Contents. ■ ,. , '<• Siibjfct. A iithor. raeie THE EMIGRANT HIGHLANDER'S WIFE .... J. M. . . - . 52 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO . . . . . Sir W. Scott THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE J. S. Knowles 6 THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERD Sir W. Scott . . Cg THE JOYOUS CHILD Scenes of Childhood . 44 THE LOVER Dryden .... 47 THE MINER ' Miss Clkphanf, . ■ . 21 THE MOURNER Crabbe . . . .61 THE OLD CAP; OR, TIME'S ALTERATION Elegant Extracts . . 54 THE PASSAGE Uhland . . . . 38 THE POOR MAN'S SONG Uhland .... 17 THE RINGERS OF LANCELL'S TOWER .... Rev. R. S. Hawker . 25 THE VILLAGE SMITHY Korner . . . .12 THE VILLAGE STILE Recollections 0/ the Lakes 75 THEY ERR WHO SAY LIFE IS NOT SWEET . . . S. R £0 TO AUTUMN Keats .... 19 TO THE NAUTILUS ... . . . . H. Colerioge . . 8 -^^--1,^1^,-7 ■•»7»'"\W5tY — rr-'ir' L^M VI LI ^1 ■ *J"^-> — IWffcT^- ' ILLUSTHATIONS. Subjects. SiK Roland Graeme Two The Fisherman's Wife .... One Little Mary and her Catechism Tivo Old Father Martin One The Death of the Brave . . . T'lvo The Bucket One The Miner Tivo The Boatie Rows One The Battle of Flodden . . . Two Lucy's Flittin' One Song of the Brave Man . . . One A Christ-Cross Rhyme .... One The Lover One John Anderson, my Jo .... Two Lady RL\ry Two The Mourner Txvo A Tale of the Coast-Guard . . One The Highland Shepherd . . . One Cowper on his Mother's Picture Four The Village Stile Two A rtists. Engravers. Pagi H. C. Selous . . fW. C. Blanch AKi) "(LW. J. Linton . . I • 4 J. Franklin . . . T. Armstrong . . • 7 F. R. Pickersgill. C. DAL2IEL . . . 9, II J. Franklin . . . W. Green . . . • 13 F. R. PiCKERSGII.I. . W. J. Linton . . . 16 T. Creswick . . . W. J. Linton . . . 20 H J. Townsend . C. Gray . . . 21,24 C. H. Weigall . . W. J. Linton . . . 26 H C. Selous . . C. Gray . . . 27, 35 F. W. TOPHAM . . W. J. Linton . ■ 36 J. Tenniel, Jun. . F. Branston . • 39 W Dyce . . . . C. Gray . . . ■ 43 J. C. Horslev . . C. Gray . . . 47 C. W. Cope . . W. J. Linton . ■ 5« w . DVCE . . . . (C. Gray . . . ( H. L. Clark ■ 56 • 57 J- C. Horsley . . J. & T. Thompson . 61, 63 R Redgrave W. J. Linton . . . 65 C. H. Weigall . . W. j. Linton . . 6y J. C. Horsley . C tJKAV . 70, 7 . 7-'. 73 c. W. Cope . . ( W. J. Linton . \ J. Thompson • • 75 • • 77 VII r^'€^'**'"%fg — r' «**'»» s*'^r - T ^»^ — g. - . * -^ — r^ T« " T ' w ai ^t .-^ ' ■ -jA A^-^ > ■^i7tVBx^T? ^ -^ '^ ^-^>**'^^^vT^ ^T* , *'^ ' ■ % ■-• - ■■ » ■> 1 1 1' '■^ / rfg** 7rjpYf*j**P^"r*f ^fi^'*. •■V. "3>4 ! -. ? 4 < . f 1%.. j slkl^ n 'Pill'', tnimin-l lias nuv^ (in 1 U'l\i.'ll\ii side, The 1)Ul;1c in l)cr\vcnt vale; "Sy Anil a lunidicil steeds eanie liunsinij lleet, \lV[", Willi a hundred men in mail : ■ Ami the ujatheiinij; ery, and the warning; word. Was, " Fill the (luivcr and sharpen the sword!" ■r^ttaB^ ! ( i .9/;- Roland Graeme. ^ And away they bound — the mountain deer Starts at their helmets' flash ; And away they go — the brooks call out With a hoarse and a murmuring dash : Tlie foam flung from their steeds as they go Strews all their track like the drifting snow. What foe do they chase ? for I see no foe ; And yet all spurr'd and gored Their good steeds fly — say, seek they work For the fleet hound or the sword ? I see no foe— yet a foe they pursue, With bow and brand, and horn and halloo. Sir Richard spurs on his bonnie brown steed. Sir Walter on his black ; There are a hundred steeds, and each Has a Selby on his back ; And the meanest man there draws a brand Has silver spurs and a baron's land. The Eden is deep in flood — lo ! look How it dashes from bank to bank ! To them it seems but the bonnie green lea, Or the vale with brackens rank : They brave the water and breast the banks, And shake the flood and foam from their flanks. The winding and haunted Eske is nigh, With its woodlands wild and green ; " Our steeds are white with foam; shall we wash Their flanks in the river sheen?" But their steeds may be doom'd to a sterner task Before they pass the woodland Eske. All at once they stoop on their horses' necks, And utter a long shrill shout, And bury their spurs in their coursers' flanks, And pluck their bright blades out; The spurn'd up turf is scalter'd behind, For they go as the hawk when he sails witli the wind. Before them, not far on the lilied lea. There is a fair youth flying ; And at his side rides a lovely maid. Oft looking back and sighing; On his basnet dances the heron's plume, And fans the maid's cheek all of ripe lose bloom. S/r Roland Graeme. "Now do thy best, my bonny grey steed, And carry my true-love over, And tliy corn sliall be served in a silver dish, And heap'd and running over — Oh, bear her safe through dark Eske's fords. And leave me to cope with her kinsmen's swords!" Proud look'd the steed, and had braved the flood Had it foam'd a full mile wider ; Turn'd his head in joy, and his eye seem'd to say, " I'm proud of my lovely rider : And though Selbys stood thick as the leaves on the tree, All scatheless I'd bear thee o'er mountain and lea." A rushing was heard on the river banks. Wide rung wood, rock, and linn — And that instant a hundred horsemen at speed Came foaming and fearless in. "Turn back, turn back, thou Scottish loon! Let us measure our swords 'neath the light of the moon I A hundred horsemen leap'd lightly down. With their silver spurs all ringing. And drew back, as Sir Richard his good blade bared, While the signal-trump kept singing : Sir Roland Graeme down his mantle threw With a martial smile, and his bright sword drew. "Now yield thee, Graeme, and give me back Lord Sell)y's beauteous daughter; Else I shall sever thy head and heave 't To thy light love o'er the water." "My sword is steel. Sir Richard, like thine, And thy head 's as loose on thy neck as mine." And again their dark eyes flash'd, and again Tiiey closed — on sweet Eske side The ringdoves sprung from their roosts, for the blows Were echoing far and wide : Sir Richard was stark, and .Sir Roland wr.s strong ; And the combat was fierce, Init it lastii not long. Tlierc's blood upon young Roland's l_)bde, 'riiere's Ijjood on Sir RiclKud's brand; There's Ijlood shower'd o'er their weeds of steel. And rain'd on the grassy land ; ]5ut blood to a warrior 's like ilew to the flower — Tlie C()nil)at but wax'd still more deadly and (lour. \ ^•- »— ^™ > — »^ S/r RoliDtd Graciiu: A d:vsli was heard in l!ie moonlit Eske, And up its banks of <^reen Fair Edith Selby came with a shriek, And knelt the knights between : " Oh, spare him, Sir Richard ! " slie hekl lier white liands, All spotted witli lilood, 'neatli the merciless brands. Young Roland look'd down on his true-love and smiled ; Sir Richard look'd also, and said, " Curse on them that true-love would sunder!" Me sheath'ii With his broad palm his berry-brown blade. And long may the Selbys, abroad and at hame, Find a friend and a foe like the good gallant Graeme! sx.. Allan Cunningham. Mi- — ^ — K^' ^ old faith anil cheer. Small marinere. Are thine witliin thy jx'arly dwelling, — Thine a law of life compelling Obedience, perfect, simjile, glad, and free. To the ereat will that animates the sea. H. C'Di.KKinr.i;. • ->. ■■«-*■■ ■ f'^ , I '^'^ Nw* "■■^■■^'^*>^'~'^ t- .^tfrtWf.-v^**^R-.wa?fc .*,>•.— *i/^- /,* ■ ^^ . . ^. ll" '^ r:xf^^ li rt , ... ' [^ I I K l.ili(iiirs ol llic scliool Were ended for the day, And out upon tlic villagc-grccn The chilih'cn tuni'd t(j play. It was a joy to mark Their innocent delit;ht ; \ et Anjjcls might liave gladlier dwelt Upon another sight : — — - 'V ' -111 ' tr — ^ — ■ !■'--■ ■ mA*.»i »..Aii .x;. ii.-. . «,^y-*.r^=r=' And from her parent's brow The fretful shadow pass'd, For Mary's cheerful haste forbade Her angry mood to last. She took her baby brother, And kiss'd his forehead fair, And tended all his little wants With fondest, gentlest care. And blessed in her deet/ Was that obedient child, WMiile on her, in approving joy, God and good Angels smiled. Scenes of Childhood. 1 1 7«r,f -5j^ ^^^■3-»:^^ai**'3. A''*^^^<^"'^ T^ * ,^ '" ^ ' ' ' g "' . *^^^y^^'y'**^"*'*'*°''' " '''* 'J^ ';?''^'^'-^.^ THE VILLAGE SMITHY. HELTER'D well by friendly mountains, Wash'd by clear and cooling fountains, In a nook so still and green. Lovelier hamlet ne'er was seen. (Jverhead, on ridges higli, Old dark pine-trees ];ide the sky ; Down below, the stream flows near, And the air is mild and clear. House and yard swarm all day long With a busy bustling throng; Ever as the day comes round, Rings the anvil's restless sound. And the bright sparks dart and quiver. And the steely splinters shiver. And the flood, with thunder-sound, Flings the ponderous mill-wheel rouml. Earthly cares shall not molest, In this vale, my peaceful breast; Joy within my heart shall dwell, As a pure, untroul)led well. Shaded by the whispering trees, ^\'ill I woo the dreamy ])reeze ; Mountain, vale, and murmuring rill, With deep peace my heart shall fdl. KuKNER. T— ^^wy'-.c^s — ^'■''^^■•''^^"^■""l^^rZir?"^'— '^•E~-S Sfr- w 12 O/r/ Fdf/wr Martin. Now husking came : in dance and song The niglit went merrily along ; And there were gather'd great and small, And sang and sprang by moonlight all. But Father Martin stole away To where his kinsmen's tombstones lay. The night was fair ; a quivering breeze Crept softly through the churchyard trees, And murmur'd with a gentle breath O'er the dew-spangled rose beneath, Which, planted by the hand oflove, Bloom'd fresh a new-made grave above. Old Father Martin heaved a sigh, Look'd upward to the starry sky, Fell on the grave where Anna slept, Pour'd out this fervent prayer, and wept : — "Soothe, gracious God, this broken heart. And let old Martin too depart ! " My friends and neighbours all are gone, And I am left to roam alone, Weary and lonesome here below — O God ! that I might also go ! My day is o'er; the night is near; Why, Father, should I linger here ? "Ah, I am very weak and old ; My joys are fled, my heart is cold, My trembling head is silver'd o'er — Lord, can an old man serve Thee more? Oh, let me now in ])eace depart ; Lay in the earth tiiis weary heart!" And Martin's prayer came to the ears Of the great Ruler of the spheres ; He sent his good death-angel down Kindly the old man's prayer to crown, To lake his pilgrim's staff away. And in the grave him softly lay. The angel whisper'd peace and cheer In holy Father Martin's ear; Near him in robes of light did stand, And offer'd him his cold, cold hand. "Kiss me!" the expectant angel cried; Old Martin gave the kiss, and died ! Maiii,m.\nn. I s*si2:s5^i 14 "D EEF after reef upon its ocean-bed Tlie coral branches forth, and Hfts its head, More and more spreads around its woodland caves. Emerging like a palace from the waves, Hardening and reddening in each growing cell, Fit haunt for fabled spirit there to dwell; — Fair-roof 'd abodes, crystalline cells and floors, Where shells and living things, old Ocean's stores. Take varied hues, and put on mailed form, Gathering their strength and beauty from the storm. And yet the while it hath no root on earth, But feeds on air and sea, from whence its birth. Thus habits mould the soul to be a place Wherein may dwell forms of immortal grace ; While thoughts and tempers in the spirit's shrine Grow into shape, and take the life divine; — Born and upraised from the baptismal sea, And drinking heaven— elastic, stainless, free. Branch after branch the banyan-tree gives birth To daughter-arms, that downward seek the earth, ^Vhose envious l^ranches make a mid-day gloom, And hide the sun ; — dun, silent as the tomb, A life-destroying, gloom-embowering cave, A temple for dark spirits of the grave. Thus evil habits wreathe their snakes around With elephantine trunks, that love the ground. And form a sullen shield against the sky, Hiding from all the soul heaven'.-, genial eye; Where sinfid passions brood, and range the shade, And hide them in the gloom themselves have made. Rl.V. I. Wlll.IAMS ON THE DEATH OF THE BRAVE. TTOW sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold. Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod "han Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey. To bless the turf that wraps their clay, And Freedom sliall awliile repair iT^ To dwell a weeping hermit there. I i6 5^Jt^-x. ^Kf7;),r,r:fjttJ^^^~^evr^ - *-/t— T//£ POOR MAN'S SONG. POOR man's lot, ])lea.se Heaven, is mine; I roam the workl alone ; And, could I only not repine, The world were all mine own. ( )nce in my parents' house I play'd . A joyous, thoughtless boy ; Eat since those friends in dust were laid, I've felt no ray of joy. I see the rich man's garden shine. The golden harvest glow ; Alas! the barren road is mine. Where toil and sorrow go. And yet, while thus I journey on Amid the joyous throng, And 'ioisJi good day to every one, Though grief hath seal'd my tongue, — My bounteous God, how can I say I wander joyless here. When Thou hast strew'd the world's hig]i\\a> With blessings all so dear ? Doth not each lowliest hamlet rear A holy house to Thee ; Where organ-peal greets ci>c)y ear, And choral melody? Sun, moon, and stars, with their mihl glow. Smile not the less on me ; And when the evening-bell peals low, Then, Lord, I speak with Thee. And when, at length, each worthy guest Slial! to Thy courts repair. Then, in the wediling-garment drest, I loo Thy feast may share. UllLA.M). : =^1 T-^.^-V"- « i ( 1.7 '^tfS^ffllr— -n^tr-m. - ^1^1"^-^-- SIMILES ON A SWALLOW. i>IS like the soul ; 'tis like a friend ; Like bliss, our being's aim and end ; Like life and wealtli, like blindness loo ; But most of all, 'tis like to you. A swallow's like the soul, I say ; For why?— its tenement is clay. And life, that busy, bustling thing, — Life, like the bird, is on the wing. Riches, 'tis like; for surely they Have also wings, and fly away. When flatterers fawn to gain iheir ends, AVhat are they but fair-weather friends ? The blind, — the proverb tells yon why, — • The blind, you know, catch many a fly. For happiness, 'twere easy now To find a rhyme and reason too ; But spare the Muse one honest line To paint the lot she wishes thine. When sliadowy forms may please awhile, Pleasure may court, or pomp beguile ; But lasting bliss, search where you will, Buikls in the chimney-corner still. All this, it seems, is very plain ; But why like Ellen? — try again. Can she, who blesses all at home, \\\ foreign climes delight to roam ? Can she, who loves the rural cell. In smoke and soot delight to dwell ?— Peace with your queries, friend ; I trust The likeness still you'll own is just. In that sweet month when Nature's hand Perfumes the air, and paints the land, While ling'ring blights our hopes betray, And winter checks the pride of May, Let but the swallow-tribe appear, And summer instant follows there. So when dark clouds deform the sky. Who minds the clouds when Ellen's by? The wintry blast unheeded blows. And sunnner smiles where'er she goes. i8 An O.N. f-A,;;^-— , „^_, ^ ^- :dla&^»*^EieijBac£«it?* !i TO AUTUMN. CEASOX of mist and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of tlie maturing sun ! Cons]-)iring with liim how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ; To bend witli ajiples the moss'd-cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel-shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more And still more later flower for the bees. Until they think warm days will never cease. For summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary-floor, Thy hair soft lifted by the winnowing wind ; Or, on a half-reap'd furrow, sound asleep. Drowsed with the fumes of poppies, wdiile thy hook Spares the next swath, and all its twined flowers ; And sometimes, like a gleaner, thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or, by a cider-press, with patient look. Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day. And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue : Then, in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft. Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies ; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; Hedge-crickets sing; and now, with treble soft, The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. Kf.ats. l«) T T OW dear to this heart are the scenes of my childliooil, When fond recollection presents them to view,! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it. The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell ; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well ! The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-cover'd bucket, which hung in the well. That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure ; For often, at noon, when return'd from the held, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing. And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The nioss-cover'd bucket arose from the well. WoODWOK III. 20 21 ^^l£^ Xone knew the face, yet was it fair, Not twenty summers old ; Around the snowy brow the hair Fell thick in curls of gold. That earth from taint of all decay Mortality can screen ; And who might guess how many a day The body there had been ? The crowding miners gather'd round — Their garb the stripling wore — But of them all could none be found Had seen that face befoi-e. Soon every village wife and maid Amid the tumult press'd. Each trembling lest the comely dead Were him she loved the best. His was no form to be pass'd by. No face to be forgot, Vet of that thronging company All own'd they knew liini not. "The spirits of the mine with ease Can varying shapes assume ; Tliis form may harbour one of these — No tenant of the tomb." All scatter'd liack, a shapeless dread Turn'd every heart to stone : '.Mid a wide circle lay the dead. In beauty, all alone. ~t^- 22 :^i '-^■^■j 'Svl ^.s:?. ix( n The Miner. Wlien, peering through the fearful crowd, A wrinkled woman old Crept slowly forth, and scream'd aloud That visage to behold. The grief in memory fondly nursed For threescore years in vain, From its long numbing torpor burst To passion's thrill again. She was his love ! Oh ! contrast strange In years, in form, in limb! Life liath on her wrought drearier change Than death has brought on him. The pitying crowd was moved to ruth All felt the sight appalling. The bitter burning tears of youth From such old eyelids falling. " Is this the meeting," she exclaim'd, "I sought of Heaven so long? The prayer that niglit and morn I framed ? Oh, could the wish be wrong ? " For threescore years of living dealli I've held a fearful strife ; ,\t times mistrusting of thy faith. At others of tliy life. " I have grown old 'mid woes and feai Thou'st slept in youtli the wliile ; My clieeks are seam'd with age and tea TIkju wear'st lliine own sweet smile. WM^i. THE RINGERS OF LA XC ELL'S TOWER. ;:> [they KANT, AT THE ACCESSION OF GEORGE III., AND AM, LIVED TO RING AGAIN OX THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY (_1F HIS REIGN.] T^HEY meet once more, that ancient band, With furrow'd cheek and failing hand : One peal to-day they fain would ring — The jubilee of England's King I They meet once more : Ijut where are now The sinewy arm, the laughmg brow, The strength that hail'd, in liajipier times, King George the Third with lusty ciiimes? i' Yet proudly gaze on that lone tower — No goodlier sight hath hall or bower ; Meekly they strive, and closing day Gilds with soft light their locks of gray. Ilark — ]n-()udly liark ! willi that true tone Tiiey welcomed liim to land and tiinine ; So ere they die, they fain would ring The jul)ilce of I''ngland's King Hearts of old Cornwall, fare ye \\cll ; l'"asl fade such scenes from field and dell ; I low %vilt tliou hick, my own dcai' iainl. Those trusty arms, ihat faithru! liand ! Rkv. K. S. IIawkiu. "^■"11 ' M .f .IF""' ^' "H •- ■-,if.''m,r.-.-u^" — "^ r\ SWIFTLY glides the bonnie boat, Just parted from the shore; And to the fisher's chorus-note Soft moves tlie dipping oar. His toils are borne with happy cheer; And ever may they speed, That feeble age, and helpmate dear, And tender bairnies feed ! We cast our lines in Largo bay, Our nets are floating wide ; Our bonnie boat, with yielding sway, - Rocks lightly on the tide. And happy proves our daily lot Upon the summer sea ; And bless'd on land our kindly cot, Where all our treasures be. The mermaid on her rock may sing, The witch may weave her charm ; Nor water-sprite, nor eldrich thing. The bonnie Ijoat can harm. It safely bears its scaly store Through many a stormy gale. While joyful shouts rise from the shore, lis homeward prow to hail. Joanna IJaii.i.ik r^ \ ^ Ff^fir-^-'- ^ l*-—^ *^*y--^yj^Ta/^. ^o. tdP Cr 26 27 The Battle of Flodden. Beneath the caveni'd cliff tliey fall. Beneath the castle's airy wall, By rock, by oak, by hawthorn tree, Troop after troop are disappearing ; Troop after troop their banners rearing. Upon the eastern bank you see. Still pouring down the rocky den, Where flows the sullen Till, And rising from the dim wood glen, Standards on standards, men on men, In slow succession still, And sweepuig o'er the Gothic arch, And pressing on, in ceaseless march. To gain the opposing hill. That morn, to many a trumpet-clang, Twisel ! thy rocks' deep echo rang ; And many a chief of birth and rank. Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank. Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see In spring-time bloom so lavishly, Had then from many an axe its doom, To give the marching columns room. II. And why stands Scotland idly now, Dark Flodden! on thy aiiy brow, Since England gains the pass the while. And struggles through the deep defile ? What checks the fiery soul of James? Why sits that champion of the Dames Inactive on his steed, And sees, between him and his land, Between him and Tweed's southern strand. His host Lord Surrey lead? What vails the vain knight-errant's brand ?- O Douglas, for thy leading wand ! Fierce Randolph, for thy speed ! Oh, for one hour of Wallace wight. Or well-skill'd Bruce, to rule the fight. And cry — ".Saint Andrew and our right!" k 1^ ■f y^^^^^^:tx. 2S }l T//e Battle of Floddm. Another sight had seen that morn, From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, And Flodden had been Bannockbourne ! — The precious hour has passM in vain, And England's host has gain'd the plain ; Wheeling their march, and circling still Around the base of Flodden-hill. III. Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye, Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, — " Harlc! hark! my lord, an English drum ! And see, ascending squadrons come Between Tweed's river and the hill, Foot, horse, and cannon : — hap what hap, My basnet to a 'prentice cap, Ford Surrey's o'er the Till ! — Yet more ! — yet more ! — how fair array'd They file from out the hawthorn shade. And sweep so gallant by ! Witli all their banners bravely spread, And all their armour flashing high. Saint George might waken from the dead, To see fair England's standards fly." "Stint in thy prate," quoth Blount, " thou'dst best, And listen to our lord's behest." With kindling brow Lord Marmion said,— "This instant be our band array'd ; The river must be quickly cross'd. That we may join Lord Surrey's host. If fight King James — as well T trust, That fight he will, and fight he must,— The Lady Clare behind our lines Shall tarry, while the battle joins." IV. Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still With Lady Clare upon the hill ; 29 •jjij***"- 77/^ j^a/"//^ ofFloddcu. On which (for far the clay was spent) The western sunbeams now were bent. The cry they heard, its meaning knew, Could plain their distant comrades view : Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, " Unworthy office here to stay! No hope of gilded spurs to-day. But see ! look up— on Flodden bent. The Scottish foe has fired his tent." And sudden, as he spoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill. All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreath'd in sable smoke ; Volumed and vast, and rolling far, The cloud enveloped Scotland's war. As down the hill they broke ; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone. Announced their march ; their tread alone, At times one warning trumpet blown. At times a stifled hum. Told England, from his mountain-throne King James did rushing come. Scarce could they hear or see their foes Until at weapon-point they close : They close, in clouds of smoke and dust. With sword-sway, an Unbroken, foiiglit in desperate ring. Where's now their victor vaward wing, Where Huntley and where Home? — Oh, for a blast of that dread horn, On Fontarabian echoes borne. That to King Charles did come, When Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer, On Roncesvalles died! Such blast might warn them, not in vain, To quit the plunder of the slain. And turn the doubtful day again. While yet on Flodden side. Afar, the royal standard flies. And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies, Our Caledonian pride ! In vain the wish ; for far away, WHiile spoil and havoc mark their way. Near Sibyl's Cross the plunderers stray. VI I r. IVfore desperate grew the strife of death. The English shafts in volleys hail'd. In headlong charge their horse assail'd ; Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep, 'i"o break the Scottish circle deep. That fought around their king. P>ut yet, though thick the shafts as snow. Though charging knights like whirlwinds go. Though bill-men ply the ghastly ])i()\v. Unbroken was the ring; The stul)born spcar-mcn still made good Their dark inipunctrable wood, Facii stepping where liis comrade stood. .^j-r~^ -..^-.-wr-» . < i-^.,,. ■ ^.•-'^^■>~-f^,(,--,^,-n — T— ~'-/t ..j^- >■■ ■^„^^- ,^- .l,■»-^^■■^- , ^ ..■>-,, f^-- J ■ ^ . . -. i ^ ■ ■ i — j^j^ 33 f lite Battle of Floddcii. The instant that he fell. No thought was there of dastard flight ; — Link'd in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought Hke noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well ; Till utter Darkness closed her wing O'er their thin host and wounded king. Then skilful Surrey's sage commands Led back from strife his shatter'd bands ; And from the charge they drew. As mountain-waves from wasted lands Sweep back to ocean blue. Then did their loss his foemen know ; Their king, their lords, their mightiest low, They melted from the field as snow, AVhen streams are swoln and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, "While many a broken band, Disorder'd, through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land ; To town and tower, to down and dale. To tell red Flodden's dismal tale. And raise the universal wail. Tradition, legend, tune, and song. Shall many an age that wail prolong : Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife, and carnage drear, Of Flodden's fatal field. Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her shield ! 1 i 34 35 'nrWAS when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in', And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year,. Tliat Lucy row'd uj) her wee kist wi' her a' in't, And left her auld maistcr and neebours sae dear : For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the simmer ; She cam there afore the (lower blumed on the pea : An orphan was she, and they had been gude to her; Sure that was the thing brought the tear to her ee. 1 u Vi ■-,;rwi'7-T:.w ■'^Rr*^ =«""*-»rnw7fl h Luc/s Flittiii'. She gaed by the stable where Jamie was staiinin" ; Right sail- was his kind heart tlie flittin' to see : "Fare ye weel, Lucy!" quo' Jamie, and ran in, The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his ee. As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her flittin', "Fare ye weel, Lucy !" was ilka bird's sang; She heard the craw sayin 't higli on the tree sittin', And Robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang " Oil, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee ? If I wasna ettled to be ony better. Then what gars me wish ony better to be ? " I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither, Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can sec ; I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither, Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee. "Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon. The bonnie bhie ribbon that Jamie gae me ; Yestreen, when he gae me't, and saw I was sabbin', I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee. "Tho' now he said naething but 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!' It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see : He could nae say mair but just ' Fare ye weel, Lucy,' Vet that I will mind till the day that I dec. " W. Laidlaw. 37 THE PASSAGE. A/r ANY a year is in its grave Since I cross'd this restless wave ; And the evening, fair as ever, Shines on ruin, rock, and river. Then in this same boat beside Sat two comrades old and tried ; One with all a father's truth, One with all the fire of youth. One on earth in silence wrought, And his grave in silence sought ; But the younger, brighter form Pass'd in battle and in storm. So, whene'er I turn my eye Back upon the days gone by, Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, Friends that closed their days before me. But what binds us friend to friend. But that soul with soul can blend ? .Soul-like were those hours of yore ; Let us walk in soul once more. Take, oh, boatman, thrice thy fee ; Take, I give it willingly ; For, invisible to thee, Spirits twain have cross'd with me. UlILAND. "rgt'TrMM 38 39 So//^'' of the Brave Alan. The spring-gale swept the southern sea, And moist o'er fair Italia pass'd : As from the wolf the cattle flee, So fled the clouds before the blast ; It pierced the wood, it scoured the field, And floods long froze before it yield. On mountain summits melts the snow. And countless cataracts resound ; An ocean whelms the vales below ; The gathering stream o'erleaps the mound ; High dasli the waves on every side, And fearful icebergs choke the tide. On arch and pillar rear'd, and made Of solid stone, above the flood A bridge across the stream was laid. And midway ros.e a small abode ; Here lived a tollman, child, and wife ; Oh, tollman, tollman, fly for life ! The tempest now more fiercely rang ; Near and more near its tumult howl'd. Upon his roof the tollman sprang, And gazed upon it as it scowl'd : Oh, gracious God, have pity now — Who, who can hear and save but Thou ? The icebergs meet, and wildly crash From either shore, now here, now there ; On every side the waters dash. And down both arch and pillar tear. The trembling tollman, child, and wife, Shriek'd louder than the tempest's strife. The icebergs thunder'd, fall on fall, In uproar wild along the shore ; They burst the bridge's shatter'd wall, Pillar by pillar down they bore : The havoc onward made its way — " Have mercy. Heaven !" they louder pray. Aloft, upon the farther brink, A crowd stands gazing, great and small ; They scream and wring their hands, but shrink To risk the rescue, one and all. 40 A ll fl I ft' .; :^^^r^a::zr «»>i««.i.p 1 • '«=,r^»*. ■;fiy ff^ # n ? rf* 1'^-^"^-*y*'' -— ^^ I 1 'r!:^*3" ^i^;/','- (y" ///(• Brave Man. The trembling tollman, child, and wife, Above the tempest shriek'd for life. When should resound the brave man's fame Louder than bell or organ's tone ? In noblest song we'll give his name, And place it there, aloft, alone. Destruction is within a span ; Come to the rescue, thou brave man I A count of noble race and worth Up galloi^s on his courser bold. What in his hand is profier'd forth ? A purse brimfull of dazzling gold. Two hundred pieces are his prize Who now to help the wretched flies ! Where's the brave man will strive to save ".' Is it the count, my song ? — Oh, no ! Although the generous count is brave, A braver on this task must go. Come forth, brave man, advance with speed Impending ruin speaks thy need. Higher and higher swells the flood. Louder and louder roars the wind, Colder and chiller grows the blood : Oh, where shall we a saviour find ''. Pillar on pillar, arch and wall. In quick succession crash and fall. Halloo ! halloo ! oh, who will fly ? The count the tem^jting prize uprears. They hear, they shudder, and they sigh ; But among thousands none appears : In vain the tollman, child, and svile. Above the tempest shriek for life. But see ! a humble jieasant now Starts forth, the noble deed to dare ; Noble and lofty is his brow, Although his garb is coarse and bare ; lie heard the boon proclaim'd anew, And saw how near destruction drew. f k i| V \ - --^ Htfc ...«>• \\\ 41 So/t^ of the Brave Man. And boldly in the name of God, He leapt into a fishing bark, And o'er the waves triumphant rode Through whirlpool, storm, and billow dark ; But, ah ! the boat is far too small At once to bear and save them all. But thrice through gidfs he toil'd along That might the stoutest heart appal ; And thrice, with manly sinews strong, Row'd happily to save them all ; And scarcely were they safe and well. When the last tottering ruin fell. Who is the brave man ? — who is he ? Say on, my song, his name unfold. And did he risk his life to be The master of that glittering gold ? Had the proud count ne'er showed the boon, Would he have risk'd his life as soon ? "Here," cried the count, "bold-hearted friend. Receive the prize, now thine to share. And nobly earn'd !" But list the end. The count a lofty soul might bear. But higher feelings swell'd the breast Of the brave man so meanly drest. " My life," he said, " shall ne'er be sold For sordid pelf — content, though poor. But to the tollman give your gold — His all is lost — his lot is sore." Thus firmly spoke he, inly cheer'd. Then turn'd his back, and disappear'd. The brave man's praise in song is told Like bell or organ's echoing tone ; When bravery is the theme, not gold But song rewards — nor song alone : Thank God, who prompts the brave man's deed, y\nd crowns liim with his heavenly meed. Burger. 'I' (i w •^^' '11 t III - ■ -■v.-.g^. ''tf\'b"^ v.j^* ^^>i^_j^iir ■""'■ ii'iiii fjii ^ iLi- i.. '4m 42 j^^'^^rS'Sis:^ J^- fPyitt m .r^- ■ ■■■_-" »li-LV V — ^^^' II' • .11 -- ■^•'•■*' 43 x n A Christ- Cross Khv»ii\ Teach me letters, %, %, C, Till that I shall able be Si^ns to know, and words to frame, And to spell sweet Jesu's name. Tiien, dear master, will I look Day and niyht in that fair book, Where the tales of Saints are told, With their pictures all in gold. Teach me, Father John, to say Vesper-verse and Matin-lay, So when I to God shall plead, Christ his Cross will be my speed. Rev. R. S. IIawkek. .N THE JOYOUS CHILD. TT was a little joyous child Came dancing o'er my path, Her laughter graver thoughts beguiled — Such boon sweet childhood hath. Oh, who can mark their joyance bright, Nor feel the saddened heart more light ? Yes ! weary were this world of ours Without your winsome ways, — Songs gladdening summer's rosy bowers. Smiles brightening wintry days ; And well your reckless faith and love Our fruitless carefulness reprove. Sweet child, I bless'd thee in my heart, With earnest prayer above To Him whose little one thou art. To glad thee with His love ; .Such gladness as thy heart may kee]), When thou hast learn'd our tears to weep. Scenes ok Cnii.niioon. .N Xi h tl , •■^ni^ 44 SET OF YOUTHS, AT AN EARLY AGE, LEAVING A COLLEGE IN AMERICA TO ENTER ON THEIK DIFFERENT PROFESSIONS IN LIFE. ^%^ \% h li M T IFE is before ye ; and while now ye stand Eager to spring upon the promised land, Fair smiles the way, where yet your feet have trod But few light steps upon a flowery sod. Round ye are youth's green bowers, and to your eyes The horizon-line joins earth to the bright skies. Daring and triumph, pleasure, fame, and joy, Friendship unwavering, love without alloy, Brave thoughts of noble deeds, and glory won. Like angels beckon ye to venture on. And if o'er the bright scene some shadows rise, Far off they seem — at hand the sunshine lies. The distant clouds ! which of ye pause to fear? May not a brightness gild them when more near ? Dismay and doubt ye know not, for the power Of youth is strong within ye at this hour ; And the great mortal conflict seems to be Not so much strife as certain victory — A glory ending in eternity. Life is before ye : oh, could ye but look Lito the secrets of that sealed book ! Strong as ye are in youth, and hope, and faith, Ye would sink down, and falter, "Cjive us death." If the dread Sphinx's lips might once unclose, And utter but a whisper of the woes Which overtake ye must in life's long doom, Well might ye cry, " Our cradle be our tomb." Could yc fjrcsee your spirits' broken wings. Frame's brightest triumphs what despised things, A /; ^^ 45 Oil Yoiitlis Lcaviui; College. Friendship how feeble, love how fierce a flame, Your joy half sorrow, half your glory shame, Hollowness, weariness, and, worst of all. Self-scorn that pities not its own deep fall, Fast-waning brightness, and fast-gathering night ;— Oh, could ye see it all, ye might, ye might Cower in the dust, unequal to the strife. And die but in beholding what is life. Life is before ye ; from the fated road Ye cannot turn ; then take ye up your load. Not yours to tread or leave the unknown way, Ye must go o'er it, meet ye what ye may. Gird up your souls within ye to the deed, Angels and fellow-spirits bid ye speed ! What though the brightness dim, the pleasure fade. The glory wane— oh, not of these is made The awful life that to your trust is given, Children of God ! inheritors of heaven ! Mourn not the perishing of each fair toy ; Ye were ordain'd to do, not to enjoy — To suffer, which is nobler than to dare ; A sacred burden is this life ye bear ; Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly ; Stand up and walk Ijcncath it stedfastly; Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin ; But onward, upward, till the goal ye win. God guard ye, and God guide ye on your way, Young pilgrim-warriors who set forth to-day ! Mrs. Butli;k. ^j^^a;^^;^ IS- — <^— - , - ^•X-^^fl-,-' if-'- '—I 46 THE LOVER. I If, prefcrrM me Above the maidens of my age and rank, Still shunn'd their company, and still sought mine. I was not won by gifts, yet still he gave ; And all his gifts, though small, yet spoke his love : He pick'd the earliest strawberries in the woods, The cluster'd filberts and the purple grapes : Fie taught a prating stare to speak my name : And when he found a nest of nightingales Or callow linnets, he would show 'em me, And let me lake 'em out. Dryden. *\. i 47 5^::^:^z5s^|^JI!^:::::g|S?r3^I=^s=^^5^::;^^^^ And still upon that f^ice I look, And think 'twill smile again ; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain ! But when I speak, — thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary, thou art dead ! If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art. All cold and all serene — I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been ! While e'en thy ciiill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own ; But there I lay thee in thy grave — And I am now alone ! I do not think, where'er thou art. Thou hast forgotten me ; And I perhaps may soothe this heart In thinking too of thee : Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before. As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore ! Rkv. C. Wolfe. r:::^:^^^^ 48 ^^^^s^^^i^s^ --^^«- - ■■ «• . - tf.. t3'"*~^!^S^ ^£^213^!:^ il| Ivobtrt ^urns to ^abie Millar. 4I A^HAT tliougli, like commoners of air, We wander out we know not where, But either house or hal' ? Vet Nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground. And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts will bound To see the coming year ; On braes when we please, then. We'll sit and sowth a tune ; Syne r/ijmt' till't, we'll time till't, And sing't when we hae done. It's no in titles nor in rank. It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest ; It's no in makin muckle w'a/r; It's no in books ; it's no in lear, To make us truly blest ; If Happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast. We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest : Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could make us happy lang ; The /leari ay's the part ay That makes us right or wrang. " ^'« J I'Si^^^^^^z^s^r^^rp'::^^'^"^-^. 49 Robert Burns lo Dm'ic Sillar. Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wlia drudge and drive through wet an' oard of plate for show ; Which was a rare thing then, When this old caji was new. God save our gracious king, Oh, send him long to live ! And mischief on them bring That will not their alms give ; But seek to rob the poor Of that which is their due : ,- This was not in the time of yore, ^■:>, Wiien this old cap was new. ir-^L^^-* Elegant Extracis 56 Ladye Marie. The cold pale moon was shining On thy cold pale cheek ; And the morn of the Nativity Had just begun to break. III. They carved thee, Lady Mary, All of pure white stone. With thy palms upon thy breast, In the chancel all alone : And I saw thee when the winter moon Shone on thy marble cheek ; When the morn of the Nativity Had just begun to break. IV. But thou kneelest. Lady Mary, With thy palms upon thy breast. Among the perfect spirits. In the land of rest : Thou art even as they took thee, At thine hour of prayer, Save the glory that is on thee From the sun that shincth there. V. We shall see thee. Lady Mary, On that shore unknown, A pure and happy angel In the presence of the throne ; We shall see thee when the ligiit divine Plays freshly on thy cheek. And the Resurrection morning I lath just begun to break. Rkv. H. Alfoki). -"vr/"" 57 ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL. ■^.4^15^^^^-' T ATHY, ye tenants of the lake, For me your Mat'ry haunt forsake? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly ? "Why disturb your social joys. Parent, filial, kindred ties ? Common friend to you and me, Nature's gifts to all are free : Peaceful keep your dimpling wave. Busy feed, or wanton lave ; Or, beneath the shelt'ring rock. Bide the surging billows' shock. Conscious blushing for our race. Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. Man, your proud usurping foe, Would be lord of all Ijelow ; Plumes himself in freedom's pride, Tyrant stern to all beside. The eagle from the cliffy brow. Marking you his prey below, In his breast no pity dwells, Strong necessity compels. But man, to whom alone is given A ray direct from pitying Heaven, Glories in his heart humane. And creatures for his pleasure slain. In these savage liquid plains. Only known to wand'ring swains, Where the mossy riv'let strays. Far from human haunts and ways ; All on nature you depend, And life's poor season peaceful spend. Or, if man's superior might Dare invade your native right. On the lofty ether borne, Man with all his powers you scorn. Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. Other lakes and other springs ; And the foe you cannot brave, Scorn at least to be his slave. Burns. 58 " A/f AN goeth forth" with reckless trust W Upon his wealth of mind, ^ As if in self a thing of dust ^ Creative skill might find ; ?, He schemes and toils; stone, wood, and ore, ■? Subject or weapon of his power. ^ > By arch and spire, by tower-girt heights, V He would his boast fulfil ; C By marble births, and mimic lights, — Yet lacks one secret still : Where is the master-hand shall give To breathe, to move, to speak, to live ? Oh, take away this shade of might. The puny toil of man. And let rich Nature in my sight Unfold her varied plan ; I cannot bear those sullen walls. Those eyeless towers, those tongueless halls. Art's laboured toys of highest name Are nerveless, cold, and dumb ; And man is fitted but to frame A coffin or a tomb ; Well suit, when sense is pass'd away, Such lifeless works the lifeless clay. Here let me sit, where wooded hills Skirt yon far-reaching plain ; While cattle bank its winding rills, And suns embrown its grain : Such prospect is to me right dear. For freedom, health, and joy are Iiere. There is a spirit ranging through The earth, the stream, the air ; Ten thousand shapes, garbs ever new. That restless One doth wear ; In colour, scent, and ta^te, and sound, The energy of life is found. 1, The leaves are rustling in the breeze. The bird cliants fortli her song ; From field to brook, o'er heath, o'er trees, The sunbeam glides along ; The insect, happy in its hour. Floats softly Ijy, or sijis the (lower : — '^^mr'frrf!{i'i,'\\n rn»T^^ Natm-e ami Art. Now dewy rain descends, and now Brisk showers the welkin shroud ; I care not, though with angiy brow Frowns the red thunder-cloud ; Let hail-storm pelt, and lightning hann, 'Tis Nature's work, and has its charm. Ah ! lovely Nature, others dwell Full favour'd in thy court ; I of thy smiles but hear them tell. And feed on their report ; Catching what glimpse an Ulcombe yields To strangers loitering in her fields. I go where form has ne'er unbent The sameness of its sway ; Where iron rule, stern precedent. Mistreat the graceful day ; To pine as prisoner in his cell. And yet be thought to love it well. Yet so His high dispose has set, Who binds on each his part ; Though absent, I may cherish yet An Ulcombe of the heart ; Calm verdant hope divinely given. The suns of peace and scenes of heaven ; A soul prepared His will to meet. Full fix'd His work to do, Not labour'd into suddfti heat, 15ut inly born anew. So living Nature, not dull Art, Shall plan my ways and rule my heart. Church Poetry. 6i The Mourner. For long the courtship was, and he would say, Each time he sail'd, — "This once, and then the day." Yet prudence tarried ; but when last he went, He drew from pitying love a full consent. Happy he sail'd ; and great the care she took That he should softly sleep, and smartly look : White was his better linen, and his cheek Was made more trim than any on the deck ; And every comfort men at sea can know Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow : For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told, How he should guard against the climate's cold ; Yet saw not danger ; dangers he'd withstood, Nor could she trace the fever in his blood : His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek, And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak ; For now he found the danger, felt the pain, With grievous symptoms he could not explain ; Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd. But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd. He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message :— "Thomas, I must die : Would I could see my Sally, and could rest My throbbing temples on her faithful breast. And gazing go ! — if not, this trifle take. And say till death I wore it for her sake ; Yes ! I must die — blow on, sweet breeze, blow on ! Give me one look before my life be gone. Oh ! give me that, and let me not despair. One last fond look — and now repeat the inayer. " He had his wish, had more. I will not paint The lovers' meeting : she beheld liim faint, — With tender fears she took a nearer view. Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew ; He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said, "Yes, I must die ;" and hope for ever fled. Still long she nursed him : tender thoughts meautinie Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime. To her he came to die, and every day She took some portion of the dread away; With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read, Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head : She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer ; Apart she sigh'd ; alone, she shed the tear ; Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. 62 ! / I ' \ The Mom-iier. One clay he lighter seem'd, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot ; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think, Yet said not so — " Perhaps he will not sink :" A sudden brightness in his look appear'd, A sudden vigour in his voice was heard ; She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, And led him forth, and placed him in his chair ; Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew. The friendly many, and the favourite few ; Not one that day did he to mind recall But she has treasured, and she loves them all ; When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people — death has made them dear. He named his friend, but then his hand she press'd, And fondly whisper'd, "Thou must go to rest !" "I go," he said ; but as he spoke she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound ! Then gazed afifrighten'd ; but she caught a last, A dying look of love, — and all was past ! Crap.be, 63 THE BUTTERCUPS. - C i4 ^»r «i * ■ M 1 I .) "\ A/E are of the happy few, Prized or not, a cheerful crew ; O'er the meadow's kindred green. Still in happy consort seen, Casting round our own glad liglit, Making day to flowers at night, — Ours is native cheerfulness ; Man, we ask not thy caress : Glittering as for pride or show — 'Tis our nature to be so. Call us gaudy, call us fine, — Be it, to an eye like thine ; Fair He deems our finery. That created us and thee ! He it is uplifts our heads. Stars of these late-dreary meads. And bids us our garland fling Round r.bout the brow of Spring, "When she dresses her so bright, All at sport for Winter's flight. Ye who pass with critic-brow, And whose blunted spirits now Feel for us no sympathy — Was it thus in infancy. When your childish footsteps trod First of all the grassy sod ? Then old nurse could hardly stay Her entranced runaway; Then bright king-cups wouldst thou pull Till thy tiny hands were full, And thine innocent heart and eyes Glow'd and beat of Paradise. Go, unlearn the ways of men. Be a little child again ; Doff thy manish jiride and shame. That dare to call these pleasures tame ; Taste, unspoil'd of miscall'd lore, Joys that laugh aliout thy door. Yes ! at sight of flowers, with glee Dance in childhood's ecstacy ; Drink frcsli draughts of pleasure up Still from the homely buttercup ; And let ])ure enjoyments be Fountains of staid bliss to thee ! S. R. ^ if > 1 ■I i 64 ^^2:^:^1^ T AM not one whose pleasure is to weave Tales highly wrought of sudden accident, Unlook'd-for recognition, or desire Strangely fulfill'd ; but yet I have a tale Which will bring tears of pity to thine eyes, And summon all thy sadness to attend A willing mourner in a funeial train. Within our hilly bay, hai'd l)y the l)each. Dwelt one whose nightly service was to watch All deeds of outlaws on the Channel-trade. Him on the cliff-side ]iathways we might see Early and late, and meet in the dusk eve Up tlic steep Hacks, threading tlie oaken copse 'riiat delves IiiId tin- s^'ii. ( )iic suninier nioin. 65 The Coast Gicard. When the bright sun look'd down upon the eartli Without a cloud, and all along the shore Twinkled the restless sparkles, he rode by, And passing, offer'd salutation gay. As one who in the beauty and the warmth Of the most blessed morning bore a part. Tliat day we wander'd, my dear friend and I, Far off along the hills, up perilous paths, Gathering the rock-plants, or with hollow'd hand Scooping the streams that trickled down the dells: Till from a peak we saw the fiery sun Sink down into tlie sea, and twilight fell; And ere we reach'd our cot, the distant lights Shone from the Cambrian coast, and from the isle Unseen in the mid-channel. From his cot There look'd into the bosom of the bay A steady light ; and when we reach'd our home. We slept, and thought not of him. In the morn Rumour was busy ; and her minister, Our bustling hostess, told how all the night His anxious bride (for one short month ago They gave their troths) had watch'd for his return ; How there came by a stranger with his horse. Who answer'd not, when breathless she inquired Where he was left, and why. Many with search, 1 lopeless and wearisome, toil'd all the day ; And when the evening came, upon the beach. Below tliat awful steep where winds the road Cut in the mountain-side above the sea. They found a cold and melancholy corpse. With outstretch'd arms and strangely-gather'd limbs, Like one who died in sudden and sharp pain, And deeply gashed on either side the brow. The gaping death-marks of a cruel fall. Tliou wouldsl have wept to see her as she pass'd a 66 'M ^'^-' m To snatch her scanty cfomfort of a look, And then to see him, warm but now, and gay, And full of soft endearments, hidden deep In the cold ground : — it was a blank still face, But bearing trace of tears, and ashy pale, Stiffen'd to stone by strong and sudden grief. Her little stock of hopes, just anchor'd safe In a calm port, were sent adrift again Upon the howling wintry sea of life : And she is fain to gather up afresh The cast-oflF weeds of past prosperity, And deck her as she may. But a sad rent Hath sorrow made in her; nor can she now Knit up her ravell'd hopes, nor summon heart To enter on life's journey all alone, A new and weary way. But time will come When memory of her woe shall be to her A sweet companion. Sorrow shall have past Into her being, and have chasten'd well The lawless risings of unquiet thought. Rev. H. Alford. // VP£ RIC UM P UL CIIR UM : ST. John's wort. /^N Winter's breast of frost and snow The diamond icicle doth glow ; On mountain crag and barren steep Light's softest hues at evening sleep ; And music's voice doth ever pour Most sweetly through the midniglit hour. No marvel, then, if thou, bright child, Art found upon the sunburnt wild ; m NNf /■ i^ -Tj iiU ■^^^ !v> 67 , Mother s Picture. So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd tlie shore Where tempests never beat nor billows roar, And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain the rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd, — Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd. Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birlh From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; But higher far my proud pretensions rise — The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell ! Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem'd t' have lived my childhood o'er again ; To have renew'd the joys that oifce were mine. Without the sin of violating thine ; And while the wings of Fancy still are free. And I can view this mimic show of thee. Time has but half succeeded in his theft — Thyself removed, tliy power to soothe me left. CuWl'KR. \\ ) ^^..r^^ 73 O.V LEA VING MEOPHAM. C;\VIFTLY, though silently, the foot of Time Falls on its path ; and ere it treads again Some few brief circles more, the happy clime, Our little empire, and our childhood's reign, May pass unheeded to another hand. And stranger steps profane our father's land. My infant thought, the wish which earliest grew, As if instinctive on my boyish heart ; The dream my youtli, the hope my manhood knew, - Ah ! who from these without a tear can part ? Sadly I turn away my lingering eyes. Before the enchanted land for ever flies. The boughs with golden-sprinkled apples bright, Fairer to us than those which Hesper bore ; The bashful clematis, whose virgin white Veil'd with its cluster'd hair our eastern door ; The garden's prickly rampart, and behind The cottage-front with honeysuckles twined ! The antique yew, trimm'd into quaint alcove, The churchyard elm-row's venerable pride ; The poplar, giant of our humble grove, Sure landmark in our voyagings and guide ; The gravell'd bank, where still I seem to lie, liedew'd with morning dreams of poesy. Oh, were ye mine ! But now another sways, Who little recks your consecrated pale, Hears not sweet voices of departed days, Nor peoples with remember'd joys your vale. Oh, were ye mine ! but lie who best decides, Spreads all the world before, and only Eden hides, Rev. E. Smedley 75 The Villai^e Stile. " I could have better spared A better tiling ;'''' — but be it so ; Change meets us wheresoe'er we go — It fares as all have fared. Old chronicler ! to me it spoke Like oracle from ancient oak, Save only that its tone (Unskilled the future to forecast) Upon the present or the past Dwelt ever and anon. 'Twas tlironged with memories of old — Yea, many a scene it could unfold To truth and fancy dear ; For not the tliorn upon the green More frequent confidant had been Of tales they love to liear. Age sat ujDon 't when tired of straying ; And children, that had been a-maying, There twined their garlands gay : What tender partings, blissful meetings — Wliat faint denials, fond entreatings, It witnessed in its day ! Tlie milkmaid on its friendly rail Would ofttimes rest licr brimful pail ; And lingering there awhile, Some lucky chance (that tell-tale cheek Doth something more than ciiancc bespeak) Brings Lubin to the stile. (| ^\m:^^^r^ ^^^ ■^■:«7-^i ■iP^ T^fiT?; ^*^^^^-^^'*^ ^ V"-**^. ' /»" '^JiPliT. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. T OOK forth, once more, with soften'd licart, Ere from the field of fame we ])art ; Triumph and sorrow border near. And joy oft melts into a tear. Alas ! what links of love that morn Has wai-'s rude hand asunder torn ! For ne'er was field so sternly fought, And ne'er was conquest dearer bought. Here, piled in common slaughter, sleep Those whom affection long shall weep ; Here rests the sire that ne'er shall strain His orphans to his heart again ; The son whom on his native shore The parent's voice shall bless no more ; The bridegroom who has hardly press'd His blushing consort to his breast ; The husband, whom through many a year Long love and mutual faitli endear : Tliou canst not name one tender tie But here dissolved its relics lie ! Oh, when thou seest some mourner's veil Shroud her thin form and visage pale. Or mark'st the matron's bursting tears Stream when the striking drum she hears, Or seest how manlier grief suppress'd Is labouring in a father's l>reast, — With no inquiry vain ]iursue The cause, but think on Waterloo ! Period of honour as of woes. What bright careers 'twas thine to close — Mark'd on thy roll of blood, what names To hriton's memory and to Fame's Taid there their last immortal claims I Thou saw'st in seas of gore expire Redoubted Picton's soul of fire, — Saw'st in the mingled carnage lie All that of I'onsonby could die, — De I-ancy changj love's bridal-wreath For laurels from the hand of death, — s ■ --*^^^ i. ^mc w !!232X: -ft-" ^ P 1 1 h ■'<."' ^yy -'iKrrrr: ■- m-^Stj i .^ r/ie Field of Waterloo. Saw'st gallant Miller's failing eye Still belt where Albion's banners fly ; And Cameron, in the shock of steel, Die like the offspring of Lochiel ; And generous Gordon, 'mid tlie strife, Fall while he watch'd his leader's life, — Ah ! though her guardian angel's shield Fenced Britain's hero through the field, Fate not the less her power made known, Through his friends' hearts to pierce his own ! Forgive, brave dead, the imperfect lay ! Who may your names, your numbers say ? What high-strung harp, what lofty line, To each the dear-earn'd praise assign, From high-born chiefs of martial fame To the poor soldier's lowlier name ? Tjghtly ye rose that dawning day From your cold couch of swamp and clay, To fill, before the sun was low,/ The bed that morning cannot know. Oft may the tear the green sod steep. And sacred be the heroes' sleep Till time shall cease to run ; And ne'er beside their noble grave May Briton pass and fail to crave A blessing on the fallen brave Who fought with Wellington ! — Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renew'd Bankrupt a nation's gratitude, To thine own noble heart must owe More than the meed she can bestow. For not a people's just acclaim, Not the full hail of Europe's fame, Thy prince's smiles, thy state's decree, The ducal rank, the gartcr'd knee — Not these such pure delight afford As that, when hanging up thy sword, Well mayst thou think, "This honest steel Was ever drawn for ])ul)lic weal ; And, such was rightful Heaven's decree, Ne'er sheathed unless with victory!" SiK Wai.tkr .Scott, 79 HEY err who say life is not sweet, Thouirh cares are long and pleasures fleet ; Though smiles, and tears, and sun, and storm, Still change life's ever-varying form. The mind that looks on things aright Sees through the clouds the deep blue light ; And from the bank all mire and wet Plucks the fresh-scented violet. Each thing is beauteous in its time : And this is not our native clime. But sweet enough for those who roam. And take the path which leads them home. ri LL pleasure is a painful thing ; Who taste the sweet must bear the sting. '■J| Alas ! too like the winged bee. 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