<. i.>m»PMi . I \i jMw^m^mFi'mm^wmmmnmmm 
 
L._.^ 
 
 fe^^ % 
 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/daisiesingrasscoOObankrich 
 
DAISIES IN THE dMSS: 
 
 Ji (KoIIcctiott of ^ongs and f oems, 
 
 MR. AND MRS. 
 G. LINN^US BANKS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 ROBERT HARDWICKE, 192, PICCADILLY, W. 
 
 1865. 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
 PRINTED BY JOHN KING AND COMPANY, LIMITED, 
 QUEEN STREET, E.G. 
 
ciouL 
 
 TO 
 
 H. P, 
 
 A LOVER OF TRUTH, OF NATURE, AND OF HUMANITY, 
 
 ihls 0olum^ 
 
 IS DEDICATED WITH DEEP RESPECT. 
 
 RRU 
 
P KEF ACE. 
 
 Custom demands a Preface, and we, in all humility, 
 bow to her behest. 
 
 There is little to be said, however, in issuing a work 
 of this kind, save that we owe it to ourselves to 
 state, in order to prevent any possible imputation of 
 plagiarism or piracy, that the " Neglected Wife," and 
 several other of the poems by Mrs. Banks, were 
 published either in her own volume, " Ivy Leaves," or 
 in current journals, while she was yet Isabella Varley ; 
 and that not a few of those by Mr. Banks, published 
 in former volumes bearing his name, or in the 
 magazines of the day, have been appropriated in 
 various quarters without his authority, and in some 
 
cases actually endorsed by initials or sobriquets wholly 
 strange to him. 
 
 In instances where the sister art,^ Music, has beeff 
 called into request, the names of composers and 
 publishers are given, in common fairness to both. 
 
 33j Cloudesley Square, N., 
 Jwie 30«7i, 1865. 
 
" The daisies in the grass are singing." 
 
 — Heraud's '^ Angel of the Ages.'' 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The Volunteers' Battle Call 13 
 
 Two Heroes and Two Graves 17 
 
 What I Live for. 21 
 
 Keturns 24 
 
 Here's to the Saxon I and Here's to the Dane ! . 26 
 
 The Tried and True 29 
 
 Remembered Tones 31 
 
 The Heavenly Chorister 32 
 
 The Lesson of the Leaves 34 
 
 Day is Breaking 36 
 
 The Good Spirit 39 
 
 The King of Thought 41 
 
 Prayest Thou? 45 
 
 Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Green 61 
 
 Helicon under a Cloud 55 
 
 The Workman and His Work 59 
 
 Thy Voice is now Silent 64 
 
 Mine! 65 
 
 The Dead Chief 67 
 
 Midnight by the Sea 69 
 
 Deceived 71 
 
 Make Way 72 
 
 Dreams of an Enthusiast 78 
 
 Out in the World 86 
 
 The Absent One 89 
 
 A Home Song for Home Birds 90 
 
 Labour's Festival 91 
 
 A Beggar's Petition 95 
 
 Sabbath Aspirations . 97 
 
 The Leaf and the Soul 101 
 
 To My Wife 103 
 
 My Home is on the Mountain Steep .... 105 
 
 The Seen and Unseen 107 
 
 Songs of the Seasons 109 
 
12 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The Neglected Wife 116 
 
 Calcraft's Carnival 122 
 
 The Dish with a Cover 126 
 
 O, Bard of Gentle Avon! 129 
 
 John Bull and the Gallic Cock .... 132 
 
 Wintry Hours 134 
 
 Nevermore, Evermore 135 
 
 Good we Might do 138 
 
 A Mother's Voice . , . . , . . . . 140 
 
 The Haunted Tower 142 
 
 Services and Rewards 146 
 
 Would'st Thou be a Child Again ? . . . . 149 
 
 A Word for the Workers 155 
 
 The Minstrel Old and Grey 157 
 
 The Gipsy Girl .159 
 
 Unread Lessons ........ 161 
 
 The State Pilot 163 
 
 Labour's Progress and Triumph 165 
 
 The Three Black D's. 170 
 
 The Quiet Joys of Home 173 
 
 Desolation 175 
 
 Better Things shall come to pass .... 177 
 
 Parting Words 181 
 
 The Men of Old 183 
 
 Household Treasures . 185 
 
 Joan D'Arc 187 
 
 Slander ! 191 
 
 My Dead Babe's Hair 199 
 
 Round and Round the Coral Bower . . . . 201 
 
 The Golden Calf 203 
 
 Fanny's Valentine 205 
 
 Lion-Hearted England 207 
 
THE VOLUNTEERS' BATTLE CALL. 
 
 (1859.) 
 
 Sons of the old heroic dead 
 
 Whose deeds, embalmed in story, 
 Tell of a nation's life-blood shed 
 
 To form a nation's glory ! 
 Hear ye yon distant thunder peal ? 
 
 War's footsteps onward creeping ; 
 Mark ye the flash of fire and steel, 
 
 Through yon dark cloudlet peeping ? 
 Sure as the dawn precedes the day, 
 That war-cloud rolls along our way, 
 
14 THE VOLUNTEERS BATTLE CALL. 
 
 And English guns and English men 
 In fire must roll it back again ! 
 
 Up ! for your lives, with blade and brand, 
 Shoulder to shoulder, hand to hand, 
 A living wall of valour stand. 
 In name of God and Fatherland ! 
 
 Sons of the chiefs who won this land 
 
 Of old with crimsoned sabre ! 
 Sons of the elder, mightier band — 
 
 The ancient chiefs of labour ! 
 The pride of birth, the pride of toil, 
 
 Both feed the patriot spirit, 
 And both shall slumber in the soil 
 
 Or e'er they disinherit 
 Our brave old country of the place 
 She's gain'd by strength of arm and race. 
 And still shall keep, though tempests roar, 
 And waves despotic lash her shore ! 
 
 Up ! for your lives, with blade and brand, 
 Shoulder to shoulder, hand to hand, 
 A living wall of valour stand 
 In name of God and Fatherland ! 
 
THE volunteers' BATTLE CALL. 15 
 
 Sons of the old storm-beaten kings 
 
 Whose empire was the ocean ; 
 Whose memory, like an anthem, rings 
 
 On lips of pure devotion ! 
 Ye have not lost the Saxon nerve 
 
 That brought us victory ever : 
 When was a Briton known to swerve ? 
 
 Old Ocean answers, " Never !" 
 Long hath our glory swept the seas, 
 Free as the curbless mountain breeze ; 
 Come death, come ruin, ere the foe 
 Shall lay our sea-born glory low ! 
 
 Up I for your lives, with blade and brand, 
 Shoulder to shoulder, hand to hand, 
 A living wall of valour stand 
 In name of God and Fatherland ! 
 
 Sons of the brave ! The foe assumes 
 
 Our ancient strength departed, 
 He*d carve a million soldiers' tombs ~ 
 
 To own us lion-hearted ; 
 For come when will the bloody day 
 
 That lights the fires of battle, 
 
 B 2 
 
THE volunteers' BATTLE CALL. 
 
 We'll meet his legions in the fray 
 
 And drive them back like cattle ; 
 As would have done, in former years, 
 The band of British Volunteers, 
 But Heaven reserved for our great need 
 Th' immortal glory of the deed ! 
 
 Up ! for your lives, with blade and brand. 
 Shoulder to shoulder, hand to hand, 
 A living wall of valour stand 
 In name of God and Fatherland ! 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
17 
 
 TWO HEROES AND TWO GRAVES. 
 
 (a TRIBUTK TO RICHARD COBDEN.) 
 
 Over the field of Waterloo, 
 Where banners wave, and sabres flash, 
 And trumpets peal, and cymbals clash, 
 And chargers neigh, as on they crash 
 
 Over the living, and over the slain. 
 
 Trampling out life, and trampling down grain, 
 'Mid carnage and smoke, and demoniac fire 
 (Life's blood and life's food alike trod in the mire). 
 
 Gallops a hero to dare and do. 
 The fight is fought, a battle won. 
 Between the rise and set of sun ; 
 And thousands weep when all is done ; 
 
18 TWO HEROES AND TWO GRAVES. 
 
 Some o'er the dying, and some o'er the dead, 
 And some o'er the fall of a crowned head. 
 But Wellington comes with the wreath he has won, 
 And England honours her Warrior Son 
 As the best of her brave and true. 
 
 Over the site of Peterloo, 
 (Marked by a scene from which we shrink, 
 Where mounted yeomen, fired with drink. 
 Sabred people who dared to think ; 
 Cutting down women, and firing on men. 
 Reckless of right for the tongue or the pen). 
 In a plain broad structure new battles are planned, 
 To Free from restrictions the Trade of the land, 
 The fetters on commerce undo ! 
 Thought and speech are the weapons there^ 
 With earnest will and genius rare ; 
 And thousands troop the fight to share : 
 That marvellous army by Cobden led, 
 To wrest from Protection the people's bread. 
 But smiles, not tears, mark his victory's track; 
 And millions unborn shall yet look back 
 On this Hero, the tried and true ! 
 
TWO HEROES AND TWO GRAVES. 19 
 
 Under the great cathedral dome 
 Men are marching with armed heel, 
 Solemn step, and the clink of steel, 
 Drowned by the deep bell's muffled peal, 
 And the anthem swelling throughout the pile, 
 O'er marble heroes in chancel or aisle. 
 O'er the sailor who lies in the vaults below, 
 O'er the corse of the soldier, so soon to go 
 To his rest in that stately tomb, 
 With catafalque and sable pall, 
 Trappings of woe on steeds, — and all 
 That mourns the great — become so small. 
 And the Iron Duke is buried in state, 
 In the heart of the city, noisy and great ; 
 With pageant and pomp from his chosen retreat, 
 On a funeral car through the crowded street, 
 Borne to his grand sepulchral home. 
 
 On the slope of a Sussex hill. 
 Where the dews of heaven may fall 
 Like the tears rained over his pall, 
 In the rest which awaits us all, 
 Lies the Hero who fought a bloodless fight, 
 In the war with wrong for a nation's right. 
 
20 TWO HEROES AND TWO GRAVES. 
 
 And a people's sorrow has followed him there : 
 They, mourn for the man who their sorrows could share, 
 For the warm heart quiet and chill. 
 Friends and kindred over him weep, 
 Statesmen grieve for the mind asleep, 
 The church-bell sobs its echo deep. 
 Tolling for one who has passed from the strife, 
 Marshalled by Death through the portals of Life, 
 Has fought a good fight, and the victory won. 
 Christian and Patriot thou hast «' well done,'' 
 And Peace smoothes thy bed on the hill ! 
 
 ISAB B. 
 
21 
 
 WHAT I LIVE FOR. 
 
 I LIVE for those who love me, 
 
 Whose hearts are kind and true ; 
 For the Heaven that smiles above me, 
 
 And awaits my spirit too ; 
 For all human ties that bind me, 
 For the task by God assigned me, 
 For the bright hopes yet to find me, 
 And the good that I can do. 
 
 I live to learn their story 
 
 Who suffered for my sake ; 
 
 To emulate their glory. 
 
 And follow in their wake : 
 
22 WHAT I LIVE FOE. 
 
 Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, 
 The heroic of all ages, 
 Whose deeds crowd History's pages, 
 And Time's great volume make. 
 
 I live to hold communion 
 
 With all that is divine, 
 To feel there is a union 
 
 'Twixt Nature's heart and mine ; 
 To profit by affliction. 
 Reap truth from fields of fiction. 
 Grow wiser from conviction, 
 
 And fulfil God's grand design. 
 
 1 live to hail that season 
 
 By gifted ones foretold. 
 When men shall live by reason, 
 
 And not alone by gold, 
 When man to man united. 
 And every wrong thing righted, 
 The whole world shall be lighted 
 As Eden was of old. 
 
WHAT I LIVE FOR. 
 
 23 
 
 I live for those who love me, 
 
 For those who know me true. 
 For the Heaven that smiles above me, 
 
 And awaits my spirit too ; 
 For the cause that lacks assistance, 
 For the wrong that needs resistance, 
 For the future in the distance, 
 And the good that I can do. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
24 
 
 K E T U K JSf S . 
 
 " Is not thy rest the oli'spring of thy toil? 
 Is not thy labour pole of thy repose ? " 
 
 Mackay's Egeria. 
 
 *' From the gay world, with all its gilded troubles, 
 
 Its phantom pleasures, and its bursting bubbles ; 
 
 Worn with its tumult and its wild unrest, 
 
 Back like a fledgling to the parent nest. 
 Mother, I come, I come. 
 To childhood's quiet home. 
 
 To lay my aching head once more upon thy breast." 
 
 " Welcome, my son, thou truant long estranged ; 
 
 Welcome to home and heart, both peaceful and unchange 
 
KETURNS. 
 
 25 
 
 From my pure home, the loveable and quiet, 
 ack to the city's din, if not its riot ; 
 rem the repose for which I am unfitted 
 ly all that has transpired since home I quitted, 
 Mother, once more I go. 
 With worh to chase the woe 
 i)0 closely by the Past in Life's web knitted." 
 Then go, my son, from scenes for thee too calm : 
 lepose for thee is poison, labour is sorrow's balm ! " 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
26 
 
 HERE'S TO THE SAXON! AND HERE'S 
 TO THE DANE!* 
 
 ■I 
 
 PRTNCE OF WALES BRIDAL CHORUS FOR FOUR VOICES. 
 
 Come fill up a cup of the good Rhein wine, 
 
 And we will a bumper drain 
 To the health of the Prince, and the Bride benign 
 
 ^ ho comes from the land of the Dane; 
 He's noble and free as the isle of his birth — 
 
 She's gentle, and graceful, and fair — 
 O, search where you will through the length of the earth 
 
 You'll find none with them can compare ! 
 
 * Music by W. Wilson ; published by Metzler & Co., Great 
 Marlborough Street, W. 
 
here's to the SAXON, ETC. 27 
 
 Then here's to the Saxon ! and here's to the Dane I 
 May the peaceful alliance unbroken remain, 
 And their thrones and their peoples, united and free, 
 Stand together as firm as a rock in the sea ! 
 
 In centuries past when this good green sward 
 
 Was tilled by the Saxon's hand, 
 The Viking came, and with fire and sword 
 
 He ravaged our native land ; 
 But a thousand years of toil and pain 
 
 Have worked such wondrous spells, 
 Now, kings of the sea, we welcome the Dane 
 
 With the music of marriage bells. 
 
 Then here's to the Saxon ! and here's to the Dane ! 
 May the peaceful alliance unbroken remain, 
 And their thrones and their peoples, united and free. 
 Stand together as firm as a rock in the sea ! 
 
 All hail! to the Prince and Princess, blest 
 
 With the joy such union brings — 
 When the love that glows in the peasant's breast 
 
 Burns bright in the hearts of kings ; 
 
28 here's to the saxont, etc. 
 
 For wisest still is the grand old plan 
 
 Which Nature herself lays down — 
 That queens should wed for the sake of the man, 
 
 And not for the sake of the crown. 
 
 Then here's to the Saxon ! and here's to the Dane 
 May the peaceful alliance unbroken remain, 
 And their thrones and their peoples, united and fre 
 Stand together as firm as a rock in the sea ! 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
29 
 
 THE TKIED AND TRUE 
 
 I PASS unregarded the selfish and vahi, 
 
 Who proffer a favour and make it a debt ; 
 For service so rendered comes loaded with pain, 
 
 But true-hearted kindness I cannot forget. 
 
 From the butterfly friends, who, when summer was bright, 
 Fluttered round me with offers I did not require ; 
 
 I turn to the few who in winter's dark night 
 Were true and devoted — gold tried in the fire. 
 
 Or when prostrate in sickness, disabled by pain, 
 
 Surrounded by hirelings, unheeded I lay ; 
 From paraded assistance I turn with disdain, 
 
 But the true-hearted kind ones I ne'er can repay. 
 
30 THE TKIED AND TRUE. f 
 
 To these and these only will memory cling, 
 For sympathy shown in look, action, or word ; 
 
 And the waters of gratitude ever upspring 
 In the heart's brimming fount, though they sparkle unheard. 
 
 The hand of the spoiler hath often been laid 
 On the dear ones whose loss I must ever regret ; 
 
 But the true friends I tried in those seasons of shade, 
 Are embalmed in a heart which can never forget. 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
31 
 
 REMEMBERED TONES. 
 
 I HEARD a sweeter voice last night 
 
 Than I have heard for many a day, 
 Attuned to melody as light 
 
 As zephyr's breath, or fairy lay ; 
 It seemed to tell of life's young spring 
 
 Unshadowed by the clouds of time, 
 When love, and hope, and everything 
 
 Went sweetly as a matin chime. 
 
 Mine ear, perchance, may never more 
 
 Be captive led by tnat dear tone — 
 N e'er run again its numbers o'er 
 
 In sweet felicity alone ; 
 Yet, like the perfume of the May, 
 
 That lingers tho' the May depart, 
 That gentle song for many a day, 
 
 Shall wake an ecno m my heart. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 c2 
 
32 
 
 THE HEAVENLY CHOillSTER. 
 
 I HAVE a child in Heaven, 
 
 Singing with perfect face before the Throne ; 
 Our God by whom 'twas given, 
 
 Missed from the angel quire that dear one's tone, 
 And longing for it, with a Father's pride, 
 Called back the little wanderer to his side. 
 
 Placid his brow and fair 
 
 When the swift- winged messenger drew near. 
 And my heart groaned a prayer, 
 
 Which e'en Death shuddered, while he smote, to hear, 
 And half relented, when the work was done, 
 
 To see my arms still clinging to my son. 
 
THE HEAYENLY CHORISTERS. 
 
 33 
 
 1 have a child in Heaven, 
 
 Singing with radiant face at God*s right hand, 
 And when life's closing even' 
 
 Fades out upon the verge of that bright land, 
 My angel-boy shall leave the shining quire 
 To fling his arms about his earthly sire. 
 
 G. L. B 
 
34 
 
 THE LESSON OF THE LEAVES. 
 
 Glancing in the sunlight, 
 
 Dancing in the breeze, 
 
 See the new-born leaflets 
 
 On the summer trees : 
 
 Joying in existence, 
 
 Whisperingly they play, 
 
 Toying with each other 
 
 Through the golden day : 
 
 And when evening's eyelids 
 
 Close upon the hill, 
 
 Casting loving glances 
 
 On the answering rill : 
 
 Thus they dance and flutter 
 All the summer through, 
 
 Light, and gay, and gladsome, 
 Leaflets gi^een and new : 
 " Life is all before us — life is full of glee !" 
 Is the joyous chorus heard from every tree. 
 
THE LESSON OF THE LEAVES. 35 
 
 Hanging on the branches, 
 
 Drooping in the shade, 
 
 Mark the autumn leaflets 
 
 How they pine and fade ; 
 
 Rustling — as the storm- blast 
 
 Sweeps across the moor — 
 
 Driven by the whirlwind 
 
 To the cottar's door ; 
 
 Dark, and thick, and heavy. 
 
 With the dust of Time, 
 
 Weary of existence, 
 
 List their wintry chime, 
 
 As the mournful cadence 
 Rings in human ears, 
 
 A never-ending moral 
 For the coming years. 
 This the parting chorus — " Leaves, our course is run ; 
 Death is now before us— but our work is done! " 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
36 
 
 DAY IS BREAKING. 
 
 (a song of progress) 
 
 Day is breaking 
 On the mountain -tops of Time, 
 
 As they stand head -bared and hoary, 
 Watching from their heights sublime 
 The new Morning upward climb 
 
 In its creative glory ! 
 
 Day is breaking, 
 Like a firmament of light 
 
 Flushing far the heaving ocean ; 
 And the darkness of the Night 
 Melts before its gathering might 
 
 As a spectral thing in motion ! 
 
DAY IS BREAKING. 37 
 
 Day is breaking ! 
 In the valleys, on the hills, 
 
 The earth is as an infant swathed in brightness ; 
 And the rivers and the rills 
 With a sparkling joy it fills, 
 
 As to lyric measure turns their rippling lightness ! 
 
 Day is breaking ! 
 And the matin of each bird — 
 
 A ray of morn distilled in music — ringing 
 Through the welkin far, is heard 
 Echoing, like the parting word 
 
 Of a lover to his earthly idol clinging ! 
 
 Day is breaking, 
 Like a host of angels sent 
 
 With some new revelation. 
 And the mourning nations bent. 
 Tiptoe wait the grand event — 
 
 The mind's emancipation. 
 
38 DAY IS BREAKING. 
 
 Day is breaking ! 
 And from the grave of other years 
 
 In new birth Life awaking, 
 Above the dust of Death uprears 
 Its face, no longer wet with tears, 
 
 For mankind's Day is breaking. 
 
 Day is breaking ! 
 And as the story of its advent flies, 
 
 In the mart, on 'Change, 
 Sagacious men, far-seeing, questioning, wise, 
 Tarry to fathom in each other's eyes 
 
 The import deep and strange. 
 Day is breaking ! 
 A crimson rust feeds on the sword — 
 
 Devoured by blood of its own shedding ; 
 And where the cannon thundering roared, 
 To nobler peace and self restored, 
 
 Man by the Light of God is treading. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
39 
 
 THE GOOD SPIRIT. 
 
 Of all the Good Spirits that brighten the earth 
 
 Good Temper is surely the best, 
 And luckless the hearth where she's seldom at home, 
 
 Or comes but a casual guest ; 
 Where the plumage is torn from her delicate wings, 
 And little is thought of the blessings she brings. 
 
 Good Temper can give to the lowliest cot 
 
 A charm with the palace to vie, 
 For gloomy and dark is the loftiest dome 
 
 Unlit by her radiant eye ; 
 And 'tis she who alone makes the banquet divine. 
 Gives for viands ambrosia, and nectar for wine. 
 
40 THE GOOD SPIRIT. 
 
 The world would be dreary and barren indeed, 
 
 Our pilgrimage weary and sad, 
 Did the strife-seeking spirit of SuUenness reign, 
 
 To trample on hearts that were glad ; 
 He would blot out life's sunshine, and pluck up its flowers, 
 Driving Hope's sweetest song-birds away from its bowers. 
 
 Alas ! that we ever should fall 'neath a sway 
 
 So tyrannous, cruel, and stern — 
 Should wilfully chase fair Good Temper away. 
 
 Her favours indignantly spurn ; 
 For with her ihere is pleasure, and gladness, and light, 
 With SuUenness discord, and sadness, and night. 
 
 Let who will give the demon a place in his breast. 
 
 May Good Temper preside over mine ; 
 She will lighten my sorrows, and whisper to Care 
 
 Fewer thorns in my chaplet to twine. 
 Then, be mine this Good Spirit, who comes at our call. 
 And would come, were she welcome, to each and to all . 
 
 ISAB. R. 
 
41 
 
 THE KING OF THOUGHT. 
 
 An Address^ written for the Performance^ at Drury Lane Theatre^ 
 
 in aid of the ''^ Peojple's Shahesjpeare Memorial Fund,'' and delivered 
 
 ly Mr. Edmund Phelps, December 15th, 1864. 
 
 Could these dumb Boards, instinctive with the tread 
 Of Mighty feet, speak of the Mightier Dead ; 
 Or these Old Walls the gift of speech attain, 
 My task were needless, and my presence vain ; 
 But sith they're silent, and the Human must 
 Still chronicle the Human in the dust, 
 I come, in humble service and respect, 
 To tell the story of our land's neglect. 
 
42 THE KING OF THOUGHT. 
 
 There is a King all human Kings above, 
 Who rules unseen, in wisdom and in love — 
 Sits on a Throne of Stars, and in its light, 
 Woos the world*s thought towards the Infinite : 
 No liveried placeman ambles in his court— 
 No crafty counsels of his will make sport — 
 No braggart chief, no hapless captive waits 
 Trembling and pale without his city gates ; 
 But ever as he sees the tyrant, Man, 
 Oppress the weak — so mar the Eternal plan — 
 Or poor Humanity go halting by, 
 Stricken with grief or sad infirmity ; 
 Moved by the deep Divinity within, 
 That speaks of all men as one kith and kin, 
 He grasps his suffering brother by the palm, 
 And nerves his soul with some life-giving psalm. 
 
 Who is this King of Kings ? A voice replies. 
 Like a faint whisper of the midnight skies, 
 Telling of One who by the power of God, 
 Strangely endowed, rose from his native sod, 
 Near Avon's stream, to occupy a Throne, 
 In an ideal Empire of his own. 
 
THE KING OF THOUGHT. 43 
 
 From out the Universe — the sea, earth, air — 
 His realm he peopled ; shapes as strange as fair 
 Came at his bidding, and, that none should die, 
 He wreathed their brows with Immortality. 
 
 Ages have flown and States decayed since then, 
 
 But no corruption taints his Sovereign Pen : 
 
 What He, the Master-limner, once hath traced — 
 
 What He, the Priest, upon the altar placed — 
 
 What He, the Prophet, hath proclaimed on high— 
 
 What He, the Poet, sung in rhapsody ; 
 
 His woi*ds, his thoughts, the music of his heart — 
 
 Of Nature's subtler self the subtler part — 
 
 Shall live, and breathe, and burn, till Time and Sense 
 
 Close their account 'twixt Man and Providence. 
 
 King for all time ! Where, then, the homage due 
 To Potentate so rare, so wise, so true ? 
 When was it paid ? Where is it to be found ? 
 Alas ! not on one spot of English ground ! 
 To bigots, butchers, despots, trophies stand 
 On many an acre of our smiling land. 
 
44 THE KING OF THOUGHT 
 
 But not to Him, whose letters-patent bore 
 The siff net- seal of Heaven for evermore ! 
 
 Be't ours to check this love of low-born things, 
 And slake the soul's deep thirst at purer springs ! 
 Give WILL a Shrine in some befitting place, 
 Where, in the fair proportions of his face, 
 England, the one bright Island of the Sea — 
 Home of the Brave, and Birthplace of the Free — 
 May proudly show her reverence for the Pen, 
 And own the King of Thought the King of Men ! 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
45 
 
 PRAYEST THOU? 
 
 What! ''^ never prayed?'''' Oh, say not so, - 
 
 Thou canst not look around 
 Upon the God-blessed earth nor feel 
 
 Thy every heart-pulse bound, 
 In gratitude and thankfulness 
 
 To that Almighty Power 
 Whose name is wi'it in rainbow gems 
 
 Upon the sunlit shower, — 
 In moonbeams on the light-kissed wave, 
 
 Where stars reflected lie, 
 Like angel-eyes embroidered on 
 
 Some heaven-wrought tapestry, — 
 
4G PRAYEST THOU? 
 
 Emblazoned on the verdant turf, 
 In ever- springing flowers, 
 
 And hymned by birds, in gushing notes. 
 Mid dim- arched forest bowers. 
 
 Come forth, then, thou who " never prayed," 
 
 Come forth in thought with me,— 
 We'll dive together to the depths 
 
 Of the resounding sea ; 
 Its labyrinthine caverns search. 
 
 Each crystalline recess ; — 
 Dost thou not feel 'mong Ocean's caves 
 
 Thy puny littleness ? 
 Millions of insect architects 
 
 The coral-reef outspread, 
 And raise their island silently 
 
 Where man in time may tread ; 
 The busy waters teem with life. 
 
 To grace his banquet board, 
 And pearls and gems for Beauty's brow 
 
 Its lowest depths afford. 
 
PRAYEST THOU ? 47 
 
 Come forth into the upper ah*, 
 
 Where insect myriads swarm, 
 To vivify the atmosphere 
 
 We breathe so fresh and warm. 
 The bee, arrayed in velvet vest. 
 
 In quest of his sweet spoil, 
 For man, from morn till night, pursues 
 
 His unremitting toil. 
 The bright-hued warbler, soaring far 
 
 On beam-enamelled wings, 
 To gratify his eye and ear. 
 
 Thus flutters, shines, and sings. 
 There, pierced by arrow, feather poised, 
 
 From Indian bow-string sped, 
 For food or ornament required, 
 
 A gay-plumed bird is dead. 
 
 Descend into the gloomy mines, — 
 Say, what dost thou behold P 
 
 Veins of bright metal intersect 
 
 The wealthy earth's dark mould 
 
 d2 
 
48 PBAYKST THOU ? 
 
 Here lies the radiant diamond, — 
 
 There virgin silver shines ; 
 But Heaven bestows a better gift, — 
 
 Our coal and iron mineji. 
 Pile up coals upon the furnace, 
 
 And fuse the iron ore ! 
 The miner asks for implements 
 
 Earth's secrets to explore ; 
 The peasant needs the spade and plough 
 
 To turn the yielding soil, — 
 The sickle and the scythe, to reap 
 
 The harvest of his toil. ' 
 
 Ascend with me the mountain's height. 
 
 Look forth upon the skies, — 
 Behold the laughing sunbeams play 
 
 In infant Morning's eyes. 
 Like silver threads, the sparkling rills 
 
 Dance merrily along, 
 And clasp each other's wavy arms 
 
 With a rejoicing song ; 
 
PRAYEST THOU ? 49 
 
 United indissolubly, 
 
 They fertilize the plaiu, 
 Invigorate the sapling's root, 
 
 And swell the rising grain. 
 There, sheep are out upon the hills, 
 
 Here bloom the dark-tressed vines ; 
 The pomegranate is deeply flushed, 
 
 Tiie autumn fruitage shines. 
 
 Come down into the vale again, 
 
 Look forth into the world, 
 Before thine eyes on every side 
 
 Are pleasant scenes unfurled. 
 Look to thine own domestic hearth, 
 
 The friends assembled there. 
 And own that thou hast ample cause 
 
 For thankfulness and prayer. 
 Look into thine own bosom's depths, - 
 
 Thou hast a heart to feel : 
 Stifle not feelings as they rise, 
 
 Thy closed lip unseal. 
 
50 PRAYEST THOU ? 
 
 Thine is an intellect and mind 
 
 To grasp the beautiful,— 
 How canst thou view the Lord's great works 
 
 And not feel prayerful ? 
 
 Thou hast prayed ! yes, I know thou hast. 
 
 And fervently and well ; 
 Though thy hushed lips have breathed no tone- 
 No words arise to tell 
 When thy full heart appeals to God 
 
 In eloquence and prayer, 
 And prostrate at his footstool lays 
 
 Its purest offering there. 
 I know, I feel, thy heart ascends 
 
 In praise to Him e'en now. 
 Although thy voice may not respond 
 
 To the soul-uttered vow. 
 Oh, no ! thou art not— canst not be 
 
 So lost in sin's black shade ! — 
 'T would madden me were I to think 
 
 That thou hadst " never prayed !" 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
51 
 
 MRS. BROWN AND MRS. GREEN. 
 
 A y BUY fair Christian is [joocl Mrs. Brown, 
 And wise, too, as any in any wise town ; 
 She worships her God without any display. 
 Not molesting her friend who lives over the way ; 
 And, whatever occurs it is easy to see 
 That her words and her conduct do always agree. 
 For this little maxim she shrewdly commends — 
 " Good precept anfl practice should ever be friends ! 
 
 A very warm Christian is good Mrs. Green, 
 In her satins, and velvets, and rich armazine ; 
 She is always at church when the service begins. 
 And prays quite aloud for*tlie/>oor and their sins ; 
 Then her speech is so fair, and her manner so bland, 
 They'd proselytise the most heathenish land ; 
 
52 MRS. BROWN AND MRS. GREEN. 
 
 And this one opinion she stoutly defends— 
 
 ** That precept and practice should ever be friends ! " 
 
 Mrs. Brown has a reticule, useful though small, 
 
 Which oft in the week she takes under her shawl. 
 
 Calling first on this person, and then on the other. 
 
 As if she were either a sister or mother ; 
 
 And 't has often been remarked, with good reason, no doubt, 
 
 Tliat the reticule's lighter for having been out ; 
 
 For this little maxim she shrewdly commends— 
 
 " Good precept and practice should ever be friends ! '* 
 
 Mrs. Green, now and then, for an hour, sits in state 
 With some more lady friends — rich, of course — to debate 
 
 How the poor shall be clothed, and lohat taught, and whai 
 
 rules 
 It were best to enforce in the Charity Schools ; 
 All of which having over and over been turned, 
 And, nothing decided, the meeting's adjourned ; 
 And this one opinion each lady defends — 
 " That precept and practice should ever be friends ! " 
 
 In the street where resides our good friend Mrs. Brown 
 Is a school, though not known to a tithe of the town. 
 
MRS. BROWN AND MRS. GREEN. 53 
 
 Which that lady supports from her own private purse ; 
 
 (And 'ti 5 thought by her neighbours she might do much 
 worse ;) 
 
 And if scholars, or parents, are ill or distressed, 
 
 The reticule's sure to be had in request ; 
 
 For this little maxim she shrewdly commends — 
 
 '* Good precept and practice should ever be friends ! " 
 
 Mrs. Green has a sympathy deep and refined, 
 
 It is not to parish or country confined ; 
 
 If a party of ladies propose a bazaar 
 
 To enlighten the natives of rude Zanzebar, 
 
 She is truly delighted to sanction their aim. 
 
 By giving wise counsel, and lending her name ; 
 
 For this one opinion she stoutly defends — 
 
 *' That precept and practice should ever be friends ! '' 
 
 Mrs. Brown is a stranger to parties and sects, 
 The good of all classes she loves and respects ; 
 Thinking little enough of profession or creed, 
 If the heart and the hand go not^with it indeed ; 
 While her prayers, and her purse, and her reticule, too, 
 For all sorts of Christians a kindness will do ; 
 
54 MRS. BROWN AND MRS. GREEN. 
 
 And this little maxim she shrewdly commends — 
 *' Good precept and practice should ever be friends ! " 
 
 There Sirefew Mrs. Browns — not a few Mrs. Greens, 
 
 In their satins, and velvets, and rich armazines. 
 
 There are thousands who'll preach, lend their names, and 
 give rules. 
 
 But how few are provided with small reticules ! 
 
 With the world, Mrs. Green, as a saint, will go down — 
 
 We will stake our existence on good Mrs. Brown, 
 
 Who in word, and in deed, the trite maxim commends — 
 
 " Good precept and practice should ever be friends ! " 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
55 
 
 HELICON UNDER A CLOUD. 
 
 Oh, Poetry ! thou once wert like a rill 
 
 Rippling o'er pebbles ; swelling to a stream 
 
 Strong, deep, and clear, a river between banks 
 
 Fringed with rank reeds or drooping willow-boughs ; 
 
 Laving the gnarled roots of aged oaks 
 
 Or silvery birches— music in thy flow ; 
 
 Thy lucent length a mirror for the moon 
 
 And all her midnight train of minstrel stars ; 
 
 Or, when the day was gorgeous with the glow 
 
 Of fervid noon, the canopy overhead 
 
 On thy broad flood shone like a second sky ; 
 
 And in thy limpid depths each living thing 
 
 Lightly disporting through its little life 
 
 With flashing fin, or coiling worm -like ring, 
 
56 HELICON UNDER A CLOUD. 
 
 Or insect antennae — each tuft of moss, 
 
 Each veiny pebble, every tiny weed, 
 
 Or skeleton of leaf which once was green 
 
 And dancing in the sun, was visible 
 
 To the observant eye. The rudest hind. 
 
 The keen philosopher, might scan thy stream 
 
 Wiser and better for the scrutiny ; 
 
 Or childhood quench its thirst in the clear flood, 
 
 Which murmured sweetly truths to gi-eat and small. 
 
 Now^ Poetry is like a turgid tide 
 Floating through crystal caverns, or deep hid 
 In gloomy mountain gorges, chafing here 
 O'er rocks and boulders in its rapid flight ; 
 Now flashing into light for a brief space 
 Under the sunny heavens ; sweeping soon 
 O'er jutting crags— a cataract of foam : 
 Whirling in eddies ere it settles down 
 Into its course — a sullen, sonorous stream. 
 Deep, strong, and dark, a tide without an ebb ; 
 The heavy umbrage of the forest trees 
 Shutting the sunlight out. Sweet rivulets, 
 Fostered 'mid flowers, and singing with the birds, 
 
HELICON UNDER A CLOUD. 5Y 
 
 May lose their way, and stray to the deep stream ; 
 Or snow-flakes melt their crystals in its flood, 
 To swell its waters and be seen no more, 
 As dew-drops seek the sun. But on and on, 
 With a sad, surging sound, solemn and dark, 
 The waves of poetry still roll, and roll. 
 Too deep and mystic for the common ken. 
 What untaught foot may tread the wilderness. 
 To bathe within the stream, or climb the heights. 
 To search if light illume its secret source ? 
 What eye, not lit by spiritual rays, 
 May penetrate the gloom that shades the stream. 
 Or pierce the night-black waters in their bed. 
 Or torch-like, light the ca-wrn's crystals up ? 
 
 ♦ 
 I Thou gi*and majestic stream ! still keep thy course. 
 Swelling and deepening in the track of time ; 
 Shroud thy great beauty in mysterious woods. 
 Or deep ravines where daylight's self is dim — 
 Where only feet, with learned sandals shod. 
 May wander by thy side, or stand secure. 
 Whilst filtering through the transcendental brain 
 Thy living waters show their golden sands ! 
 
58 HELICON UNDER A CLOUD. 
 
 But turn aside at times into the meads ; 
 
 Court the broad sunshine— ripple in its beams, 
 
 Gilding thy breast with glory. Glance and play 
 
 Like a coquette with fern and meadow-sweet ; 
 
 Let the swift swallow dip his travelled wing, 
 
 Or homely robin wash his scarlet vest, 
 
 And sip his morning draught. Be clear once more ; 
 
 Come forth into the light !— Be Poetry— 
 
 A flood for all who choose to stoop and drink ; 
 
 Not a deep fount of metaphysic lore 
 
 Sealed up from half the world ! 
 
 ISAB. B 
 
59 
 
 THE WORKMAN AND HIS WORK. 
 
 There were twenty-six 
 
 Black slender objects lay 
 Spread out before a toiling man, 
 
 Each like a cast-away — 
 Unlike, and yet of kin they were ; 
 
 Apart, yet side by side ; 
 Some round, some square, hump-backed and crossed- 
 
 Others with legs bestride. 
 But O ! their power was wond'rous great — 
 
 How great scarce any knew — 
 For, though a child might use it well, 
 
 No King could it subdue. 
 
60 THE AVORKMAN AND HIS WORK, 
 
 There were twenty-six, 
 
 And he who turned them o'er, 
 But laboured at a daily task 
 
 Oft laboured at before — 
 A two-fold recompence he sought, 
 
 For fortune had not shed 
 Her glittering treasures round his heart, 
 
 Her honours round his head — 
 So toiled he on, the livelong day, 
 
 With weary touch and look ; 
 Until his work was done — and lo ! 
 
 Behold it made a Book. 
 
 A Book — a mighty Book — 
 
 In which were glorious things 
 Bright words to warm the beggar's soul, 
 
 And pierce the hearts of kings 
 Truths that, like polished crystals shone, 
 
 And powerful made the weak — 
 That crimsoned deep with self-respect 
 
 The wretched outcast's cheek — 
 No grandeur, beauty, might, or good 
 
 Hath traversed earth around, 
 
THE WORKMAN AND HIS WORK. 61 
 
 But in that white yet crowded page 
 Its antetype was found. 
 
 It taught the pampered heir 
 
 Humility, not state ; 
 And Dives, rich, to share his meal 
 
 With beggars at his gate ; 
 The tyrant to relax the chain 
 
 That brutalised the slave — 
 rt furnished bright examples for 
 
 The virtuous and brave. 
 It preached the death of bloody wars — 
 
 It spoke, as can the Pen ; 
 And God, whose stamp it bore, looked down, 
 
 And closed it with Amen. 
 
 The man of toil went home, 
 
 And sat beside his fire, 
 While little laughing children came 
 
 And kissed their welcome sire — 
 No pomp, no splendour, hoarded up 
 
 There, flashed upon his gaze ; 
 
62 THE workma:n and his work. 
 
 No cringing vassals, bowing down, 
 
 Extolled with artful praise. 
 He was a poor, a working man, 
 
 Obscure, and meanly clad, 
 With many cares to vex his soul. 
 
 Nor much to make it glad. 
 
 The book — that Book — went forth. 
 
 With an Almighty spell, 
 Politics tottered at his voice, 
 
 And thrones before it fell — 
 The ocean bore its tidings on. 
 
 To farthest clime and shore ; 
 And scattered holy gifts around. 
 
 Where none had been before. 
 Where'er it went, the human mind 
 
 A glorious thing became — 
 The Indian and the African 
 
 Put on a God-like name. 
 Men— sceptics— soon stepped forth, 
 
 And, with unholy mirth, 
 Essayed to make that mighty Book 
 
 A blank throughout the earth — 
 
WORKMAN AND HIS WORK. 63 
 
 In library and cloistered cell, 
 
 With skill and zeal uprose, 
 Philosopher and saintly monk, 
 
 Its charmed leaves to close — 
 The sword and rack in turn were tried, 
 
 And every desperate plan. 
 But nothing could undo the work 
 
 Of that poor toiling man. 
 
 The Workman died —unsung, unknown ; 
 
 But soon, by heaven's light, 
 His spirit gazed in glory down 
 
 Upon our mortal night — 
 A mighty change the Book had wrought ; 
 
 War, lust, and wrong, and pride 
 Were smitten, and a better fruit 
 
 Was ripening far and wide — 
 Whose small seeds, scattered by his hand 
 
 Upon the human sod, 
 Should stock the Paradise above 
 
 With flowers approved by God ! 
 
 G. L. B 
 
 E 2 
 
64 
 
 THY VOICE IS NOW SILENT. 
 
 Thy voice is now silent, the hearth is now coici, 
 
 Where thy smile and thy welcome oft met me of old ; 
 
 I miss thee and mourn thee, in silence, unseen — 
 
 I dwell on the memory of joys that have been ; 
 
 But nor weeping, nor memory affords me relief, 
 
 For my heart is bowed down with the weight of its grief. 
 
 I know that life's sorrows with thee are all past, 
 
 That thy spirit with angels is happy at last. 
 
 For in dreams of the night, when the world is at rest, 
 
 I list to thee singing the songs of the blest ; 
 
 But those moments, so blissful, are restless and brief, 
 
 And my heart is bowed down with the weight of its grief. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
65 
 
 MINE! 
 
 "a wife's song.' 
 
 I LOVE thee, I love thee, as dearly as when 
 We plighted our troth in the spring-time of life ; 
 
 The tempests of years have swept o'er us since then, 
 Yet affection survives both in Husband and Wife. 
 
 No love that the poet ere fabled of yore 
 Could vie in its depth or endurance with mine ; 
 
 No miser could treasure his glittering store 
 As I hoard in my heart every love-tone of thine. 
 
66 
 
 No babe could repose on a fond Mother's breast 
 More calmly confiding than I do on thine ; 
 
 I fly to thy arms, as a bird to its nest, 
 For shelter and safety, dear Husband of mine ! 
 
 Aye, " Mine, and mine only !" Oh, joy passing words ! 
 
 To carol this song in my innermost heart ; 
 " While thine, and thine only ! " the vibrating chords 
 
 Shall echo till sense, life, and feeling depart. 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
67 
 
 THE DEAD CHIEF.* 
 
 (havelock.) 
 
 Pillowed on his Indian bed, 
 
 England's gallant hero lies — 
 Sheathed his good sword, bowed his head, 
 
 Passed his soul into the skies ; 
 Widows weep around his grave, 
 
 Orphans' tears fall thick and fast — 
 Ever thus should sleep the brave, 
 
 When the war of life is past I 
 
 Time will tell the deeds he wrought 
 With his trusty, stainless blade — 
 
 How he suffered, how he fought 
 'Ere he in the earth was laid ; 
 
 * Music by R. F. Lowell; published by J. H. Jewell, Gt, Russell St., W.C. 
 
68 
 
 THE DEAD CHIEF. 
 
 Time will brand the Nena's guilt, 
 Time will gild our Havelock*s fame- 
 
 Who the blood of woman spilt, 
 M^ho avenged that deed of shame. 
 
 Think we well of him, and hold 
 
 Bravely to the life he spent — 
 Write his name in words of gold 
 
 On the World's vast monument ; 
 Soldier-hero ! Christian-man ! 
 
 Self-enobled ; let him rest, 
 Kinglier in the warrior van 
 
 Than with stars upon his breast ! 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
69 
 
 MIDNIGHT BY THE SEA. 
 
 Alone, by night, I take my way 
 Where wild waves dash upon the shore, 
 
 And listen to the plaintive lay 
 Sung by Old Ocean evermore, 
 
 In memory of those who sleep 
 
 Down in the bosom of the Deep. 
 
 The midnight stars, with silent tread, 
 The azure heavens march along, 
 
 To strains of music overhead 
 Returning a triumphant song 
 
 Of morn to come— of day to be 
 
 Ere long throughout eternity. 
 
70 MIDNIGHT BY THE SEA. 
 
 O, glorious stars ! O, mighty Deep ! 
 
 Who sing the Living and the Dead, 
 Let grief no more our eyelids steep 
 
 In tears unprofitably shed — 
 For every riven link of love 
 A star in glory shines above ! 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
Yl 
 
 DECEIVED ! 
 
 On the shore of a tranquil lake 
 
 A maiden reclined and dreamed 
 Of the hearts she would win and break 
 
 While that summer sunlight beamed ; 
 She mused o'er her victories past, 
 
 Of her captives yet to be ; 
 And the spells she would round them cast 
 
 To bring them down to her knee. 
 
 On the shore of a troubled lake 
 
 A maiden wandered alone, 
 ' Mong the hearts she had vowed to break 
 . She had not counted her own ; 
 But a brighter eye than her own, 
 
 A tongue as false and as fair 
 Won her soul with a look and a tone. 
 
 Then left her to love and despair. 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
72 
 
 MAKE WAY! 
 
 AN ANTHEM TOR THE PEOPJLE. 
 
 ''Pomp and Pride, Wealth and Birth, 
 These have had their reign on earth, 
 Each has had its little day, 
 Each in turn must pass away." 
 
 Thus, as Life's watch-tower I climb, 
 'Twixt Eternity and Time, 
 Looking out into the night 
 For a glimpse of morning light, 
 Spirit- voices floating near 
 Prophecy unto mine ear — 
 
 Solemn voices. 
 
 Preacher voices, 
 
MAKE WAY ! 73 
 
 From the pulpit of the age 
 
 Minisf ring the truths of old, 
 Written in the sacred page 
 With a pen of fire and gold. 
 Soft and low 
 They come and go, 
 While far down the anxious crowd. 
 Weary watchers cry aloud : — 
 
 ''Watchman ! tell us of the night? 
 Tell us of the morning light? 
 Worn and weary, when will Day 
 Roll along the people's way ? " 
 
 Up the morn, like breath of flowers, 
 Gently steal the new-born hours, 
 Back night's spectral shadows fly 
 Gloomily, despondingly — 
 Hark ! the tramp of many feet — 
 Hark ! the voices of the street — 
 
 Rugged voices, 
 
 Earnest voices 
 Rising now and borne along 
 In the majesty of song : — 
 
'74 MAKE WAY ! 
 
 " Night is gone, Day comes on ; 
 
 Breaks the morning clear and strong- 
 Stand aside, Pomp and Pride, 
 
 Let the People move along !" 
 
 Spirits of the past called back 
 From Death's silent dusty track — 
 Mighty spirits, patriots, sages, 
 Beacon lights through endless ages — 
 Come with faces lank and pale 
 Telling each its own dread tale 
 Of injustice meekly borne, 
 Honest service met by scorn — 
 Ghastly faces. 
 Ah, me ! faces 
 That appal the eyes of men, 
 Jabbering " Amen !" " Amen !" 
 , To the burden of the throng. 
 
 Swelling deep, and loud, and strong : — 
 " Night is gone. Day comes on. 
 
 Breaks the morning clear and strong- 
 Stand aside. Wealth and Pride, 
 Let the People move along !" 
 
MAKE WAY ! 76 
 
 " Why should Genius, why should Worth — 
 God's nobilities on earth, — 
 Why should Labour, God's right hand. 
 Be accursed in the land ? " 
 Cries the Spirit of the hour. 
 Sentinel in Life's watch-tower — 
 Answer echo, 
 '' Wherefore ?" echo. 
 And the low'ring heavens reply 
 In thunders rolling through the sky :— 
 " Night is gone. Day comes on. 
 
 Breaks the morning clear and strong — 
 Stand aside. Birth and Pride, 
 Let the People move along !" 
 
 Lowly tillers of the soil, 
 Free from battle, blood, or spoil ; 
 Craftsmen whose inventive skill 
 Moulds the elements at will ; 
 Lion-hearts that wield the Pen 
 To shape the destinies of men — 
 
 Scourge of sinners. 
 
 Conflict winners, 
 
76 MAKE WAY ! 
 
 Ye have given the honest lie 
 To class distinctions, hence the cry : — 
 '' Night is gone, Day comes on, 
 
 Breaks the morning clear and strong- 
 Stand aside, Power and Pride, 
 Let the people move along !" 
 
 Sing the dawning of the morn 
 When the world is newly born ! 
 Sing the people's jubilee, 
 Thankfully, exultingly ! 
 Sing the fall of huge pretence ! 
 Sing the commonwealth of sense ! 
 Sing the reign of Christ below ! 
 Sing Appolyon's overthrow ! 
 
 Plodding mortal, 
 
 Fortune's portal 
 Opens wide to thee and thine, 
 Followers in a glorious line ! 
 
 At the last 
 
 Sweepeth past 
 
MAKE way! 77 
 
 The mighty mandate of High Heaven 
 In strains of men and angels given ; 
 At last old prejudices die 
 And everywhere the nations cry : — 
 " Wight is gone, Day comes on, 
 
 Breaks the morning clear and strong — 
 Stand aside. Pomp and Pride, 
 Let the People move along !" 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
78 
 
 DREAMS OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 " Gleamings of poetry— if I may give 
 
 That name of beauty, passion, and of grace, 
 
 To the wild thoughts that in a starht hour, 
 
 In a pale twilight, or a rosebud mom, 
 
 Glance o'er my spirit— thoughts that are Uke light, 
 
 Or love, or hope, in their effects." 
 
 Landon. 
 
 I HAVE been long a Dreamer, and have lived 
 'Mid an ideal world of untamed thoughts, 
 That gushed with wild exuberance, and laid 
 My spirit in a trance of rich delight, 
 Delicious, rapturous; and yet — ah, me ! — 
 Lacking the words to pour their magic forth 
 Clad in a fitting garb ; — meagre and scant 
 The wordy wardrobe under my control. 
 In vain, in vain, bright fancies woo my pen, 
 Flitting athwart my visionary brain 
 As lights electric 'cross an arctic sky ; 
 Fitful and fleeting, vainly do they gleam 
 Ineflably effulgent o'er my mind, 
 
DREAMS OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 79 
 
 Shedding their halo over all within. 
 
 If language be denied. My spirit yearns 
 
 And pants for freedom from its bondage ; — thoughts 
 
 And feelings, far too rapt for utterance, 
 
 O'erflow the hidden fountains of ray soul, 
 
 Swelling the tide of my ideas. Still, 
 
 Though thought pours onward in a mighty flood, 
 
 A vast, illimitable stream, its course 
 
 Is desultory, undefined, and needs 
 
 A channel more restrained, whose marge, besprent 
 
 With fairest flowers of eloquence, and draped 
 
 With rich expression's graceful foliage. 
 
 Should mete the brimming stream of thought, and guide 
 
 It onward in a path of song. 
 
 My dreams, 
 In rosy childhood's hours, were all bedight 
 With gorgeous palaces and glistening gems, 
 So costly that a single one had been 
 The ample purchase of a kingdom. Elves 
 And fairies were around me, and I roved 
 *Mid Fancy's mad creations, — Fairy-land 
 Was my tranced spirit's home. I looked abroad 
 F 2 
 
80 DREAMS OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Through a prismatic glass of magic mould, 
 
 That tinted all things with its vivid hues. 
 
 I pored in a delighted ecstasy 
 
 Over Silesia's legendary lore, 
 
 Until each castle and each forest shade 
 
 Seemed filled with spirit-shapes; and every breeze 
 
 That wantoned lightly by, and kissed my cheek. 
 
 Was as a wood-nymph's blossom-scented breath. 
 
 The bubbling well from mossy covert burst, 
 
 And laved my lingering feet, as I beheld 
 
 Th* ideal dweller in this liquid shrine ; — 
 
 Each woodland rill, each tree-o'er-shadowed stream, 
 
 To me was vocal with a Xaiad's song 
 
 Of invitation to her crystal haunt. 
 
 The Demon of the Hartz was aye to me 
 
 An unresisting slave : his pine-tree staff 
 
 Shivered the rocky gates that hid from sight 
 
 The subterraneous caverns of his realm, 
 
 And at my beck unearthed the dwarfy gnomes 
 
 Who clustered round, like swarms of unhived bees. 
 
 Such were my dreams by day ; and when the night 
 Came, heralded by Hesperus, my head, 
 
DKEAMS OF AX ENTHUSIAST. 81 
 
 Play- weary, courted sleep in its retreat, 
 And won the prize of rest ; then, — if the day 
 Were bright with joyous images, — did night 
 Blaze with superb magnificence, that far 
 Outshone my waking fancies. Terrible, 
 Yet splendid, in their majesty sublime. 
 Stood the stern Genii of famed Araby, 
 Trampling on jewels radiant with light. 
 As 'twere on worthless dust, and scattering gold 
 ^ Upon their favourites with lavish hands. 
 And then the Peri ; oh ! most beautiful 
 Her love-expressing countenance, that shone 
 As with the rays of her lost paradise. 
 Yet seemed most mournful in its loveliness, 
 As though regret yet lingered there, and made 
 Pensive her floating eye. Her half-closed wing 
 Gleamed like the rainbow's many-coloured arch 
 Expanding into gorgeousness ; her lips 
 Knew only how to bless. And I awoke 
 To the realities of day, but to regret 
 The vanished visions of the sleepy night. 
 
 Then came, with time, the stores of classic Greece : 
 Olympus was my fancy's resting place, 
 
82 DREAMS OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Where I confronted, eagle -mounted Jove, 
 And from the cup of youthful Ganymede 
 Tasted the luscious nectar. Juno, too, 
 In stately dignity appeared, and sought 
 For universal homage. Then came one 
 Perfect in every charm of loveliness : — 
 A dimpled form, symmetrically just 
 In all its wavy outlines ; gracefulness 
 In every look and gesture, and a skin 
 Clear and transparent, delicately tinged 
 The pinky hue of sunrise upon snow ; 
 Her only robe a mantle of rich curls. 
 Glittering like interwoven rays, obtained 
 From Sol, by force or stratagem, when he 
 Erewhile his nightly couch in ocean prest,— 
 Ere Yenus, queen of love and beauty, rose 
 To gladden eyes immortal, I, gazing, 
 Mused on her ill-assorted union 
 With Yulcan, the deformed. 
 
 Then Mercury, 
 On ever-restless wings, came flitting past,— 
 The courier of the gods. My " willing feet " 
 Strayed to Thessalian Tempe — lingered by 
 
DREAMS OF AN^ ENTHUSIAST. 83 
 
 The Muses' sacred fount, and visited 
 
 Their temple on Parnassus, Orpheus then 
 
 My dreaming ear with sounds Elysian tranced, 
 
 And charmed my listening soul with music's spell. 
 
 When twilight's deepening shades veiled the dim woods, 
 
 Oft have I loitered in some lone retreat, 
 
 And, peering through long vistas of tall trees. 
 
 With apt Imagination's ready aid. 
 
 Peopled the woods with Dryads, Satyrs, Fauns, 
 
 Who danced in hilarous glee to the wild strains 
 
 Of Pan's untutored reed, or singly sought 
 
 To twine the pliant branches of young trees 
 
 Into fantastic knots. And Zephyrus, 
 
 Wooing the lovely Flora with soft sighs, 
 
 Came by me, laden with the fragrancy 
 
 He sipped from her sweet lips. 
 
 The sea's clear waves, 
 Clashing like cymbals, voiced the Tritons' song. 
 And I have gazed into its azure depths 
 With feelings undefinable. Transports 
 Of strange wild character have thrilled my frame. 
 
84 DREAMS OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 And impulses, nigh irresistible, 
 
 Have tempted me to plunge beneath the wave, 
 
 And dive to Neptune's coral-pillared halls, 
 
 In search of Ocean's mysteries. The shells 
 
 Left on the shore by the receding tide, — 
 
 Nereid coracles, deserted by 
 
 The tiny feet that prest them ; whence adieus 
 
 Seemed murmured plainingly, in low soft tones, 
 
 To their false fairy pilots ; and the light 
 
 Phosphoric of the element that zones 
 
 Our terraqueous globe, gleams upward cast. 
 
 From lamps illumining sea's amber caves, 
 
 As for a spirit festival. 
 
 Then, dreams 
 Were mine of that arch-hypocrite, young Love,- 
 Of all my phantasies the most untrue. 
 I pictured him a pure bright deity, 
 And worshipped at his shrine at morn and eve, 
 At midnight's stilly hour, and day's hot noon. 
 Love seemed the life of life,— th' essential part 
 Of animate existence ; every thought 
 
DREAMS OF AIS^ ENTHUSIAST. 85 
 
 And feeling merged into that single one, 
 Till love seemed wedded unto happiness. 
 Love blinds his visionary votaries, 
 And blissful they who never lift the veil, 
 Or tear the fillet from the mental eye. 
 Alas ! the band was rent aside from mine, 
 And I was taught, too soon, that I had dreamed 
 As I could dream no more ! 
 
 But now, again, 
 My visionary soul is pilgrim led 
 Unto the land of everlasting rest, 
 And, as in childhood, my bright thoughts are blest 
 With radiant shapes, and daylight never dim. 
 But all too exquisite for pen to paint. 
 The inexpressible effulgence shed 
 Over the dreamy future, by the wings 
 Of the angelic sentinels who guard 
 The dazzling gates of Paradise, and sound. 
 With golden trumpets, an awakening blast 
 To the long slumbering dreamer. 
 
 ISAB. B 
 
86 
 
 OUT IN THE WORLD. 
 
 Out in the World I can but feel 
 
 The stings of which the world is full, 
 A thousand cares around me steal, 
 
 The streets are cold, the skies are dull — 
 Friends pass me by who oft have sat 
 
 And quaffed the best my board could show ; 
 Down o'er my brow I pull my hat 
 
 And inly ponder as I go : 
 But when I reach my own hearth -stone. 
 
 And sit amidst my girls and boys, 
 I taste of raptures few have known, 
 
 And feel that life is crowned with joys. 
 
OUT IN THE WORLD. 87 
 
 Out in the World I meet with men 
 
 On 'Change or in the merchant throng, 
 Who plot and scheme, and use the pen 
 
 For objects fi-audulent and wrong : 
 Their scrip is false, their bills are bad, 
 
 Their pomp and state a huge pretence — 
 The hat comes down, and I grow sad 
 
 At human nature's impotence : 
 But when I seek my own hearth-stone, 
 
 And sit amidst my girls and boys, 
 1 taste of raptures few have known. 
 
 And feel that life is crowned with joys. 
 
 Out in the world nought else is seen 
 
 But Fashion's votaries flaunting by. 
 And Pride decked out in crinoline 
 
 To give humanity the lie ; 
 Conceit runs riot, purse runs out, 
 
 Ruin and misery warfare wage ; 
 The hat comes down — I turn about 
 
 And mourn the follies of the age 
 
88 OUT IN THE WORLD. 
 
 But when I seek my own hearth -stone 
 And sit amidst my girls and boys, 
 
 I taste of raptures few have known, 
 And feel that life is crowned with joys. 
 
 Out in the world the smoothest face 
 
 (Though falsehood lurk beneath the skin) 
 Is foremost in the golden race, — 
 
 Blunt honesty may seldom win ; 
 Lands, houses, deeds, usurp the power 
 
 Affection in the heart should hold ; 
 Down comes the hat, O cursed hour ! 
 
 And doubly cursed greed of gold ! 
 But when I reach my own hearth-stone, 
 
 And sit amidst my girls and boys, 
 I taste of raptures few have known. 
 
 And feel that life is crowned with joys. 
 
 G.L.B. 
 
89 
 
 THE ABSENT ONE. 
 
 The one I love she is not here — 
 
 She is not here, but far away 
 And I am drooping, like the flowers, 
 
 That bend their heads at close of day ; 
 When shall I hear again the tones 
 
 That first disturbed my dream of peace ? 
 When fold her fondly in my arms, 
 
 And bid this hidden tumult cease ? 
 
 Alas ! that those who are akin 
 
 In all that lends a charm to life, 
 Should be estranged e'en for an hour 
 
 By time or chance — by word or strife ; 
 But so it is, the fairest scene 
 
 Basks not for ever in the sun, 
 But fades into the silent night 
 
 When day its golden course has run. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
90 
 
 A HOME SONG FOR HOME BIRDS.* 
 
 (to my husband.) 
 
 Wearily, drearily linger the hours 
 Parted from thee love, parted from thee ; 
 
 Life seems a wilderness barren of flowers 
 Absent from thee love, absent from thee ; 
 
 "Home!" is the cry of my desolate heart. 
 
 Home ! for home only can be where thou art ! 
 
 Merrily, cheerily frolic the hours 
 
 Passed in thy presence love, lit by thine eye ; 
 Love blunts the thorns of life's rose- covered bowers 
 
 When thou art nigh love, when thou art nigh : 
 '* Home !" is the cry of my innermost heart, 
 Home ! for 'tis home, love, wherever thou art! 
 
 ISAB. B 
 
 * Music by W. T. Belchek. 
 
91 
 
 LABOUR'S FESTIVAL! 
 
 An Ode^ im'ittenfor the West London Industrial Exhibition., and 
 delivered by Mr. Edmund Plielps, May 1st, 1865. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 May the Enchantress ! hither ward hies 
 Crowned with her hawthorn wreath — 
 
 With gleams of light in her sunny eyes 
 And perfume on her breath ; 
 
 She comes with the pleasant song of birds, 
 The tinkle of woodland rills, 
 
 And the distant lowing of scattered herds 
 
 . 'Mongst the daisied meads and hills ; 
 
 Beautiful May ! we welcome her here, 
 The Queen of the Spring-tide ! the Bride of the Year ! 
 
92 labour's festival ! 
 
 part second. 
 
 We welcome the May, for she brings in her train 
 Far more than the promise of blossom or grain — 
 Far more than the tinkle of brooklet and rill ; 
 She brings us the products of Labour and Skill I 
 
 Not from the factory crowded with hands — 
 Not from the workshop, where men toil in bands — 
 Not from the foundry, the mart, or the quay, 
 Brings she these products — the Beautiful May ! 
 
 Offshoots of fancy, the solace of years — 
 Creatures of discipline, baptised in tears — 
 Nurslings of genius neglected in youth — 
 Ministers all, of Life, Beauty, and Truth ! 
 
 Humble the hands which these treasures have wrought ; 
 Humble the homesteads from which they were brought ; 
 But fashioned 'mid hardships that make work sublime, 
 They are bright, precious gems in the Casket of Time ! 
 
labour's festival ! 93 
 
 part third. 
 
 Men of the rough and horny hand ! 
 
 Men of the stern and sweat- dewed brow ! 
 True heroes on the field of Life, 
 
 The world beholds your triumphs now ; 
 Proud, of a truth, may be the land 
 
 That's privileged to see ye strive ; 
 Sedition cannot lift its head 
 
 Within the honey-storing hive. 
 
 Ye toil for bread, to eat and live, 
 
 But in that toil of hand and brain 
 The will of Providence is sown 
 
 To ripen into golden grain ; 
 With humble means, by slow degrees. 
 
 From strength to strength ye higher rise — 
 Like trees whose roots are in the earth, 
 
 Whose branches soar unto the skies. 
 
 To-day, ye write with golden pen 
 
 Upon the world's historic page, 
 The progress made by Working Men 
 
 From serfdom's dawn to freedom's age : 
 
 G 
 
94 labour's festival! 
 
 How, free in person, borne, and thought, 
 
 Ye use the freedom wisely given, 
 For which your fathers toiled and fought — 
 
 For which yourselves at times have striven 
 I 
 How artisans, in leisure free, 
 
 Have turned to arts not all their own, 
 And stamped each mind's identity 
 
 On canvas, metal, wood, or stone ; 
 Have proved their right to take a place 
 
 As thinking workers on the soil — 
 As leaders in the upward race, 
 
 Ennobled not by birth — but Toil. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Peace crown this day — fhis thrice-blessed, happy day ! 
 
 The First of May— the Workman's Holiday ! 
 
 When flowers of Spring and flowers of Toil unite 
 
 To fill our souls with Avouder and delight. 
 
 Peace crown this day ! and everlasting love 
 
 Descend upon us from the realms above I 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
A BEGGAR'S PETITION. 
 
 FOR MY ALBUM 
 
 Spirits of Pencil and of Pen, 
 
 Twin genii of Fame, 
 Pause in your swift career awhile, 
 
 And list my earnest claim ; 
 Touch with your magic wands my book 
 
 'Till every leaf and page 
 Glows with the tints or lines of thought 
 
 Of Painter, Poet, Sage. 
 
 Give me to feel that here has throbbed 
 
 The living pulse of mind — 
 That hands instinct with human life 
 
 My Album wreath have twined — 
 G 2 
 
96 A beggar's petition. 
 
 That no cold type-interpreter 
 Here comes our souls between, 
 
 But I may commune with the great — 
 Be where the great have been. 
 
 Cast then within my treasury 
 
 Your gems and flowers of thought, 
 Gifts, precious from their rarity, 
 
 Priceless, because unbought ; 
 And though my thanks may be unheard 
 
 They will be deep and true ; 
 So now — my hopes and claims preferred, 
 
 I leave the rest to you. 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
SABBATH ASPIRATIONS. 
 
 Ark of the soul ! — God's gift —sweet Sabbath mom, 
 
 Riding for ever 'mid the world's um-est, 
 While peace and joy — twin ministers, new-born — 
 
 Set up their golden altar in the breast ; 
 What sound can equal the persuasive chime 
 
 Of thy sweet bells, soft floating on the air ? 
 Calling poor mortals, by the voice of time. 
 
 To bow their spirits in the house of prayer. 
 
 Who bows not meekly at the Throne of Grace, 
 Pleading the mortal weaknesses of man, 
 
 Turneth from world-embracing love his face. 
 
 And, leagued with devils, fights in Falsehood's van ; 
 
98 SABBATH ASPIRATIONS. 
 
 The stream of mercy, issuing from the Throne, 
 To him no hope, no comfort sweet can bring ; 
 
 He walks the earth, in darkness and alone, 
 A puny, grovelling, leprous, soulless thing. 
 
 But, O, for him who treads down human pride. 
 
 And rises pure in thought to Heaven's gate ; 
 Who roams in spirit through its mansions wide, 
 
 Where angel hosts on Deity await ; 
 He has the world's broad sunshine on his brow — 
 
 He has another sunshine in his heart — 
 And, whether taken from the court or plough, 
 
 Is crowned by God when summoned to depart ! 
 
 Two paths there are for mortal man to tread : 
 
 One leads to glory — one to grief and shame. 
 Who takes the former proudly bears his head— 
 
 A heavenly grandeur shapes his every aim ; 
 He rides upon the storm-cloud in repose, 
 
 Fearless of ill. Not so the world's unblest : 
 They are the J?port of every wind that blows — 
 
 Of demon passions raging in the breast. 
 
SABBATH ASPIRATIOXS. 99 
 
 Lead us, great God ! by Thy green pastures fair, 
 
 Where Thy sun shines, and Thy pure waters flow ; 
 Lead us from worldly wrong, and greed, and care, 
 
 Lito that life whence Christian graces grow ; 
 Lead us to Thy great worship, void of art, 
 
 Of pompous pageant and ascetic creed ; 
 Who covet forms can know Tliee but in part — 
 
 Who turn to Thee, alone, are Thine indeed. 
 
 Who bow to Thee in secret — lift the soul 
 
 In solemn silence to Thy mercy-seat— 
 Through their poor veins what rapt emotions roll ! 
 
 What aspirations course with flying feet ! 
 Earth fades, as 'twere a meteor's falling ray ; 
 
 A solemn anthem swell breaks on the ear ; 
 The pall of night rolls up in endless day, 
 
 And Thou, the dread Omnipotent, art near ! 
 
 Fain would we ever 'neath Thy wing repose, 
 Sheltered, protected — Thou, great God ! our friend. 
 
 Strengthen our souls to triumph o'er all foes. 
 Aid us to fight Life's battle to the end ; 
 
100 SABBATH ASPIRATIONS. 
 
 E'en as brave soldiers, summoned to the field, 
 Flash their good swords, till, stretched upon the sod, 
 
 Into Thy hands our spirits would we yield. 
 Struck down whilst fighting in Thy Qause, O God ! 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
101 
 
 THE LEAF AND THE SOUL. 
 
 ' How like am I to thee, old leaf ! 
 
 We'll drop together down ; 
 How like art thou to me, old leaf ! 
 
 We'll drop together down. 
 I'm grey, and thou art brown, old leaf ! 
 We'll drop together down, old leaf ! 
 
 We'll drop together down. 
 
 ' Drop, drop into the grave, old leaf ! 
 Drop, drop into the grave ; 
 Thy acorn's grown, thy acorn's sown, 
 Drop, drop into the grave." 
 
 — Ebenezer Elliott. 
 
 Thou wilt drop into the grave, old leaf ! 
 
 And, blending with the soil, 
 Resign existence, fluttering, brief. 
 
 Death's undisputed spoil. 
 The Spring may come, with bud and bloom • 
 Spring may not call thee from the tomb. 
 
102 THE LEAF AND THE SOUL. 
 
 Thou wilt drop into the grave, old leaf, 
 Earth will demand its own, 
 
 And the oak that wears thee, without grief, 
 Keturn earth's summer loan ; 
 
 Then bid the light and sun adieu, 
 
 'No future may thy life renew. 
 
 Thou Avilt drop into the grave, old man. 
 And mingle with the mould ; 
 
 Thou mayst linger yet a few years' span, — 
 Soon will their date be told ; 
 
 And thy God-fashioned form of clay 
 
 Will moulder silently away. 
 
 If the perishable part must sink 
 
 Into the silent grave. 
 And time dissever Life's frail link,— 
 
 Thou hast a soul to save : 
 T'hou art not like the fragile leaf, — 
 Death ushers thee to joy or grief. 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
108 
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Oil the Anniversary of her Birthday^ March 25th, 1865. 
 
 I LOVED you when I saw you first 
 
 With all the love ray heart could hold, 
 And 'twas not little since it lasts 
 
 When we're mid-aged and growing old ; 
 A lighter step was yours that time, 
 
 A sunnier gleam played on your brow, 
 But mirrored in dear memory 
 
 What you were then, I see you now. 
 
 Some storms have broken o'er our path, 
 Some serpents crawled along our way. 
 
 And we have seen the little ones 
 We hoped to rear, alas ! decay : 
 
104 TO MY AVIFE. 
 
 Still, by God's providence preserved, 
 Some precious joys around us cling. 
 
 And blest with you and our three bairns 
 I feel as happy as a king. 
 
 Would I were worthier of one 
 
 Whose daily course has gone to prove 
 How gifts and goodness may unite 
 
 In all a Wife's and Mother s love ; 
 But take me, Dearest, humanly, 
 
 With all my faults, unworthy thee, 
 And love me, not for what I am, 
 
 But what in heart I wish to be. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
105 
 
 MY HOME IS ON THE MOUNTAIN STEEP.' 
 
 My home is on the mountain steep, 
 
 Far away — far away, 
 Where the playful chamois leap, 
 
 All the day— all the day. 
 Oft in sunny dreams of joy. 
 Glad and eager as a boy, 
 Do I climb each Alpine height, 
 Led away in Fancy's flight 
 
 To the well-known mountain steep, 
 
 Far away — far away. 
 Where the playful chamois leap. 
 
 All the day — all the day. 
 
 ^ Music by W. T. Belcher. Published by J. H. Jewell & Co. 
 
106 
 
 MY HOME IS ON THE MOUNTAIN STEEP. 
 
 For years I've roamed the stranger's shore, 
 
 Young and free — young and free, 
 Yet my spirit pines the more. 
 
 Home to see— home to see. 
 Though each scene is fair and bright. 
 Turns my heart in fond delight 
 To the old romantic spot 
 Where still stands my father's cot, 
 High upon the mountain steep, 
 
 Far away — far away. 
 Where the playful chamois leap. 
 
 All the day — all the day. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
107 
 
 THE SEEJSr AND UNSEEN. 
 
 There are spots in ocean's bed 
 No plummet line may sound, 
 
 There are sands no foot may tread : 
 
 And bright stars overhead 
 No telescope hath found. 
 
 So in the human soul 
 
 Are depths no eye may reach, 
 Whose tide may surge and roll> 
 Strong passions 'neath control — 
 
 Emotions without speech ! 
 
 Shut in the heart's deep core, 
 
 Lie action's secret springs, 
 Dread and solemn evermore, 
 As the unknown Arctic shore, 
 Or Future's unseen wings. 
 
108 THE SEEN AND UNSEEN. 
 
 We may live without disguise, 
 
 May lay the pure heart bare, 
 But never to lip may rise, 
 From that temple's mysteries, 
 All that lies throbbing there. 
 
 If the heart of Nature hold 
 
 Its secrets close and deep, 
 So the human breast may fold 
 A world of thought, untold 
 In still and voiceless sleep 
 
 And but He who veiled the shrine 
 
 Of individual thought. 
 Ere may lift that veil divine. 
 See what weapons gleam and shine 
 As life's long fight is fought. 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
109 
 
 SONGS OF THE SEASONS.' 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Sweet Spring is comiu^s 
 
 Coming through the dell, 
 Zephyrs are humming 
 
 Winter's long farewell ; 
 Primroses springing 
 
 Deck the verdant lea, 
 Wild birds are singing 
 
 On the hawthorn tree ; 
 In mid-heaven shining, 
 
 Joy the sun doth bring, 
 All life combining 
 
 Ushers in the Spring. 
 
 * Tlie whole of these songs are arranged as four part-songs by W. T. 
 BiiLCHbiu; published by J. H. Jewell, Great llussell Street. 
 
110 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 
 
 Sweet Spring is coming, 
 Coming o'er the wild, 
 
 Sweet, and blithe, and bonnie 
 As a fairy child. 
 
 Sweet Spring is coming, 
 
 Coming o'er the hill, 
 Where the hare-bell dances 
 
 To the murmuring rill ; 
 Kingcups bright and golden 
 
 Peep a-down the vale, 
 Violets unfolden 
 
 Scent the passing gale ; 
 Merrily the Cuckoo 
 
 In the woods is heard. 
 Singing " Cuckoo, Cuckoo"— 
 
 Bless the wandering bird ! 
 Sweet Spring is coming, 
 
 Coming o'er the wild, 
 Sweet, and blithe, and bonnie 
 
 As a fairy child. 
 
SONGS OF THE SEASONS. Ill 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 Crowned with blushing roses bright, 
 Wreathed with tender lilies pale, 
 Summer wings her joyous flight 
 On the balmy breathing gale; 
 Wee ones bless her, 
 Winds caress her, 
 Young buds nestle at her feet. 
 Love rejoices, 
 All earth's voices 
 Sing her praise in accents sweet. 
 
 Crowned with blushing roses bright. 
 Wreathed with tender lilies pale, 
 
 Summer wings her joyous flight 
 On the balmy breathing gale. 
 
 Where the early wakened bee 
 
 Toileth for his honied cells — 
 Where the fairies half in glee 
 
 Hide amongst the heather bells, 
 Summer lingers 
 With light fingers 
 H 2 
 
112 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 
 
 Bathing buds in morning light, 
 Leaf and blossom 
 On her bosom 
 
 Fondly folding through the night. 
 
 Crowned with blushing roses bright, 
 
 Wreathed with tender lilies pale, 
 Summer wings her joyous flight 
 On the balmy breathing gale. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 The ripe fruits mellow in the sun, 
 
 The laden boughs are hanging down, 
 The summer flowers to seed have run, 
 
 The forest leaves are ting'd with brown, 
 The poppy gems the yellow corn. 
 
 The leveret scents the new-mown hay, 
 And rising with the early morn 
 
 The merry reaper takes his way — 
 
 Full and round the harvest moon, 
 Sweet and clear the harvest tune, 
 Light and mirth o'er all the land 
 Greet the merry harvest band. 
 
SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 113 
 
 The truant bird is on the wing, 
 
 The sportsman out upon the moor, 
 And laughing children dance and sing 
 
 At sunset round the cottage door ; 
 For Spring may clothe the naked ground. 
 
 And Summer give the roses birth — 
 But Autumn comes with plenty crown'd. 
 
 And scatters blessings o'er the earth. 
 
 Full and round the harvest moon, 
 Sweet and clear the harvest tune, 
 Light and mirth o'er all the land. 
 Greet the merry harvest band. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 Give me the lusty Winter time 
 
 When storm and cloud sweep by, 
 And winds ring out their midnight chime 
 In the belfry of the sky ; 
 Though burly 
 And surly, 
 
114 SONGS OF THE SEASONS. 
 
 And ominous and drear — 
 It sets the old hearth blazing, 
 And brings the best o' cheer ! 
 
 Let snowflakes tuft the frozen ground, 
 
 Or cap the distant hill, 
 And stream and torrent both be bound 
 By Winter's iron will ; 
 Though freezing 
 And teasing 
 To those whom he comes near — 
 He kindles warmth in many a heart, 
 And brings the best o' cheer ! 
 
 If days. are short, the nights are long, 
 
 Why then need we complain, 
 Since night brings round the merry song 
 And merrier refrain — 
 All joining, 
 Combining 
 To dry the passing tear ? 
 Ah ! Winter is a jovial time, 
 And brings the best 'o cheer ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SEASONS 115 
 
 Then give me jovial Winter, boys, 
 
 And true hearts all around 
 To share the deep if transient joys 
 That in its reign are found ! 
 Friends meeting, 
 Hearts heating 
 In fellowship sincere : 
 O, Winter is a jovial time, 
 And brings the best o' cheer ! 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
lie 
 
 THE NEGLECTED WIFE. 
 
 Our radiant Queen of Night, — the crescent moon, 
 Closely companioned by a host of stars 
 That troop around her like a body guard, 
 Has reached her climax in the firmament ; 
 And, lighting up the heavy dew that drips 
 From the closed petals of each sleeping flower, 
 Makes every bough a mimic chandelier 
 Festooned with diamonds. Tis such a night 
 As makes a lovely scene still lovelier. 
 And even flings a kind of quiet charm 
 Over the city's clustering roofs, — the homes 
 Of those whom daylight calls to congregate 
 Within its now deserted streets and squares ; — 
 Where, wrapt in slumberous quietude, the sods 
 Of Traffic, Mammon's votaries, the slaves 
 
THE NEGLECTED WIFE. 1 1 *; 
 
 Who bend obsequiously to Fashion, 
 The poor — the rich, the strong and feeble now 
 To Nature's nightly dictates yield. Somnus 
 And Morpheus hold high festival, and bind 
 Their passive captives in a deathlike trance, 
 Reigning o*er prostrate strength and dormant mind. 
 
 Yet one there is who bows not 'neath their sway,— 
 By whom the loveliness of earth and sky 
 Is viewed with apathy, or unobserved. 
 Her husband is a truant from his home, — 
 Haply engaged in noisy revelry, 
 And she, with uncomplaining, patient love, 
 Anxiously waits his long-delayed return. 
 Yet once— and that so short a time agone, 
 It seems but yesterday —her slightest word, ~ 
 A half-breathed wish, had brought him to her side ; 
 And he would linger there as if entranced. 
 Hanging upon each syllable she breathed, 
 As life or death depended on her word. 
 And then, with voice all gently tuned to love, 
 He vowed -and she, alas ! weak girl, believed ! — 
 
118 THE NEGLECTED WEFE. 
 
 To love her until death ; still to be true 
 Though all beside were false, — to be her shield 
 'Gainst life's vicissitudes, — to guard her form 
 From blighting care, or undermining grief; 
 To be through life a fond and steadfast friend, 
 On whom she might, with confidence, rely 
 For comfort in affliction, — whose deep love 
 Would echo back her own, and in whose heart 
 Her image lay enshrined, as his in hers. 
 And she had listened to his pleading tones 
 Until her love became imperative, 
 And she forgot that promises are frail, 
 And so became his bride. 
 
 And how kept he 
 Those promises? Ask the neglected Wife! 
 Look on her fading cheeks ; — the hectic flush 
 That flits across their snow, like memory 
 Of former blushes now revisiting 
 The ruins of their home, — the tears that steal 
 Silently down that Parian cheek, and hang 
 Like rain-drops on a lily ; these reveal 
 
THE NEGLECTED WIFE. 119 
 
 How well the Husband kept the Lover's vow. 
 The night wears on apace, she trims her lamp, — 
 Its light was burning dimly, like her hopes ; 
 She takes a book, and strives to fix her eye 
 And mind upon the tale, — how vain a task ! 
 In a strange chaos blent, the letters seem 
 To dance confusedly o'er the unread page, 
 And mock her aching sight. She cannot read,— 
 Her thoughts will wander forth. At every sound 
 She starts, as if in hope ; a step is heard 
 Approaching, — breathlessly she listens till 
 The footstep passes by ; and then she sighs, 
 Haply in sympathy for those who mourn 
 That absentee from home. And then she counts 
 The sluggish footfalls of the drowsy hours. 
 As the dull pendulum, with lazy swing. 
 Beats time to each slow step. How heavily 
 Time hangs upon the hands of those who wait 
 With anxious expectations, unfulfilled, 
 Which time must gratify ! She pauses oft, 
 And bends her head as in the attitude 
 Of an attentive listener, in hope 
 To catch the earliest sound that heralds 
 
120 THE NEGLECTED WIFE. 
 
 His approach. She may resume the volume 
 Her eye is toiling o'er, — it is not he. 
 Poor watcher ! thy lot indeed is sadness, 
 Doomed as thou art to pass life's glowing noon 
 In solitary vigils like to this. 
 Which, not the first, will scarcely be the last. 
 But hark ! another footstep comes,— "'Tis he ! " 
 She flies to meet him, and the ready smile 
 Welcomes the truant home. Too glad to chide, 
 She utters no reproach, — upbraids him not 
 For his repeated absence, his neglect ; 
 She only feels that he is now at home, 
 Within her circling arms,— -that her lone watch 
 Is ended for the night ; and the rebuke 
 Dies on her trembling lips, that breathe but joy 
 For his long-sought return ! 
 
 Oh, ye who mock 
 At woman's quenchless love, ask your cold hearts 
 If ye could watch thus patiently for hours. 
 Weary and dull, debarred of needful rest. 
 With no companion save your own sad thoughts, — 
 
THE NEGLECTED WIFE. 121 
 
 Few gleams of hope to bear your spirits up, 
 
 And retrospections that but chill the more 
 
 From contrast with the present ; and then own 
 
 That man, unstable man, possesses not 
 
 This long-enduring love, this steady faith. 
 
 Patient forbearance, self-forgetfulness. 
 
 This deep devotion of the heart to love, 
 
 Which thus enables woman to endure 
 
 Trials that man, with all his vaunted strength. 
 
 Would shrink from in dismay. He would not sit 
 
 In solitary loneliness, to muse 
 
 O'er an ungrateful wife, then cheerfully 
 
 Woo back the rover to his heart and home 
 
 With smiles of happiness ! No, he would seek 
 
 Redress for wrong. 2'his woman cannot do : 
 
 Weak woman still must bear, contentedly, 
 
 The countless wrongs man heaps upon her head 
 
 With uncomplaining fortitude. Murmurs 
 
 From woman's lips are treason in his sight.— 
 
 " She is the weaker vessel," man asserts. 
 
 Yet loads her straining heart as though it were 
 
 But to refute his doctrine ; for she proves 
 
 In trial's hour the stronger ! 
 
 IsAB. B 
 
«¥ 
 
 122 
 
 CALCRAFT'S CARNIVAL. 
 
 A PROTEST AGAINST CAPITAL PUNISHMENT. 
 
 A SEA of heads below, 
 
 Of congregated faces, 
 Huddled and packed to show 
 
 How limited the space is ; 
 Ten thousand look like one. 
 
 Fathers, children, and mothers- 
 Ten thousand are as one, 
 
 Erring sisters and brothers. 
 
 A glare of upturned eyes, 
 Basilisks wildly staring ; 
 
 Lips unparted by sighs, 
 But oaths and curses shai*ing ; 
 
calckaft's carnival. 123 
 
 Blasphemy, jest, and song. 
 
 Bandied in wild disorder — 
 Stories of culprits hung, 
 
 Greenacre, Rush, and Corder. 
 
 O, what a harvest time 
 
 For dens and public-houses ! 
 A festival of crime 
 
 When each vile wretch carouses ! 
 O, what a dainty day 
 
 For letting window places 
 Where in the sun's bright ray 
 
 Now bask those human faces ! 
 
 Thieves are plying their trade, 
 
 The lost— abandoned, drinking ; 
 Criminals being made, 
 
 No sense of pain or shrinking ; 
 Voices rending the air. 
 
 Volley succeeding volley, 
 From hearts consumed by care 
 
 Yet striving to be "jolly." 
 
124 calcraft's carnival. 
 
 O, what a raging hell 
 
 Lighteth those upturned features ! 
 O, what an evil spell 
 
 Curseth those mingling creatures ! 
 Fiercer the rabble shout, 
 
 As the victim seems to falter. 
 Alas!— the ill poured out 
 
 On that mass, like poisoned water. 
 
 There— on the scaffold drear. 
 
 Before death's open portal, 
 Trembling with shame and fear, 
 
 Bends the accursed mortal : 
 With a despairing look, 
 
 " Mercy, O Christ ! " he shrieketh— 
 Closed is the chaplain's book, 
 
 That of One Atonement speaketh. 
 
 A shrill moan of despair 
 As the signal dread is given — 
 
 And he dangleth in the air, 
 Midway 'twixt earth and heaven ; 
 
CALCRAFT.S CARNIVAL. 125 
 
 Like a dog that hath no soul, 
 With writhed and blackening features 
 
 Thrust down to death's dread goal, 
 By erring human creatures. 
 
 Homeward the masses trail 
 
 To haunts of destitution, 
 Where children stunted, pale, 
 
 Feed, gloat upon pollution ; 
 Where " gin," and dirt, and crime, 
 
 And natures coarse and callous 
 Are breeding in human slime 
 
 Work for the hulks and gallows. 
 
 Thus murder is reproved ! 
 
 Of course, the world's condition 
 Is very much improved 
 
 By such an exhibition ! 
 Alas 1 alas ! the day ! 
 
 Of that vast throng, so "jolly," 
 
 Not one but goes away 
 
 More hardened in his folly ! 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
126 
 
 THE DISH WITH A COVER. 
 
 (what I SAW, AND WHAT 1 THOUGHT.) 
 
 I SING a song of an earthenware dish, 
 But whether it held or fowl or fish, 
 Or something not so daintyish, 
 Was a secret hid by the cover. 
 
 'Twas held by a hand, with a glove of kid, 
 Was that earthenware dish with the friendly lid, 
 But what that dish or that drapery hid, 
 Could not be seen through the cover. 
 
 A footman opened the mansion gate 
 To let out the lady, who carried in state 
 That something to put on a cottager's plate. 
 Which was hid by the friendly cover. 
 
THE DISH WITH A COVER. 127 
 
 By the longest path, in the open day, 
 That lady and dish went their public way : 
 But was it charity or display 
 
 Brought round that dish with the cover ? 
 
 That lady-like hand must needs be strong, 
 Since she carried the dish so far and long, 
 That the something meant for spoon or prong 
 Went cold underneath the cover. 
 
 If the hearts that beat in a cottage home 
 Have pulses like those 'neath a lordly dome, 
 Pain, as well as a dinner, might come 
 On that dish beneath tlie cover. 
 
 Kindness of heart might prompt the deed, 
 To help the sick or the poor in their need. 
 But one article in our Christian creed 
 Says — *' Do thine alms under cover ! " 
 
 The mantle wide to cover our sin. 
 
 Is not to flaunt o'er the highways in, 
 
 But to wear unseen by kith or kin 
 
 When we carry a dish with a cover. 
 I 2 
 
128 THE DISH WITH A COVER. 
 
 That lady's gift might be great or small, 
 But coming in state, as it did, from the Hall, 
 It seemed to come with a trumpet call 
 For the passers to gaze at the cover. 
 
 But here let us spread the mantle wide. 
 And hope that the dish contained inside 
 ^ A dinner without a spice of pride 
 To poison it under the cover. 
 
 And be it by each and all confest, 
 There are secret motives in every breast, 
 Acts do not always the heart attest — 
 Each carries a dish with a cover. 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
129 
 
 O, BARD OF GENTLE AVON ! * 
 
 Written for the Shakespeare Tercentenary Oelehration, and s^ing hy 
 Madame Parepa, April 23rd, 1804. 
 
 Of all the names that proudly live 
 
 Enshrined in song or story, 
 And to the world's great annals give 
 
 A golden gleam of glory, 
 One name there is, one mighty name, 
 
 With rev'rent love we cherish, 
 The foremost in the scroll of Fame, 
 The last through time to perish. 
 O, Bard of gentle Avon ! 
 Sweet Bard of gentle Avon ! 
 From age to age in thine own page. 
 Thy fame lives, Bard of Avon ! 
 
 Music by G. A. Macfarrkx ; published i)y the London Music Publishing 
 Company. 
 
130 O, BARD OF GENTLE AVON ! 
 
 Oft nature wills the great sbail spring 
 
 From homesteads men call lowly ; 
 A neatherd's roof has held a King 
 Who made its hearthstone holy : 
 So Shakspeare, England's Minstrel King, 
 
 Went out from peasant's portal, 
 To sit on Fancy's Throne, and sing 
 Songs that should be immortal. 
 O, Bard of gentle Avon ! 
 Sweet Bard of gentle Avon ! 
 From age to age in thine own page, 
 Thy fame lives, Bard of Avon ! 
 
 Of Troy the Bard of Chios sang. 
 
 Love-fashioned Petrarch's measure, 
 Anacreon's lyre alternate rang 
 
 Inspired by wine and pleasure : 
 But he, who Heaven's warrant held 
 
 To sing of all creation. 
 The universal soul compelled 
 
 To give him inspiration. 
 
O, BARD OF GENTLE AVON ! 131 
 
 O, Bard of gentle Avon ! 
 Sweet Bard of gentle Avon ! 
 From age to age, in thine own page, 
 Thy fame lives, Bard of Avon ! 
 
 Then twine the Amaranth and Bay, 
 And let the wide world know it : 
 We crown with hallowed hands to-day 
 
 Our land's Immortal Poet. 
 If death and darkness hold his dust, 
 
 His spirit lingers near us, 
 Still faithful to its ancient trust. 
 To counsel, guide, and cheer us. 
 O, Bard of gentle Avon ! 
 Sweet Bard of gentle Avon ! 
 From age to age, in thine own page, 
 Thy fame lives. Bard of Avon ! 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
ni 
 
 JOHN BULL AND THE GALLIC COCK.* 
 
 (1 860.) 
 
 When Nap the First from Calais shot 
 
 A glance towards our island, 
 Half envious of Great Britain's lot 
 He wished the Channel dry land, 
 That he, and his, might just run o'er 
 Some morn ere day was showing, 
 And stop the British lion's roar 
 With Gallic cocks a- crowing. 
 
 But " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " the waves laughed out, 
 
 To show we did not mind him, 
 So Nap he turned his face about 
 And clenched his hands behind him. 
 
 * Music by W, T. Belcher; published by J. H Jewell, 
 Great Russell Street, W.C. 
 
JOHN BULL AND THE GALLIC COCK. l88 
 
 When Nap the Third came to the throne, 
 
 How, we'll not stop to mention. 
 One scheme engrossed his thoughts alone 
 
 (He's clever at invention) — 
 That was, with Cherbourg forts and guns 
 
 To render unavailing 
 The pluck of England's naval sons, 
 And English ships a-sailiug. 
 
 Loud laughed the waves— he heard them not- 
 
 Perhaps they would remind him, 
 How Nap the First was " sent to pot," 
 And clenched his hands behind him. 
 
 Ten years now flown, and Nap the Third 
 Grown strong, and fierce, and haughty, 
 '' John Bull ! " screams out the Gallic bird, 
 
 " At last. Old Boy, I've caught ye. 
 Henceforth the foremost place hold we, 
 
 Our Empire doth unseat ye," 
 " By Jove ! "says Jack, " ere that shall be 
 ril ring your neck and eat ye ! " 
 
 While laugh the Channel waves and say — 
 
 " Old friend* Bull, never mind him. 
 Let Louis Nap but come your way 
 You'll tie his hands behind him ! " 
 
134 
 
 WINTER HOURS. 
 
 Let Spring bring birds and buds, 
 Summer its fruits and flowers, 
 And Autumn tint the woods, 
 I love tlie Winter liours : 
 The cosy Winter hours, when the blazing fire burns bright, 
 And Mends draw closer round to chat in its ruddy light. 
 
 The snow falls thick and fast. 
 
 The frost is on the pane, 
 And the whistling of the blast, 
 Heralds the coming rain — 
 Yet give me the Winter hours, when brighter shines the fire 
 And the flame of Friendship's torch, but blazes up the higher. 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
185 
 
 i 
 
 NEVERMORE! EVERMORE! 
 
 Nevermore in hall or street, 
 Grove or woodland, bower or glen, 
 
 May those ill-starred lovers meet 
 As of late they met — again, 
 
 Nevermore ! Ah, nevermore ! 
 
 Nevermore may look or sign, 
 Flushing cheek or glancing eye, 
 
 Or the earnest written line 
 Ask as swift and fond reply. 
 
 Nevermore may lip meet lip, 
 Or the clasping arms entwine — 
 
 Hours like moments by them trip 
 To love's music '* Mine ! " and " Thine ! ' 
 
136 nevermore! evermore! 
 
 Nevermore may throbbing heart 
 Beat against a heart as fond ; 
 
 That which rent their lives apart 
 Sets its seal upon the bond, 
 
 Evermore — for evermore ! 
 
 Evermore Time's sullen stream 
 Memory's bridge must darkly span, 
 
 Trod by shapes from Life's love-dream, 
 Spectres 'neath the fatal ban. 
 
 Ever while the tide of life 
 
 Courses through the straining hear 
 Chafing with its secret strife 
 
 Must their pulses beat apart. 
 
 Ever each in lonely mood, 
 Hiding all from stranger eyes. 
 
 On the past must inly brood- 
 Only masked against surprise. 
 
nevermore! evermore! 137 
 
 Evermore through weary years, 
 
 Loveless future, life a blot. 
 Aching heart and frozen tears 
 
 Must be each one's bitter lot. 
 
 Oh ! the madness of the thought, 
 
 Ringing ever through the brain, 
 Nevermore may love be sought, 
 
 Evermore we love in vain ! 
 
 Nevermore I Evermore ! 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
188 
 
 GOOD WE MIGHT DO. 
 
 We all might do good 
 
 Where we often do ill, 
 There is always the way, 
 
 If we have but the will ; 
 If it be but a word 
 
 Kindly breath'd or suppressed, 
 It may ward off' some pain, 
 
 Or give peace to some breast. 
 
 We all might do good 
 
 In a thousand small ways — 
 In forbearing to flatter. 
 
 Yet yielding due praise— 
 
GOOD WE MIGHT DO. 139 
 
 In spurning ill rumour, 
 
 Reproving wrong done, 
 And treating but kindly 
 
 The hearts we have won. 
 
 We all might do good, 
 
 Whether lowly or great ; 
 Good deeds are not gauged 
 
 By the purse or estate ; 
 If it be but a cup 
 
 Of cold water that's given. 
 Like the widow's two mites, 
 
 It is something for heaven. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
140 
 
 A MOTHER'S VOICE.* 
 
 I LOVE to hear the mountain rill 
 
 Go singing on its way — 
 To hear the little skylark trill 
 
 Its spiritual lay — 
 To list the cooing of the dove, 
 Or zephyr sighing through the grove 
 
 Towards the close of day ; 
 But there's a sweeter music still 
 Than's breathed by skylark, dove, or rill. 
 
 I love to hear the glowing tongue 
 When old friends meet again — 
 
 To hear the lover warm and young. 
 Breathe the impassioned strain : — 
 
 * Music by W, T. Belcher ; ptiblisli»;d by J. H, Jewell, 
 Great llussell Street. 
 
A MOTHER S VOICE. 
 
 141 
 
 The words of sister or of wife, 
 As honied drops can sweeten life, 
 
 And banish half our pain ; 
 But there's a music can transcend 
 The words of sister, lover, friend. 
 
 I heard it first in childhood's years, 
 
 'Ere yet the playful boy 
 Had drank of grief, or dreamt of tears 
 
 Drawn from the fount of joy; 
 It is not now, and I deplore 
 That I can never hear it more — 
 
 That time should e'er destroy 
 What best can make the heart rejoice, 
 The music of a Mother's Voice. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
142 
 
 THE HAUNTED TOWER. 
 
 (north road, DURHAM.) 
 
 Aye haunted ! not as legends say, 
 By spectres robed in white ; 
 
 No sheeted-ghost glides through the gloom 
 The timid soul to fright. 
 
 No elf-light hovers round the pool, 
 
 Or er the waterfall, 
 Nor hath the hooting owl been see 
 
 Upon the ivied wall. 
 
 A solitary bat may flit 
 
 Athwart the twilight dim, 
 And wild winds stir the darkening woods 
 
 With their mysterious hymn. 
 
THE HAUNTED TOWER. 143 
 
 Yet hath the lofty pine no voice, 
 
 The spreading oak no tale 
 Of ghastly sight or murderous deed 
 
 Beneath the moonlight pale. 
 
 The turret hides no skeleton, 
 The vault no rustling chain, 
 
 Yet the lone tower is haunted, 
 And haunted must remain. 
 
 No raven from the battlement, 
 111 omened, croaks of doom ; 
 
 Yet there's a shadow on the tower- 
 The shadow of the tomb. 
 
 'Twas haunted one long summer through 
 By two fair gleesome boys, 
 
 And tower and woodland rang again 
 With buoyant childhood's noise. 
 k2 
 
144 THE HAUNTED TOWER. 
 
 But Winter, in his gloomy car, 
 Brought unrelenting Death, 
 
 To grasp my brave one's little throat, 
 And stop his pulse and breath. 
 
 So swift, so sure the fatal clasp, 
 Skill lost its power to save— 
 
 Our noble- hearted boy was gone, 
 Gone to an early grave ! 
 
 Yet still I hear his ringing voice. 
 His light foot's manly tread ; 
 
 Ah me ! the Tower is haunted 
 
 With the memory of the dead I 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
145 
 
 SERVICES AND REWARDS. 
 
 Written in aid of the Sir Hugh Myddelton Life Boat Fmid, and 
 sjjojcen by Mrs. F. R. Phillijjs, 1864. 
 
 This question stirs my brain, in thoughtful mood, 
 Who are the wise, the noble, and the good ? 
 There are, who drive th' ensanguined trade of war 
 And pluck their laurels from proud fields afar ; 
 There are, who sit in senates and control 
 A nation's action and a nation's soul ; 
 Others, again, in kingly power rejoice— 
 The gift of conquest, or a people's choice : 
 Where man's true interests are understood. 
 All these are wise, are noble, and are good. 
 
 The sons of science, heroes of the pen. 
 Bards, prophets, sages, wonder-working men. 
 
146 SERVICES AND KEVVAKDS. 
 
 Who bridge our seas, and over mountains lay 
 Their iron rails to form a world's highway — 
 Are not these wise, are not these noble, too ? 
 The age cries, " Yes," and so, Tm sure, will you. 
 To them a mighty debt of thanks we owe, 
 Who, strong in faith, strong in endeavour grow — 
 Who help us cheerly life's rough path along, 
 And tune our lips to strains of hopeful song. 
 
 Once more ! Where victors bare no crimsoned sword, 
 
 Nor genius strives, nor spirit-stirring word 
 
 Is breathed by lips inspired, there are who plan 
 
 The noblest works of charity for man. 
 
 See yonder lofty pile, where halt, lame, blind. 
 
 Shunned by the crowd, a welcome refuge find ; 
 
 See yonder fire brigade, at duty's call, 
 
 Mount where flames leap, and burning rafters fall ; 
 
 Or, mark again, yon brave devoted band 
 
 Put out to sea, with danger near at hand. 
 
 God bless our Life Boat crews ! of all v/ho test 
 Man's boundless love for man, the first and best. 
 
SERVICES AND KEWAKDS. 147 
 
 When night winds roar, and angry billows leap 
 With awful yell from out the yawning deep ; 
 When ships go down, and drowning seamen cry 
 With piteous wail for " help " that seems not nigh — 
 Forth from their homes, with martyr-zeal they pour, 
 Fly to their boats, and quit the treacherous shore ; 
 Thankful at heart if privileged to save 
 The sire or husband from a watery grave. 
 
 To kings and rulers states will statues raise — 
 
 For chiefs and statesmen twine the laurel bays — 
 
 Give rank, and place, and power to men who feign 
 
 The patriot's part for their own end and gain ; 
 
 But what of these true, lion-hearted ones, 
 
 The very pink of England's chosen sons ! 
 
 Whence their reward ? Whence theirs ! In that greai day, 
 
 When earth's poor pomp and pride shall pass away, 
 
 Of those to whom rich recompence is given 
 
 They shall not lack the golden gifts of Heaven. 
 
 Meanwhile, 'tis ours to plead their holy cause, 
 And ask your succour, as the best applause. 
 
148 SERVICES AND REWARDS. 
 
 Let your warm sympathies the means provide 
 To launch another Life Boat on the tide ; 
 Arm for stern conflict with the deadly foam 
 Those gallant men who bring the shipwrecked home : 
 And, as the mercy-bark rides o'er the surge, 
 With shouts of joy, where else had swelled a dirge; 
 So from her chamber dim, the lone wife's prayers 
 Shall rise above your pillows unawares. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
149 
 
 WOULDST THOU BE A CHILD AGAIN ? 
 
 *' WouLcsT thou not fain recall thy childhood's hours, 
 
 If wishing would avail ? ** was asked of one 
 
 Whose sun of life was on the rapid wane. 
 
 " Dost thou not sigh for bygone happiness, — 
 
 For childhood's pastimes, playmates, innocence, — 
 
 Its pure delights, its pleasures unalloyed, — 
 
 Its host of joyous fancies, laughing mirth, 
 
 And sinless revels ; not an anxious thought 
 
 To cloud the passing hour with the ' to come : ' — 
 
 Dost thou not mourn for these, thy friends of old ? " 
 
 " Were this a perfect picture, I might wish 
 Childhood's return,— for mine was sunny, bright, 
 And its remembrance in my aged heart 
 Yet dwells serenely, like the rich perfume 
 That lingers round the dying rose, and from 
 Each pore distils fresh fragrance, e'en in death. 
 
150 WOULDST THOU BE A CHILD AGAIN? 
 
 Bright though it was, I wish not its recall — 
 
 Childhood hath sorrows, and, though less acute 
 
 Than those of later life, its petty griefs 
 
 Most poignant then appear. Time will not pause ;- 
 
 The child must progress onward unto age. 
 
 My lot has been to mingle with the world,— 
 
 A busy dweller among busy men. 
 
 How could I wish to tread again the path 
 
 Which I have trod, beset with latent snares 
 
 And specious joys, that lure but to destroy : 
 
 Or cast adrift in childhood's puny bark. 
 
 Brave the bleak storms of life's tempestuous sea : 
 
 Con o'er again the lessons I have learned 
 
 In the sad school of grave experience : 
 
 Tempted again, to be again beguiled 
 
 By gilded folly's artificial smiles, 
 
 The tinsel glitter of a gay outside : 
 
 Whirl in the vortex of a giddy crowd, 
 
 And, swallowing with rash avidity, 
 
 The deadly poison-draught of flattery, 
 
 Become the prey of some designing knave : 
 
 As years mature the mind, to lose the truth, 
 
 The innocence of childhood,— to become 
 
 Well versed in worldly cunning, worldly lore,— 
 
I 
 
 WOULDST THOU BE A CHILD AGAIN? 151 
 
 When others plot, to counterplot,— to be 
 A seeker after treasure, honour, fame. 
 Till coming age reveals their emptiness. 
 And shows that ' all is vanity ? ' Ah, no ! 
 I would not be an unsuspecting child." 
 
 The old man paused ; the querist thus resumed : — 
 " Hast thou no wish to be a child again, 
 If age could give its wisdom to the child, 
 Its gravity and sage experience ? 
 
 Then 'gainst the tempter's wiles might'st thou be proof, 
 And, having learned to navigate life's sea, 
 Pilot thy bark in safety 'mong its rocks, 
 Its hidden shoals and quicksands. Knowing well 
 Falae pleasure from the true, thou might'tt enjoy 
 The true wit h greater zest ; and, being skilled 
 In worldly aitifice, shun every snare, 
 And joyously pursue thy onward way 
 In undisturbed repose." 
 
 " Not so, not so ; 
 Suspicion banishes repose. The sleep 
 Of childhood should be calm, serene, and still 
 
152 WOULDST THOU BE A CHILD AGAIN? 
 
 A knowledge of the world would rest dispel, 
 And manhood cast its fetters round the child. 
 The gladsome frolic wild must be suppressed. 
 Because, forsooth, it might disaster cause 
 At some far distant time : — the child must check 
 Its best affections— they, perchance, might prove 
 A source of future sorrow, and the friend 
 The child's warm heart already loves, must be 
 Held at a distance, lest in future years 
 He prove unfaithful, and betray his trust. 
 Nature and knowledge thus at variance, 
 Where would be childhood's happiness ? Nature 
 Would prompt to generous deeds, quick impulses, 
 Kind sympathies ; knowledge would interpose, — 
 Chill the child's heart with its Medusa's head, 
 And check each liberal feeling with mistrust. 
 A baby face wearing a careworn brow, — 
 A childish figure with an old man's heart. 
 Would be unparalleled anomalies :— 
 Oh, no ! I would not be an aged child." 
 
 He ceased ; again the questioner began : — 
 " How is it that an old, old man like thee, — 
 
WOULDST THOU BE A CHILD AGAIN ? 153 
 
 Decrepit, feeble, tottering on the brink 
 
 Of Death's steep precipice,— for whom the grave 
 
 Already opes its yawning portals wide 
 
 To close them o'er thy clay, — whose coil of life 
 
 The Fates have spun to a mere filmy thread, 
 
 A breath would utterly destroy,— -can thus 
 
 Serenely contemplate thy coming end ; 
 
 And, rather than re-live thy life, prefer 
 
 To meet with smiles the enemy of man ? " 
 
 " Why should I frown at the approach of Death ? 
 He has been long expected ; and his home, 
 The body's sepulchre, encloses not 
 The never-dying soul The dreamless tomb 
 Is but a resting-place 'twixt life and life, 
 In which the spirit leaves the chrysalis, — 
 The earthy mass that clogged its flight so long. 
 And checked its aspirations after home. 
 Why should I seek to live my life again ? 
 Ask the long-absent, weary wanderer, 
 Returning to the haven of his rest, 
 If, with his own loved home in sight, he would 
 Relinquish willingly his cherished hopes. 
 
154 WOULDST THOU BE A CHILD AGAIN? 
 
 • 
 
 To travel o'er again the same rough road— 
 
 His home as yet imwou ? He answers, * No ; 
 
 My sad heart yearns for home.' And shall I be 
 
 Less anxious after my eternal rest, 
 
 The soul's celestial home, that I should wish 
 
 To tread again, a weeping denizen, 
 
 The pilgrimage of this embittered world. 
 
 When, fainting, I have almost reached the goal ? 
 
 It may not be ! When thou, young one, hast lived 
 
 To note the follies of mankind, — to see 
 
 The frailties of the best-spent life,— the care, 
 
 The anguish that oft chafes and goads the heart 
 
 Of the most joyous, happiest of men ; — 
 
 Then ponder o'er my words, and ask thy heart 
 
 If thou would'st wish to be a child again ? " 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
155 
 
 A WORD FOR THE WORKERS. 
 
 (the LANCASHIRE COTTON FAMINE.) 
 
 Who'll lend a hand 
 
 To the toilers of the land, 
 
 To the brave and gallant band 
 
 Who have made our country great ? 
 From whose faithful labour springs 
 W^reaths for victors, crowns for kings, 
 And all world-ennobling things 
 
 That may make a country great. 
 
 Who'll lend a hand ? 
 There's sorrow in the land, 
 O, a sorrow deep and grand 
 As the rolling of the years ; 
 
156 A WORD FOR THE WORKERS. 
 
 Stalwart toilers bow the head, 
 Hearts are breaking, tears are shed — 
 Give them succour, give them bread, 
 Stem the current of their tears ! 
 
 Who'll lend a hand 
 
 For the honour of our land, 
 
 To preserve the noble band 
 
 Who respect their country's laws ? 
 Who look famine in the face. 
 At their firesides give it place. 
 Yet bring no foul disgrace 
 
 On a starving people's cause. 
 
 Who'll lend a hand? 
 Loom and shuttle idle stand. 
 Willing workers idle stand. 
 
 Martyr's to a bloody strife ; 
 Till the red stream out is run. 
 Till "the battle's lost and won," 
 North and South again made one. 
 
 Who will feed the Lamp of Life ? 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
157 
 
 THE MINSTREL OLD AND GREY. 
 
 An aged Minstrel sat him down 
 
 Beneath the autumn sun, 
 To wake a well remembered theme, 
 
 Ere life's last sands were run ; 
 Feeble and palsied was his hand, 
 
 His bare head silv'ry grey — 
 And thus, with trembling voice and tears. 
 
 He sang his plaintive lay : 
 
 " Ah ! happy once this heart of mine, 
 
 When youth's sun shone for me. 
 And hope's voice in a whisper came 
 
 Replete with melody ; 
 Life, life was then a holy thing, 
 
 Smiles lit its every day : " 
 But here the Minstrel's voice grew faint 
 
 With — " now I'm old and grey." 
 
158 THE MINSTREL OLD AND GREY. 
 
 Again, the Minstrel struck his harp, 
 
 To sing of manhood's days, 
 When sweet thought tells how love has birth 
 
 But not how it decays ; 
 Yet while, in mem'ry, to those hours 
 
 His spirit fain would stray, 
 The chords he touched more plainly told 
 
 That he was old and grey. 
 
 Of Friendship's truth he would have sung, 
 
 But strength began to fail, 
 And chill winds beat around his brow, 
 
 As 'twere, to hush the tale ; 
 Of all who loved, not one remained 
 
 To gladden life's lone way ; 
 The harp fell from the Minstrel's hand — 
 
 The Minstrel old and grey. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
159 
 
 THE GIPSY GIRL. 
 
 On an exquisite Crayon Drawing, by C. Burlison^ Esq., of a Gipsi 
 Girl, with a hurdoclc-leaf parasol. 
 
 A WITCHING face, 
 
 A form of grace, 
 
 And an eye of wondrous power, 
 
 A rosy lip 
 
 A bee might sip 
 
 Are thine — thy maiden dower ; 
 
 Greeting our souls like a glad surprise 
 
 Thou Gipsy Girl with the lustrous eyes. 
 
 Fair rustic queen, 
 Thy burdock gi-een 
 
 Is a sceptre meet for thee, 
 Whose greatest spell, 
 Sweet woodland belle ! 
 
 Is thy arch simplicity ; 
 
 l2 
 
160 THE GIPSY GIKL. 
 
 But many a maid in halls of state 
 Might barter wealth for a charm as great. 
 
 A winsome thing 
 In life's young spring 
 Thou'rt budding, a forest flower : 
 Oh ! be it thine 
 Still pure to shine 
 In life's maturer hour ; 
 For the glance that beams 'neath that burdock leaf, 
 Should never be dimmed by guile or grief. 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
161 
 
 UNREAD LESSONS. 
 
 Dumb stones, 'tis said, can lessons teach, 
 
 The truths of Heaven revealing, 
 And " running brooks " divinely preach 
 
 To mortal sense and feeling ; 
 But human hearts as soon as born, 
 
 To folly's dictates leaning. 
 Will coldly turn away and scorn 
 
 Their words of sober meaning. 
 
 So, in the crowded street we find 
 'Neath pale and unwashed faces, 
 
 Of will subdued, and lofty mind, 
 The purest, grandest traces : 
 
162 
 
 UNKEAD LESSONS. 
 
 But men who plot for worldly gains, 
 With baser things confound them — 
 
 They cannot see the ore's bright veins 
 For dross that lies around them. 
 
 One half the blessings hourly sent, 
 
 In mercy, love, and kindness, 
 To make our stubborn hearts relent, 
 
 And cure our moral blindness, 
 We cannot, or we will not prize ; 
 
 Like shadows they flit o'er us. 
 Let's hope they'll not hereafter rise 
 
 In judgment deep before us ! 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
 ^.^A 
 
163 
 
 THE STATE PILOT!* 
 
 Or prompt and shrewd State pilots, 
 
 Who knew their country's coast, 
 The log-book of Old England 
 
 We know can proudly boast ; 
 We pride ourselves on Chatham, 
 
 On Canning, Pitt, and Peel, 
 And others who have grasped the helm, 
 
 To serve the common weal ; 
 But, while the Dead we honour, 
 
 Some homage let us pay 
 To England's living Pilot, 
 
 The glory of his day ! 
 
 * Music by Van Heddigham. 
 
164 THE STATE PILOT. 
 
 O, Palmerston for England! 
 
 Our flag by him unfurled 
 May boldly bid defiance 
 
 To the tempests of the World ! 
 
 In time of doubt and danger, 
 
 When breakers are a head, 
 To peril the dear liberties 
 
 For which our fathers bled ; 
 Or when the war-wave threatens 
 
 Around our Isle to sweep, 
 And stay the power of England 
 
 At home, or on the deep — 
 There ne'er was such a Pilot 
 
 To mount the quarter-deck. 
 And guide the old State vessel 
 
 Safe home, 'mid storm and wreck ! 
 
 O, Palmerston for England ! 
 
 Our flag by him unfurled. 
 May boldly bid defiance 
 
 To the tempests of the World ! 
 
 G.L.B. 
 
165 
 
 LABOUR'S PROGRESS AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 Spoken hy Mr. Henry Marston at a Benefit Performance in aid of the 
 " London Tin-plate Workers' Pension Fund^'' 
 
 When the Phoenicians, guided by the stars, 
 Made themselves great by commerce, slighting Mars, 
 And from the shore where Tyrian summer smiles 
 Steered through the Great Sea's labyrinthine isles, 
 Passed the rock pillars reared by Hercules, 
 Row'd through Atlantic's foam to Britain's seas ; 
 They from their galleys leapt on Cornish soil, 
 Not like a Caesar, bent on bloody spoil. 
 But, with indomitable will and zeal, 
 Forced the dull earth her treasures to reveal ; 
 And, richer far for tlie bright ore they found. 
 Made England great as Labour's vantage ground : 
 
166 labour's progress and triumph. 
 
 Then— the swart miner labouring was a slave, 
 Dug for his master wealth- himself a grave. 
 
 Later, when Roman legions trod the land, 
 A conquered people laboured at command. 
 For general good the victors made them toil, 
 And harvests waved above the new-till'd soil ; 
 Forts rose, and roads — those great arterial veins 
 Of a great country — crossed hills, woods, and plains. 
 For tools and weapons still our mines were wrought, 
 And what he knew the warlike Roman taught ; 
 Stamped the imperial seal on wax-like land. 
 But ground to dust the worker's horny hand. 
 
 Successive rulers through contentious years 
 Deluged our Isle with blood — baptised with tears ; 
 And Norman William grasp'd with grip of steel 
 At Saxon freedom, crushed it 'neath his heel ; 
 With serfdom's fetters bound the groaning mass, 
 And collar' d, like to hounds, the working class. 
 They had no rights, by law, to life or love, 
 Might work and wed, rear slaves, but not improve, 
 
labour's progress and triumph. 167 
 
 Not earn to garner up a thrifty store ; 
 Oppressed and ignorant, they drudged, and hore ! 
 
 But feudalism, in its turn, decayed 
 Before advancing wants — advancing trade. 
 While greater despots, ruling other lands, 
 Drove forth their thinking workers in strong bands ; 
 Men, who self-exiled through their strength of will 
 Or dauntless purpose, men of art and skill, . 
 Who flying hither, each with some new craft. 
 Flourished and throve, a healthy, fi-uitful graft. 
 But still the humble artizan who wrought 
 Was cramped and fettered in his act or thought ; 
 Was housed, and clothed, and fed beneath a ban — 
 Restrained from all that elevates the man. 
 
 But as Time's scythe mowed down each kingly race. 
 Fresh generations took each other's place ; 
 Despots and tyrant-laws died out perforce ; 
 Science and progress kept their onward course ; 
 Men learned to think, and thinking men are strong 
 To battle for the Right, and hew down Wrong ; 
 
168 labour's progress aistd triumph. 
 
 And working men upreared their heads at length 
 With the new power of mind and moral strength ; 
 Conscious that labour dignifies the hand, 
 And working intellect upholds our land. 
 
 Oppression's star has set, and men are free 
 To work and live in calm security, 
 They work in hope, and if with sweat- dew'd brow, 
 Still mine, or forge, or lathe, or loom, or plough, 
 Holds willing workers, men with hearths and homes 
 Free as themselves, where no intruder comes ; 
 Where household comforts, not withheld by law. 
 Cluster around — such serfdom never saw ; 
 Where the lithe infant and the weak old man 
 Disport together, as such children can ; 
 Where, if a prudent matron guide the store. 
 The workman's savings grow to more and more. 
 
 In times gone by such things could never be. 
 Manhood might work, but age brought poverty ; 
 Rapacious rulers kept the poor man down, 
 Alike in country as in foetid town. 
 
labour's progkess and triumph. 169 
 
 No banks, no clubs, where providence or thrift 
 
 Might hoard its savings lest age ran adrift ; 
 
 The alms-house and the hospital alone 
 
 Open'd their doors when manhood's strength was gone. 
 
 But self-dependence had not then been taught, 
 
 It came with Freedom, and remained with Thought. 
 
 To-night you meet to show what Time has done. 
 How virtues flourish under Freedom's sun ; 
 How prudence and benevolence may blend, 
 And self-support provide for each old friend ; 
 How honest workers, in their manhood's prime. 
 May blunt the scythe and clip the wings of Time. 
 And free to work, to trade, to spend or spare. 
 You have made age your own peculiar care : 
 A noble task, for aid so nobly given, 
 Must rise like incense to the throne of Heaven. 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
no 
 
 THE THREE BLACK D'S. 
 
 Listen, Friend ! Good words are these— 
 
 Beware, beware of the three black D's ! 
 
 And you'll never have cause to repine 
 
 That you took this advice of mine : 
 
 I have travelled the world for years, 
 
 Seen much of its smiles and tears, 
 
 And I know, with Drinking, Debt, or Disgrace, 
 
 You cannot look the world in the face ! 
 
 I once knew a tradesman young. 
 With a sense of right and wrong, 
 A prospect fair, a placid brow — 
 Ah ! where is that tradesman now ? 
 
THE THREE BLACK d's. 171 
 
 Drinking robbed him of health, 
 Beggary came by stealth, 
 Friends forsook him — hard his case ; 
 He cotildn't look the world in the face ! 
 
 I once knew a holy man, 
 To do good was his plan ; 
 The sick he tended, fed the poor. 
 And thought himself secure, 
 Till he borrowed a five pound note — 
 Till he went in Debt for a coat ; 
 Debt brought duns, and duns gave chase- 
 He couldn*t look the world in the face ! 
 
 I once knew a maiden fair 
 
 Who had suitors everywhere, 
 
 And one she loved too well ! 
 
 Betrayed by him, she fell ; 
 
 Fell in her golden prime — 
 
 Fell into secret crime ; 
 
 An awful death, to avoid Disgrace — 
 
 She couldn't look the world in the face ! 
 
172 THE THREE BLACK d's. 
 
 Listen, Friend ! goods words are these, 
 Beware, beware of the three black D's ! 
 They are monsters in disguise — 
 They are flatterers breathing lies — 
 They speak you fair, they mean you ill, 
 The body will ruin, the soul will kill ; 
 Resist their wiles. Disgrace, Drink, Debt- 
 The Devil's black art alphabet ! 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
173 
 
 THE QUIET JOYS OF HOME. * 
 
 Give me the quiet joys of home, 
 
 The peace that passeth outward show, 
 And let who will contentless roam 
 
 In quest of joys he ne'er may know ; 
 A heart to love, a friend to cheer, 
 
 A smiling hearth, and more beside, 
 A hand to chase away the tear 
 
 And soothe the soul when sorrow-tried ; 
 Give me but these, I ask no more, 
 With them I'm rich, without them poor. 
 * 
 
 Give me the quiet joys of home, 
 And I will shun ambition's way — 
 
 The seat of power, the courtly dome, 
 And all that tempts to lead astray ; 
 
 * Music by Charles Bernard. 
 M 
 
174 THE QUIET JOYS OF HOME. 
 
 My children sitting on my knee, 
 The household faces gathered round, 
 
 Are sweeter, dearer, far to me 
 
 Than aught else in the world I've found ; 
 
 Give me but these, I ask no more. 
 
 With them I'm rich, without them poor. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
175 
 
 DESOLATION. 
 
 Alone, alone, ever alone ! 
 
 At morn, and noon, and night, 
 When tears will start she may not own, 
 
 Nor shed save out of sight ; 
 Alone with her weary load of care. 
 
 Alone should a joy bird sing. 
 But the fleeting joys which none may share 
 
 Depart on a rapid wing. 
 
 Alone, alone, ever alone ! 
 
 In the daily walk of life. 
 Her fears j and hopes, and aims unknown, 
 
 Lonely, and yet a wife ! 
 
176 DESOLATION. 
 
 Alone, her watch by the suiFerer's bed, 
 Alone when she kneels in prayer, 
 
 Alone when she weeps o'er each buried head, 
 With none in her grief to share. 
 
 Alone, alone, ever alone ! 
 
 Hers is that dreary lot, 
 Loving — to long for the love unshown. 
 
 Living— a life forgot ; 
 Feeling the spirit within rebel, 
 
 Yet crushing rebellion down, 
 Lest an angry word to the lip should swell. 
 
 Or the forehead learn to frown. 
 
 Alone, alone, ever alone ! 
 
 She weaves her web of thought, 
 All unheeded and all unknown, 
 
 Yet thus a shroud is wrought ; 
 For slowly and sadly day by day. 
 
 As water-drops wear the stone. 
 This thought rings the knell of her life alway — 
 
 " Alone, for ever alone ! " 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
Ill 
 
 BETTER THINGS SHALL COME TO PASS. 
 
 Better things shall come to pass — 
 When the reign of pride shall cease 
 
 Throughout the world, 
 When the rule of selfishness 
 
 Is downward hurled, 
 When the light of knowledge shines 
 
 In every heart, 
 And the clouds of prejudice 
 Thrown back, depart : — 
 
 Then, may men look up again, 
 
 And behold, as in a glass, 
 This inspiring truth revealed— 
 Better things have come to pass ! 
 
178 BETTER THINGS SHALL COME TO PASS. 
 
 Better things shall come to pass — 
 AVhen to man his fellow man 
 
 Shall kindly turn, 
 When the flame of mutual love 
 
 Shall brightly burn, 
 When might's fetter by its light 
 
 Shall be riven, 
 And the warring mind becomes 
 More like heaven : — 
 Then, may men look up again, 
 
 And behold, as in a glass. 
 This inspiring truth revealed — 
 Better things have come to pass ! 
 
 Better things shall come to pass — 
 
 When the weak become the strong. 
 
 Aye, strong in truth ; 
 When the old retain the faith, 
 
 They held in youth ; 
 When the wilful blind shall see. 
 
 Each face to face, 
 And the bitterest foes are clasped 
 
 In warm embrace: — 
 
BETTER THINGS SHALL COME TO PASS. 179 
 
 Then, may men look up again, 
 
 And behold, as in a glass. 
 This inspiring truth revealed — 
 
 Better things have come to pass ! 
 
 Better things shall come to pass — 
 When the happiness of all, 
 
 And not the few, 
 Leads the great ones of the earth 
 
 To think and do ; 
 When our prisons vainly wait 
 
 To strengthen crime, 
 And the last in pauper walls 
 Has spent his time: — 
 Then, may men look up again. 
 
 And behold, as in a glass. 
 This inspiring truth revealed — 
 Better things have come to pass ! 
 
 Better things shall come to pass — 
 When the law of Love prevails 
 O'er all the earth, 
 
180 BETTER THINGS SHALL COME TO PASS. 
 
 When justice and forbearance 
 
 Spring to birth, 
 When men shall strive together, 
 
 And contend 
 O'er power, o'er hate, and fear, 
 For life's great end:— 
 Then may men look up again, 
 
 And behold, as in a glass, 
 This inspiring truth revealed— 
 Better things have come to pass ! 
 
 ■ • Cr, L. B. 
 
181 
 
 PARTING WORDS. 
 
 I DEEMED thy words might be believed, 
 That they were born of love and truth ; 
 
 But time has shown I was deceived, 
 Thy vows are valueless forsooth. 
 
 Had thine been love to bide the blast, 
 To bid temptation stand aside, 
 
 I could have loved thee to the last, 
 Howe'er the world that love had tried. 
 
 But false and fickle, go thy way ! 
 
 Flutter from flower to flower awhile, 
 Forgetful that night follows day, 
 
 That skies may frown as well as smile. 
 
182 PARTING WORDS. 
 
 How deep soe'er a woman's love, 
 A woman's pride is deeper still, 
 
 And rising far thy loss above 
 
 I'll conquer love by strength of will. 
 
 Yet, when all radiant with glee, 
 With present bliss and love elate, 
 
 Deep in the cells of memory 
 The past my form will reinstate. 
 
 Thou canst not drive the image back ; 
 
 Thou canst not blot the record plain : 
 Love travels not without a track, 
 
 And memory lives for joy or pain. 
 
 Then, since thy love no more be mine, 
 
 And thou inconstant art to me, 
 Woo where thou wilt, nor think I pine — 
 
 I loved when loved — so thou art free ! 
 
 IS4B. B. 
 
183 
 
 THE MEN OF OLD. 
 
 We sometimes sneer at ancient days, 
 And blame the men of old, 
 
 Who listened to the simple lays 
 By Saxon gleemen told ; 
 
 We wonder at the lives they led, 
 
 With no grand prospects overhead. 
 
 Because no railway ploughed the land, 
 No steamer rode the main, 
 
 We deem them a benighted band, 
 Who lived and toiled in vain. 
 
 No books had they— no press— no^pcn. 
 
 And so we call them slaves, not men I 
 
184 THE MEN OF OLD. 
 
 Methinks to that old time and race 
 
 A mighty debt we owe, 
 Who freedom won, with sweating face, 
 
 A thousand years ago ; 
 Who laid a glory that should last 
 In deep foundations of the past. 
 
 Their lives were rude, their wants were few, 
 
 They had no vain desires ; 
 But never men more brave and true 
 
 Than those heroic sires, 
 The fathers through a thousand years, 
 Of England's noble volunteers ! 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
185 
 
 HOUSEHOLD TREASURES. 
 
 A pleasant sound is in my home, 
 Throughout the household ringing clear, 
 
 As 'twere a spirit- voice had come 
 A parent's anxious heart to cheer ; 
 
 From morn till night that sound is heard, 
 
 Sweet as the song of summer bird. 
 
 A gladsome smile is in my home, 
 Lights up the room in which I sit, 
 
 And half the day o'er sunbeams come 
 And through the window peep at it; 
 
 From early morn till close of day 
 
 That smile illumes life's cloudy way. 
 
HOUSEHOLD TREASURES. 
 
 God bless young children ! who make home, 
 With all its cares, a paradise— 
 
 Who, sinless as the angels, come 
 To woo us with their heavenly eyes ; 
 
 God bless young children ! whom we're told, 
 
 The world's Redeemer blest of old. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
 IMls 
 
 If 
 
187 
 
 JOAN D'ARC. 
 
 Rapt Joan ! visionary maid, 
 
 What frenzy fires thy soul ? 
 What projects seethe within thy brain, 
 
 Spurning the mind's control ; 
 That thou, an untaught peasant girl, 
 
 With madness in thy glance, 
 Unaided, and alone, should'st frame 
 
 Thy plans to rescue France ? 
 Hath Heaven indeed appointed thee 
 To set thy captive country free ? 
 
 Wild Joan ! strong must be the spell 
 
 To banish from thy face. 
 The virgin bashfulness that aye 
 
 Is woman's fairest grace. 
 
188 JOAN d'akc. 
 
 But stronger still must be the spell, 
 Empowering thee to hold 
 
 Thine influence o'er the minds of men, 
 Sage priests, or warriors bold, 
 
 And cause a King and Court to bend 
 
 Lowly to thee, their hope and friend. 
 
 Brave Joan ! girt with mystic sword, 
 
 And armed from head to heel, 
 Thy charger bears thee proudly on 
 
 To guard thy country's weal. 
 No doubts delay thy mission now. 
 
 The foe quails at thy name. 
 On ! thou hast promised victory. 
 
 Go, and that victory claim. 
 The warlike Maid hath won the day, 
 Onward to Rheims — away, away ! 
 
 Proud Joan ! prelates, nobles, king, 
 All render thanks to thee ; 
 
 The Prophetess redeems her pledge, 
 Charles bends the Koyal knee ; 
 
 And she, a country servant girl 
 Anoints and crowns a King ; 
 
JOAN d'arc. 189 
 
 Sharing the homage of the crowd 
 
 Who of her valour sing. 
 Joan ! this is thy hour of pride : — 
 Ruling the rulers at thy side I 
 
 Famed Joan ! bright is thy career, 
 
 But brief as it is bright, 
 A meteor's transitory ray 
 
 Athwart the darksome night ! 
 For treachery, with its poisoned fang, 
 
 Hath marked thee for its prey, 
 And foes without, and foes within, 
 
 Have limited thy sway. 
 The city yields — she fights alone :— 
 Vain 'gainst their hosts the arm of one ! 
 
 Lost Joan ! prisoner tho' thou art. 
 
 Thy brow is yet serene ; 
 Firm and intrepid as thy life. 
 
 So is thy closing scene. 
 Deserted in thy utmost need 
 
 By every earthly friend, 
 The power who strengthened thee before 
 
 Supports thee to the end. 
 
190 JOAN D ARC. 
 
 Nor stake, nor pile, can make thee yield, 
 The God of Daniel is thy shield. 
 
 Poor Joan ! Saviour thou of France ! 
 
 How art thou now repaid ? 
 A painful, ignominious death 
 
 Is thine, grand Orleans Maid. 
 And those, who hailed thee Saint erewhile, 
 
 Brand thee a Sorceress now. 
 Unfortunate I the shame was theirs : — 
 
 A glorious patriot thou ! 
 Laurel-and-fame-wreathed thou shalt be, 
 Thy country's imniortality, 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
191 
 
 SLANDER! 
 
 SCI^ott sljalt not bear false foitness against ll^g migljbour! ' 
 
 Of all the evils that afflict mankind 
 From Crinoline to Murder, most we find 
 Slander abound. Slander! that imp of sin 
 Which ope's the door to let the Devil in. 
 In shape Protean, with as many eyes 
 As Argus had, to look unspoken lies. 
 It suits itself to every hour and place 
 Within the compass of the human race ; 
 Speaks every language underneath the sun — 
 Knows all that is, and all that is not done — 
 Makes much of ill, and little of the good — 
 
 Tells what it should not, and not what it should — 
 
 N 2 
 
192 slander! 
 
 Now dull, now sad, now lively, now severe, 
 Forcing a laugh, or straining at a tear. 
 So Slander dogs the round World on its way. 
 Sowing new crops of misery each day. 
 
 Sworn in it service, evil agents twain. 
 
 Gossip and Scandal toil with busy brain. 
 
 First Gossip, fashioned like a maiden fair. 
 
 Or withered spinster, t' whom the tender care 
 
 Of love's a stranger, runs its busy round 
 
 Of observation. Eager as a hound 
 
 That scents out blood, it travels in one track. 
 
 Ne'er stopping short, nor, wearied, turning back 
 
 In the pm'suit. The slightest act or word 
 
 Quick in its active memory is stored 
 
 For future use, with such embellishment 
 
 Of thought and inference as shall, when blent, 
 
 Produce a startling picture. Neighbours doors 
 
 Half open, furnish incidents by scores 
 
 For shrewd surmise, and undrawn curtains let 
 
 In furtive glances — ^glances that shall set 
 
 " The table in a roar," and fire pert tongues 
 
 With condemnation of conjectured wrongs. 
 
SLANDER ! 193 
 
 Nor less the skill with which its arts are veiled, 
 The vain regrets expressed, the sorrow wailed 
 In tragic accents, liked a player versed 
 In parts a thousand times or more rehearsed. 
 Roscius, an actor was of matchless power — 
 Rome's glory, and the stage's highest dower ; 
 Kean, Kemble, Garrick, these, too, had their day, 
 Strutted the "boards" awhile, then passed away ; 
 But Gossip is their master, through all years 
 It moves mankind to laughter and to tears. 
 
 Close at its heels, bold as a robber chief, 
 
 Where Gossip falters. Scandal brings relief. 
 
 Scandal! Behold it at the Counter stand. 
 
 With scales and weights (short weights) in either hand, 
 
 Doling out goods adulterate — sloe-leaf tea. 
 
 Horse-bean rich mocha, whiting flour, "P. D." — 
 
 List'ning with eager ears lo what may drop 
 
 From frequent callers at the " Gossip shop." 
 
 Here Susan Mangle cites her tale of grief — 
 
 Here Lawyer Ferret reads his lying brief — 
 
 Here Vestrydom expounds its little schemes, 
 
 And, flushed with hope, of future triumph dreams; 
 
194 slander! 
 
 Here drivelling Cant, and Prejudice, and Fraud 
 Concert together, and themselves applaud ; 
 Here plot propounds, and daring executes — 
 One tips the arrow, and another shoots ; 
 Here friend on friend in treacherous judgment sits, 
 And dolts and dullards point the shaft at wits ; 
 Here passions rage, " like devils in their pain," 
 And fillips smite the cheek without a stain. 
 
 That night, while teacups clatter at the board, 
 
 And clubs and cliques unite in foul discord — 
 
 While neighbour B. to neighbour C. gives ear, 
 
 And ribald tongues at sad misfortune jeer, 
 
 The mischief spreads. Hints, winks, and nods give place 
 
 To grim sui'mises, accusations base. 
 
 Loud-voiced reproof, and threats. Next day, and next, 
 
 The self-same preaching, from the self-same text, 
 
 Continues. Mischief spreads ; like lightning flies 
 
 From house to house, and town to town — defies 
 
 Both time and distance, till a hundred lands 
 
 Listen aghast with uplift eyes and hands. 
 
 Even as acorns turn to giant trees, 
 
 And little rills to rivers vast, and seas ; 
 
slander! 195 
 
 So Scandal gathers — gathers as it goes, 
 From doubtful harm, to worst of human woes, 
 And what at first was but a trivial thing 
 May banish princes or depose a king. 
 
 Alas ! that men will serve this hateful fiend — 
 Professing Christian men — themselves not screened 
 From its attacks. Down on their knees they pray 
 " Forgive our trespasses," and go straightway 
 And brew a scandal base, as though fair fixme 
 Was meant to be a mark for venomed aim. 
 Pull down our churches, lay our chapels low, 
 If those who fill their cushioned seats will grow 
 In foul hypocrisy, and give the lie 
 To Him who taught us Christian charity ! 
 A faith of words, and not a faith of deeds, 
 Is worse than Pagan forms and Pagan creeds. 
 Which still mean something— symbolize a thought, 
 Rudely perceived, and hence but rudely taught. 
 The wild-cat will not prey upon its kind — 
 E'en here the nobler human lags behind ; 
 The beast instructs the Christian— man, poor man, 
 How art thou fallen in great Nature's plan! 
 
196 slander! 
 
 O, Slander ! Slander ! vilest fiend of hell ! 
 
 By which the patriarchal Doge erst fell ; 
 
 Which poisoned Socrates, and madly hurled 
 
 Its shafts at him who sought the Western World ; 
 
 Which struck the gentle Flora Hastings down 
 
 Beneath the shadow of the British crown ; 
 
 Which counts its victims hourly by the score, 
 
 Yet seeks, and shrieks, and raves, and gasps for more. 
 
 Where'er men turn they meet thee, noisome pest ! 
 
 Crawling about God's earth in wild unrest; 
 
 Now chasing from the pillowed head repose — 
 
 Now changing trusty friends to bitter foes— 
 
 Anon embarking in ensanguined strife, 
 
 Unbarring Death's dark gates to let out Life. 
 
 Yon hopeless bankrupt, spurned by passers by — 
 Yon ruined outcast, breathing forth a sigh — 
 Yon frenzied maniac, lost to time and sense — 
 Yon suicide, heart-broken, rushing hence — 
 Yon duellist intent on scenes of blood — 
 These, and a thousand others in like mood, 
 Are thine, O Slander! Where thy fangs take hold 
 Each genial current freezes, hearts grow cold 
 
slander! 197 
 
 As Polar ice, and lips to mercy sworn, 
 Breathe only hatred, violence, and scorn. 
 
 Above the pomp, and pride, and glare of things, 
 
 The laws of rulers, and the power of kings ; 
 
 Above the flights of genius, and the light 
 
 Of sword-blades flashing in victorious fight ; 
 
 Above the patriot's cause, the martyr's crown, 
 
 Soars human Honour, heavenward ; strike it down, 
 
 Debase, disfigure it, and dispossess' t 
 
 Of all that gave it welcome to the breast, 
 
 The spirit pines to death. No second grace. 
 
 Can yield its gifts, or occupy its place. 
 
 It is the very jewel of the mind, 
 
 Set in a workmanship of gold, refined 
 
 By fire Promethean. When Adam ate 
 
 The fruit forbidden in his first estate. 
 
 And ruined seized his peace, one glittering star 
 
 Through Eden's closing portals shone afar 
 
 Into the future — cursed, condemned, disdained, 
 
 The hope of Honour still to him remained — 
 
 Cheered his dull footsteps through the coming gloom 
 
 And kindled rays of glory round the tomb. 
 
198 slander! 
 
 The ancient laws of men were framed to guard 
 
 This sov*ran virtue — its own rich reward ! 
 
 Death was the punishment that marked a lie. 
 
 In modern codes less stringent rules apply. 
 
 Slander is licensed by the world's consent, 
 
 And put in force by minds on evil bent. 
 
 'Tis time to preach anew the olden truth. 
 
 In years of age, of sanctity, of youth — 
 
 " Bear not false witness ! " Speak well or be dumb- 
 
 Who judges here, is judged in life to come! 
 
 G L. B. 
 
199 
 
 MY DEAD BABE'S HAIR. 
 
 Thou art laid within the grave, my boy, 
 
 My beautiful and fair, 
 And all that now remains of thee 
 
 Is this soft lock of hair. 
 When the shroud was folded round thee, 
 
 'Twas severed from thy head : 
 Now, tearfully I gaze on it. 
 
 And wish thou wert not dead. 
 Yet I do wrong to grieve for thee. 
 
 Thou art an angel now, 
 And brighter than this relic 
 
 Is the glory round thy brow. 
 
 Thy upturned eye, and folded hands. 
 
 Folded as if in prayer. 
 Git made me pause in reverence, 
 
 I felt the an^el there. 
 
200 MY DEAD BABE S HAIR. 
 
 In love and awe I kissed thy brow, 
 
 And clasped thee to my breast, 
 Thinking to keep thee ever there, 
 
 And lull thee so to rest. 
 But I do wrong to grieve for thee, 
 
 Thou art an angel now, 
 And brighter than this relic 
 
 Is the glory round thy brow. 
 
 I called thee oft a cherub, — ah ! 
 
 It came not to my thought. 
 Thy wings would be so speedily 
 
 Unto perfection brought : 
 Full fledged they were around thee 
 
 From the moment of thy birth, 
 Thou wert from Heaven, and couldst not stay 
 
 A truant here on earth. 
 And it is wrong to grieve for thee. 
 
 Thou art an angel now, 
 And brighter than this relic 
 
 Is the glory round thy brow. 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
201 
 
 ROUND AND ROUND THE CORAL BOWER.* 
 
 (Fairies' Song.) 
 
 Round and round the coral bower 
 
 Fairies dance the live-long day, 
 Watchful lest the water's power 
 
 Bear some jutting reef away. 
 Now they whisper, now they sing 
 
 To the undulating waves, 
 As their silver voices ring 
 
 Round about the coral caves. 
 
 * Music by the Honorable Clementina Fitzwigram ; published by 
 Cramer & Co., Regent Street. 
 
202 ROUND AND ROUND THE CORAL BOWER. 
 
 Lo ! they enter and prepare 
 
 For the transports of the night, 
 Wreathing in their shining hair 
 
 Coral branches snowy white. 
 Hark ! an echo soft and sweet, 
 
 As they press the sleeping waves, 
 Makes still music to their feet 
 
 In the silent coral caves. 
 
 Once again their hands entwine, 
 
 And the evening banquet spread, 
 Many a white reef stained with wine 
 
 Like a maiden blushes red. 
 Now the festal rite is o'er, 
 
 Daylight peeps into the waves, 
 And the' fairies dance once more 
 
 Round about the coral caves. 
 
 a. L. B. 
 
203 
 
 THE GOLDEN CALF.* 
 
 The world may sneer and the world may laugh 
 At those who worship the Golden Calf, 
 But he has a cure for the wildest jest 
 Who has taken good care to feather his nest ; 
 Who has thought to himself — " A golden egg 
 Is better than having to borrow or beg ; " 
 For say what you will, in Life's sunniest day, 
 There is nothing like gold for the world's highway. 
 
 Nothing like gold, 
 
 Nothing like gold, 
 There is nothing like gold for the world's highway. 
 
 * Music by Stephen Glover ; published by Duff and Hodgson, 
 Oxford Street. 
 
204 THE GOLDEN CALF. 
 
 The world may jeer and the world may laugh 
 
 At those who worship the Golden Calf, 
 
 But wait till the wolf only comes to the door 
 
 To reckon the worth of a guinea in store ; 
 
 Ha, ha, boys! 'tis wealth brings us honour and friends, 
 
 Should it leave us, O, quickly their friendship ends ; 
 
 For say what you will, in life's stormiest day 
 
 There is nothing like gold for the world's highway. 
 
 Nothing like gold, 
 
 Nothing like gold, 
 There is nothing like gold for the world's highway. 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
205 
 
 FANNY'S VALENTINE. 
 
 Dear Harry, have you quite forgot 
 The girl you left behind you ! 
 
 That it has fallen to my lot 
 To write, and thus remind you 
 
 A soldier should be brave and true^ 
 
 Not quit an old love for a new ? 
 
 I fear you have forgotten quite 
 The time so bright and sunny, 
 
 When I appeared your sole delight, 
 And sweeter far than honey ; 
 
 But well I know that honey cloys, 
 
 And men break hearts as children toys, 
 
206 FANNY S VALENTINE. 
 
 I hear you have another flame 
 Whom you intend to marry 
 
 But if you have, at once proclaim 
 That you are faithless, Harry — 
 
 I do not mean to pine and fret, 
 
 But wed another, and — forget. 
 
 So let me know at once your mind, 
 Xor like a booby tarry — 
 
 ril wait for you if you're inclined 
 To love me still, dear Harry ; 
 
 And on this day of Valentine, 
 
 Vow to be ever true and thine. 
 
 But if, as I begin to think, 
 You're an inconstant lover, 
 
 Confess— nor fear that I shall shrink 
 Your falsehood to discover ; 
 
 ril give my heart in fair exchange, 
 
 But not to one inclined to range. 
 
 ISAB. B. 
 
207 
 
 LION-HEARTED ENGLAND. 
 
 A WEE little spot is this island of ours — 
 
 A mere speck on the breast of the ocean ; 
 Yet it ranks in the world as the grandest of powers — 
 Its homes are not frowned on from castles and towers, 
 ^ And the hopes of its sons, pure as incense of flowers. 
 Rise on altars of loyal devotion. 
 'Tis the dread of the despot— the pride of the free. 
 
 And the sun of its glory sets never ; 
 When its prestige declines, or its ships leave the sea, 
 ^ A farewell to freedom for ever ! 
 
 For ever 
 A farewell to freedom for ever ! 
 
 There are lands in the east, there are lands in the west. 
 
 Where our laws and our language are written ; 
 Where the pulse of the Saxon beats warm in each breast, 
 And the genius of Alfred is proudly impressed 
 
208 LION-HEARTED ENGLAND. 
 
 On empires and races that rise to attest, 
 
 How vast are the triumphs of Britain. 
 Great Britain ! the home of the valiant and free, 
 
 The sun of whose glory sets never ; 
 When her prestige declines, or our ships leave the sea, 
 A farewell to freedom for ever ! 
 For ever ! 
 A farewell to freedom for ever ! 
 
 The tyrants of earth may uaite and propose 
 To diminish our might or invade us ; 
 
 Who cares for their threats, or would shrink from their 
 
 blows. 
 When the red-lettered page of our history shows 
 We have risen to power on the necks of our foes. 
 That we are what the foeman hath made us ? 
 The scourge of aggression, the shield of the free, 
 
 A nation whose glory sets never ; 
 When our prestige declines, or ouV ships leave the sea, 
 A farewell to freedom for ever ! 
 For ever! 
 A farewell to freedom for ever ! 
 
 ^ 
 
 G. L. B. 
 
/ H 
 
 •s-vfUJ 
 
\./