Chapter IV: Part THE THIRD (1)

'Tis Christmas Eve: the midnight chime
With mystic music fills the air,
And bears the news, "'Tis Christmas time,"
In sobbing wavelets everywhere.

Without, the weird wind whistles by;
Clothed is the ground with drifting snow;
Within, the yule logs, piled on high,
Their cheery warmth and comfort throw.

And in that cottage by the moor,
Where father, mother, mourning dwell.
The fire is bright, where hearts are sore
The chime to them a mournful knell.

"What's that?" the mother faintly said:
"Methought I heard a weary sigh."
The father sadly shook his head:
"Tis but the wind that wanders by."

Again the Dame, with drowsy start--
"It is no dream--I heard a groan."
Oh, the misgivings of her heart!
"'Tis but the music's murmuring moan."

They little thought, while thus they sighed,
That at their threshold, fainting, lay
The child for whom they would have died,
For whom they prayed both night and day.

'Twas bitter chill! The snowy fall
Came drifting slowly through the air,
And gently clothed with ghostly pall
The wasted form that slumbered there.

And all the live-long night she slept,
While breaking hearts within grew sore;
While father, mother, mourned and wept,
She lay in silence at the door.

Till, in the morning, all aglow,
The sun, in looking o'er the hill,
Like sculptured marble in the snow,
Saw Daisy, stony, stark, and still.

Then tenderly, in coffined state,
The hapless girl they grave-ward bore,
And, as they mourned her cruel fate,
Her tomb with flowers scattered o'er.

Leaving the broken-hearted child
To sleep in peace beneath the sod,
And he who first her heart beguiled
To cope with conscience and his God.

LINES:

ACCOMPANYING A PURSE GIVEN TO A FRIEND ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

The Purse I send to you, my friend,
Is empty, but if wishes warm
Could fill it, 'twould be brimming o'er
With handfuls of the golden charm.
The only wealth I have to give
Are words which may be worth a thought.
Be sure, as you would prosperous live,
While earning sixpence spend a groat:
Your purse will then grow slowly full,
A friend in need you'll always find,
And comforts, which can only flow
From plenty and a peaceful mind.

FORSAKEN.

'Twas a white water-lily I saw that day,
With its leaves looking up to the sky,
And baring its breast to the sportive play
Of the wavelets dancing by.
And O for the music the streamlet made,
As it floated in ripples along;
Round the beautiful blossom it eddied and played
With a voice full of silvery song.

So all through the Summer the lily laughed,
And with glances of loving and light
Drank in fresher beauty with each dainty draught
Of the water so playful and bright.
"And is it for ever," the floweret sighed,
"That thy vows of affection will last?"
"For ever and ever!" the streamlet replied,
And, embracing her, hurried past.

The Summer days vanished--the Winter came:
Ah! where could the lily be?
The sun still warmed with its golden flame;
But the streamlet had gone to the sea.
And the blossom that once, with its bosom of white,
Like a star from the heavens shone,
Lay frozen and dead. Ah, sorrowful plight!
It had died in the dark alone.

CHRISTMAS IS COMING.

Christmas is coming with merry laugh,
With a merry laugh and a joyful shout,
And the tidings are flung with an iron tongue
From a thousand steeples pealing out;
Hang up the holly--the mistletoe hang;
Bedeck every nook round the old fireside;
Make bright every hearth--let the joy-bells clang
With a warm-hearted welcome to Christmas-tide.

Christmas is coming! But some will see
By the old fireside a vacant place;
And a vision will flit through the festive glee
Of an absent--a never-returning face;
And a voice that was music itself last year
Will be mournfully missed in the even-song;
And children will speak, with a gathering tear,
Of the virtues which now to the dead belong.

Christmas is coming! Look back o'er the past:
Is there nought to forgive? Is there nought to forget?
Have we seized all the chances of life that were placed
In our path: or in this have we nought to regret?
Have we fought on life's battle-ground manfully--true,
While success, like a butterfly, flew from our reach?
Have we pressed in pursuit of the prize as it flew?
Has the Past, in its dying, no lesson to teach?

Christmas is coming! But who shall say
That at Christmas-time they again may meet?
For graves lie thick in the crowded way;
And we elbow Death in the open street
Let Folly embitter the festival hour
With a tongue that would injure--a heart that would hate!
True wisdom is blest with a nobler dower:
In another year it may be too late.

Christmas is coming! The wealthy will sit
In purple, fine linen, and sumptuous state;
'Twere well in their plenty they should not forget
The poor that stand meek at the outer gate.
For who can foreshadow the changes of life?
See! yesterday's King is an outcast to-day;
Success comes in time to the strong in the strife;
And Fortune's a game at which paupers can play.

Christmas is coming? The trader will quail
Over ledgers unsquared--and accounts overdue:
And his pen fain would tell all the sorrowful tale
Which his heart, full of fear, has not courage to do!
Had he all that is owing, how happy his heart;
How buoyant his footstep--how joyous his face;
But his debtors from gold as their life's blood will part;
And their hoard lies untouched o'er a brother's disgrace.

But Christmas is coming with merry laugh,
Amid pain, amid pleasure, with joyful shout,
And the tidings are flung with an iron tongue
From a thousand steeples pealing out.
Hang up the holly--the mistletoe hang;
Bedeck every nook round the old fireside:
Let us bury our care: let the joy-bells clang
With a warm-hearted welcome to Christmas-tide.

HEART LINKS.

The mist that rises from the river,
Evermore--evermore,
Tells how hearts are born to sever
As of yore--as of yore.
But the silvery mist returneth
Sparkling dew and blessed rain;
So the loving heart, though distant,
Comes again--comes again.

The stars that shine in brightness o'er us
In the sky--in the sky,
Speak of loved ones gone before us
Born to die--born to die,
Who, in days of earthly sadness,
O'er us watch with tender love,
As the starlight falls around us
From above--from above.

The rose that gives, before it leaves us,
Fragrance rare--fragrance rare,
Links of love in absence weaves us
Sweet to wear--sweet to wear;
So true hearts in love united
Bound by pure affection's chain,
Though in life or death divided,
Meet again--meet again.

THE OAK TO THE IVY.

'Twas in my Spring of palmy gladness
First I met thee, Ivy wife;
Then my brow, untouched by sadness,
Bloomed with regal-foliaged life;
Proud my arms hung forth in blessing
O'er thy trustful spirit dear,
And my heart, 'neath thy caressing,
Wore a Spring-dress all the year!
Time wings on: my strength is fleeing,
And my leafy beauties too;
Still thou clings't around my being,
Changeless--ever true.

Churlish Autumn hath uncrowned me,
Still I feel thy fond embrace;
Winter sad throws gloom around me:
Sweet! thou smil'st up in my face;
Spring arrives with flowery treasures,
Summer skips by, sun-caressed;
Yet thou, envying not their pleasures,
Bloom'st upon my rugged breast.
Time wings on: my strength is fleeing,
And my leafy beauties too;
Still thou cling'st around my being,
Changeless--ever true.

Though my limbs grow old and weary,
Trembling in the wintry air;
And my life be dark and dreary--
Still I feel that thou art near;
Stripped of all my blossoms golden,
'Reft of stalwart forest pride--
Sere and sallow, leafless, olden;
Yet remain'st thou by my side.
Time wings on: my strength is fleeing,
And my leafy beauties too;
Life-long cling'st thou round my being,
Changeless--ever true.

EPIGRAM

ON A WELSHWOMAN'S HAT.

"O changeful woman! Constant man!"
Has been the theme for buried ages.
But here's the truth: say "No" who can--
Ye bards, philosophers, and sages:
Men buy their Hats all kinds of shapes;
Our own Welshwomen change their's never;
'Tis with their Hats as with their loves--
Where fancy rests the heart approves,
And, loving once, they love for ever!

SHADOWS IN THE FIRE.

She sat and she gazed in the fire:
In the fire with a dreamy look:
And she seemed as though she could never tire
Of reading the fiery book.

She saw, midst the embers bright,
A figure both manly and fair,
Blue eyes that shone with a loving light:
And showers of nut-brown hair.

She saw her own image stand
By that form on a sunny day:
One kiss of the lip: one grasp of the hand:
And her heart was borne away.

She saw, through the flickering flame,
A bier in a darkened room:
And a coffin that bore her idol's name
Was hurried away to the tomb.

She saw, from a distant strand,
A missive sent over the main:
The letter was writ by a stranger's hand:
And she sighed for her lover in vain.

So she sat and she gazed in the fire:
In the fire, with a dreamy look:
And she seemed as though she could never tire
Of reading the fiery book.

THE BELFRY OLD.

On a New Year's Eve, by a belfry old,
With a sea of solemn graves around,
While the grim grey tower of the village church
Kept silent ward o'er each grassy mound,
With a cloak of ivy about it grown,
Fringed round, like fur, with a snowy fray;
On a New Year's Eve I watched alone
The life of the last year ebbing away.

Anon there came from the belfry out
A strange wild sound as of pleasure and pain;
For the birth of the new a jubilant shout:
For the death of the old a sad refrain.
And the voice went throbbingly through the air,
Went sobbing and sighing, with laughter blent;
All the echoes awakening everywhere;
A guest that was welcomed wherever, it went.

I thought, as the sound of each babbling bell
Came gushing away from the belfry old,
That stories such as the dying tell
Were up in that belfry being told:
As the words men mutter in life's last fear
Seem to shrink from Eternity back to Time,
So it seemed to me that each echo clear
Came back from the grave with a lesson sublime.

"Yet another year!" it seemed to say;
Gone one more year in the battle of life;
With its yearnings in gloom for the coming day,
Its pantings for peace 'mid the daily strife;
Clay lips that kissed but a year ago
With the fervent warmth of life and love;
Dear eyes that gladdened bright homes below
In one short year with the stars above.

Gone one more year, with its masses that prayed
For the daily bread that so seldom came;
With its lives whom sinning could never degrade,
Till the canker of want brought guilt and shame.
Gone one more year, with its noble souls
Who raised up the weary in hours of need;
With its crowds that started for wished-for goals,
And drooped by the way, broken-hearted indeed.

Gone one more year, with its wearisome woes;
Its pleasures hoped for--never seen:
Its swallow-winged friends: its fair-faced foes:
Its sorrow which happiness might have been:
Its cant and its cunning: its craft and crime:
Its loves and its hates: its hopes and fears:
Its lives that, reaching tow'rds heights sublime,
Fell short of the mark in a sea of tears.

Gone one more year, to tell all the rest
How wise the old world had gotten of late:
How fools still flourish, by wealth caressed:
How the noble of mind meet a pauper's fate;
How the infidel heart, accursed, defies
All hopes of Heaven--all fears of hell:
How the saintly preach from the book of lies,
And scoff at the truths which Saviours tell.

How the pious who poison the poor man's food
In shoddy and shop grow golden and grand:
How the rent-roll harbours the stolen rood--
The emblazoned escutcheon the bloody hand:
How women and men to the altar hie,
And swear to the promise they rarely keep;
How Vice, a shameless and living lie,
Gets honours which Virtue never can reap.

Gone one more year: there is no return.
Press onward, still onward, for weal or woe.
Beat heart: throb brain: hot eyelids burn:
Man's troubles and trials who cares to know?
Birth, marriage, and death: death, marriage, and birth,
Are the treadmill steps of this wheel of strife;
Cloak, draught, and a crust--then a hole in the earth:
And the struggle for these is the story of life.

So sang the bells in the belfry old,
Or so it seemed to me they sang;
And the year died out as the moments rolled,
Still o'er its bier the joy-bells rang:
'Twas mourning an instant, merriment then,
And the ghastly shroud where the old year lay--
How like is the humour of bells and men--
Became swaddling-clothes for the New Year's Day.

BEAUTIFUL BARBARA.

Beautiful Barbara--Barbara bright,
As bright and as fresh as the dainty dawn,
What is it disturbeth her bosom white,
As the breeze into billows kisseth the corn?

Beautiful Barbara--silent and shy,
Shy as the dove, as the dove as fond,
What a dreaminess lives in her hazel eye,
As she looketh away through the valley beyond.

Through the valley beyond, where the daisies blush,
Where the woodbines bloom and the rivulets run;
Through the valley beyond, where, in evening's hush,
Beautiful Barbara's heart was won.

And the maiden Barbara, fair and forlorn,
The grass-green meadow looketh along;
The morrow was fixed for her wedding morn,
And she vieweth in vision the bridal throng.

She looketh, and weepeth, and looketh in vain:
Her heart was trustful; his heart was untrue;
And beautiful Barbara mingleth amain
Her tears with the daisies and the dew.

And the harvest moon sat silent and pale,
Silent and pale o'er the far-off hill:
And the sun in the morning flushing the vale
Saw beautiful Barbara stark and still.

Stark and still, with a forehead of white,
Round which the dew-drop coronal shone;
And the sunbeams came with their laughing light,
But beautiful Barbara sleepeth on.

'Twas a trying path for her dainty feet,
For such dainty feet as her's to tread.
So her trampled heart 'gainst its bars had beat,
Till it bravely broke and heavenward fled.

SONG OF THE SILKEN SHROUD.

Out in Babylon yonder,
By the gas-lights' dull red glare,
In a stifling room--a living tomb,
With never a breath of air,
A slender girl is sitting;
At her feet a silken cloud,
Which music makes, while her young heart aches,
As she stitches the rustling shroud.
And this is the song the glistening silk
Sings, out in the work-room yonder:

"Quick! quick! quick!
"My lady is waiting to roam.
"If you wish to die, the needle ply;
"You can die when you reach your home."

And while the gas-lights flicker and play
The life of the sempstress ebbs away
In the West End work-room yonder.

Out in Babylon yonder,
In the blaze of the ball-room gay,
My lady sits; while round her flits
A skeleton slender and grey.
And the ghastly spectre standeth
By the side of my lady fair
So mournfully bland, and with bony hand
It plays with her costume rare.
And this is the song the ghostly guest
Sings, out in the ball-room yonder:

"Look! look! look!
"Sit ye scornful and proud.
"Your boddice a hearse; every stitch a curse;
"Your skirt a silken shroud."

For while the gas-lights flickered in play
The life of the sempstress ebbed away
In the West End work-room yonder.

A UNIVERSITY FOR WALES.

WRITTEN IN 1867, AND INSCRIBED TO THOSE WHO WERE THEN
ENGAGED IN THE NOBLE AND PATRIOTIC WORK OF PROVIDING ONE.

In the cause of Education
Let us raise the standard high,
And in tones of exultation
"Upward--onward!" be the cry.
Let us rear this Fane of Learning--
Beauteous Temple of the Mind;
Where true hearts, for knowledge yearning,
May the priceless jewel find.

In the cause of Education
Let the glorious altar stand,
As a bulwark of the nation,
As a blessing in the land.
Let an unsectarian fabric
Grow in grandeur from the sod,
As a crown upon our manhood,
As a monument to God.

In the cause of Education
Let the wealth which Wisdom owns
Be out-scattered open-handed
To uprear this Throne of Thrones:
And, like bread upon the waters,
Hearts that give from store of gold
Will, in never-dying blessings,
Richly reap a thousand-fold.

In the cause of Education,
In the search for simple Truth,
In the proud Confederation
Which ennobles striving youth,
Let each heart's best pulses quicken,
Patriotic souls up-leap,
Till, mind-freighted, sails the fabric
Like an ark upon the deep.

GRIEFS UNTOLD.

In silence blooms the Summer rose,
With damask cheek and odorous breath,
And ne'er a ruddy leaf that blows
Whispers of canker or of death:
But sweetly smiles the lovely flower
All through the sunshine warm and gay,
And tells not of the canker-dower
That eats its inmost heart away.

In gladness rolls the river bright
Down through the meadow grassy-green,
With ripples full of laughing light
That wake with joy the sunny scene.
From morn till morn, with cheery tread,
The stream walks on with ne'er a sigh,
Nor tells of pebbles hard and dead
That deep below the surface lie.

"I WILL."

It is Christmas Eve, and the dance is o'er:
"Good night--good night all round!"
And the red light streams through the open door,
Like a sprite on the snowy ground.
And faces peer down the glowing dell
From the cottage warm and bright,
To see the last of the village belle
Who stands in the pale moonlight.
And waving her hand with a last farewell,
Is lost from their yearning sight.
But not alone is that maiden fair
Of the pearl-white face and the golden hair.

"Thou knowest I love thee, Blanche," he said,
Who walked by the maiden's side,
And her cheeks flushed up with a sweeter red
When he asked her to be his bride.
Though humble, their love was pure as light--
As pure as the snow they trod;
And the peal from the belfry woke the night
Like a voice from the Throne of God:
Or plaudits of angels glad with delight
At their Maker's approving nod.
Through a manly bosom it sent a thrill,
For it came with the bells did the girl's "I will."

DAWN AND DEATH.

The sobbing winds of winter
Lingered sadly round the door,
Then ran in mystic meanings
Through the dark across the moor;
The window panes were streaming
With the tears which heaven wept,
And a mother sat a-dreaming
O'er an infant as it slept:
Its little hands were folded;
And its little eyes of blue
Were clothed in alabaster
With the azure peeping through:
Its face, so still and star-like,
Was as white as maiden snow:
And it breathed in faintest ripples,
As the wavelets come and go.

The morn in golden beauty
Through the lattice gaily peept,
But muffled was the window
Of the room where darling slept:
The mother's heart was breaking
Into tears like Summer cloud,
For a starry face was circled
With a little lily shroud;
And a soul from sunny features
Like a beam of light had fled:
Before her, like a snowdrop,
Her miracle lay dead!
Ah! 'Twas cruel thus to chasten,
Though her loss was darling's gain:
And her heart would rifle Heaven
Could she clasp her babe again.

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

Autumn's sun was brightly blazing
Like a suit of golden mail;
Flocks along the mead were grazing;
Lambkins frollicked through the vale.
Brooklets gossipped o'er their beauty;
Leaves came down in whisp'ring showers;
And the vine-trees, lush and fruity,
Climbed and clung in am'rous bowers:

Beauty--gladness--
Floated round me everywhere;
Still in sadness
Built I castles in the air--
In the soft and dreamy air.

Far above me, like a spirit,
Rose an alp in proud array,
And my heart so yearned to near it
As I in the valley lay.
Ah, thought I, yon summit seemeth
Like a throne, so pure and bright;
Lo! how grandly-great it gleameth,
Crown'd with everlasting light!

Then I started
From the valley calm and fair,
Hopeful-hearted,
Tow'rds the castle in the air--
High up in the dreamy air.

Many a tortuous path and winding
Rid my soul embattle through;
Many a thorn of bitter finding
Choked my way with perils new:
Upward still, footsore and bleeding,
On with lonesome heart I pressed;
And I heard the chimes receding
In the vale so calm and blest.

Still I wandered
Up the pathway rough and drear,
Till I pondered
By the castle in the air--
Like a spirit in the air.

I had reached the lofty glory;
I had gained the alpine peak;
Lowly lay the world before me--
Yet my heart was like to break!
Where I stood 'twas cold and dreary---
Crown'd with white and glistening snow:
"Ah," I sighed, with heart a-weary--
"Distance lent the golden glow!"

Thus Fame ever
Woos men from earth's valleys fair,
Oft to shiver
Near life's castles in the air--
In the far-off wintry air.

THE WITHERED ROSE.

I had a silver chalice once
Of exquisite design,
In shape 'twas like the human heart
This little vase of mine.
I plucked a rose and placed the flow'r
Within the shiny cup,
And drank the incense hour by hour
The rosebud offered up.
And as it opened leaf by leaf
Its beauties spreading wide,
I saw no blossom such as mine
In all the world beside.

The sunlight came, but came in vain,
And day succeeded day,
But leaf by leaf my rosebud drooped,
Until it passed away.
And thus in life we look for love
From other loves apart--
A gift from Heavenly hand above--
And plant it near the heart;
But Death comes forth with chilly touch;
The blossom droops and dies;
And breaking hearts are filled alone
With fragrant memories.

WRECKS OF LIFE.

I sat upon the shingly Beach
One sunny Summer-day,
A-listening to the mystic speech
Of a million waves at play.
And as I watched the flowing flood
I saw a little child,
Who near a mimic fabric stood
Of shells his hands had piled.
And as he turned to go away,
He said, with look of sorrow:
"Build up I cannot more to-day--
"I'll come again to-morrow!"

The morrow came--he thither hied--
Looked for his castle gay;
But while he'd slept the cruel tide
Had washt it all away.
And thus in life we gaily build
Shell castles in the air;
Our hopes the fairy fabrics gild
With colours bright and rare:
But the dark flood of human strife
Rolls onward while we sleep,
And o'er the wrecks, where waves ran rife,
We waken but to weep.

ELEANOR:

DIED ON HER WEDDING DAY.

Scarce nineteen Summers had breathed their bloom,
Had breathed their bloom on her dainty cheek,
When they bore her away to the voiceless tomb
With hearts so full they were like to break.
And down in the churchyard old and green,
In the churchyard green where the yew-tree waves,
A dark little mound of earth is seen--
One billow more to the sea of graves.

Dear heart! How sad, in the gorgeous light,
In the gorgeous light of a purple dawn,
With life so hopeful of pure delight,
Away from the world to be rudely torn!
To be rudely torn in the tender hour,
In the tender hour when her heart was young;
While the virgin dew on the opening flower
With a trembling joy like a jewel hung.

Ere the budding soul, so sweetly shy,
Had opened its core to the coming kiss
Of an earthly love that was born to die
Ere it filled her heart with its hallowed bliss.
So down in the churchyard old and green,
In the churchyard green where the yew-tree waves,
A dark little mound of earth is seen--
One billow more to the sea of graves.

Scarce nineteen Summers had breathed their bloom,
Had breathed their bloom on her dainty cheek,
And they bore her away to the voiceless tomb
With hearts so full they were like to break:
With hearts so full even this belief
Dispelled not a tear from their aching eyes--
Though they saw their beloved through clouds of grief
An angel beyond in the golden skies.

NEW YEAR'S BELLS.

Hearest thou that peal a-telling
Night-noon stories to the Sky;
Hark! each wave of sound comes welling
Like a scolded angel's cry;
And the voice the belfry flingeth
Sobbing from its brazen breast,
Like a god in trouble singeth,
Waking half the world from rest;
Now it wails in murmuring sadness,
As a child at words unkind;
Now it comes with merry gladness,
Floating weirdly on the wind.
Ah! 'tis sad;---yet sprightly-hearted;
Song of Birth and gloomy Bier;
Death-dirge for the Days departed;
Carol for the coming Year.
Is it that the voice reminds thee
Of the wasted moments past?
Saith it that the New Year finds thee
Where it left thee last?

Doth the merry music taunt thee,
How the Palace love had reared
Mocks with echoes now, that haunt thee
Where thou dream'dst they would have cheered?
Moan the bells with thee in sorrow
O'er a little mound of green,
Rising up from graveyard furrow
Bleakly blank upon the scene?
Doth the tender language, stealing
O'er the soul with soothing swell,
Waken thoughts from sweet concealing:
Joyous tale for chimes to tell;
Reviving dainty hours of gladness,
Fresh as daisies in the spring,
As birds in summer, void of sadness,
Songs, heart-buried, wake and sing?
Doth the sea of music bear thee
Back again upon the Past,
To show thee that the New Year finds thee
Happier than the last?

Doth it tell of plans laid glowing
On the anvil of thy heart;
Times thou'st raised thy hand for throwing
In life's battle many a dart?
How each plan unstricken lingered
Till the mouldful heat was gone?
How each dart was faintly fingered,
Resting in the end unthrown;
Of the Faith thou pawn'dst for Fancies--
Substance for a fadeful beam?
Doth it taunt with bartered chances--
Sterling strength for drowsy dream?
Doth it brand thee apathetic?
Twit with lost days many a one?
Doth it chant in words emphatic
"Gone for aye; for ever gone?"
Is it that the voice reminds thee
Of the wasted moments past?
Saith it that the New Year finds thee.
Wiser than the last?

'Tis not so!--and still, as ever,
Time's a jewel in its loss;
But, possessed in plenty, never
Held as ought but worthless dross.
Like lost truant-boys we linger
Whimpering in Life's mazy wood,
Heedless of the silent finger
Ever pointing for our good;
Each, in plodding darkness groping,
Clothes his day in dreamy night,
'Stead of boldly climbing, hoping,
Up the steeps towards the light,
Where, as metal plucks the lightning
Flashing from the lofty sky,
Sturdy purpose, ever heightening,
Grasps an Immortality.
Let not future peals remind thee,
Then, of wasted moments passed;
Let not future New Years find thee
Where each left thee last.

THE VASE AND THE WEED:

A PLEA FOR THE BIBLE.

I had a vase of classic beauty,
Rare in richly-carved design;
Memento of an ancient splendour
Was this peerless vase of mine.
A master-hand of old had graved it:
Hand for many a year inurned:
And out from every line and tracing
Germs of genuine genius yearned.
I took the gem and proudly placed it
On a pillar 'mongst the flowers,
And watcht how radiance round it hovered,
Bathed with sunlight and with showers.
A little weed-like plant grew near it,
And anon crept o'er its face;
Until at length, with stealth insidious,
It quite obscured its classic grace,
And where was once a noble picture
Of the Beauteous and the True,
There hung a mass of straggling herbage
Flecked with blooms of sickly hue.
The Summer passed: the plant had flourished,
As every weed in Summer will;
When Winter came and struck the straggler
To the heart with bitter chill.
It died: the winds of March played round it,
Laughing at its wretched plight.
Then blew it from its slender holding,
Like a feather out of sight.
But still in undimmed freshness standing,
Reared the vase its classic face;
Rare in its old, eternal beauty,
Majestic in its pride of place.

A RIDDLE.

A riddle of riddles: Who'll give it a name?
A portrait of God in a worm-eaten frame.
A mount in his own eye--in others' a mite;
The foot-boy of Wrong, and the headsman of Right;
A vaunter of Virtue--yet dallies with Vice;
From the cope to the basement bought up at a price;
A vane in his friendship--in folly a rock;
In custom a time-piece--in manners a mock;
A fib under fashion--a fool under form;
In charity chilly--in wealth-making warm:
In hatred satanic--a lambkin in love;
A hawk in religion with coo of a dove;
A riddle unravelled--a story untold;
A worm deemed an idol if covered with gold.
A dog in a gutter--a God on a throne:
In slander electric--in justice a drone:
A parrot in promise, and frail as a shade;
A hooded immortal in life's masquerade;
A sham-lacquered bauble, a bubble, a breath:
A boaster in life-time--a coward in death.

TO A FLY:

BURNED BY A GAS-LIGHT.

Poor prostrate speck! Thou round and round
With wildering limp dost come and go;
Thy tale to me, devoid of sound,
Bears the mute majesty of woe.
In bounding pride of revelry,
Seared by the cruel, burning blast,
Thy fall instructive is to me
As fall of States and Empires vast.

No sounding theme from lips of fire,
No marvel of the immortal quill,
Can teach a moral, sterner--higher,
Than thou, so helpless and so still.
Reft as thou art by blistering burn--
Blinded and shorn--poor stricken Fly!
The wise may stoop and lessons learn
From thy unmeasured agony.

It tells how maid, in guileless youth,
Flies tow'rds her Love with trusting wing,
Bruises her heart 'gainst broken truth,
And falls, like thee, a crippled thing.
How man in bacchanalian sphere
Soars to the heat of Pleasure's sun,
Then, by gradations dark and drear,
Sinks low as thee, poor wingless one:
How hearts from proud Ambition's height
Have drooped to darkest, lowest hell--
From blazing noon to pitchy night,
With pangs a demon-tongue may tell:
How aspirations glory-fraught
Have gained the goal in dark despair;
How golden hopes have come to nought
But wailings in the midnight air.

There! and the life I ne'er could give
In pitying tenderness I've ta'en;
Far better thus to die, than live
A life of helpless, hopeless pain.
Ambitious hearts--high-vaulting pow'rs--
That aim to grasp life's distant sky,
See through the spirit-blinding hours
What wrought the fall of yonder Fly.

TO A FRIEND.

I fear to name thee. If I were
To do so, I could never tell
What virtues crown thy nature rare;
'Twould pain thy heart--I know it well.

Thou dost not ask for thy reward
In words that all the world may hear,
For thoughtful acts and kind regard
By thee for others everywhere.

Thou seek'st alone for grateful thought
From those to whom thy worth is known;
So for much good thine heart hath wrought
Find gratitude within mine own.

RETRIBUTION.

A spider once wove a right marvellous net,
Whose equal no human hand ever wove yet,
So complete in design was each beautiful fret,
And finished in every particular.
And the wily old architect, proud of his craft,
Ensconced in a snug little sanctum abaft,
Laid wait for the flies; and he chuckled and laughed,
As he pricked up his organs auricular.

A week had elapsed, and the spider still wrought
Fell ruin on all the frail flies that he caught;
All right rules of decency set he at nought:
Each meal made him much more rapacious.
But his foot got entangled one horrible hour,
As he rushed forth a poor screaming fly to devour,
And to get his leg free was far out of his pow'r,
Secure was our spider sagacious.

Where now is the beautiful fabric of gauze?
Behold! in the centre, by one of his claws,
A dead spider is hanging surrounded by flaws
And many a struggle-made fracture.
'Twas hard, in the height of his fly-killing fun,
And sad, in the light of a Summer-day sun,
To die all alone, as that spider had done,
In a mesh of his own manufacture.

THE THREE GRACES.

I.

Her hair is as bright as the sunbeam's light,
And she walks with a regal grace,
And she bares full proud to the empty crowd
The wealth of her wondrous face;
And her haughty smile thus speaks the while:
"Approach me on bended knee!"
She's a beautiful star I could worship afar,
But--her love's not the love for me.

II.

Her hair is as black as the raven's back,
And her face--what a queenly one;
And her voice ripples out like the trembling shout
Of a Lark when he sings to the sun;
But her form is filled with a soul self-willed
That would lord o'er a luckless he;
Pride reigns in her breast, like snow in a nest,
And--her love's not the love for me.

III.

Her hair--what mind I the tint of her hair,
When her eyes are the tenderest blue;
And her loving face bears many a grace
Lit up with a sunny hue?
When I find--O I find, that her heart is kind--
That she goes not abroad to see
The World--or be seen. Her love, I ween,
Is the love that was made for me.

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

Where now is the Summer's last Rose,
That reigned like a queen on the briar?
'T is faded! and o'er its grave glows
The glad warmth of Winter's first fire.

We welcome the Flame with delight,
As we welcomed the Rose in the Spring:
But the blossom's as nought in our sight
'Mid pleasures which Firesides bring.

And so with life's swallow-winged friends:
The Rose is adored in its day;
But when its prosperity ends
'T is cast like a puppet away.

THE STARLING AND THE GOOSE.

A FABLE.

A silly bird of waddling gait
On a common once was bred,
And brainless was his addle pate
As the stubble on which he fed;
Ambition-fired once on a day
He took himself to flight,
And in a castle all decay
He nestled out of sight.
"O why," said he, "should mind like mine
"Midst gosling-flock be lost?
"In learning I was meant to shine!"
And up his bill he tossed.
"I'll hide," said he, "and in the dark
"I'll like an owl cry out
("In wisdom owls are birds of mark),
"And none shall find me out!"
And so from turret hooted he
At all he saw and heard;
Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo! What melody!
And what a silly bird!
At length a Starling which had flown
Down on the Castle wall
Thus spake: "Why what a simple drone
"You are to sit and bawl!
"Though _you_ presume _an Owl_ to be,
"It's not a bit of use!
"Your body though folks cannot see
"They know the diff'rence--pardon me!
"Betwixt the screech of Owl up tree
"And the cackling of a Goose!"

THE HEROES OF ALMA.

OCTOBER, 1854.

Heaven speed you, Braves! Undaunted lion-hearts
Well have you thus redeemed a solemn trust,
And added, by your bright heroic deeds,
Another lustrous ray to deck the brow,
Of this the good Old Land, whose gladdened heart
Leaps forth for very joy and thankfulness,
Proud of the gallant sons she calls her own;
Right nobly have you ta'en the gauntlet up
Ambition flung before the world, and fought
'Gainst Evil, Might, and hated Despot-law;
Bled, conquered, clipped the wings of soaring Pride,
And earned in Serf-land such a brilliant name
Time's breath can never dim. But list!--a wail
Of sorrowing sadness sweeps across the Land,
With which the up-sent jubilant psalm is blent.
'Reft orphans' cries, in mournful cadence soft,
Sobs wrung from widows' broken, bleeding hearts;
And fond hoar-headed parents' sighs and tears,
Commingling all, merge in a requiem sad
For those brave hearts that fell in Freedom's cause.
Then let us plant Fame's laurels o'er their graves,
And keep them green with tears of gratitude.

A KIND WORD, A SMILE, OR A KISS.

There's a word, softly spoken, which leadeth
The erring from darkness and night;
There's an effortless action that sheddeth
A sun-world of gladdening light;
There's a sweet something-nothing which bringeth
A fore-taste of Paradise bliss:
Full and large is the love that up-springeth
From kind words, a smile, or a kiss.

Eyes a-plenty with tears have been blinded,
Hearts legion in sadness have bled,
And many of earth's angel-minded
In grief have gone down to the dead,
And the world, with its bright laughing gladness,
Oft changed to a frowning abyss,
By vain mortals refusing, in madness,
A kind word, a smile, or a kiss.

DEAR MOTHER I'M THINKING OF THEE.

NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1855.

In the hush of night, when the pale starlight
Through my casement silently steals;
When the Moon walks on to the bower of the Sun,
And her beautiful face reveals:
When tranquil's the scene, and the mist on the green
Lies calm as a slumbering sea,
From my lattice I peep, 'ere I lay down to sleep,
And whisper a prayer for thee:
Mother! Dear Mother!
O, blessings on thee!
From my lattice I peep, 'ere I lay down to sleep,
And think, dear Mother, of thee.

When the dew goes up from the white lily cup
In rose-coloured clouds to the sky;
When the voice of the Lark trembles out from the dark,
And the winds kiss the flowers with a sigh;
When the King of Dawn, like a world new-born,
Scatters love-light over the lea;
From my lattice I peep, when I wake from sleep,
And whisper a prayer for thee:
Mother! Dear Mother!
O, blessings on thee!
From my lattice I peep, when I wake from sleep,
And think, dear Mother, of thee.

THE HERON AND THE WEATHER-VANE.

A FABLE.

A weather-vane on steeple top
Had stood for many a day,
And every year a coat of gold
Increased his aspect gay.
Subservient to the changing air,
Each puff he'd quickly learn
To obey with sycophantic twist
And never-failing turn.

A Heron once, from lowly fen,
Soared up in stately flight;
But, striking 'gainst the gilded vane,
He fell in sorry plight:
And as, with wounded wing, he lay
Down in the marsh below,
He thus addressed the glittering thing,
The cause of all his woe:

"Vain upstart! 'tis from such as thee
That Merit, lowly born,
In striving oft to win a name,
Wins nought but bitter scorn:
But for such treacherous knaves as thou,
What crowds of souls would soar
With lofty swoop, that now, like me,
Will mount, Ah! never more!

It fits thee well, that lacquer suit,
Base flunkey as thou art!
Though bright, it never covered brain;
Though gilded, ne'er a heart!
Rather than wear upon my back
Such livery as thine,
I'd earn an honest crust, and make
The scullion's calling mine."

THE THREE MIRRORS.

A FABLE.

Three mirrors of the usual sort
Were gifted once with power of thought;
And as they hung against the wall
They felt that they were prophets all.
The first, a plate-glass o'er the fire;
The next, a concave, standing higher;
A portly convex 'tother side
Made up the three; and as he eyed
His brother mirrors, brilliant each,
Thus gave to thought the rein of speech:
"Such power as mine who ever saw?
If in my face without a flaw
Men chance to gaze, they taller seem
Than what they are: delightful scheme!
I like to elongate the truth;
What else but flattery pleases youth?
A boy who in my face should scan
Will grow as tall as any man!"
Says convex; "That is not the case
With me; for those who in _my_ face
Should chance to look, themselves will find
Turned into things of dwarfish kind.
To praise mankind is what I hate:
What says our neighbour, Master Plate?"
The plate-glass then essayed to speak;
Said he: "My friends, I never seek
So to distort the things I see
That none can tell what things they be.
I find it more convenient far
To show mankind just what they are!"
A table the dispute had heard,
And asked for leave to say a word.
"Agreed," rejoined the glassy crowd:
When thus the table spoke aloud:
"The virtues which you each would claim
As yours, are virtues but in name.
You, Concave, lessen what you see,
Though well you know 't should larger be.
While Convex, aye to flattery prove,
Makes mounts of what are mites alone.
Plain-spoken Plate, in wrong the least,
Would tell a beast it _was_ a beast,
Forgetting 'tis not always right
To judge from what appears in sight.
Your faces ought to blush for shame,
And yet you think you're not to blame!
You know that men are slow to think,
And will of _any_ fountain drink;
Who fear their brain's behest to do,
So frame their faith from such as you!
Judged by the simplest human rules,
You are the knaves--and they the fools."

THE TWO CLOCKS.

A FABLE.

A country dame, to early-rising prone,
Two clocks possessed: the one, a rattling Dutch,
Seldom aright, though noisy in its tone,
With naughty knack of striking two too much.
The other was a steady, stately piece,
That rang the hour true as the finger told:
For many a year 't had kept its corner place;
The owner said 'twas worth its weight in gold!
One washing-eve, the Dame, to rise at four,
Sought early rest, and, capped and gowned, did droop
Fast as a church, to judge from nasal snore,
That broke the silence with a hoarse hor-hoop:
When all at once with fitful start she woke;
For that same tinkling Dutchman on the stair
Had told the hour of four with clattering stroke,
And waked the sleeper ere she was aware.
"Odd drat the clock!" she sighed; but, knowing well
The cackling thing struck two at least a-head,
She turned; and back to such deep slumber fell,
But for her snore you might have thought her dead.
And so she slept till four o'clock was due,
When t'other time-piece truly told the tale;
Straightway the drowsy dame to labour flew,
And soon the suds went flirting round the pail.

MORAL.

Whoe'er breaks faith in petty ways
Will never hold a friend;
While he who ne'er a trust betrays
Gets trusted to the end.

SACRIFICIAL.

WRITTEN AFTER WITNESSING THE EXECUTION OF TWO
GREEK SAILORS AT SWANSEA, MARCH, 1859.

The morning broke fair, with a florid light,
And the lark fluttered upward in musical flight,
As the sun stept over the distant height
In mantle purple and golden.
The blue bounding billows in waltzing play
Lookt up in the face of the coming day,
And sang, as they danced o'er the sandy bay,
Their sea-songs mystic and olden.

High up, on the gable of yonder jail,
The workmen are plying with hammer and nail,
And the slow-rising framework hinteth a tale
Of mournful and sombre seeming.
'Tis the gibbet that rears its brow on high,
And the morn-breezes pass it with many a sigh,
As it stands gazing up to the fair blue sky
Like a spectre dumbly dreaming.

Through lane and alley: through alley and street
The echoes are startled by hurrying feet;
And thousands, in action fitful and fleet,
Press on to the execution.
The squalid-faced mother her baby bears;
And the father his boy on his shoulder rears:
The frail and the sinning emerge in pairs
From darkness and destitution.

Aloft on the gibbet two beings stand,
Whose foreheads are smirched with the murder-brand,
Whose lives, by the lawgivers bungling and bland,
Declared are to justice forfeit.
Below, like a statue stark and still,
A legion of faces, in brutish will,
Gaze up to the gallows with many a thrill,
And thirst for the coming surfeit.

But one more look at the silvery sea:
One thought of the lark in its musical glee;
One breath of the sweet breeze, balmy and free;
One prayer from two hearts that falter;
And Lo! in reply to a mortal's nod,
From the gibbet-tree dangle two pieces of clod,
Their souls standing face-to-face with their God,
Each wearing a hangman's halter.

Ah! shrink from the murderer; quaint, wise world
Yea: shudder at sight of him; sanctified world!
Go: plume him up deftly; clever old world!
Till he shines like a gilded excrescence:
Then strangle him dog-like--a civilised plan!
Quick! trample his life out: he's not of the clan:
He stinks in the nostrils of saintly man,
Though fit for the Infinite's presence!

WALES TO "PUNCH."

On his milking the amende honourable to Wales and the Welsh, in
some verses, the last of which was the following:

"And _Punch_--incarnate justice,
Intends henceforth to lick
All who shall scorn and sneer at you:
You jolly little brick."

I'm glad, old friend, that you your error see,
Of sneering where you cannot understand:
You've owned your fault: let by-gones by-gones be;
Past blows from _Punch_ forgetting--there's my hand.
Lick whom you list--creation if you please:
Let those who choose laugh at me: let them sneer;
I earn, before I eat, my bread and cheese;
I love my language; and I like my beer.
Content with what I have, so that it come
Through honest sources: happy at my lot,
I seek not--wish not--for a fairer home.
Hard work: my Bible: children: wife: a cot:
These are my birthright, these I'll strive to keep,
And round my humble hearth affection bind:
From Eisteddfodau untold pleasures reap;
And try to live at peace with all mankind.
Then glad am I that you your error see,
Of sneering where you cannot understand:
You've owned your fault: let by-gones by-gones be;
Past blows from _Punch_ forgetting--there's my hand.

WELCOME!

The following was written as a Prologue, to be read at the opening of the Wrexham National Eisteddfod, 1876. It was not successful in taking the offered prize, but as the adjudicator who made the award was pleased to say it was "above the average," I have thought its publication here will not be out of place.

Welcome! thrice welcome--one and all,
To this our Nation's Festival;
Be 't Peer or peasant; old or young:
Welcome! thrice welcome, friends among.
If Peer--no title that he bears--
No decoration that he wears--
Can the proud name of Bard excel,
Or pale the badge he loves so well.
If Peasant--he may here be taught
That none are poor who, rich in thought,
Possess in Mind's high utterings
A nobler heritage than kings.
If old--what once you were you'll see:
If young--what p'rhaps one day you'll be--
For youth yearns upward to the sage;
And childhood's joy delighteth age.
Come rich--come poor--come old and young,
And join our Feast of Art and Song.
What forms our banquet all shall know,
And hungry homeward none must go.
We boast not here of knife or platter;
Our feast is of the mind--not matter,
Along our festive board observe
No crystal fruit--no rare preserve:
No choice exotic here and there,
With wine cup sparkling everywhere:
No toothsome dish--no morsel sweet--
Such savoury things as people eat;
So if for these you yearn--refrain!
For these you'll look and long in vain.
Our Feast's composed of dainty dishes--
To suit far daintier tastes and wishes.
While for the splendour of our wine--
I've oftimes heard it called divine:
For who that drinks of Music's stream,
Or quaffs of Art's inspiring theme,
Shall say that both are things of earth--
That both are not of heavenly birth?
While gathered blossoms fade away,
The Poet's thoughts for ever stay--
E'en as the rose's perfumed breath
Survives the faded flow'ret's death.
No pleasure human hand can give
Is lasting--all things briefly live.
But sounds which flow from Minstrelsy
Vibrate through all eternity!
Then welcome! welcome! one and all,
To this, our Nation's Festival.
Come rich--come poor: come old and young
And join our Feast of Art and Song!

CHANGE.

In the Summer golden,
When the forests olden
Shook their rich tresses gaily in the morn;
And the lark upflew,
Sprinkling silver dew
Down from its light wing o'er the yellow corn;
When every blessing
Seem'd the earth caressing,
As though 'twere fondled by some love sublime,
Strong in her youthful hope,
Upon the sunny slope
A maid sat, dreaming o'er the happy time--
Dreaming what blissful heights were hers to climb.

In the Winter dreary,
When the willow, weary,
Hung sad and silent o'er the frozen stream;
And the trembling lark
Murmur'd, cold and stark,
In wailful pathos o'er its vanish'd dream;
When the bleak winds linger'd
And dead flowerets finger'd,
When all earth's graces, pale and coffin'd, slept,
With joys for ever flown,
In the wide world alone,
Over a broken faith a maiden wept--
Yet, with unswerving love, true vigil kept.

FALSE AS FAIR.

My heart was like the rosebud
That woos the Summer's glance,
And trembles 'neath its magic touch
As breeze-kisst lilies dance:
So, like the faithless Summer,
She kissed me with a sigh,
And woke my life to gladness,
Then passed in beauty by.
My heart was like the blossom
That blooms beside the brook,
And revels in its silvery laugh,
Its bright and sunny look:
So, like the graceful streamlet,
She kissed me with a sigh,
And woke my life to gladness,
Then passed in beauty by.

HEADS AND HEARTS.

The Head fell in love one day,
As young heads will oftentimes do;
What it felt I cannot say:
That is nothing to me nor to you:
But this much I know,
It made a great show
And told every friend it came near
If its idol should rove
It could ne'er again love,
No being on earth was so dear.

So Time, the fleet-footed, moved on,
And the Head knew not what to believe;
A whole fortnight its Love had been gone,
And it felt no desire to grieve.
Its passion so hot
In a month was forgot;
And in six weeks no trace could be found;
While, in two months, the Head,
Which should then have been dead,
For another was looking around.

The Heart fell in love one day:
The mischief was very soon done!
It tried all it could to be gay;
But loving, it found, was not fun.
For hours it would sit
In a moping fit,
And could only throb lively and free
When that one was near
Which it felt was so dear,
And when that one was absent--Ah, me!

So the days and the nights hurried on;
And the Heart nursed in silence its thought:
To a distance its idol had gone,
Then it felt how completely 'twas caught:
Other hearts came to sue:
To the absent 'twas true--
Loving better the longer apart:
Thus while Love in the head
Is very soon dead,
It is deathless when once in the heart.

FALL OF SEBASTOPOL.

1855.

"Advance!" was the cry that shot up to the sky
When the dawn of the day had begun;
And the steel glistened bright in the glad golden light
Of a glorious Eastern sun.
And the words rang clear, with no trembling fear--
"Brave Britons! on you I rely!"
And the answer pealed out with a mighty shout--
"Sebastopol falls, or we die!"
Advance!--Advance!--Men of England and France!
"Sebastopol falls, or we die!"
Now the death-storm pours, and the smoke up-soars,
And the battle rages with furious might,
And the red blood streams, and the fire-flash gleams,
And the writhing thousands--God! God! what a sight.
The hoarse-throated cannon belch fiery breath,
And hurl forth the murderous rain,
Which dances along on its message of death,
And sings o'er the dying and slain!
Crash! Crash! Then a leap and a dash!
Hand to hand--face to face, goes the fight;
The bayonets plunge, and the red streams plash,
And up goes a shout of delight--
"The enemy runs!--Men flinch from their guns!
On! Forward! For God and for Right!
Advance!--Advance!--Men of England and France!
Press forward, for Freedom and Right!
On--On--On! Hurrah! the goal's won;
See! the old colours flutter and dance,
And proudly they wave over Tyranny's grave:
Well done! Men of England and France--Hurrah!
Hurrah! for old England and France!"

TO LORD DERBY.

1877.

As the monarch that grows in the forest, and rears
Its brow ever green to the firmament bright,
So, stedfast and sturdy, thy proud form appears,
Of patriots the hope, and thy country's delight.

Through thy heart, firm and true as the oak trees that stand
In the soil of Old England--in which _thou_ hast grown,
There runs the same life which _they_ draw from the land,
And the heart of thy country 's the life of thine own.

With the seal of Nobility set by thy Sire,
Thou tread'st in his steps as thou bearest his name;
And the glow that he added to Albion's fire
Reflects through the Past and enhances thy fame.