Chapter V: Part THE THIRD (2)

Where Freedom is free'st, thou takest thy stand:
Where Tyranny threatens, thy misson is told;
And thy tongue, which we hail as the Voice of the Land,
Speaks the wish of a nation heroic and bold.

And bright will the name be of England, as long
As safe in thy keeping her honour remains--
'Twill stand 'mongst the noblest in story and song,
And be worthy the purest and loftiest strains.

UNREQUITED.

A beautiful Streamlet went dancing along,
With its bright brow fretted with flow'rs,
And it leapt o'er the woodland with many a song,
And laughed through the sunny hours.
Away and away!
All the blue Summer day,
The streamlet went laughing away.

A willow Tree grew near the light-hearted brook,
And hung o'er the Beauty in pride:
And he yearned night and day for a kiss or a look
From the streamlet that flowed at his side.
But away and away,
All the blue Summer day,
The streamlet went laughing away.

All his leaves and his blossom he shower'd on her head,
And would gladly have given his life:
But to all this affection the streamlet was dead,
And she laughed at the willow's heart-strife.
And away--away,
All the blue Summer day,
The streamlet went laughing away.

"Ah, me," quoth the willow: "how false was the dream!"
And, drooping, heart-broken he died;
While his last leaf in love he let fall on the stream
That so coldly flowed on at his side.
And away--away,
All the blue Summer day,
The streamlet went laughing away.

THE HOUSEHOLD SPIRIT.

A spirit stealeth up and down the stairs
Noiseless as thistle-down upon the wind:
So calm--so sweetly calm--the look it wears:
Meltful as music is its voice--and kind.
Like lustrous violets full of twinkling life
Two orbs of beauty light its face divine:
And o'er its cheeks a dainty red runs rife,
Like languid lilies flusht with rosy wine.
Its velvet touch doth soothe where dwells a pain;
Its glance doth angelize each angry thought;
And, like a rainbow-picture in the rain,
Where tears fall thick its voice is comfort-fraught.
How like a seraph bright it threads along
Each room erewhile so desolate and dark,
Waking their slumbering echoes into song
As laughs the Morn when uproused by the lark.
Methinks a home doth wear its heavenliest light
When haunted by so good, so fair a sprite.

HAD I A HEART.

Had I a heart to give away
As when, in days that now are o'er,
We watcht the bright blue billows play,
Roaming along the sounding shore;
When joys like Summer blossoms bloom'd,
When love and hope were all our own;
I'd bring that heart--to sadness doomed--
And let it beat for thee alone.

Had I a heart to give away,
Its daily thought in life would be,
Like yonder bird, with trembling lay,
To sing sweet songs, dear love, of thee.
But, ah! the heart that once was mine
Is mine, alas! no more to give;
And joys that once were joys divine
In mem'ry now alone can live.

A BRIDAL SIMILE.

Adown the world two grand historic streams
With stately flow moved on through widening ways,
Rich with the glory of life's noblest dreams,
Bright with the halo of life's sunniest days.
Out from their depths two blithesome streamlets ran,
O'er which the smiles of Heaven hourly shone;
Till, meeting: Ah! then life afresh began,
For both, embracing, mingled into one.

From yonder rose two crystal dewdrops hung
But yestermorn. The sun came forth and kissed
The gems that to the perfumed blossom clung,
And clothed them with a robe of purple mist.
The soft warm wind of Heaven gently breathed
Upon the twain: they hung no more apart;
But, with the sweetness of a rosebud wreathed,
Blent soul with soul and mingled heart with heart.

Live on, united pair: with love so blest
Your pathway ought but sunny may not be.
Live on, united pair: and be the breast
Of thornless roses yours unceasingly.
And as the river to the ocean flies
Be yours to pass as gently from life's shore:
Then, like sweet fragrance when the blossom dies,
Leave names to live in mem'ry evermore.

SONG.

They tell me thou art faithless, Love!
That vows thy lips have sworn--
The smiles which light thy lovely face--
Are false as April morn;
My brightest dreams of happiness
They wish me to forget:
But, No! the spell that won my love
Doth bind my spirit yet.

They tell me thou art faithless, Love!
And changeful as a dream:
They say thou'rt frail as drifts of sand
That kiss the laughing stream;
They whisper if I wed thee, Sweet!
My heart will know regret:
But, No! the spell that won my love
Doth bind my spirit yet.

I WOULD MY LOVE.

I would my Love were not so fair
In sweet external beauty:
And dreamt less of her charms so rare,
And more of homely duty.
The rose that blooms in pudent pride
When pluckt will pout most sorely;
P'rhaps she I'm wooing for my bride
Will grow more self-willed hourly.
Her form might shame the graceful fay's;
Her face wears all life's graces:
But wayward thoughts and wayward ways
Make far from pretty faces.

I would my Love were not so fair
(I mean it when I breathe it):
What though each hair be golden hair,
If temper ill dwells 'neath it?
Her lips would make the red rose blush,
Her voice trolls graceful phrases,
Her brow is calm as Evening's hush,
Her teeth as white as daises.
Her cheeks are fresh as infant Day's,
Round which cling Beauty's traces:
But wayward thoughts and wayward ways
Make far from pretty faces.

DEATH IN LIFE:

A TRUE STORY.

The following simple narrative is founded on fact. A young village couple married, and soon after their marriage went to live in London. Success did not follow the honest-hearted husband in his search for employment, and he and his young wife were reduced to actual want. In their wretchedness a child was born to them, which died in the midst of the desolate circumstances by which the young mother was surrounded. For three years the mother was deprived of reason--a gloomy period of Death in Life--and passionately mourned the loss of her first-born. An eminent London practitioner, to whom her case became known, was of opinion that reason would return should a second child be born to the disconsolate mother. This proved to be correct; and after three years of mental aberration the sufferer woke as from a dream. For many months after the awakening she was under the impression that her second child was her first-born, and only became aware of the true state of the case when it was gently broken to her by her husband.

I.

Lovely as a sunbright Spring is,
Yonder trembling maid advances,
Clothed in beauty like the morning--
Like the silver-misted morning--
With a face of shiny radiance,
Tinted with a tinge of blushes,
Like reflections from a goblet
Filled with wine of richest ruby.

Now she nears the low church portal--
Flickers through the white-washed portal,
Lighting up the sleepy structure,
As a sunbeam lights the drowsy
Blossom into wakeful gladness.
See! she stands before the altar,
With the chosen one beside her;
And the holy Mentor murmurs
Words that link their lives like rivets,
Which no force should break asunder.
Now the simple prayer is ended;
And two souls, like kissing shadows,
Mingle so no hand shall part them!
Mingle like sweet-chorded music;
Mingle like the sighs of Summer--
Like the breath of fruit and blossom;
Mingle like two kissing raindrops--
Twain in one. Thrice happy maiden!
Life to thee is like the morning,
As the fresh-faced balmy morning,
Full of melody and music;
Full of soft delicious fragrance;
Full of Love, as dew-soaked jasmins
Are of sweet and spicy odour;
Full of Love, as leaping streamlets
Are of life. Thrice happy maiden!

II.

Turn we to a lowly dwelling--
One amongst a million dwellings--
Where a mother silent rocketh
To-and-fro with down-let eyelids,
Gazing on her sleeping infant,
While the just-expiring embers
Smoulder through the gloomy darkness.
On the shelf a rushlight flickers
With a dull and sickly glimmer,
Turning night to ghostly, deathly,
Pallid wretchedness and sadness,
Just revealing the dim outline
Of a pale and tearful mother,
With a babe upon her bosom.
"Thus am I," she muttered, wailing,
"Left to linger lorn and lonely
In the morning of my being.
If 'twere not for thee, my sweet babe,
Lily of my life's dark waters--
Silver link that holds my sad heart
To the earth--I fain would lay me
Down, and sleep death's calm and sweet sleep.
Oh! how sweetly calm it must be.
In the green and silent graveyard,
With the moonlight and the daisies!
If 'twere not for thee, my loved one,
I could lay me down and kiss Death
With the gladness I now kiss thee.
Oh! how cold thy tiny lips are!
Like a Spring-time blossom frozen.
Nestle, dear one, in my bosom!"
And the mother presst the sleeper
Closer--closer, to her white breast:
Forward, backward--gently rocking;
While the rushlight flickered ghastly.
Hark! a footstep nears the dwelling;
And the door is flung wide open,
Banging backward 'gainst the table;
And a human being enters,
Flusht with liquor, drencht with water!
For the rain came down in torrents,
And the wind blew cold and gusty.
"Well, Blanche!" spake the thoughtless husband,
Not unkindly. "Weeping always."
"Yes, Charles, I could ne'er have slumbered
Had I gone to bed," she answered.
Then she rose to shut the night out,
But the stubborn wind resisted,
And, for spite, dasht through the crevice
Of the window. "Foolish girl, then,
Thus to wait for me!" he muttered.
When a shriek--so wild, so piercing--
Weirdly wild--intensely piercing--
Struck him like a sharp stiletto.
Then another--and another!
Purging clear his turbid senses.
"Blanche!" he cried; and sprang towards her
Just in time to save her falling;
And her child fell from her bosom,
Like a snow-fall from the house-top
To the earth. "Blanche! Blanche!" he gaspt out;
"Tell me what it is that pains thee."
But her face was still as marble.
Then he kissed her cheeks--her forehead--
Then her lips, and called out wildly:
"Blanche, my own neglected darling,
Look, look up, and say thou livest,
Speak, if but to curse thy husband--
Curse thy wretched, heartless husband."
Then her eyelids slowly opened,
And she gazed up in his white face,
White as paper as her own was!
"Charles!" she sighed, "I have been dreaming:
Is my child dead?" "No!" he answered,
"See, 'tis sleeping!" "Dead!" the mother
Murmured faintly, "Sleeping--sleeping!"
In a chair he gently placed her:
Then he stooped to take the child up,
Kisst and placed it on her bosom.
Frantic then the mother hugged it;
Gazed a moment; then with laughter
Wild, she made the room re-echo--
"They would take my bonny baby--
Rob me of my dainty darling,
Would they? Ha! ha! ha!" she shouted.
And she turned her large blue eyes up
With a strange and fitful gazing,
Laughing till the tears chased madly
Down her cheeks of pallid whiteness.
"Dear, dear Blanche!" her husband murmured,
Stretching out his hand towards her;
But she started wildly forward,
Crouched down in the furthest corner,
And, with face tear-dabbled over,
And her hair in long, lank tresses,
With a voice so low and plaintive
'Twould have won a brute to lameness,
Faintly sobbed she: "Do not take it!
Do not take it!--do not take it!"
And she hugged her infant closer,
Sobbing sadly, "Do not take it!"
"Blanche! dear Blanche!" her husband faltered,
With a voice low, husht, and chokeful,
"I--I am thy worthless husband!"
Then he walkt a step towards her;
But the girl with 'wildered features
Drew her thin hand o'er her forehead,
And in wandering accents muttered:
"Husband? Husband? No, not husband!
I am still a laughing maiden;
Yet methought I had been married,
And bore such a sweet, sweet baby--
Such a fair and bonny baby!
Baby--baby--hush; the wild winds
Sing so plaintive. Hush--h!" And then she
Laid the child upon the cold floor,
And, with hair in wild disorder,
Laughing, crying, sobbing, talking,
O'er it hung, like March a-shivering
O'er the birth of infant April.
Lightly then her husband toucht her
On the shoulder; but she look'd not--
Spake not--moved not. Slowly rose she
From her kneeling, crouching posture;
And she stood a hopeless dreamer,
With the child a corpse beside her!

III.

In a dry and sun-parch'd graveyard,
In a small corpse-crowded graveyard,
With the lurid sky above it,
With the smoke from chimneys o'er it,
With the din of life around it--
Din of rushing life about it;
Sat a girlish, grief-worn figure,
Croucht up in the darkest corner,
With her pallid face turned upwards;
To and fro in silence rocking
On a little mound of dark dirt.
Like a veiled Nun rose the pale moon,
Draped about with fleecy vapour;
And the stars in solemn conclave
Came to meet her--came to greet her,
To their convent home to bear her:
She had soared above the dingy
Earth, and left the world behind her.
As she passed she lookt down sadly,
Gazed with silent, noble pity,
At the girlish, grief-worn figure,
Sitting in the darkest corner
Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard,
With her pallid face turned upwards,
On a little mound of dark dirt.
Round about from windows flickered
Lights, which told of inside revels;
Rooms, with mirth and banquets laden,
Sobbing kisses, soft embraces,
Feasts of Love, and feasts of Pleasure,
Ruby lips, and joyous laughter.
Then the buzz of life grew softer,
Broken only by the tramping
Of a troop of bacchanalians,
Reeling through the streets deserted,
With their loud uproarious language.
Still the girlish, grief-worn figure,
Croucht in dark and dreary corner
Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard,
With her pallid face turned upwards,
On a little mound of dark dirt.
The gray herald of the Morning,
Dapple-clad, came forth to tell the
Sleepy world his Lord was coming.
Straight the drowsy buildings leapt up
Like huge giants from their slumber,
And, with faces flusht and ruddy,
Waited for the King of Morning!
Lo! he comes from far-off mountains,
With a glory-robe about him,
With a robe of gold and purple;
And a buzz of mighty wonder
Rises as, with step majestic,
And with glance sublime, he walks on,
Gathering his robe about him,
To his West-embowered palace,
Still the girlish, grief-worn figure,
Croucht in dark and dreary corner
Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard,
With her pallid face turned upwards,
To and fro in silence rocking,
On a little mound of black dirt!
When the box which held her treasure
Had been borne from home and buried,
She had followed, undetected;
And when all had left the graveyard
She had crept to that small hillock,
Trembling like a half-crusht lily;
Yearning towards the child beneath her,
Yet, the while, to earth-life clinging
By a link--bruised but unbroken.
Whilst at home her frantic husband
Called aloud in vain for "Blanche!"

IV.

Hours flew by like honey-laden
Bees, with sting and honey laden:
Days, like ghostly shadows, flitted
By; and weeks and months rolled onward
With a never-ceasing rolling,
Like the blue bright waves a-rolling,
Never quiet--never ending!
Still the girlish, grief-worn figure,
Might be seen, with vacant glances,
Threading through life's rushing whirlpool--
Gliding, like a sunbeam, o'er it--
To that small corpse-crowded graveyard;
Where for hours she'd sit and murmur,
With a wild and plaintive wailing;
"Come back, darling! Come back, darling;
Come, for I am broken-hearted."
When at home, with nimble fingers
Oft she'd clothe a doll and call it
Her sweet babe--her darling baby--
Her long-absent, long-lost baby!
Her fair bonny-featured baby!
And her husband would bend o'er her,
With low words of pure affection--
As when first he woo'd and won her.
And her home was not the dungeon--
The sad, dark, and dismal dungeon--
The cold death-vault of her infant,
With the drear and ghastly rushlight:
But a home of cottage comfort,
Every sweet of love and loving.
Yes! the wan and pallid mother
Found on that dark night, a husband--
Found a home; but--lost her reason!

V.

"Do not, for the world, awake her!
'Twere her death-knell to awake her!"
Urged the old and careful nursewife.
"Let me look but for a moment--
Gaze but for one little moment!"
'Twas the voice of Charles that pleaded:
Softly, then, he drew the curtain,
Gently, fearful, drew the curtain--
"Charles!--dear Charles!" a faint voice murmured,
In a tone so weak and lowly,
Sweetly weak and soul-subduing.
"Blanche!--my sweet one!" gasp'd the husband,
"Dost thou know me?--God, I thank thee!"
Then he threw his arms around her,
And, amidst a shower of kisses,
Truest, purest, grateful kisses,
Drew the loved one to his bosom:
And the babe that nestled near her
Covered he with warm caresses.
Reason, like a golden sunbeam
On a lily-cup, had lightened
Her sweet soul so dark and turbid--
For three years so darkly turbid;
Three long years so dark and turbid.
"Charles, my dream has been a sad one,"
Spake she, like expiring music,
Shadowed with a mournful sadness.
"I have dreamt they stole my baby,
Buried my dear, darling infant!"
Then she took the babe and kiss'd it,
Presst it to her snowy bosom;
And, with voice low, soft, and grateful,
Murmured, "Charles, I am _so_ happy!
Do not weep--I'm _very_ happy!"

VI.

Reader! 'tis no idle fiction:
Once a lovely, laughing maiden--
Lovely as a Summer morning,
Lived and loved, as I have told thee;
Lost her babe, as I have told thee;
And a mental night came o'er her
Like a ghastly, gaping fissure,
Like a chasm of empty darkness.
As a new-made grave in Summer
Bulges up dark and unsightly,
With the bright blue sky above it,
And the daisies smiling round it,
So, with all its doleful darkness,
Fell the dream of that fair suff'rer
O'er her mind with inward canker,
Like a slug upon the rose-leaf!
Then she woke, as I have told thee,
After three years' trance-like sleeping,
Knowing not she had been sleeping;
And for months she never doubted
That the child she loved and fondled
Was lier long-dead darling first-born!
Happy hearts all feared to tell her:
Death in Life again they dreaded.

Now no Death in Life they fear;
Blanche is happy all the year.

SONG OF THE STRIKE.

1874.

With features haggard and worn;
With a child in its coffin--dead;
With a wife and sons o'er a fireless hearth,
In a hovel with never a bed;
While the wind through lattice and door
Is driving the sleet and rain,
A workman strong, with sinews of steel,
Sits singing this dismal refrain:
Strike! Strike! Strike!
Let the bright wheels of Industry rust:
Let us earn in our shame
A pauper's name,
Or eat of a criminal crust.

Ah! What though the little ones die,
And women sink weary and weak;
And the paths of life, with suffering rife,
Be paved with the hearts that break?
While souls, famine-smitten and crusht,
Seek food in the skies away,
This workman strong, with sinews of steel,
Sits singing his terrible lay:
Strike! Strike! Strike!
Let the bright wheels of Industry rust:
Let us earn in our shame
A pauper's name,
Or eat of a criminal crust.

And while the dark workhouse gate
Is besieged by a famishing crowd,
Forge, hammer, and mine, with their mission divine,
Lie dumb, like a corpse in a shroud.
And Plenty, with beckon and smile,
Points up at the golden rain
That is ready to fall to beautify all,
But is checked by the dread refrain:
Strike! Strike! Strike!
Let the bright wheels of Industry rust:
Let us earn in our shame
A pauper's name,
Or eat of a criminal crust.

Alas! That a spirit so brave,
That a heart so loyal and true,
Should crouch in the dust with a sightless trust
At the nod of a selfish few.
Alas! That the olden ties--
The links binding Master and Man-- (_a_)
Should be broken in twain, and this ghostly refrain
Cloud all with its shadowy ban:
Strike! Strike! Strike!
Let the bright wheels of Industry rust:
Let us earn in our shame
A pauper's name,
Or eat of a criminal crust.

(_a_) In a recent address to his workmen, Mr. Robert Crawshay, the extensive ironmaster, of Cyfarthfa Castle, said: "The happy time has passed, and black times have come. You threw your old master overboard, and took to strangers, and broke the tie between yourselves and me. When the deputation came up to me at the Castle, and I asked them to give me a fortnight to work off an old order of rails, and they refused, I then told them the old tie was broken; and from that day to this it has."

NATURE'S HEROES.

DEDICATED TO THE WELSH MINERS WHO BRAVELY
RESCUED THEIR FELLOWS AT THE INUNDATION
OF THE TYNEWYDD COLLIERY.

FRIDAY, APRIL 20TH, 1877. (_a_)

Hero from instinct, and by nature brave,
Is he who risks his life a life to save;
Who sees no peril, be it e'er so great,
Where helpless human lives for succour wait;
Who looks on death with selfless disregard;
Whose sense of duty brings its own reward.
Such are the Braves who now inspire my pen:
Pride of the gods--and heroes among men.
The warrior who, on glorious battle plain,
Falls bravely fighting--dies to live again
In fame hereafter: this he, falling, knows;
And painless hence are War's most painful blows.
This is the hope that buoys his latest breath,
Stanches the wound, and plucks the sting from death.
But humbler hearts that sally forth to fight
'Gainst foes unseen, in realms of pitchy night,
Ne'er dreaming that the chivalrous affray
Will e'er be heard of--more than heroes they,
And more deserving they their country's praise
Than nobler names that wear their country's bays.
Duty, which glistens in the garish beam
That makes it beautiful--as jewels gleam
When sunlight pours upon them--lacks the pow'r,
The grandeur, which, in dark and secret hour,
Crowns lowly brows with bravery more bright
Than fame achieved in Glory's dazzling light.
Nature's heroics need but suns to shine
To show the world their origin divine:
And as the plant in darksome cave will grow
Whether warm sunshine bless its face or no,
A secret impulse yearning day and night
In hourly striving tow'rds the unseen light,
So lives the hero-germ in every heart--
Of earthy life the bright, the heavenly part:
The pow'r that brings the blossom from the sod,
And gives to man an attribute of God.

(_a_) Four men and a boy were entombed for nine days, from noon on Wednesday, April 11th, to mid-day on Friday, April 20th, in the Tynewydd Pit, Rhondda Valley. They were at length rescued by the almost super-human efforts of a band of brave workers, who, at the risk of their lives, cut through 38 yards of the solid coal-rock in order to get at their companions, working day and night, and, at times, regarding every stroke a prelude to almost certain death. Their heroic exertions were crowned with success, and they received the recorded thanks of their Queen and country, having the further honour bestowed upon them of being the first recipients of the Albert medal, given by Her Majesty for acts of exceptional bravery.

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE CHILD.

He came:
As red-lipt rosebuds in the Summer come:
A tiny angel, let from Heav'n to roam,
With laughing love to clothe our childless home
The God-sent cherub came.

He lived
One little hour; What bliss was in the space!
Our lives that day were fringed with fresher grace
And in the casket of our darling's face
What honeyed hopes were hived.

He droopt:
And o'er our souls a mighty sorrow swept,
With many fears the night-long watch we kept,
Tearful and sad: Yet even as we wept
Our star-faced beauty droopt.

He died:
And darksome grew our life's bright morning sun.
Gloomy the day so radiantly begun.
What joy, what joy, without our darling one,
Is all the world beside?

Tis past:
The perfumed rosebud of our life is dead:
Helpless we bend, and mourn the cherub fled,
Even as the bruisëd reed bends low its head
Before the cruel blast.

MAGDALENE.

Penitent! Penniless!
Where can she go?
Her poor heart is aching
With many a woe.
Repentant--though sinning:
Remorseful and sad,
She weeps in the moonlight
While others are glad.
Shrink not away from her,
Stained though she be:
She once, as the purest,
Was sinless and free:
And penitence bringeth
A shroud for her shame:
Hide it forgetfully;
Pity--nor blame.

Penniless! Penitent!
Gone every hope:
Warm lights are gleaming
From basement to cope.
Plenty surroundeth her:
Starving and stark,
Lonely she pleadeth
Out in the dark.
The cold moon above her,
The black stream below,
No friendly voice near her:
Where can she go?
Turned every face from her
Closed every door:
Plash in the moonlight!
She pleadeth no more.

LOVE WALKS WITH HUMANITY YET.

Though toilers for gold stain their souls in a strife
That enslaves them to Avarice grim,
Though Tyranny's hand fills the wine cup of life
With gall, surging over the brim;
Though Might in dark hatefulness reigns for a time,
And Right by Wrong's frownings be met;
Love lives--a guest-angel from heaven's far clime,
And walks with humanity yet.

And still the world, Balaam-like, blind as the night,
Sees not the fair seraph stand by
That beckons it onward to Morning and Light,
Lark-like, from the sod to the sky;
Love, slighted, smiles on, as the Thorn-crown'd of old,
Sun-featured and Godlike in might,
Its magic touch changing life's dross into gold,
Earth's darkness to Paradise bright.

As gems on Death's fingers flash up from the tomb
And rays o'er its loneliness shed;
As flowerets in early Spring tremblingly bloom
Ere Winter's cold ice-breath has fled;
So Love, rainbow-like, smiles through sadness and tears,
Bridging up from the earth to the sky;
The grave 'neath its glance a bright blossom-robe wears,
As the Night smiles when Morn dances by.

The rich mellow sunshine that kisses the earth,
The flow'rs that laugh up from the sod,
The song-birds that psalm out their jubilant mirth
Heart-rapt in the presence of God,
The sweet purling brooklet, with voice soft and low,
The sea-shouts, like peals from above,
The sky-kissing mountains, the valleys below,
All tell us to live and to love.

THE TWO TREES.

A FABLE.

Two trees once grew beside a running brook:
An Alder, one, of unassuming mien:
His mate, a Poplar, who, with lofty look,
Wore, with a rustling flirt, his robe of green.
With pompous front the Poplar mounted high,
And curried converse with each swelling breeze;
While Alder seemed content to live and die
A lowly shrub among surrounding trees.

And many a little ragged urchin came
And plucked the juicy berries from the bough
Of teeming Alder, trading with the same,
Thus earning oft an honest meal, I trow:
But stuck-up Poplar glanced with pride supreme
At such low doings--such plebeian ties--
Cocked up his nose, and thought--oh! fatal dream!--
To grow, and grow, until he reached the skies.

Each Autumn Alder brought forth berries bright,
And freely gave to all who chose to take:
Each Summer, Poplar added to his height,
And wore his robe with loftier, prouder shake,
One day the woodman, axe on shoulder, came,
And laid our soaring Poplar 'mongst the dead,
Stripped off his robe, and sent him--O the shame!--
To prop the gable of a donkey shed.

MORAL.

Whoe'er, like Alder, strives to aid
The lowly where he can,
Shall win respect from every soul
That bears the stamp of man:
But he who, Poplar-like, o'er-rides
Poor mortals as they pass,
Will well be used if used to prop
A stable for an ass.

STANZAS:

WRITTEN IN THE SHADOW OF A VERY DARK CLOUD.

"Never saw I the righteous forsaken,"
Once sang the good Psalmist of old;
"Nor his seed for a crust humbly begging."
How oft has the story been told!
But the story would ne'er have been written,
Had the writer but lived in our day,
When thousands with hunger are smitten--
No matter how plead they or pray.

They may say there's a lining of silver
To the darkest--the dreariest cloud:
That garniture, white fringe, and flowers,
Grace the black pall, the coffin, and shroud.
But the lining at best is but vapour;
Silk and lacquer to nothingness fade
After hearts in their sorrow have broken
O'er the wrecks which Adversity made.

They may say that the box of Pandora
Holds reward in the bottom at last
For those who strive on in the searching.
And forget the fierce blows of the Past.
But late comes the voice of approval,
And worthless the cup and the crust,
When, in striving, by Death overtaken,
We lie lone and low in the dust.

They may say that right-living and thinking
Will keep the grim wolf from the door;
But how many Saints are there sinking
Whose crime is to live and be poor!
Let the knave promulgate the deception,
And dress the world's wounds with such salve;
It is false--while rank Villainy prospers,
And Virtue 's permitted to starve.

They may say--but mankind is a fiction
That puzzles the wisest to read;
And life is a vast contradiction--
A fable--a folly indeed.
He happy in heart is who careth
No jot for mankind or its ways,
To defy the world's frown he who dareth,
Unconscious of blame or of praise.

VERSES:

WRITTEN AFTER READING A BIOGRAPHY OF HIS GRACE
THE DUKE OF BEAUFORT, TO WHOM THESE LINES
ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.

1877.

Like a Sea with its source in the distance belost,
That upholds on its breast and contains in its heart
Countless treasures and gems of which none know the cost--
All the brightest achievements of Science and Art:

So the proud race of Somerset flows down the Past,
With its Statesmen and Warriors--kinsmen of Kings:
With its learning and culture--its heritage vast--
And its virtues which inborn Nobility brings.

In the Wars of the Roses three Somersets gave
Up their lives for their Monarch in danger's dark hour,
And the rain of their hearts'-blood that watered each grave
Brought a still brighter flush to their Destiny's flow'r.

And when men the fair features of Liberty smeared
With the stain of Licentiousness through the dark Past,
'Twas a Somerset England's proud Standard upreared
O'er the stronghold of Raglan--and bled to the last:

A stronghold whose name once a Warrior bore
Who with courage undaunted chivalrously led
The brave soldiers of England through carnage and gore;
Where a Czar bade defiance--a Somerset bled.

Long the foremost in loyalty, forum, and field;
Where the sword wins renown or where politics grace:
Always first to be doing--the latest to yield:
All these are the virtues, the pride of thy race.

In the face of thy life like a mirror we see
All the lives of true Englishmen shaped as thine own,
For the tastes and pursuits which form nature in thee
Are the food from whose sustenance Britons have grown.

When Philanthropy leads, in its fights for the Poor,
No sincerer heart follows more keenly than thine;
For there's nought else in life hath more pow'r to allure,
Where the soul takes delight in the mission divine.

All the ages the wild storms of Faction have raved,
Though alluring the paths in which traitors have trod,
Not a moment hast thou or thine ancestors waived
In your love for Old England, its Throne, and its God.

A SIMILE.

In early Morning, tall and gaunt,
Our shadows reach across the street;
Like giant sprites they seem to haunt
The things we meet.

But at noon-tide more dwarfed they fall
Around about each sun-crown'd thing;
Yet lengthen out, and grow more tall,
Towards evening.

And thus Dependence among men
Is largely seen in Childhood's stage;
At Mid-life hides; but comes again
With hoary age.

THE TWO SPARROWS.

A FABLE.

Two Sparrows, prisoned in a room,
Kept, every now and then,
Dashing against the window-panes,
Which threw them back again:
And many a time, with trembling heart,
They flew towards the light,
But something which they could not see
Still stopped them in their flight:

A-tired they hopped about the floor,
And watched the sunshine gay,
And each one asked within himself
"Why ca'nt I get away?"
Another try: another dash,
As though with heart and soul;
And one, by chance, the barrier broke,
And bounded through the hole.

His comrade heard the merry chirp
He gave till out of sight,
Then, fluttering round, to free himself
He tried with all his might.
But at that moment Puss came in,
And on him cast an eye,
Then took the trembler in her claws
And taught him how to die.

MORAL.

How oft in life, though never meant,
Men gain their point by Accident,
Or Chance--that foe to 'stablished rules;
The guiding-star of knaves and fools.

FLOATING AWAY.

A maiden sat musingly down by the side
Of Life's river that flowed at her feet,
And she watcht the dark stream 'neath the willows glide
In its voiceless and stately retreat.
'Twas a solemn tide--
Deep, dark, and wide,
And fringed with a sedgy fray:
In the morning--at night--
Through darkness and light,
It floated--floated away.

The maid was light-hearted, with features as fair
As the sunbeams that played o'er her face,
And her bosom was garnisht with flowerets rare
That gave to it many a grace:
And she playfully sung,
As she plucked and flung
Each blossom as bright as the day
From her breast to the stream
That like a drear dream
Went floating--floating away.

The sun in its brightness illumined the sky;
The lark loudly carolled aloft;
The breezes swept onward with many a sigh,
And kissed with caresses soft.
Still, still the fair maid
By the dark river strayed,
And flung forth in thoughtless play
Each bud from her breast
In wilful unrest,
And laught as it floated away.

Up the tall pine trees clomb the shadows of eve
To welcome the coming night;
And the recreant bird in the twilight was heard
Wending nest-ward in plaintive plight;
When, too long delay'd,
In haste rose the maid
Heart-tired of her flirting play.
And she saw the last gleam
Of her flow'rs down the stream
Floating--floating away.

The blossoms so chaste that had made her more fair
With their sweetness, their perfume, and light,
Were gone--and her bosom, now cheerless and bare,
Grew cold in the dewy night.
Thus they who, in youth,
Mistake flirting for truth,
And fritter their love but in play,
Will behold, like the maid,
All their brightest charms fade,
And floating for ever away.

A FLORAL FABLE.

A sweet geranium once, in pride of place
'Mongst rare exotics in a Palace lived;
With watchful care from tender hands it thrived,
Standing in lofty sphere with odorous grace.

The smiling Sun, each morning making call,
Such tender looks and such sweet kisses gave,
That in a little time, true as I live,
He to the tender flow'r was all in all.

But true love's course, 'tis said, ne'er smooth did run:
The pretty flower was sent, now here, now there,
Until at length she found more humble sphere,
Far, far removed from kisses of the sun.

Here, with dejected look, she pined anew,
Placed in the lattice of a lowly cot,
In pent-up alley, fever-fraught and hot,
And wore from day to day a sicklier hue.

No blessed sunlight flusht her dainty cheek,
No cooling breeze refreshed her pallid brow,
Droopful she stood--methinks I see her now,
Nursing the grief of which she might not speak.

A blinding wall shut out her darling sun,
Tow'rds which, with prayerful arm, she hourly reached
In mute appeal; and lovingly beseeched,
As 'twere, to gaze upon the worshipped one.

No soul e'er panted its dear love to see
With dreams more tender than the dying plant--
Hoping and yearning, with a hungering want,
Sun-ward in all her heart's idolatry.

But Ah! the fickle sun, from flow'r to flow'r,
In lusty love did revel all the day,
Nor thought of her, now dying far away,
Whom he had kissed through many a rosy hour.

In dead of night, when great hearts die, the storm
Swept down the barrier that blocked out the light,
And in the morn, refreshing, pure, and bright,
The sun came leaping in, so soft and warm.

But sunshine came too late. The blossom brave,
While yearning for dear light and warmth, had died.
As men will sometimes die waiting the tide
That flows at length to eddy round--a grave.

"RING DOWN THE CURTAIN."

"Ring down the Curtain" were the last dying words of a young and beautiful American actress, who died of consumption when in the zenith of her popularity.

Ring down the curtain;
So ends the play!
Night-time is coming;
Past is the day.
Sang I in sadness
Adorned with a smile;
Pourtraying gladness
And dying the while!
How my brow burneth--
With fever oppressed:
How my heart yearneth
For silence and rest.
Soothe me to slumber:
Why should ye sigh?
Ring down the curtain;
'Tis pleasant to die!

Ring down the curtain:
Critics depart!
The end of your blaming--
A wearisome heart:
Fame which your praise brought--
A Summer-day cloud:
Fruit of my toiling--
A coffin and shroud!
Light though, and fitful,
The dreams of my life,
My soul like a vessel
From ocean of strife
Calmly and peaceful
To her haven doth fly:
Ring down the curtain--
'Tis pleasant to die!

THE TELEGRAPH POST.

A FABLE.

A telegraph post by the roadside stood
In a village humble and fair,
And he raised his head, did this column of wood,
As high as he could in the air:
"Oh, Oh!" quoth he, as along the wire
The news from the wide world through
Hurried backwards and forwards in words of fire,
Breathing promises fair, or threatenings dire,
Never heeding the post as they flew.

"Oh, Oh!" quoth he: "That I should stand here
"And bear on my shoulders high
"Such an upstart lot, who no manners have got
"To pass _me_, who upraises them, by!
"I'll stand it no longer,"--and thinking, no doubt,
To bring down the wires in his fall,
He stumbled: but no! for above and below
The other posts stood--the wires wouldn't let go:
And our post couldn't tumble at all.

And there he hung like a helpless thing,
Till his place by another was ta'en;
And the foolish post with dry sticks a host
On the firewood stack was lain.
"You ignorant dolt!" said a Raven wise
Who sat on the wall bright in feather--
"You must have been blind. When to tumble inclined
"You should with your neighbouring posts have combined
And have all stood or fallen together."

MORAL.

Units, as units, are helpless things
In the soul-stirring struggles of life;
But Success is the laurel which Unity brings
To crown the true heart in the strife.

BREAKING ON THE SHORE.

I saw the sunbeams dancing o'er the ocean
One Summer-time. Bright was each laughing wave;
I felt a thrill to see their sweet emotion,
Each happy in the kiss the other gave:
But Winter came with all its storm and sadness,
And every wave that kissed and smiled before
Bid long farewell to dreams of sunny gladness
And broke its heart upon the stony shore.

So like the Summer crown'd with many a blessing
She dawn'd upon this lonely heart of mine:
And life grew lovely with her sweet caressing
As blooms the thorn claspt by the bright woodbine:
But now, Alas! in churchyard bleak she's lying,
And dearest joys are gone to come no more:
Like yonder wave, for absent sunbeam sighing,
My heart with grief is breaking on life's shore.

HURRAH FOR THE RIFLE CORPS

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED IN 1856.

The fair Knights of old, with trappings of gold,
And falchions that gleamed by their side,
Went forth to the fight with hearts gay and light
To war 'gainst Oppression and Pride:
And though long since dead, it must not be said
That the proud reign of Chivalry 's o'er--
There are many as bold as the brave Knights of old
To be found in the Rifle Corps.
Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps;
May they ever be ready to stand
In defence of the Right, and be willing to fight
For the Queen and their native land.

Old England intends with the world to be friends,
While Honour with Peace is combined;
But the moment her foe lifts his hand for a blow,
All friendship she flings to the wind.
Should an enemy dare e'en as much as prepare
To bring War's alarms to our shore,
He will find every coast bristling o'er with a host
Of the brave-hearted Rifle Corps.
Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps;
May they ever be ready to stand
In defence of the Right, and be willing to fight
For the Queen and their native land.

Let the wine goblet brim with red wine to the rim--
Let Beauty look on all the while,
As with eyes that approve in the language of love
She crowns the proud toast with a smile:
May each Rifle be seen round the Throne and the Queen
Should danger e'er threaten our shore:
And with many a shout let the echo ring out--
Three cheers for the Rifle Corps!
Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps;
May they ever be ready to stand
In defence of the Right, and be willing to fight
For the Queen and their native land.

CAREFUL WHEN YOU FIND A FRIEND.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

O if in life you'd friends obtain,
Be careful how you choose them;
For real friends are hard to gain,
And trifling things may lose them.
Hold out your hand to every palm
That reaches forth to greet you;
But keep your heart for those alone
Who with pure friendship meet you.
Then if in life a friend you'd find,
Be careful how you choose one;
True friends are scarce among mankind:
A trifling thing may lose one.

A friend your heart may now relieve,
And one day want relieving;
So if from others you'd receive
Ne'er shrink from wisely giving.
Be grateful when you find a friend--
The heart that's thankless--spurn it;
Let conscience guide you to the end--
Take friendship and return it.
Then if in life a friend you'd find,
Be careful how you choose one;
True friends are scarce among mankind:
A trifling thing may lose one.

When days grow cold the swallow flies,
Till sunshine bright returneth;
When life grows dark false friendship dies:
True friendship brighter burneth.
An angel fair, twin-born of Love,
It lights life's pathway for us;
And like the stars that shine above,
At night beams brighter o'er us.
Then if in life a friend you'd find,
Be careful how you choose one;
True friends are scarce among mankind:
A trifling thing may lose one.

BROTHERLY LOVE.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

There's a place in this world, free from trouble and strife,
Which the wise try their hardest to find,
Where the heart that encounters the sharp thorns of life
Will meet nought that's harsh or unkind;
Where each tries his best to make joy for the rest--
In sunshine or shadow the same;
Where all who assemble in Friendship's behest
Are Brothers in heart and in name.
Let brotherly love continue--
Let the flag of the Craft be unfurled;
We 'll join hand-in-hand
While united we stand:
'Tis the way to get on in the world.

There's a pleasure in life go wherever we may,
'Tis one of all pleasures the best--
To meet as we travel by night or by day
One friend that's more true than the rest.
Whose heart beats responsive to Friendship and Love,
In Faith, Hope, and Charity's call;
Who, blind to our follies, is slow to reprove,
And friendly whate'er may befal.
Let brotherly love continue--
Let the flag of the Craft be unfurled;
We 'll join hand-in-hand
While united we stand:
'Tis the way to get on in the world.

Then let us, my brothers, through life's busy scene,
Should sadness or sorrow appear,
Be true to our promise, as others have been,
And strive the dark pathway to cheer.
Our stay is but short in this valley below;
On all sides we troubles may scan;
Let us help one another wherever we go,
And make them as light as we can.
Let brotherly love continue--
Let the flag of the Craft be unfurled;
We 'll join hand-in-hand
While united we stand:
'Tis the way to get on in the world.

ENGLAND AND FRANCE.

WRITTEN DURING THE CRIMEAN WAR.

(FOR MUSIC.)

Let the proud Russian boast of his granite-bound coast,
And his armies that challenge the world;
Let him stand in his might against Freedom and Right,
With his flag of Oppression unfurled:
Old England and France hand-in-hand will advance
In the wide path of Progress and Glory,
That will win them a name on the bright scroll of Fame,
Everlasting in song and in story.
Old England and France, then, for ever;
Brave France and Old England for ever;
And while the world stands may the glorious Twin-lands
Be united in friendship together.

Both by land and by sea this land of the free--
Britannia, the Queen of the wave,
Proudly stands side by-side, and in Friendship allied,
With France, the gallant and the brave:
Whilst the stern Tyrant raves at his nobles and slaves,
Old England and France frown defiance,
And both bravely press on till the goal shall be won--
Then Hurrah! for the glorious alliance!
Old England and France, then, for ever;
Brave France and Old England for ever;
And while the world stands may the glorious Twin-lands
Be united in friendship together.

AGAINST THE STREAM.

(FOR MUSIC.)

How oft, in life's rough battle, we,
Struck down by hard adversity,
In saddest hour of trial see
No friend with helping hand.
Then in despair beneath the wave
We sink, with none to help or save.
When if we 'd been both bold and brave
We might have reached the land.
Should things go wrong this is the plan;
Forget the past as best you can,
Then turn your sleeves up like a man
And pull against the stream.

Yes, pull against the stream, my friends;
That lane is long which never ends;
That bow ne'er made which never bends
To shoot its arrow home.
If twenty times you miss your aim,
Or ten times twenty lose the game,
Keep up your spirits all the same--
Your turn is sure to come.
Should things go wrong this is the plan;
Forget the past as best you can,
Then turn your sleeves up like a man
And pull against the stream.

In love or pleasure, work or play,
Men cannot always win the day,
For mixed among life's prizes gay
What hosts of blanks are found.
Though skies to-day be overcast--
Though bitter blows the wintry blast--
The Summer days will come at last
With hope and sunshine crown'd.
Should things go wrong this is the plan;
Forget the past as best you can,
Then turn your sleeves up like a man,
And pull against the stream.

WRECKED IN SIGHT OF HOME.

(FOR MUSIC.)

The ship through the sunshine sails over the sea,
From many a distant clime comes she,
Freighted with treasure, see how she flies
Cheerily over the foam.
Hearts are all happy, cheeks are all bright,
The long-absent land appears in sight;
Little they dream that the beautiful prize
Will be wrecked in sight of home!

The storm breaks above them, the thunders roll,
The ship gets aground on the hidden shoal,
And the turbulent waters dash over the barque,
And cries from the doomed ship come.
Till nothing is left the tale to tell,
But the angry roar of the surging swell;
So the grand old vessel goes down in the dark--
Wrecked in sight of home.

And thus as we wander through life's rugged way,
Fighting its battles as best we may,
Seeking in fancy a far-distant spot
To rest when we've ceased to roam:
And just as the haven of comfort appears,
Our hopes are all turned into sadness and tears,
We droop near the threshold--ne'er enter the cot--
Wrecked in sight of home.

SONNET.

I could not love thee more, if life depended
On one more link being fixed to Affection's chain;
Nor cease to love thee--save my passion ended
With life; for love and life were blanks if twain!
I could not love thee less; the flame, full-statured
Leaps from the soul, and knows no infancy;
But like the sun--majestic, golden-featured,
Soars like a heav'n of beauty from life's sea.
I would not love thee for thy radiant tresses,
Rich budding mouth, and eyes twin-born of Light.
No: Charms less fadeful thy dear heart possesses--
Gems that will flash through life's noontide and night.
But simple words fall short of what I'll prove:
Accept them but as lispings of my love.

SEBASTOPOL IS WON.

1855.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

Dance on! ye vaulting joy-bells, shout
In spirit-gladdening notes,
Whilst mimic thunders bellow out
From cannons' brazen throats:
"Tyrant! awake ye, tremblingly;
The advent has begun:
Hark! to the mighty jubilant cry--
"Sebastopol is won!"
Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands,
Shout, patriots, everyone!
A burst of joy let rend the sky:
Sebastopol is won!

No dream of brilliant conquest 'twas,
Nor selfish hope of gain,
That sent the blood mad-rushing through
And through each Briton's vein;
No! such was not the spell that nerved
Old England for the fight,
Her war cry with her brother braves'
Was "Freedom, God, and Right!"
Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands,
Shout, patriots, everyone!
A burst of joy let rend the sky:
Sebastopol is won!

Shame! shame! upon the craven souls
Of those who trembling stood,
And would not--dare not--lend a hand
To stay this feast of blood!
Whose cringing spirits lowly bowed
Before the despot-glance
Of him whose star now pales before
Brave England! Mighty France!
Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands,
Shout, patriots, everyone!
A burst of joy let rend the sky;
Sebastopol is won!

Tho' hoary grows the mother-land
Her enemies may learn
That 'neath her smile so queenly-grand
There lives a purpose stern!
Then Britons chant exulting paeans,
Long pent-up joy release;
From yonder flaming pile upsoars
The Morning Sun of Peace! (_a_)
Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands,
Shout, patriots, everyone!
A burst of joy let rend the sky:
Sebastopol is won!

(_a_) I am sorry to find that the aspiration here embodied has been falsified. War is now raging (1877), and from precisely the same causes as those which led to the Crimean war, nearly a quarter of a century ago.

HOLD YOUR TONGUE.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

I've often thought, as through the world I've travelled to and fro,
How many folks about me--above me and below--
Might make this life more happy, if old as well as young
Would bear in mind the maxim which bids them hold their tongue.
Hold your tongue--hold your tongue--you'll ne'er be thought a dunce:
Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once:
Hold your tongue--for quiet folks are oft reputed wise:
Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.

How oft we find that words unkind unhappy lives will make;
That loving hearts through idle words will bleed and sometimes break;
What mischief have we scattered all our bosom friends among,
Which might have been avoided had we only held our tongue.
Hold your tongue--hold your tongue: you'll ne'er be thought a dunce:
Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once:
Hold your tongue--for quiet folks are oft reputed wise:
Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.

The kindly deeds men do in life their own reward will bring;
But where they come with trumpet-words, their sweetness bears a sting:
The silent giver 's most beloved right-thinking folks among;
So when you do a kindly thing, be sure you hold your tongue.
Hold your tongue--hold your tongue: you'll ne'er be thought a dunce:
Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once:
Hold your tongue--for quiet folks are oft reputed wise:
Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.

Yes: hold your tongue, except in life when days of sorrow come;
Then speak to raise a drooping heart, or cheer a darksome home.
If none of these--let silence be the burden of your song:
He holds his own, nor hurts his friend, who learns to hold his tongue.
Hold your tongue--hold your tongue; you'll ne'er be thought a dunce:
Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once:
Hold your tongue--for quiet folks are oft reputed wise:
Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.

MY MOTHER'S PORTRAIT.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

Ah! Well can I remember:
"She'll come no more," they said.
Her last sweet words, they told me,
Were blessings on my head.
Ah! Well can I remember
What sadness all things wore
In childhood, when they told me
"She'll come--she'll come no more!"
Awake or asleep,
Sweet prize above all other;
Close to my heart I'll keep
The likeness of my mother.