Chapter I: Preface (1)

The author[1] of the present Volume, in tendering his sincere thanks to the gentlemen of Her Majesty’s Customs,[2] and to his other numerous and kind patrons, who so liberally subscribed towards the publication of his little work, assures them that he is deeply sensible of his obligations to them for the almost uniform courtesy with which his solicitations were met; because (being perfectly conscious at the onset of his undertaking how necessary it was to prepare to subject himself to censure as well as approbation, and to arm himself with those indispensable virtues—patience, perseverance, endurance, and thankfulness, without which the attempt would have been futile, and being also aware that nothing but a favourable response to his appeal could possibly lead to the accomplishment of his object) the success which has attended his efforts is certainly far beyond what might have been expected by one in so humble and so obscure a position in life.

There is, however, one gentleman[3] in particular to whom it is the Author’s duty to be—if ’twere possible—more than grateful, for his generous condescension in permitting the manuscripts to be placed in his hands for perusal, and who—after surveying a portion of them—not only recommended the method of publication which was adopted, but gave effect to his advice by kindly becoming the first subscriber to the work—for the Author never would have presumed to publish these poems on his own personal estimation of whatever merit they may possess, so that unless such an impetus had been given to the project it is more than probable he never would have had the gratification of seeing them produced in their present form.

This the Author hopes will afford to his numerous subscribers, and to those in whose hands it may perchance happen to fall, a not unreasonable excuse for his having intruded himself into the unmerciful arena of poetical literature, and, perhaps, be the means of saving his little work—the product of his leisure hours—from being thrust into the gloomy recesses of oblivion.

E. E. FOOT.

_London, December, 1867._

[1] A native of Ashburton, Devonshire.

[2] To which he belongs.

[3] Sir F. H. Doyle, Bart., Receiver-General of Her Majesty’s Customs, &c.

The Poems of Edward Edwin Foot.

PUBLISHED 1867.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME.

PAGE

A VOICE FROM THE PEOPLE (_To Her Majesty the Queen_) 9

O! GATHER IN THE OLD YULE LOG 11

EVENING 13

THE HOMEWARD-BOUND PASSENGER SHIP 15

“RAVEN ROCK” 28

“LOVERS’ LEAP” 36

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA 41

A WEST-COUNTRYMAN’S VISIT TO LONDON 45

ENGLAND’S HOPE 60

CHRISTENING THE PRINCE 62

THE ASTRONOMER 64

ON SHAKESPEARE 68

THE BANQUET 71

THOUGHT 74

SHEEP 77

A SCHOOL FESTIVAL 81

AN AUTUMNAL DAY 84

OUR LITTLE BROTHER 87

THE COMING OF THE BELGIANS (1867) 88

A SONG: “WILLY” AND ANNE 91

A SONG: THE LOST MERCHANTMAN 93

FRIEND CHARLES 94

THE FALLEN LEAF 95

THE GOUT 97

THE FOX’S LAIR 101

THE PETRIFIED NEST 105

THE KINGLY OAK OF BAGOT’S PARK 106

SONG: UP, UP MY BRAVE COMRADES! 109

A LETTER TO HIS LORDSHIP 111

MY DEAR FRIEND JOHN 113

CHRISTMAS EVE (1864) 114

_The End of Miscellaneous Poems._

THE DEATH, BURIAL, AND DESTRUCTION OF BACCHUS; OR,
THE FRUITS OF LASCIVIOUSNESS.—_An Allegorical
Poem, in Two Cantos_ 117

JANE HOLLYBRAND; OR, VIRTUE REWARDED.—_A Romance,
in Six Chapters_ 161

A WORD FOR GIFFORD (_In Conclusion_) 263

THE POEMS OF EDWARD EDWIN FOOT.

A Voice from the People.

[Composed on the occasion of the inauguration of the memorial statue of His late Royal Highness the Prince Consort, at Aberdeen, 13th October, 1863.]

Hail! virtuous Lady, England’s pride;
Abate thy grief, and gently glide
Among thy people, who—so free—
Have long’d thy widow’d face to see
Bedeck’d with smiles, and thou again
Enjoying tranquilly thy reign.
Come, Lady, and sweet comfort find;
Come with thy children ’round thee twin’d,
For they shall reap that earthly bliss
Sown in thy former happiness.
We’ve miss’d thee, seemingly, for years;
The while thou’st shed a nation’s tears
For thine, for ours, for God’s elect:
Come forth, conjointly to erect
Our heads, and give Him praise for all.
Let Hope’s bright rays again thy soul,
And ours, abundantly rejoice!—
That all thy subjects, with one voice,
May sing “God save our gracious Queen:”—
“Long live our dear and noble Queen
Victoria;” who at Aberdeen,
To-day, amidst her people’s seen
Unveiling to her country’s gaze
A lov’d one’s statue, ne’er t’erase
’T from memory. With fortitude
The ceremony she withstood,
And taught the world how much she loved
The one whom she had so well proved
A husband, and a worthy sire,—
Once mortal; now, immortal, higher!
From thy deep solitude come forth
And tread the land which gave thee birth
With footsteps light; thus, cheerily,
List to our songs so merrily
As thou wert wont in days of yore:
Come, be as blithe as heretofore,
Among thy people; for we fain
Would see thy queenly smiles again.[4]

[4] The author having sent a copy of this poem to Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales (then at Sandringham), had the pleasure of receiving the following letter:—

“Sandringham, November 4, 1863.

“Sir,—I am desired to inform you that, by the direction of the Princess of Wales, I have to-day forwarded to Sir Charles Phipps, for presentation to Her Majesty the Queen, your poem, written on the occasion of the inauguration of the memorial statue of the Prince Consort, at Aberdeen. Her Royal Highness also desires me to say that she read the lines with great gratification.

“I am, sir,

“Your most obedient servant,

(Signed) “HERBERT FISHER.

“Mr. E. E. Foot,

“105, Ebury St., Pimlico.”

O! Gather in the Old Yule Log.

O! gather in the old yule log,
No longer green and strong
In the forest of his ancestors,
Cheering the storm-blast’s song;
Nor bending his oaken branches
In rev’rence to the gale,
Whilst echoing forth the forest glee
So hearty and so hale.

O! gather in the old yule log,
Whose lineage and renown
Bespeak for him a welcoming—
Such as is only known
In England’s halls and palaces;
So trim him fair and neat,
And wheel him to the old recess,
Where he shall glow with heat.

O! gather in the old yule log,
The hall-door open wide,
And cheer his venerable corpse,
The forest’s latest pride:
Yet whilst he’s passing—ponder ye
O’er God’s majestic ways;
For in him, gently gliding ’long,
There counts two centuries!

O! gather in the old yule log,
And range him on the hearth;
No subject in the woodland glen
Can tell of better birth.
Where is the heart not grieving (say!)
To part with this old friend,
That’s doomed to blazon here to-night,—
Two hundred years to end?

O! gather in the old yule log,
Who rear’d his branches high
In the sunbeams of a summer’s eve,—
Heav’n’s radiant canopy:
While waving in th’ horizon, then,
Ah! then he could proclaim
His anger to the whirlwind; but,
Alas! it conquer’d him.

O! gather in the old yule log;—
Those leaves are long since fled
Which last adorn’d his stately limbs,
And crown’d his tow’ring head:—
O! could we sing of “glory still
Encircling his old frame;”
But no!—the only thing survives
Is his proud ancient name.

Evening.

What gulfs and ridges mark that shaded line,
Which banks the setting sun!—
The rugged path of life it doth define,
When mortals have outspun
Their “three-score-ten” of years.

The rural margin, form’d by gentle slopes,
Here, there, a cot or farm,
Reveals, as ’twere, a store of heav’nly hopes
Possessing such a charm—
We shed our tribute tears.

Blest is the hoary head that can with joy
Behold the beauteous sight
Of the retiring Orb,—’neath clouds, so coy,
Fring’d with his golden light,
Without recurring sighs!

Whose magisterial beams so oft doth paint
In the unbounded Vast,
Such gorgeous pictures as forbid restraint
Of gladness. Will it last?—
Oh, no! the moment flies.

The city’s margin of this evening scene
Is form’d by spires, and domes,
Uneven roofs of dwellings; where, within,
The wearied find their homes
In reeking atmosphere.

Yon tow’ring dome,[5] crown’d with a golden cross,
Not seemingly content
With its proud quantum of the ariel-moss,[6]
Still higher hath intent;
But stay—this is thy sphere.

Beneath that sacred edifice, so grand,
There rests the dust of men—
Brave warriors, statesmen, and that skilful hand
Which wrought the fabric—Wren.
Ah! ’tis a solemn sight.

The evening breezes bade the mist begone
From off this monument,
Rais’d unto God!—then, in full glory, shone
The holy firmament,
So beautiful and bright.

Haste, haste, ye mortals,—lovingly behold
The goodly visitor!—[7]
Another day is spent, and with it told
The last, the last!—sigh for * * *
But ’tis in vain—’tis fled.

Yes, yes, ’tis fled; and with it gone for ever—
Forth from the mortal cave—
Ten thousand spirits to their first great Giver—
To Him, who Godlike gave:
But, Sol, thou art not dead!

Those eyes that twinkle ’neath the grey-hair’d brow
Of One with wondrous mind—
Defining laws to nations—teaching how
Rulers should rule to find
Love in the multitude—

When clos’d for e’er, ah! then thy country’ll shed,
O! generous Palmerston,—
Its tears for thee, and mourn that thou art dead,—
And History shall mention
Thee,—in gratitude.[8]

[5] The dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, London.

[6] Dew.

[7] The setting sun.

The Homeward-bound Passenger Ship.

Refulgent ’rose day’s harbinger,
And lit with joy the azure space;
The good ship glided gently o’er
The ocean’s undulating face:

And on she goes, she ploughs the deep
With seeming skilfulness and love;
Her inmates gather out from sleep,—
Some send their orisons above:

While others,—thoughtless of the hour,
When it is meet to bend the knee,—
Begarb themselves, display their pow’r,
And revel on, as yesterday.

The cabin deck-light pane is bright,
Which tells them ’tis a cheery morn;
(They do not dream—that ere ’tis night,
Not even one shall live to mourn! * * *)

Good Zephyrus[9] speeds the ship along,
She heeds it—lovingly she bows;
The sailors raise their bowline-song,
And smiles adorn their iron brows.

All’s well, and everything goes meet,
The fleecy clouds, in sport above,
Afford an ocean scene so sweet—
It tempers friendship into love.

The decks are wash’d, the breakfast-meal
Is past, the passengers look gay;
Some pace the quarter-deck, and feel
Desirous to prolong their stay.

A few are lounging o’er the poop,
To see the log-line, out or in;
While on the forecastle’s a group,
Perhaps discoursing on the scene.

Mid-ships—some little children, there,
Dight the clean deck in playful mood;
While mothers hail them to repair
Below, to take their mid-day food.

So “pleased as Punch” away they run;
On Bobby’s back his brother rides;
Dear little Susan loves the fun,
And laughs enough to split her sides.

’Tween-decks, are now in dinner-trim,
The frugal meal is well pursued;
And not a cloud had yet made dim
The deck-light pane, above them view’d.

Sol now hath reach’d his highest point,
The captain marks its altitude;
The beauteous orb’s full golden front
Gives to the seaman—latitude.

The chart is traced, the captain smiles;
The rippling wavelets fly apace;
And all is well; Time thus beguiles,
For joy appears in every face.

The cabin-passengers partake
Their sumptuous fare, unlimited;
Out flies the cork! they freely slake,
And thus their meal is finished.

Down yonder hatchway, in the shade,
The dice or cards are nimbly dealt;
While those who move them oft degrade
Themselves by adding sin to guilt.

Whilst farther aft, in best of hope,
A group[10] seem pompous o’er their gain;
They saffron liquid freely tope,
And whisk the bottles in the main.

The miser counts his money o’er,
Then locks again his little trunk:
The spendthrift, as the day before,
Flies to the bottle and gets drunk.

Here, there is one hums out a tune;
And there, another fain would sleep:
(They little think, ere morrow’s noon
All, all would have to plumb the deep.)

Young wives, with rosy faces, trip—
Sing tunefully as they go by—
Towards the galley of the ship,
To boil, to broil, to bake, or fry,

Some little dainty—eggs, or ham,
An omèlet, or such rarities
As tarts composed with currant-jam,
In readiness towards their teas.

(Oh! had they known it was the last
Their beaming eyes would ever see;
Oh, had they known this one repast,
Preceded their eternity!—

Oh! had they known what sighs and sobs,
What streams of tears would sadly flit,
What beating breasts, what aching throbs,
And how the sturdiest brow would knit—

They would have stagger’d on the deck!
They would have shudder’d at their fate!
Instead of tripping by so quick,
Intent upon the dish or plate.

Yea—e’en the pen that writes it down,
Doth falter at the dismal thought—
That ere the sun, which lovely shone,
Had ’rose again, the wreck was wrought!)

But whilst within the galley, lo!—
A rather sudden lurch ’tervenes,
A little spray hops o’er her prow,
And all is not so well, it seems.

Nay, more: a gloom pervades the deck;
The air is cool; the sky’s o’ercast;
The ship’s smooth course receives a check;
The sturdy seamen scale the mast.

The captain scans the ruffled zone,[11]
And heeds the wind’s increasing scope;
He knows full well, and reckons on
His seamanship, but God’s his hope.

An angry-looking cloud appears,
Extends, and fast obscures the sky;
The timid, nay, the stout heart fears
A storm’s approaching, that ’tis nigh.

The beautiful and sun-lit main,
Which greeted all at early morn,
Is dight with sullen clouds, and rain;
(Already is a jib-sail torn.)

The whistling wind seems full of woe—
The roy’l-top-gallant yard is broke;
The boatswain calls aloud, “Let go!”
And ere another word is spoke,

A sea hath struck hard on her port;[12]
The gale increases fearfully;
For safety now the crew resort,
And fasten down the main-hatchway.

The first dread peal of thunder rolls;
And loud, and louder shrieks the wind;
The captain, through his trumpet, calls—
“Make fast the spanker-boom, behind.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” is the pert reply,
As readily it is obey’d;
While some below prepare to die
On bended knee, with lifted head.

The sweating helmsmen try, in vain,
To guide her through the troubled sea;
And as she pitches in the main,
They labour on incessantly.

Stripp’d of her gayest canvas clothes
She seems undone, yet faileth not
(Though turbulently toss’d) like those
Who to their sleeping berths have got.

She willingly doth brave the storm:
But now the elements conspire,—
The lightning flits in hideous form,
And tints the ship with ghostly fire!

The thunders clap with horrid din,
The minute-guns their storm-cries send;
The fearful shrieking hurricane
Her foretop-gallant mast doth rend!

Sea after sea, leaps o’er her bows;
Sail after sail, are torn in shreds;—
The angry trough more angry grows,
And would-be sleepers fly their beds!

Confusion reigns above, below,—
And Jews and Gentiles fear the Lord,—
Yea, strong men seem as children now,
And strive to utter forth the word.[13]

The boats are lower’d in dreadful haste;
But ’tis too late,—for, one by one,
The merc’less ocean lays them waste;
And fruitless is the minute-gun.

At last the captain, in despair,
Exhorts the passengers t’attend
Unto his last few words of prayer,—
To meet their ’nevitable end!

In every feature death is seen,
In every gesture dire dismay,
For now the seas are stoving in
The starboard, gunwale, and gangway.

For hours the pumps in vain were mann’d,
As tenfold did the waters rise;
The pumpers frenzically scann’d * * *
And some, unnerv’d, betear’d their eyes.

(My muse doth falter to go on,
But on I must, so on I write,—
Though tears are all but trickling down,
As I bewail that mournful night.)

Then mothers, with their infants, cry
And pray, if ne’er before they pray’d;
And those that knew not how, now try:
But in an instant all is said!—

The ship hath rent herself in twain:
A hundred shrieks, and all is lost!
Now, now the furious raging main
Engulfs the overwhelmèd host.

And not a single craft at hand
To witness, or to render aid? * * *
(Read on, if thou canst understand
The dreadful havoc that was made.)

The day before, the sailors’ song
Rang merrily upon the ear;
Sweet infants to their mothers clung,
And fathers did their children cheer.

The night before, the mainmast-truck
Strain’d lovingly the courter’s eye;
Though lack’d it inland flowers to pluck,
The spangled stars flow’rèd the sky.

The good moon took her wonted tour
Along an almost cloudless sky;
Round roll’d the planets as of yore,
And all was pleasant to the eye.

Yes, all was pleasant to the eye
To see the myriad wavelets play,
Or frolic, as it were, so coy
Upon the moon’s expansive ray.

Ah! then she furrow’d the green sea,
And toss’d the phosphorescent spray,
As on she glided merrily
Along th’ unfathomable way.

Next (as the muse described before)—
Refulgent ’rose day’s harbinger;
A prosperous voyage seem’d in store
For passenger and mariner.

The Ocean donn’d its garb of green,
And every little wave that rose
Enhanc’d the beauty of the scene;
And here and there did birds repose.

They watch’d the vessel’s onward course;
The refuse crumbs to them were bliss:
Although its particles were coarse,—
They peck, and deem’d it not amiss,

(Oh! would that vessel ’d been a bird,
To ’ve flown beyond the gale’s dread scope,
And then to ’ve dropp’d again unheard,
Again sail’d on with former hope.)

They saw the ship, dismantled, sink,
And ’lighted on the floating wreck:—
Yea, on the whirlpool’s ghastly brink,
They mock’d the dying on the deck,

(Saw they, alone, the craft divide—
Save Him, in heaven, whose unknown way
Sets men’s poor handiworks aside,
And summons them t’eternity!)

And on the foaming billows lept
With bird-like similè of joy;
Thereon they swung, thereon they slept,
Until the next returning day.

Then, while the sun, swol’n round and red,
Was garnishing the lolling sea,
Uprose the albatross and fed,
(And fed, I ween, luxuriously,)—

Perch’d on a barrel, block, or spar,
An upset boat, a riven mast,
A rope, that shone afresh with tar,
Which yielded to th’ unerring blast.

Or on, methinks, a sailor’s trunk
(Ransack’d in haste for some lov’d thing),
The bottle which, perhaps, got drunk
Him who was last to laugh and sing,—

Unwilling to believe his soul
Would vanish with another breath,
Beyond the influence of the bowl,
Into th’ eternal gulf of death!

(O God, forbid that such an one
Should breathe his last in such a state!
Or ever an unholy son
Inebriately should meet death’s fate.)

Look, look ye down the plumbless deep,
See,[14] if ye can, their lifeless forms!—
Here laid, poor things! across a steep,
An infant in its mother’s arms;

There, it may be, a man and wife
(Embracing either now as when
They went to rest at night, in life),
Are resting in a turbid glen;

And here a damsel, once so fair,
A smile still lurking on her cheek,
But now across that cheek her hair
Is floating wildly in a creek;

There, laid a stripling, great in build,
A leathern girdle’s round his loins,
In which a pocket’s nearly fill’d
With sundry gold and silver coins.

Oh! could we see the ocean’s bed,
(Strewn o’er, no doubt, with mangled bones,
And where there are no bones, instead
Lie gems of rare and precious stones—

Jewels of value set in gold,
And gold engraved by skilful hands,
With marks of friendship on them told,
Near ’bliterated by the sands,)

Our sorrow would vent out in tears;
Nay, should we not, think, shun the sight,—
To see more than a thousand years
Of dismal relics prone to light? * * *

Now in the morn, when all was o’er,
And heaven reveal’d the glorious sun—
When the dire tempest roar’d no more,
And all those leaden clouds were gone—

It chanc’d the ocean’s limpid breast
Bore on and on a minor craft,
From head to foot garb’d in her best,
And meetly trimm’d afore and aft.

Observant did her seamen see
(What prov’d, indeed, too true a sign:)
A splinter’d wreck of the _Dundee_—
(Ah! once a “clipper” of the “line”)—

On which they read the name in full,
And grasp’d it as it hugg’d the side;
For then the zephyrs seem’d to lull
Expressly to obey the tide.

This cast a sudden gloom on board,
A sort of stupor seiz’d the crew;
They solv’d the mystery in a word—
She’s lost! Then farther on they view

The drifting particles of woe,
Strewn o’er the now peace-waving main.
Confirming what they sadly knew—
“That she would never sail again!”

[8] The Author had the gratification of receiving a present from the late Viscount Palmerston (January, 1864), in acknowledgment of a manuscript copy of this poem.

[9] The west wind.

[10] Perchance a party of lucky adventurers; such, for instance, as three or four fortunate diggers, who probably had worked as a company on some gold field in Australia, and were returning to their native country.

[11] A figurative expression, intended by the author to signify the horizon.

[12] Port-bow.

[13] Prayer.

[14] Imagine.

“Raven Rock.”[15]

A WORD FOR MY NATIVE PLACE.—Should any of my readers ever be making a tour to the west of England, I venture to say they will be highly gratified with the grandeur of the prospect afforded them on “Raven Rock,” and other commanding points in that locality; and there are several high Tors, besides other places of attraction, in the neighbourhood of ASHBURTON, which will well repay the visitor.—E. E. FOOT, London, 1867.

Some summer’s day, upon that rock—
A cliff, wherein the ravens flock,
List ye to the Dart,[16] below;
See the little rapids flow:—
From that proud stream no discords rise
No shipwrecks e’er bedim our eyes.

Oft have I[17] watch’d, thereon, its course,
(Astride the rock, as ’twere a horse,)
Singing o’er a favourite song,
Twice and thrice to make it long;
Then closed my ears against the stream,
And fancied that it was a dream.

But when I open’d them again,
I heard the same harmonious strain,—
Saw the river stickling forth—
Hurrying southward from the north,—
And almost wish’d myself a wave,
As peacefully going to my grave!

On yon domain, surnamed the “Chase,”
And from the bank five furlongs’ space,
Standing in a pleasant spot,
’Rises gentle Bouchier’s[18] cot,—
Directed, east, towards a vale;
And west, beshelter’d from the gale.

From this rude cluster,[19] miles away,
Hills, dells, and woodlands greet the eye;
None can prize it, as it should,
’Less upon the rock they’ve stood:
To the right a mountain tow’reth,
To the left a valley low’reth.

Ah! beauteous Dart, thou art a home—
In thee a myriad fishes roam;
Some, ensnared, are flung on high,
Others revel ’til they die;
And come what may, there is no sorrow,
And no preparing for to-morrow.

Behold a sea of lofty trees—
See how they gently heed the breeze—
Sturdy-branching, skyward oaks,
Fated for the woodman’s strokes,
For thousands then were doom’d to fall,—
The knight’s commands were “one and all.”[20]

Methinks I hear the axe, and saw,
Re-echoing through the wood below;
And the fell-man’s clam’ring tongue
Timing forth a welkin-song,
Whilst he obeys the knight’s decree,
And labours on right cheerfully.

Now, Time, the ablest workman there,
’ll lay the forest bleak and bare.—
Listen to the crackling sound,
As they topple to the ground;
And where, like antler’d deer asleep,
They calmly lie upon the steep:

But not like them—to rise again
To grace the hillock, vale, or plain,
Or bound the fence: for ever dead—
Lopp’d and chopp’d from foot to head
Their limbs lie scatter’d o’er the ground,
Until the barker trims them round.

Ah! never more will they o’ershade
The lovers’ footsteps in the glade;
No: nor foxes, hares, or birds,
Truant-playing flocks and herds,
Will evermore again be plighting—
Beneath their branches—love’s delighting.

Some hoary oaks, far down the glen,
Have many a time half barr’d the sun;
When the clarionet gave note,
Followed by the piping flute,
The cornet, trumpet, and trombone,
The curling horn, and blurt bassoon;

Whilst well-dress’d youths made virgin love,
And arm’d their sweethearts through the grove—
Stealing from their lips a kiss—
Paving paths to future bliss:
While old and young were there partaking
The blithe picnic’s merry-making.

Hush! listen:—fancy that you hear
The banging of the bottled beer;
Look, and see the sparkling glass,
’Round the festive circle pass:
And then behold their smiling faces,
As some for frolic make grimaces.

Conceive the scene—a “country dance,”—
A granddame with a stripling, glance,—
See them sweep the avenue,
She ’n her new-made bonny blue:
Contrive your mind to hear their laughter,
As two-and-two they follow after:

Presume you see them flitting through;
Return; cross hands with I, or you;
Then posetting pair and pair,
To the screaming fiddle’s air,
Now halting step unto its tuning,
And then again their flight resuming:

Observe that happy little fellow,—
(Whilst those yon donkeys loudly bellow,
’Mong the ferns close by the stream,)—
How he loves the bread-and-cream:
His mother ’spies his pretty glances,
As she, with him—her husband—dances.

I’ve been again upon that rock—
A cliff, whereon the ravens flock,
Listen’d to the Dart, below;
Seen the little rapids flow:
But I, alas! saw not those trees
Which made such music in the breeze.

The knight’s commands had laid them low;
Not one escaped the woodman’s blow:
And that pleasant spot is bare
(Save the coppice growing there),
Whereon so oft the violin
Had bade the merry dance begin.

Yet there remain’d a vast resource
Of holy-holly, bramble, gorse,
Stalwart elms, and tow’ring pine,
Chesnuts, and wild eglantine,
The maiden-ash, beech, whortle, larch,
Nut-blooming hazel, and low birch.

Full many a time I’ve heard the horn,
Along those devious pathways borne,
When Sir Henry[21] swept the vale,
Reynard flew before the gale:—
Alas! I know not why or how
Sir Henry doth not hunt there now.

Still (fancy leads my muse to dwell
On scenes I loved so truly well)
Hear I now the hurried notes
From o’er thirty chiming throats,
As when they bounded past those rocks,
A terror to the flying fox:

Close now my eyes, methinks I see
A hundred hunters there with me;
Horses, and their riders, standing
On some spot of choice commanding;
Whilst the fleet fox, awoke to day,
Stirs out to buckle for the fray.

I hear, as ’twere, the signal given;
Espy the creature madly driven,
Bounding off towards that Tor,[22]
Where, perchance, he’d been before,
And where the knave directs his nose,
In hopes again t’evade his foes.

Oh! tell me, tell me, Destiny—
Say, has the dark futurity
Aught so joyous yet in store
As those little rapids’ roar?—
Or e’en that lovely scenery
(Ere Bouchier sign’d that dread decree)

Which gladden’d oftentimes my soul?—
Or when I lifted friendship’s bowl,
With my comrades down the glen,
Ere and after we were men;
Whilst the shrill trumpet, or the drum,
Desired the wanderers to come

To join the merry roundelay—
To make the most of the blithe day—
While on high God’s sun was bright?—
(For after day must come the night).—
Ay! canst thou answer my request,
And give my longing temples rest? * * *

Alas! I fear, O Destiny,
The all unknown futurity
Never will again impart,
By that beauteous river Dart,
Or there upon those mossy rocks,
Where, where the cawing raven flocks,

To me (methinks) a hundredth share
Of pleasures I’ve partaken there:
When full many a lovers’ vow
Were made, perhaps, and broken now—
Made and cemented with a kiss,
Resulting in, or not in, bliss.

Thus: some unto the altar led,
Have had to mourn a husband dead:—
Husbands who so sprightly tript,
Equally in turn have wept;
And children of their parents ’reft,
Now orphans to the world are left!

But there are some, I hope, more blest
Than when they were the bidden guest:
Turning to those scenes with pride—
Where[23] he met his future bride;
Or where her lover first she saw,
When saffron flushes mark’d her brow.

Since then—great changes have been wrought,
And many a thoughtless stripling taught
How to praise, and who to praise,
How to pass his Sabbath days;
And many a maiden (mother now)
Have reverentially learnt to bow!

O Destiny, guide thou the hand,[24]
That once forsook his father-land,
Vainly seeking after wealth,
Instead of quietude and health,
And train his muse, that it may tell—
How sweet it is at home to dwell.

[15] “Raven Rock” is about 500 feet above, and near the banks of, the river Dart; is distant about two and a-half miles from Ashburton, Devonshire, and bounded on the north side by Aswell Woods, from which it is easily accessible.

[16] The Dart river, whose source is in the forest of Dartmoor, is most appropriately called the “English Rhine.” The scenery in the locality of “Raven Rock” is very beautiful.

[17] The author of the poem.

[18] Sir Bouchier Wrey, Bart., the lord of the manor; great in stature, and a most amiable gentleman.

[19] The rock.

[20] Thousands of rare oaks which embellished this beautiful locality, belonging to Sir Bouchier, were hewn down ‘some few years since’, to the great regret of the people of the neighbourhood.

[21] Sir Henry Seale, Bart., of Dartmouth, Devon.

[22] Buckland-beacon, a very high point, commanding an immense tract of magnificent scenery, and where there is a strong refuge for the hard-hunted animal.

[23] For instance.

[24] A slight reference to the author’s short sojourn in Australia, 1855-56.

“Lovers’ Leap.”[25]

’Tis said two lovers (and it may be true),
For lack of reason, or of grace,
Lept from this rugged precipice
Down to the peaceful main below,
Whose silvery waters ever flow
(I’m more than glad it was not I or you).

Think ye, O reader,—while they scann’d the gulf,
What feelings must have rack’d their brain!
And picture in your mind the swain,
As forth he wandered through the grove,
Endeavouring to persuade his love. * * *
The thought, alone, is dreadful to one’s self.

Dwell but a moment on the sorrowing scene:—
Her arms entwined around his neck—
His lips her orisons doth check—
And in this act they reel the clift;
Another moment life is rift! * * *
The ruffled waters are at peace again.

What could, methinks, have caused such dread of life:
Was it forbidden them to woo?—
And thus despairingly they grew,
Till, mutually agreed, they swept
The craggy brink, and overlept:
So, with the world, they finished all their strife.

Think of the sudden splashing of the stream,
Which for a thousand years had flown
Harmoniously careering on,
Save when the clouds could not restrain
Their burden from the moorland plain;
And see each wave-ring’s sun-reflected beam.

Now, as the waters ’gan again to smooth,
A thousand little bubbles leap
From up the bottom of the deep;
Say, what were these? Oh! globes of air—
The breathings of the dying pair—
All telling mournfully the solemn truth.

Enough, enough: turn to a calmer day.
Here, once, on issuing from the wood,
The gentle Albert[26] stay’d and view’d. * * *
The grandeur of the sight drew forth
A plaudit of most precious worth
(For never did he more pass by that way).

Turn’d ’round, he saw that midway pile,[27] wherein
In safety dwells the black-wing’d fowl,
While foxes ’neath them nightly prowl:
And then he turned around anew,
And bade the lovely spot adieu,
Expressing pleasure at the glorious scene.[28]

(But he, alas! was in the harvest field
Too soon;[29] but God, who gave, received:
Though it was hard for her who grieved—
And never did one grieve more keen
Than she, fair Albion’s widow’d Queen,—
Taught the most earthly treasure thus to yield.)

The sun shone forth, and graced with golden strokes
These time-carv’d crags, which intervenes
Those various blooming evergreens—
Dight here and there to garb the spot—
That arch full many a cooling grot,
Succeeding waterfalls, and purling brooks.

The Prince sped on towards the moorland height
(’Twixt ash, and fir, and oak, and pine,
Fair attributes of England’s “Rhine,”—
The silver-beech, and gorse, and fern,
Re-blooming every year in turn),
For Plymouth Sound must be regain’d ere night.

Through fragrant bow’rs, on, on the chariot hies;
Affrights, perchance, the timid hare;
Entraps the rabbit in the snare;
Sends high aloft the squirrel, too;
The pheasant, to its instinct true,
Spreads his fair sails, and to the azure flies.

“Ah!” some will say, “give me the open sea,
A ‘mackerel sky,’ a gentle breeze—
Much preferable to rocks and trees,
And birds that build therein their nests—
Give me the gull, that bravely breasts
The mountain-waves—these are the joys for me.

“Let me enjoy a ship’s transporting sway,
Replying to the faithful gale
Which constant swells her trim white sail.
I care not for the rock, the rill,
The rugged precipice, nor dell,
Which landsmen praise and call fine scenery!”

But when the storm converges fiercely round—
What say they when the ship is toss’d,
Strikes, breaks asunder, and is lost!—
Not one alive to tell the tale! * * *
Oh! think ye ’t better than the vale,
The ivied cluster, nook, or mossy mound? * * *

No! never, never be it sung or said—
“Sea scenes can ever match the land,”
Where, like to this, God’s works so grand
Majestically dight its face;
When Sol, empower’d afresh, with grace
Tips the lone cottage on the rough hill-side.

They’re happy out at sea: I’m happy here:—
High on the moor, let me inhale
The beauteous waftings of the gale,
Or hear the mounting lark’s blithe sound,
Reverb’rating the blue profound—
In the ethereal main, free from all care!

I long to roam about those woods, wild grown,
Where birds, at leisure, chirp so sweet,
And now and then like mortals meet,
Discussing instinctly their love,
And hatching little ones, which move,
Look up, are feather’d, wing’d, leap, and are flown.

Like as their parents—full of joy and glee—
Out on the sun-tipp’d hazel hedge,
Or black-berried thorn, or myrtle, sedge;
Or bounding o’er the fallow plain,
In search of some incumbent grain.
’Tis true their life-time’s short, but still ’tis free.

I love that precipice, of which my rhyme
Tries to depict unto the mind.
Go thither, thou’lt be sure to find
(Though I might fail to pen aright)
A picture pleasing to the sight;
And none, I ween, more fairer in our clime.

[25] “Lovers’ Leap,” which is situated in a very picturesque spot on the banks of the river Dart, is a perpendicular rugged precipice, immediately contiguous to a carriage-road. Its summit is about seventy feet above the river, and where, at the foot of the rock, the stilly waters flow: distance from Ashburton about three miles, and about half a mile from the foot of “Raven Rock,” which is seen on “Lovers’ Leap” with great advantage.

[26] The late lamented Prince Consort, accompanied by the late Colonel Phipps, and two other gentlemen in attendance on His Royal Highness, made a tour from Dartmouth, _viâ_ Totnes, to Ashburton, and thence to Tavistock (_en route_ for Plymouth by this circuit), proceeding by way of the river Dart, in the carriage-drive which passes over “Lovers’ Leap,” on the 20th of July, 1852; Her Majesty Queen Victoria proceeding, in the meanwhile, in her yacht to Plymouth.

[27] “Raven Rock”—aspect south from “Lovers’ Leap.”

[28] This is stated on the authority of Mr. G. Sparkes, of Ashburton, who had the honour of conducting His Royal Highness and suite through this part of the journey.

[29] Gathered to his fathers, December 14, 1861, in his forty-second year.

A Welcome to Alexandra.

[Composed on the occasion of the arrival of Her Royal Highness Princess Alexandra, 7th March, 1863.]

And London ope’d her portals wide;
Her kingliest streets throughout were deck’d
With love, and joy, and intellect,
To welcome forth the Danish bride—
Fair Princess Alexandra.

She, one of Europe’s daughters, meet,—
Betroth’d to England’s fairest son,—
We hail’d! and hail’d as should be done!
In joy-clothes garb’d, we went to greet
Fair Princess Alexandra.

She left her parents weepingly,—
The parting gave her bosom pain,
But hope re-cheer’d her o’er the main,
For Edward ’waited anxiously
Fair Princess Alexandra.

With all the splendour could be shown,
Her happiness we strove t’enhance;
And when we caught her first bright glance,
Admir’d her as Britannia’s own,—
Fair Princess Alexandra.

Throughout the land, around the coast,
The British heart lept lovingly;
For on our eastward silvery sea,
A goodly ship bore safe its guest,—
Fair Princess Alexandra.

When now the good ship came in view
Gravesend, her banners waved on high,
And shouts reverb’rated the sky,
As favouring zephyrs waft anew
Fair Princess Alexandra.

Then every eye was stretch’d afar,
And every tongue was tipp’d with bliss;
In every feature happiness:
All long’d to see proud Denmark’s star—
Fair Princess Alexandra.

She came! the beauteous bride was met:
Her royal lover sought her hand,
And welcom’d her in Britons’ land!
The host that saw can ne’er forget
Fair Princess Alexandra.

Light as a fairy treads the bowers,
And as an angel wings the sky,
So, with her Edward, passed by—
Upon a sprinkling of sweet flowers—
Fair Princess Alexandra.

The speedy trav’ler,[30] whizzing ’long
As cautiously as tho’ aware
Whose lives depended on its care,
Bore safely—in the royal throng—
Fair Princess Alexandra.

The stately cortège wound its way;
A thousand banners fann’d the air,
And perfumes ’rose from ladies fair:
All London seem’d at holiday,
For Princess Alexandra.

The City bountifully plann’d
Its duties t’wards the stranger-child—
Its commerce paus’d—and kindly smil’d,
And stretch’d its unmatch’d gen’rous hand,
For Princess Alexandra.

From steeples high a thousand tongues—
Whose joyous sounds speak far away
The only tribute they can pay—
Peal’d forth their complimental songs
For Princess Alexandra.

Westward[31] pass’d the cavalcade;
Whilst music, in its happiest strain,
Accompanied the gladsome train;
Ten thousand voices serenade
Fair Princess Alexandra.

The clouds were wrestling with the sun:[32]
Aloft their rev’rent tears were stay’d,
Respectful to the virtuous maid;
Then gently christen’d her our own—
Fair Princess Alexandra!

The whizzing “trav’ler” sped again
The fair enchantress of our isle,
Unto that kingly domicile,[33]
Wherein awaited our bless’d Queen
For Princess Alexandra.

The Castle gates with joy unfold;
The noble host their way did wend;
Fair Flora, Queen of Flowers, did send
Her perfumed rarities untold,
For Princess Alexandra.

The grand old tower[34] smiled in the gale—
As tho’ it knew its hope had come—
And seem’d to whisper, “Welcome home!—
Britannia’s sons shall guard thee well,
Fair Princess Alexandra!”

Night graciously prolong’d the hour—
In honour of its queenly guest,
’Til Weariness demanded rest,
And beckon’d to her peaceful bow’r—
Fair Princess Alexandra.

[30] Their Royal Highnesses, and the ladies and gentlemen in attendance, travelled by railway to London, where, at the Bricklayers’ Arms Station, they were received by the Corporation of the City with great joy and magnificence.

[31] The route taken was over London Bridge, King William Street, Cheapside, by St. Paul’s, Ludgate Hill, Fleet Street, Strand, Pall Mall, St. James’s Street, Piccadilly, Hyde Park, Edgware Road, thence to Paddington.

[32] The morning was only partially fine. About half-past four o’clock it began to rain. The evening was very wet.

[33] Windsor Castle.

[34] The Round Tower.

A West-Countryman’s Visit to London.

NOTE.—This poem is, by kind permission, most respectfully inscribed to the Author’s sincere friend. H. Caunter, Esq.

A Cornishman, of some repute
Down where the good man dwelt,
Took thought, and courage into boot,—
At length so eager felt—
Set bravely out, at last, to see
What he could hear in “Town;”[35]
And, to repair his memory,
Took pen to scribble down
The marv’lous things he might espy,
Or aught that he might learn.
(This wisdom’d man, most verily,
Had mused o’er his return.) * * *
’Tis said—that sixteen weeks, or more,
The plans had been devised
For Captain[36] Joseph’s “foreign tour,”
And sixteen times revised—
Regarding his habiliment,
The quantity of cash—
The necessary complement,
To cut a Cornish dash.* * *

Now, be it known, when Captain Joe
First plann’d it in his head
To go to London, half Westlooe[37]
Determined he was mad:
Some said to him, “Insure your life—
You’ll sure to come to woe;”
And others, “If I were your wife,
I’d never let you go.”
But “By the stars in heav’n,” he said,
“The man that tampers me
Shall have his passport to the dead,
Besides his passage free.”

* * * * *

The first beam of th’ eventful day
Found Captain up betimes:
His wife persuaded him to pray,
If ’twere but twenty lines:
And so he did (both kneeling down);
But quickly after this,
Joe, like a boy, was up and gone
Upon the road to bliss.[38] * * *
Away they went—for she went too,
To see him safely off;
And whilst she’s on the platform—lo!
The engine ’gins to cough,
And cough, and cough; and Joe, to see
His dear, popp’d out his head—
Ejaculating, “God bless thee,”
When (what?) his hat had fled!
Of course, Joe bawl’d to get it back,
The more he bawl’d he might—
For ’twixt the wheels it got a crack,
Which smash’d it left and right:
His dear wife saw! and cried in vain,
“D’ye see the mischief done?”
But onward steam’d the “Wicked Train,”
And he, dear fellow, gone!

* * * * *

So all the way to “London Town,”
Bare-headed Joseph goes,
Save on his head the silken one
On service to his nose.
Although possess’d of “means” whereby
Another might be got,
Still Joe could not prevent a sigh
On losing his best hat:
Yet cheerful, and apparently
A king in his rough mode,
He pass’d the hours agreeably
Upon the iron road,—
Took out his sandwiches and beer,
And then would have a smoke,
Drew closer to a lady near,
And (gravely) pass’d this joke—
“This fire-horse, ma’am, breathes very hard;
I don’t much like the brute;
We’d best, I think, be on our guard,”
(She trembles head to foot,)
“For fear the beast should break his chains,
And gallop off the line;
The devil seems to have the reins,
And driving down some mine.”[39]

* * * * *

Then Captain wonder’d at the pace
The hedgerows seem to fly;
“The trees,” says he, “appear to chase
The clouds along the sky.”
Again the sandwiches and beer
Were called into request—
Such homely sandwiches, ’twas clear
His wife had done her best—
But quite inadequate these were,
Ere half the day was done;
So when they arriv’d at Exeter,[40]
He got a lad to run
Across the platform to the “inn,”[41]
To get a cake or bun,
A quartern of best “Plymouth gin,”
And gave the boy a crown:[42]
But ere the lad came back again,[43]
The engine ’gan to “cough;”
And when he felt the moving train
Had really started off,
Joe curs’d and swore most terribly,
Got in a dreadful rage:—
(The passengers who sat close by
Attempted to assuage
The Captain’s wrath, but ’twas in vain,
He swore and curs’d the more.)
At last, appeased, he slept, and then,
Of course, his rage was o’er.
For many hours asleep he sat,—
Until the sun went down,—
Then ’woke deficient of his hat,
And also of his crown;—
And, to his great astonishment,
Arrived at the “great town,”
Where,[44] in his haste to get away,
He tumbles o’er a trunk! * * *
(Now, whilst he’s down, he hears some say
“The man is mad, or drunk.”)
Springs up again, laughs out, “All right!”
And bounds for Edgware Road,
Where (the first “public-house” in sight)
Joe takes up his abode;
Makes free with some refreshments, and
Tells how his hat was lost;
Remarks—the landlord’s house was grand,
And what the gas must cost,
And such-like things; then goes to rest,
But devil-a-bit could sleep,
For something saunter’d round his waist,
Then lodged upon his hip * * *
Fatigued, at last his eyelids close:—
Thus, happy for a time,
He gets into a solid doze,
And[45] mutters forth in rhyme—
“Where is my hat? where is my crown?”
And, “Where, oh! where is London Town?”
(A gent—in bed adjoining him,
In the same room—o’erheard
The purport of the Captain’s dream—
Remember’d every word.)

* * * * *

At length Joe rises, and prepares
For the forthcoming day,
Fresh as a rose, and full of airs,—
In sooth, quite prim and gay,
With the exception of a hat;
So he plung’d in the street,
Found out a shop, and righted that:
Thus made himself complete—
Whilst, on his countenance, a smile
Told plainly how he prized his “tile.”
As this[46] was all Joe’s broken cash,
Nought better he desired,—
Quite good enough, he thought, to smash,
And so, replete attired,
Went back and ordered breakfast in;
Reclined upon the chair;
Made up his mind not to be mean,
Now all seem’d—straight and fair. * * *
To breakfast; but, so hearty, Joe
Soon rang the bell again.
The waiter he came in tip-toe:
Said Joe, in language plain—
“Dost thou call this a breakfast, John?”
(With a derisive laugh.)—
“Bring in another steak well done;
For this I call but half * * *
No wonder Londoners look pale,
And look so mighty thin,—
I s’pose ye chiefly live on ale,
Or what ye sell for gin.”
Obey’d, and satisfied to full,
He ’t once sought for his cash:
But lo—’twas gone!——a tedious lull:
Joe’s teeth began to clash.
He’d hair scarce none, tho’ h’ seem’d to have
Abundance on his pate.[47]
Now, he exclaimed upon the knave;
Then, murmur’d o’er his fate.
(Oh! ’twas a piteous sight to see
So brave a man in misery—
Confused, confounded, as was he.)

* * * * *

With watch in hand, Joe ’gan to moan—
While tears stole from his eye—
“Is this enough, John, as a loan?”
“Yes,” was the man’s reply.
“Ah! John,” said Captain, “this old jew’l
Belong’d to my grandsire;
To take it from me ’tis, ’tis cruel.” * * *
With cheeks flushed up like fire
The Captain rushed into the street—
A labyrinth of beings—
In hopes somewhere a friend to meet.
He scans all sorts of things,

And prays to Providence he may
(His eyes bedimm’d with tears,)
Detect the rogue this very day:
“That I might ring the ears
Of him, the wretch! that plunder’d me,
And brought me to such grief,—
Could I the rascal only see,
’Twould be, O! Lord, relief:
I’d thrust him madly in the muck,
Him trundle to a toad:—
O! heaven, pray change this direful luck,
And let the devils goad” * * *
Joe almost swoon’d: he bent his head,
And press’d his aching sides;
A hundred times wish’d he was dead,
And that d——’d rogue besides:
Search’d all his pockets o’er and o’er,
But not a mite could find;
Scratch’d his poor temples till so sore
It worried his poor mind:—
Again he felt!—rais’d up his face!
“What’s this? what’s this?” exclaim’d.
“A button? no!—they’re all in place,”—
A “godsend!” (’tis reclaim’d).

* * * * *

Now in Joe’s coat’s abyss[48] had gone
A fourp’ny silver piece;
He found it, and a smile then shone;
He damp’d it with a kiss,
And sought the nearest paper shop,[49]
With pen and ink there drew,
Or wrote, or rudely tried to drop—
A few lines to Westlooe,
And told his dear wife, “Agnes-Ann,”
To send him by first post
Some money. Thus the letter ran—
“Dear Agnes-Ann,—I’ve lost,
I’ve lost, my dear, my leathern pouch,
I’ve not a copper left;
I’ve been oblig’d to leave my watch
To pay——, so do be swift.”

(etc.) * * * * *

’Twas done: his wife took pen in hand
And sent a “P.O.O.,”
To pay, she said, at “Saint-le-Grand,”
Five pounds in gold to Joe.

* * * * *

The Captain not a friend could see
To help him in this need,
So in the depths of misery,
And dreadf’lly hungerèd,
He wander’d to and fro by day,
By night he did the same,
And every now and then would pray,
Until the letter came.—
Then Captain went to “Saint-le-Grand,”
And found the “order” right,
And soon five sovereigns in his hand,—
A welcome, welcome sight:
Thought on his watch immediately,
Intent, turn’d round to go
Back to the inn; but suddenly
Stopp’d short, and sighed; for, lo!
He’d never thought (poor simple man)
Of taking its address. * * *
So here was Captain Joe again
Once more in great distress;
In such distress of mind was he,
He turn’d his eyes to earth,
And cried, “My watch!” and instantly
He curs’d his very birth.

Now recollecting Edgware Road,
Joe thought if he went there
He might find out that grand abode—
Where all seem’d “straight and fair.”
Direct he goes; and if in one
Almost in every inn
Steps Joe, but could not find the John
Who look’d so pale and thin.
So vex’d, indeed, was Captain now,
That he resolv’d to go
And take the Train, and made this vow—
“Ne’er more to leave Westlooe.”
Throughout the journey he never smil’d,
And sat as though in grief,
Breath’d not a sound to man nor child,
Thought every one a thief. * * *
But there was one[50] look’d straight at Joe,
Who thought it very strange
That “only just a day or two
Had wrought this wondrous change!”
Now (which augmented Captain’s cares)
He’d left at home the “lines”
Which told where liv’d those Londoners—
Advent’rers in the mines. * * *
Fast flew the train, and Joe got home,
Where flock’d his friends to see
(As customary in the town),
And list’ attentively
To Captain Joseph’s great account;
But they were much surpris’d
To find he’d nothing to recount
Save his being modernis’d;
For what Joe thought to have in store,[51]
When first he started out,
Had vanish’d like a metaphor,
And he[52] turn’d inside out.

* * * * *

Next day, as Captain “went to mine,”
Alone, he did not care
How he his vengeance did combine
With an alternate prayer;
Thus:—“Where is that long-cherish’d gem,
That only legacy
My grandsire left me? Woe to him
Who brought this misery!” * * *
That night poor Joe thought (in a dream)
His watch might still be found,
And when he ’woke retain’d the scheme,
Resolv’d the plan sound;
Made up his mind what he should do,
Arose and went forthwith
Upon his pony to Westlooe,
There found out old John Smith
The Schoolmaster, and earnestly
Urg’d him at once t’invent
A “vertisement,” which cleverly
To the “Great Town” was sent.
’T ran thus: “One night slept at an Inn,
Near the Great West—— Railway,
A Cornishman, and then was seen
At breakfast the next day,
In waistcoat, coat, and trowsers, black;
Who’d lost his leathern purse,
And left his watch: he wants it back,
And would not care a curse
’Bout the expense if that kind Gent,
Who took it for his bill,
Would pack it safe and have it sent
Right down into Cornwall,—
Address’d to Captain Joseph James,
At Westlooe Copper Mine,—
And send his own address and names,
With just a word or line,—
John Smith, of Westlooe Grammar School.
Will send by the next mail,
In postage-stamps, the cost in full,
And something for some ale.” * * *
This done, the Captain bade farewell,
And trotted home with speed,—
Told his dear Agnes-Ann—the tale,
Took tea and went to bed;
And rose again, delighted with
The plan; then went to mine;
Thought all day long of old John Smith,
And of th’ expected line
From “John” the Gent. At length there came
A note, wrote plain and neat,
Sign’d with a “Russian-looking name,”
At “16, Cuthbert Street.” * * *
Then Joe exclaimed, “My watch, my dear;
My dear, my watch:” and he,
To make her understand it clear,
Read out thus (smilingly)—
“If Captain Joseph James will send
In postage-stamps One pound,
His trouble shall be at an end;
The watch is safe and sound.”
“Is safe and sound,” quoth Joe thrice o’er;
“Oh! thank the Lord for this,”
Said he; then read it through once more,
And gave his wife a kiss;
Put on his best, and trotted down
(The stamps got on the way)
To see his old friend “Maseter” John;
Shook hands, and ’gan to say—
“Dear Maseter john, once more I will
Just trouble you to write.” * * *
“With pleasure, Captain;” took his quill,
And penn’d with all his might
An answer to the honest sir,
Who saw the “vertisement;”
Enclosed the stamps, and sixpence o’er.[53]

* * * * *

So great was Joe’s content,
He went straight home and said his pray’rs;
Became an alter’d man:
When bed-time ’rriv’d he went up-stairs,
And bless’d dear Agnes-Ann.
Next morning like a lark he ’rose,
And merrily tripp’d along
Towards the mine, and as he goes,
Hums o’er his old lov’d song.

* * * * *