Chapter II: Preface (2)

Three days pass’d by: Joe doubted (what?)
If all was strictly true;
And thought t’himself—hath “John” forgot
Joe James of, of Westlooe? * * *
Another day pass’d o’er his head;
His fears now ’gan t’increase;
He reckon’d up what he had paid,—
The sum disturb’d his peace!
“Oh! sinner that I am,” quoth he,
“To put such faith in man;”
And paus’d: then bawl’d out savagely,
“Oh! may the rogue be d——n’.” * * *
Now, when poor Captain Joseph felt
That watch and all was lost,
He grumbled something, sigh’d, and knelt,
And counted up the cost,—
Which ’mounted to twelve sterling-pounds,
Eight shillings, and odd pence![54]
Enough. His anger knew no bounds,
His rage became intense,
(With whom poor Captain Joe knew not)
And e’en the beard he bore
He turn’d aside—aim’d at his throat!
But failing this—he swore
That all but him[55] were rogues and thieves;
That every living soul,
From parish-paupers to state-chiefs,
Would surely go to ——.

* * * * *

“Come neighbours, drop a tear for Joe!”
The sexton quaintly said,
When Captain Joseph was laid low
Into his last lone bed.[56]
And so they did. And even now
Dull records prove the fact—
That never a man in all Westlooe
Possess’d such mining tact
Before or since old Joseph died;
Or bore three prouder names—
If heav’n and earth were both allied—
Than Captain Joseph James.[57]

[35] London.

[36] “Captain” is a familiar term invariably applied to the manager of a mine.

[37] Westlooe is a small town in Cornwall.

[38] Little dreaming of the sad disasters which were about to befall him. The puffing of the engine.

[39] Passing through a tunnel.

[40] Where the train stopped for ten minutes.

[41] The refreshment department at the station.

[42] A Five-shilling piece.

[43] A very doubtful matter whether the lad ever did return.

[44] Paddington Station.

[45] In a dream.

[46] Seven and sixpence—a singular coincidence.

[47] The sensation of one’s hair standing erect.

[48] Inside the skirt-lining of his coat.

[49] Stationer’s shop.

[50] The lady with whom the Captain joked on his journey to town.

[51] The Captain had promised his friends to give them a full account of his journey, &c., when he returned.

[52] His wit.

[53] An extra sixpence to pay for a glass of grog.

[54] Including the value of the watch, chain, &c.

[55] The Captain himself.

[56] Grave.

[57] There seems to be no doubt whatever (assuming the story to be a true one) that the Captain’s greatest disaster—his losing his old “leathern pouch,” as he called it, occurred on the platform of the Paddington Station, when, in his great hurry to get away, he tumbled so violently over the trunk; and being in the habit of carrying his “pouch” in the inside breast-pocket of his coat, the probability is, that it escaped from thence in consequence of the sudden jerk it received. He, as a matter of course, being a Cornishman, took very little—if indeed any—notice of the fall, for (with an air of triumph) he recovered his perpendicular, and started off—as observed before in the poem—in which the direction of Edgware Road. As regards the disappointment and dismay which the Captain met with afterwards as to the recovery of his watch, that was what might have been expected by any shrewd person, because it was very natural that some sharp individual would have observed the “vertisement,” and would, as a matter of course, take some such a step as, unfortunately for Joseph, turned out to be the case.

England’s Hope.

NOTE.—The author takes the opportunity of stating here that, having sent of the three poems—“England’s Hope,” “Christening the Prince,” and “Our Little Brother”—to Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales (as the three incidents occurred), he had the gratification of receiving on each occasion a letter expressing their thanks for the same.

When suddenly one wintry night,
Throughout the land with ’lectric flight,
The news[58] sped far and wide,
Old England ’rose with sterling joy,
And hail’d the princely infant boy!—
The offspring of our pride.

For whilst on Britain’s favour’d soil,
Ten thousand round had ceas’d from toil,
Kind nature rack’d her frame:
But Time, the god of hope and fear,
Deign’d not, in love, to linger there;
Relief was wrought and came!

And Providence, so wondrous kind,
Thus sooth’d a mother’s anguish’d mind—
The parent[59] of our hope:
Whose children’s transient joys, or cares,
She most affectionately shares
With gentle sovereign scope.

Thanks! thanks! a myriad hearts entreat;
Look upwards and with zeal repeat
This universal song,—
Grant to the mother, God, so good,
Thy daily gifts of choicest food;
And pour amid the throng,

On her Thy unction of sweet peace;
Thy wisdom and Thy care increase,
And save her from the foe
That robb’d us of a cherish’d name.[60]
Let health and charity inflame:—
Command it to be so,

“’Tis done!” Praise, and with might implore
The righteous God, His gifts to store
For the sweet infant prince;—
To gird with strength and love combined;
T’endow him with a generous mind:
And let a people hence-

Forth render eagerly their arms,
If that false god—Delusion charms
Or enemies incite
To dare invade the British Isles,
Our valour, hope, our tears and smiles,
Shall guard them in the fight!

But may the warlike dream be this:
“A son receive a mother’s kiss,—
A father’s fondness prove,—
The only weapons to engage;
The only conflict to assuage;
The only god—pure Love.”

[58] The accouchement of Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales, and the happy birth of a Prince, at Frogmore Lodge, Windsor, at 8.55 p.m., Friday, 8th January, 1864.

[59] Her Majesty the Queen.

[60] Albert. His late Royal Highness The Prince Consort died 14th Dec., 1861.

Christening the Prince.[61]

One circle round our Sun—and o’er—
Is perfected, since forth there stray’d[62]
In youth a fair Princess,
From whom fell liquid drops of love—
Love-crystals of her wedding tour.
Though griev’d, the fair-form’d gentle maid
(Whom God was pleas’d to bless),
With modest courage sweetly strove
And conquer’d it!—Joy helping her.
Those moments sad, Time soon spent out:
Her Edward, yet afar,
Beheld her with bright vision’s eye.
She wiped away the pearly tear,
And tripp’d on deck. Then ’rose a shout
For Denmark’s shooting star—
Resounding thro’ the azure sky!
Silently sped the ship over the sea:
Edward beheld his Bride, happy and free.

England’s store of wealth and fame
Burst forth in one united blaze,
And reel’d in ecstasy—
Love’s civil war of Joy _v._ Joy!
To-day, around the Font to name—
(As on a courtly group we gaze
In seemly modesty)—
The pretty infant nursling boy,
A family of royal descent
Implore Great God’s especial care,
For this, their lovely child.

* * * * *

O bounteous Lord, who gave him breath!
Behold them reverently bent
Whilst offering up their pray’r
To Thee, Who kindly smiled:—
Defend and succour unto death.
Now in their triple bond, safe from the sea,
Edward beholds them both happy and free.

[61] The reader will please to observe that lines 1st and 5th, 2nd and 6th, 3rd and 7th, &c., have rhythmical terminations.

[62] The author seeks indulgence in using the word “stray’d.”

The Astronomer.

Cold, yet salubrious, is the night,
And quiet reigns around;
Mid-winter’s nimbly spread its white
Robe o’er the goodly ground.

The silver’d earth reflects the moon,
As, in her majesty,
She rides across that vast saloon
Where mystic meteors fly,—

Where giant stars,[63] all in their course,
Roll through the plains of night,—
Sustain’d by their centrip’tal force,
And centrifugal flight,—

Illuminating the blue main
(Where discontents ne’er rise),
As on they travel in a train
Through the enchanting skies. * * *

Famed Venus, Jupiter, or Mars,
Attract the passer-by;
While countless other glittering stars
Ne’er catch a single eye.

Some creatures, weary with their toil,
Scarce lift their heads above;
And others, thoughtless of them all,
Prefer their downs of love.

But the Astronomer’s deep mind
Soars through the ocean air,—
He loves the Hand which has design’d
The heav’ns with so much care;

For in’t he finds a glorious feast
Of beauteous wonderment!
Though thousands ’round him take their rest,
He seeks the firmament:

Therein abides his only hope,
And there his soul is lost!—
In solitude he loves to cope
The grand nocturnal host;

His nourishment—the silv’ry draught,
While ’tis a cloudless sky;—
But lo! he turns and views, abaft,
Some striplings of dark dye.

And then a group, of murky hue,
Seem to conspire to mar
The radiant twinklers from his view,
And hide his favourite star.

All hope—awhile—now gone from him,
He seeks his lonely bed,
And there he utters, in a dream,
Those words—“When I am dead!” * * *

Awoke—his ever-studious mind
Impels his feathery pen,
And draws, perchance, his last design
Of the ethereal main.

Ah! something stirs him to a smile—
Like lightning skips his quill;
Then, for some reason, waits awhile,
And sits, as ’twere, stark still:

Or, studiously obedient to
The impulse of his heart,
Inclines his heavy-laden brow,
And drops his grey-goose dart.

Then, when ’tis eve, he travels forth
To scan the starry height,
With instruments of precious worth,
And compasses the night.

Fix’d,[64] and directed to the spot—
The object of his gaze—
Exclaims the man, “O, beauteous dot!—
Some men, methinks, will praise

Thee more than I, when ’neath the sod
My cold clay form is laid:—
When I th’ immortal path have trod,
They’ll talk of him that’s dead.” * * *

He strikes the bosom of his muse,
And chants in silent song
A hymn of joy, whilst he reviews
The grand celestial throng.

He envies not the king his throne;
The nation its proud wealth:
But ponders o’er the purple zone,
Till self-destroying health

Bids him relax the arduous task,—
He sighs at every breath,—
For on his pale cheeks lurk the mask
Of hungry-looking death.

Yet still assiduously goes on
The man (not of this world):
Until, alas! his period’s run—
The sails of life are furl’d!

His worldly goods are sought by those
The nearest of his kin;—
On cumb’rous shelves, in cupboards, doze
The products of his pen.

They see, at length, in their rude style
That in the vast blue heav’n
There rangeth one more ariel-isle!
Its name was all but given * * *

Enough though had been writ of it,
Man’s wisdom to absorb;
For yet-liv’d ’stronomers deem’d fit
To seek the new-born orb:—

Yes, and ’twas found! and then they raise
A tribute to its fame,
And learn the dead man’s works to praise.
And lauded forth his name.

[63] The Planets.

[64] His astronomical instrument.

On Shakespeare.

[Composed on the occasion of “The Shakespeare Tercentenary Festival,” 1864.]

NOTE.—The reader is requested to observe that lines 1-5, 2-6, 3-7, 4-8 (and so in every eight consecutive lines), have rhythmical terminations, though the quantity of feet do not agree; but the number of feet in lines 1-9, 2-10, 3-11, 4-12, 5-13, 6-14, 7-15, and 8-16 (and so in each successive 16 lines), will be found to correspond, with but slight variation.

He liv’d to die, but not to be forgott’n,
Without a title save that his parents gave him,—
A proud yet simple one indeed,—
Such as almost a very babe might utter.
Although the dust of his birth-dwelling’s long since trodd’n,
He’s now, as was of yore, a glorious shining beam,
On which our memories love to feed.
His mother fondly watch’d his gentle stature:
Himself the womb of a rare sparkling brain:
And heaping, aye! unthought of world-wide wondrous fame
With his enchanting pen:—the food,
The fondest food of history, and the stage:
’Twas but a little cabinet that did contain
The ponderous manuscripts which bore his goodly name—
Those volumes so well understood.
O god of bards, thou wert the greatest sage!

* * * * *

“The tempest” of life he did begin to fare
One April-month, ’tis writ (in Fifteen’ sixty-four)
Not “much ado about nothing.”
“Love’s labour lost?” Oh, no—indeed ’twere not!
In him were planted tender shrubs, and striplings rare,
Which grew, at length, to giant trunks of strength and pow’r:
In literature he ’came a king.
To grasp the sceptre of the stage he wrote.

* * * * *

Whilst but a youth, at Stratford-upon-Avon,
He stole, poor lad! away from one Sir Thomas Lucy.
A lucky day was that for “Will,”—
When he began his “comedy of errors,”—
Startling, withal, men’s minds for ever and anon!
Erst chalking satire on the knighted-man’s own gateway.
“Measure for measure,” penn’d his quill,
And left poor Lucy, first to taste his terrors.

* * * * *

O thou bright charmer of the inmost spark!
Why revell’d thou so soon in death’s grim holiday—
Ere time had run its ’lotted space?
In peace thy work began was finished well.
Like as the stars which shine throughout the dreary dark
Thy feather’d instruments made letters and words say
That thou didst live—didst live to chase
Gods to their heav’n; and devils to their hell.

* * * * *

(Men stirr’d themselves and ransack’d o’er their wit,
And did in their quiet homilies rack brain and soul
To render unto the great dead
A worthy tribute of their country’s love.
With all the modern implements of learning writ
They—each and either of them—their own favourite roll:
“Not as you like it,” be it said,—
He wrote a play while they their plans approve.)

“Will’s” cloudy days nigh spent, his sun arose!
(God with him, tickling his fair brow and sparkling eye)
With wisdom wrote he ’n majesty
On high-born kings and lowly peasantry
In rhyme’s sweet readings; lines of quaint sarcastic prose:
Perhaps offendingly to some; whilst others sigh,
Or laugh, or cry, and timidly
Enjoy the witty man’s bright pleasantry.—
Behold his genius! look ye to the skies;
For like a planet, known by its respective sign,
So was he—good William Shakespeare—
Occupying the golden throne of history;
Whose countless pages, fraught with gloomy mysteries—
Stored o’er and o’er in ancient and in new design—
Are lasting monuments, so dear,
That he shall ne’er escape from memory.

The Banquet.[65]

The summer crept from May to June,
When flow’rs yield most their perfumes sweet,
And add their charms to the saloon,
To make the banquet-room complete.

See: there they are, of every hue,
Of every cast, in aspect rare;
All greeting all who deign to view,
And smiling on the happy pair.

Their meet companions all attend—
Those crownèd giants of the pine,—
And in their place, beneath them, bend
The goodly tenants of the vine.

Those purple cisterns,[66] fill’d to brim,
(And those green beauties by their side,)
Enrich the little seas that swim
In goblets, through the eventide.

’Round golden pedestals they cling,
Among th’ elect of every fruit:
Hear they, as ’twere, the glasses ting;
Burst they with joy, yet they are mute.

Their turn is come—O, happy fate!—
A kindly hand assists them down;
They garnish well the polish’d plate,
Until their fairy-life is flown.

Now listen to the harmony—
Those compliments of courteous love:
Observe how wondrous loyally
And royally the things do move!

The banquet-board bore on its face
Profusion’s burden of choice store:
The hostess loan’d her wonted grace—
Enhanc’d by the gay garb she wore:

And by her side, on her right hand,
The son of England’s cherish’d Queen,—
Prince Edward, of all Britain’s land:
None fairer of his sex are seen.

Glance o’er the board—behold the host,
(Whom this fair Prince doth honour well,)
Though years he numbereth the most,
In wit and wisdom none excel:

On his right hand, eyes sparkling bright,
Sat Alexandra, England’s own.—
She saw, was seen, and spell’d the night:
Yet there were other stars that shone,

Whose smiling countenances glowed
With love, and hope, and charity;
Within whose bosoms freely flowed
The stream which mark’d their ancestry,—

Of ancestors who scared the foe
With swords and bucklers, armour bent,
Swift arrows from well-bended bow,
Or matchlock leaden bullets sent;

Whose loyalty unto the crown,
When dangers frown’d at home, abroad,
Brought kingly gratulations down,
And blessings from Almighty God.

Have ceased those feudal wars of yore,—
When heritages were purloin’d,
Or purchas’d with death’s clotted gore,
To satisfy th’ insatiate mind.

Now peace, triumphant, fill’d each heart;
The rosy wine-cup teem’d with pride;
The banquetees[67] had met to part:—
Gone, gone is this blithe eventide!

[65] This poem was composed on the occasion of the Banquet given by Lord and Lady Palmerston, June 22nd, 1864, in honour of their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales.

[66] Grapes.

[67] The guests.

Thought.

O silent tickler of the human brain!—
The infant’s, boyhood’s, manhood’s, and old age’—
In some thou ’bidest with consoling strain;
In others, burning with revengeful rage.

The babe is prompted to its mother’s breast,
While with sweet lullabys she heeds her child,
And dandles it, or rocks it on to rest;
Herself perchance a widow, or beguil’d:—

A widow! and within her village cot,
She sees the fence encircling the green sward,
And eyes the porchway, leading to the spot
Where he lies mould’ring, once the village bard.

“Boys will be boys,” and so they go a playing;
Methinks I see nigh twenty of them there
Who drop their marbling while the donkey’s braying,
And laugh most heartily at what they hear.

There, ten years hence, not one of them is seen,
The field of industry absorbs them all,
Yet there are others playing on that green,
Knuckling at marbles, or at batting ball.

One well-known lad has gone across the sea,
Another’s crippled, and another’s dead:
Out of those twenty there remains but three,
And they have cares, for each of them have wed.

The man—a merchant, or a city-scribe,
Has round him rang’d his family-group at night;
His gains are great, and therefore doth subscribe
Towards the evening’s leisure of delight.

God’s holy day comes round, they take in turn
To fill the pew, for which he pays the rent:
They’ve not yet had occasion for to mourn,
And so the intervals are cheerly spent.

He banks his cash day after day, perchance;
His sundry books are regularly pent;
He speculates at home, in Belgium, or in France,
For all goes well upon the Continent.

Speeds forth at morning in his usual health;
The family-group repeat their kind adieu;
Once more he’s on the path to gain and wealth,
And meets a friend, who startles him anew!

The news of some disastrous incident
Now smites him like a demon’s evil dart—
The bank, in which he felt most confident,
Is “broken,” and will soon have broke his heart!

He then to Heaven uplifts his tearful eyes
(Adversity had check’d the worldly spark);
Despairingly he ponders, then he sighs,
Like as a seaman in a sinking barque.

Time, swiftly rolling, ’printeth on his cheek
A hallow’d countenance, imbued with care;
Once mighty,—humble, thankful now, and meek,
And regular at morn’ and evening pray’r.

Obedient to God’s laws of life and death,
Old Age prepares to meet Eternity!—
Deep furrows on his brow, and shorten’d breath,
Are tokenings of his infirmity.

Recurs to him (when at his social board)—
Some little element of jealousy,
Occasion’d through an inadvertent word
Escaping, when in his prosperity.

He now repenteth of the injury done,
And makes amends by words of lovingness;
Calls to his side his dear and only son,
Whose mind, refresh’d, at once forgiving is.

A thousand little things flit to his mind,
With wondrous force of perspicuity;
As in his old arm-chair he is reclined,
Believes what once was incongruity.

The lessons of a life-time now hath taught
The old man to put faith in holy things;
He strikes his bosom, for a happy thought
Revives some former truthful ponderings.

Alas! he fails, bed-ridden; (hence he dies.)—
Some goodly creature reads the Book of fate.[68]
His family ’round him, sees him close his eyes;
And thus is finish’d the four-fold estate.

[68] The Bible.

Sheep.

How welcome ’tis to human eye
To see the mead-lands gay with sheep:
How homely is the lambkin’s cry,
How sweet to see them run and leap.

Look, whilst unheeded falls the show’r,
How nimbly each one nips the blade;
And, as the rain-drops trickle o’er
Them, how intent they mind their trade.

Their life-time’s short, but sweet content
Ne’er fails them: on and on they pass,
And as they wander innocent-
Ly yield, and aid the growing grass.

When Dame Aurora steeps the main
With her resistless flood of light,
They’re up, and at their trade again,
And nibble, nibbling till ’tis night.

But when a storm is gathering fast,
See how they’ll seek some shelter’d cove;
How cunningly they’ll shun the blast,
Beneath a hazel-hedge, or grove.

When down at night they gently lie,
Unconscious where the light hath flown,
It may be plann’d for all to die
Before the morrow’s afternoon.

’Tis so!—a sound doth ’lectrify
The timid throng: they congregate;
And, as th’ intruder they espy,
Seem apprehensive of their fate.

Away unto some nook they run,
Or to the angle of the field;
The shepherd marks them one by one,
And one by one they have to yield.

(Perchance it is the month of May):
Their shornèd quarters fat and fleet
Are needed in some other way,—
Are soon, alas! transform’d to meat.

O! little faithfuls,—eat and drink,
For on to-morrow you must fall:
’Tis good thou hast no thought to think;
Were ’t so thy life-time would be gall.

Suppose it’s March: the fields[69] are bare;
The hunter’s horn rides on the gale;
And suddenly a fox, or hare,
Comes bounding over hedge or pale,

Then see them how they’ll gather round,
As though some dreadful foe was near;
And mark, when forth the foremost hound
Comes yelping onward, how they fear;

And stand aghast-like—stark and still—
Until the yelpers have flown past,
Until the hunters cross the hill,
And then again seek their repast.

(Now when the distant sportsmen see
The nervous flock haste to the fence,
’Tis known to them with accuracy
The prey hath cross’d, or crossing thence.)

Ah! little think they (but ’tis true)
That, as they heed the fleeting throng,
Those hunters’ coats, red, green, or blue,
Have from such backs as theirs been flung.

Turn, reader, from the blithesome chase
To where the staggering thrust is dealt;
Behold the death-stains on the face,
And see what gory blood is spilt:

Conceive, what thousands in a day
Reel at the shock which lays them low;
That as they hang, as cold as clay,
Ten thousand more receive the blow!

All pity’s fled, when (at the fire,)
Leg, loin, or shoulder’s on the spit,
To grace the table of the squire—
Surrounded by things amply fit.

Where they were born, or how they live,
On what they feed, or how they die,
Or how the little creatures grieve
When on the butcher’s block they lie.

Ne’er strikes th’ attention of the guest,
Host, hostess, scull’ry-maid, nor cook;
It’s—whether it be rightly drest,
And whether “paid,” or on the book.

O! little faithfuls,—eat and drink,
For on to-morrow you must fall:
’Tis good thou hast no thought to think;
Were ’t so, thy lifetime would be gall.

Trip on, lie down and go to sleep,
Run skipfully, or stand ye still;
Feed on, as should ye—pretty sheep,
Until thou deem’st thou’st had thy fill;—

No-one will grudge thee what thou’st ta’en,
For in return thou ’videst us food:
Ah! through the field and narrow lane
Thou’rt hurried to the field of blood.

Thy jackets, shorn, are piled in store,
Or carted to the mart for sale;
Thy wool, O! meek ones (woven o’er),
Adorns the hearth, flaunts in the gale.

In every land, on every sea,
Where commerce traverses the globe,—
’Tis knit in garb’s simplicity;
Knit in the monarch’s choicest robe;

Knit in the infant’s swaddling clothes;
Knit in the mother’s “jaconet;”—[70]
In colours various as the rose,
As various as the violet,

Promiscuous ’sturchion, and (methinks)
Still further—the chrysanthemum,
Punctilious dahlia, hornèd pinks,
The rose-like poppy in full bloom.

Nay, more—geraniums, beauteous things,
The ear-drop fuchsias—every kind,
And that sweet flow’r[71] which gently clings
To where contentment fills the mind[72].—

Not that contentment reigns alone
In the most humble cottages,
But that it is more rarely known
To dwell in gorgeous palaces.

[69] Cornfields.

[70] A kind of knitted jacket for the body.

[71] The woodbine.

[72] The peasant’s cot.

A School Festival.[73]

Among the fern, the chestnut, and the oak,—
Beside the stilly lake and silent brook,—
A host of little boys and maidens play
With pastors, masters, keeping holiday.
Their merry whistle and their shrill-voic’d tongues,
The hip-hurrahs join’d with their youthful songs,
Make one glad concert of unusual mirth—
One happy unison of joy on earth.
They tumble, rumble, on the beauteous lawn,
As free from care as are the swift-foot fawn
That stray beneath yon summer-blooming trees,
And sniff at will the heav’nly-perfum’d breeze.
See how the little rev’lers romp and fall,
Whilst some are racing for the sky-thrown ball:
A stripling, heedless of th’ obscurèd root
Of some large chestnut, trips his nimble foot,
And stumbles; but ’tis only o’er a mound,
Clad with Earth’s velvet, so no harm is found.
There (laughingly) th’ expectant bride,
Is sporting lovingly with him—her pride:
Then sprightly tripping to another, tries
To startle him, who (turning round) espies
Her merry-making face, and laughs consent,—
Whilst she discloses some blithe sentiment.

* * * * *

Look round again: there seems a sweet content
In every eye; in every bosom seems
A heart that beats with love’s enchanting beams.
List to the music of th’ refection bell:
Behold the young ones,—e’en their gestures tell
What speaks it; they come hast’ning to its ting,
And form themselves, adroitly, in a ring
Upon the trodden blade. They sit, and eat,
And quaff. Why should they not?—It is most meet
Those Englanders should well enjoy their treat.
Hear then the thunder of the little throat
Of him, who first doth nail[74] the Pastor’s coat,—
Of them, who follow—anxious for the prize,
Which is held out to greet their longing eyes—
As forth the Pastor runs from tree to tree,
With equal pleasure and sincerity.

* * * * *

Now for the elder ones: they, like the young,
Refresh’d, hie forth and mingle with the throng,
As prone to mirth, apparently as gay
As Spring’s sweet blossoms in the bright noon-day:
Some tune their voices in harmonious glee,
And thus make jub’lant the festivity;
Whilst others, wand’ring o’er the pleasant grounds,
Return to welcome those according sounds,
And bid them echo, with their meet applause,
The blitheful song in honour of the cause.
Again the ball is launch’d upon the green:
But lo!—down west, day’s radiant lamp is seen
In gorgeous amplitude. The hour has come—
The junior host are marshall’d out for home.
God then is prais’d:[75] and, as the heav’ns grow dark,
The deer are left the guardians of the park.

[73] Composed on the occasion of St. Peter’s (Pimlico, London) annual School Festival, held at Bushy Park, Hampton Court, 27th July, 1865.

[74] Make holdfast.

[75] The singing of a hymn.

An Autumnal Day.[76]

When Morn,[77] returning, upward leaps
Into the realms of day—
Re-gilding mountain-tops, and steeps,
Most heav’nward in the sky,
And finding unpropitious clouds
Spread o’er the vast expanse,—
Obscuring from Earth’s mingling crowds
His needed countenance,—
He puts his golden armour on,
Bends his portentous bow,
And sends his arrows quiv’ring down
Direct upon the foe;—
So swift, so pond’rously each beam
Falls on the murky host,
Disconsolation seizes them;
When, gathering to their post,
Again they furiously contend
For the supremacy;
But they, alas! dejected, wend
Their course reluctantly.

* * * * *

Now, whilst the conflict waxed hot,
He sought the briny foam—
Return’d afresh’d, (but they were not),
And cheer’d the peasant’s home;
Or stole across an emerald lawn,
Thus dighting Nature’s face,
And play’d among the bounding fawn,—
Those youngsters of the chase;
Then o’er the woodland, o’er the plain,
Or down the streamlet borne—
Through grassy vales—on to the main,
Where sailors hail blest Morn:
Now back again to the garden spot,
Or to the infant’s cheek—
Whilst rocking in the nursling cot;
Thence to the orchard creek;
Perchance o’er housetops high and low,
Against the village spire,
Or through the fane he deigns to go
And scans the sacred choir;
Then saunters o’er the lonely grave,
Where mingle rich and poor:
Now off again to the crested wave;
Again to the old barn-door.

* * * * *

And now the god ordains to grace
The city; but ’tis vain—
A sluggish mist pervades the space,
While clouds, dispensing rain,
Lay ’cumbent o’er the busy crowd:
At length his portly mien—
Through some one condescending cloud—
Re-animates the scene!

* * * * *

Ah me! methinks those human beings,
Who raise that murm’ring sound,
Are like a myriad little things
Which hither—thither bound—
Unstable as the sandy shore,
As restless as the sea—
Receding, curling, toppling o’er,
For all eternity.

* * * * *

And when he once more skirts the sky—
Down gliding in the west—
Observe the tim’rous clouds which fly,
Carnation’d, to the east:—
O! watch the gorgeous king of day,
Descending, gone from view * * *
Ah! who shall live to rise, and pray,
As he comes round anew?—
And that he will; but who shall see
The god as round he rolls?—
It may be—Immortality
Hath claim’d a thousand souls!

* * * * *

Some live to see the glorious Sun
Descend the great concave;
But thousands, ere the day is done,
Are silent in the grave!!!

[76] This poem is intended to illustrate the Sun’s fleetings on the Earth’s surface, occasioned by the passage of clouds, on a breezy day.

[77] The Sun.

Our Little Brother.[78]

’Tis night! ’tis night! the solemn hour is come;
A storm-toss’d bark, “’lexandra,”’s on the foam:
Sound an alarm ere she is rift!
To Heaven a hundred eyes uplift:
His Answer comes as doubly swift,—
The winds abate; calm is the crested main,
The goodly craft rides on in peace again.

Touch, touch the thread, which stretches land and sea;
Command it bear the news, with accuracy,
Through channels, rivers, lakes, and rills;
Through England’s vales, o’er Scotland’s hills;
Through Ireland’s uplands, creeks, and dells,—
“Ere proud Aurora flush’d the purple East,
The Danish bark was safe, and sleeps at rest.”

Sound, sound the cymbal, sound the silver horn;
Herald afar “a Prince to-day is born:”
Tell Denmark’s King, “Safe is his child,
That the Great God in kindness smil’d;
A nation’s heart is reconciled:”
Tell him “his Daughter is old England’s pride;
That in our love she alway may confide.”

Send forth the word unto Balmoral halls,—
“That pray’rs were said within our sacred walls,
To Him above, the gracious Giver,
For her, for him, and his for ever:
All hail the little princely brother!”
On British hearts, engraven is the word—
“Our crown and country rules with one accord.”

O Lord, inspire the mother’s tender breast,
That she may offer up her thanks, the best;
And have, in Thee, the surest friend,
To-day, and to a distant end;
Down on her children comfort send:
Bless, Thou, the haven which the shelter gave;
Guard sire, and dame, and children to the grave!

[78] Written on the occasion of the birth of Prince George Frederick Ernest Albert, second son of their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales, at Marlborough House, Pall Mall, 3rd June, 1865, at 1.18.

The Coming of the Belgians.[79]

Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!—
Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on;
Ring out its welcome in the sky,
And herald forth to Wimbledon
Our warrior-guests from Belgium-land:
From Belgium land they come, they come
To share with us in Britons’ land
The banquet-board and social home.
Right welcome shall those warriors be
To Britons’ land, to Britons’ land,
For they have come across the sea
To Britons’ land, to Britons’ land.

Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!—
Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on;
Ring out its welcome in the sky:
Hurrah! hurrah! for Wimbledon.

’Tis there our laurels now are won—
Where bloom the gorse’s golden flower,
And where the butterfly, anon,
Doth sport amid the bramble bower;
And where the heather dights the plain,
Where Nature, in its forest trim,
Delights the eye, perfumes the main:
Where every daisy is a gem;
Where soars the cuckoo’s glad ding-dong,
And the sweet blackbird’s merry air;
Aye! where the skylark’s matin song
Is, is of all the sweetest pray’r.

Hoist, Britons, host the banner high! etc.

’Tis there th’ elect of Englishmen,
And Scotland’s fairest sons of might,
Bemake the upland grove and glen,
The pinnacle of fame and fight:
’Tis there Hibernia’s children hie,
Join’d by the men of ancient Wales.
For Honor’s prize each country vie;
Ho! ho! ye plains, ye hills, ye vales;
Ho! ho! my kinsmen, ho! and hail
Our brother Belgians from afar,
Who now (responsive) westward sail,
To join in modern modes of war.

Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.

To join in modern modes of war
They came, our brother Belgians come,
But not for conquest, nor the star
Which desolates the peasant’s home;
For honor, wisdom, love, and truth,—
These are the prizes—these their aim:
Behold those patriots, age and youth,
All marksmen for their country’s fame.
Then welcome them to Wimbledon,
Ye Britons bold and bolder still;
For there the laurels shall be won
By those of most abundant skill.

Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.

’Tis there our countrymen advance
On the high road to royal regard,
For there shall Edward nobly glance
On Britain’s patriotic guard.
Then on! ye willing warriors, on!
Unfurl the standard, lift it high,
And let it wave o’er Wimbledon,—
A beacon to the Belgian eye.
Up with your tents, encamp ye round
“The flaming flag of liberty;”
Send the swift ball forth to the mound;
’Tis won!—whose is the victory? * * *

Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.

Let Record mark this year of grace,
When forth the Belgian from the east,
With glowing heart and beaming face,
Came o’er to share the British feast:
When Britain, lit with loyalty,
Drew forth its chamois as of yore,
And deck’d with right baronialty
The banquet-board with choicest store:
Whereat the best skill’d war-men came,
From highlands, lowlands, vales, and plains;
And where the foremost heard his name
Proclaim’d in proud triumphant strains.

Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!—
Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on;
Proclaim aloud the victory!—
Hurrah! hurrah! for Wimbledon!

[79] Return visit of the Belgian Volunteers (to England), July, 1867.

A Song: “Willy” and Anne.

“Will you write to me, love, when away,—
When poor ‘Willy’’s gone over the lake![80]—
If you will, I will promise to pay
Thee for all the sweet labour you take?”

“Yes!”—she said, with a faint yet sweet voice—
“But be sure you fail not, in your turn,
To write back to the maid of your choice,—
If ’tis me then she’ll long your return.”

Singing on—said he “Oh! I’ll not fail,
If the heavens are kind to the ship,—
Safely wafting her on with the gale,—
And we reach the French port of Dieppe.”

“Ah then!—when you are there,” said sweet Anne,
“Will you send by the first coming post?”—
(With the same, a small pearl over-ran)—
And she sigh’d—“else I’ll think you are lost!”

Singing on—said he, “Can you forget
Our last ramble beneath the bright moon,
When your ‘Willy,’ and you, loving sat
On the gate-stile, and watch’d it go down?”

“Never! never!” she said, “for e’en now
Thy dear arms I feel round me entwin’d,
With thy lips on my unveilèd brow,
Whilst the zephyrs were wafting behind.”

[80] Signifying the sea.

A Song: The Lost Merchantman.

Dire is the night!—fleet lightnings flash
Across the sombre main;
The thunders roll; the surges lash;
Terrific is the rain:
The quiv’ring ship looks straight a-head,—
She strives to face the storm,—
When lo—the mainmast’s struck, and fled!—
Now her dismantled form
Reels piteously upon the wave,—
She mourns her broken beam;
And the poor seaman sees his grave
Within the turb’lent cream.

Unhappy ship!—unhappy ship!—
Ah! but an hour before
Light as a fairy didst thou skip;
And merrily on you bore
Your burden o’er the field of blue—
Trimm’d like a lovely girl—
Until the ghastly tempest grew,
And all hands ’gan to furl
Thy sails, to shun the dread “white squall,”—
That most unwelcome guest,—
The most portentous foe of all
Upon the ocean’s breast.

The minute-gun booms, but in vain;
Her ropes shriek in the gale;
Alas! her “midship”’s rent in twain:
The Captain, he looks pale,
And—faltering—sighs, and drops a tear,
But brave unto the last:
Now, conscious that his end is near,
(The ship was sinking fast)
Appeals for all to Him on high!
His orisons have flown;—
“Farewell,” he said to one “hard by,”
Then with the ship went down!!!

London, October 2nd, 1865.

Friend Charles ——.[81]

I’m glad, Dear C., to find you’re living still;
And thank you for the usual quinine pill:
Be pleas’d t’accept—more than the sum you crave—
Two extra postage-stamps, with which pray have
One glass of Bass’ —— to cheer thy trusty heart:
May ten years more (if spared to thee) impart
A better spirit to thy chast’ning health:
Altho’, like me—thou may’st lack worldly wealth,
Thou hast a soul symbolical of love,—
Yet never ventur’d in the Hymeneal grove!

Whate’er inquiries might be made for me
Among thine own, and my fraternity,
Tell them I’m blithe (tho’ scanty is my purse),
And that I care not one brave “cobbler’s curse”
For all the riches other men enjoy;
I do my best, my energies employ
To pay the sixpence where there’s any due,—
And therefore settle my account with you.

[81] A few lines on the author’s receipt of a box of pills from an old acquaintance (C. H.) of Ashburton.

The Fallen Leaf.

Autumn’s here: the leaves are flitting,
Thousands o’er the fields are tripping,—
O! watch them as they fall:
Go, eye them as they leave the tree,
All fluttering down reluctantly
Across the beams of Sol.

See ye the Sun—far down the west—
As he goes forth (as ’twere to rest),
And bids one half[82] “Good-night?” * * *
Well—tens of thousands go with him
Down o’er that bank with gilded brim;
Whilst the proud sky is dight

With clouds, like flowers of beauteous tint
Strewn o’er the heav’nly continent
And capering with the breeze—
Stretch’d far and wide and circling round,
And frisking through the vast profound,
As leaves frisk from the trees.

D’ye ween the meaning of my line?—
When Sol goes down that great incline,
I’d have ye think, with me,
That thousands have gone o’er the hill—
Whilst he goes on revolving still—
Unto eternity!

If right ye ween, I’d have you be—
Yea! like that orb—as readily
Prepared to leave the Earth.
Ye high, ye low, ye rich, ye poor,
Ye crownèd head, ambassador,—
No matter rank or birth,—

Reflect ye: for, like as the leaf
Falls down without a sign of grief,
Nor deigns to heave a sigh,
The monarch or the statesman must
Fall down and crumble into dust—
As all are born to die!

Altho’ we[83] mourn for one now gone,
And he—that grey-hair’d Palmerston,[84]
We will give God the praise,—
For he, beyond the age of man,[85]
Eleven years had over-ran
Within two equal days.

London, 18th October, 1865.

[82] One hemisphere.

[83] The nation.

[84] The Right Honourable Henry John Temple, Viscount Palmerston, K.G., G.C.B., &c. (the then Premier of the British Government), died at “Brockett Hall,” Herts, at a quarter to eleven o’clock in the forenoon of Wednesday, 18th October, 1865, aged eighty-one years (all but two days), having been born on the 20th October, 1784. The above lines were written on the occasion of his death.

[85] Scriptural limitation.

The Gout.

That enemy—the gout, I ween,
Of all such demons is most keen:
Some clever people seem to think
It is the treach’rousness of drink;
But where’s there one who fain would bear
Such agony for wine or beer,
Or any other kind of cheer?—
Stuff and all nonsense: yet, no doubt,
Some drinks are feeders to the gout.
Rare Doctor Jenner, whom we praise,
Regarded not this foul disease;
Or if he did, ’tis plain that he
Could not invent a remedy.
Oh! would he had devised a plan
To extirpate the gout from man:
Much praise would then ascend to Heaven
For all the comfort he had given.
But if man must for e’er endure
(For lack of any kingly cure)
To the world’s end this evil thing,
I say—God grant unto the king,
Or queen, or statesman, be who ’t may,
A life no longer than a day!—
For surely ’tis a sin to wish
The gouty monster to a fish.

* * * * *

Would there were men, with wit enow,
This nevious demon could subdue;
I would, for one, bestir the stars
To introduce them to famed Mars,
To Jupiter, or Mercury,—
(Together or alternately,)—
That theirs may be felicity
For evermore. And, farther still,
I’d have their names engraven well
Upon a diamond monument,—
An everlasting testament,—
Recording all their virtues on ’t—
What they had done with liniment,
Without it or with medicines.—

* * * * *

(Now, if I thought ’twere treach’rous wines,
Rums, brandies, whiskies, or champagnes,
Which set this venom in man’s veins,
I’d have the sea drink all the trash. * * *
Give me the bottles for to smash!—
For not one dog[86] shall e’er remain
To give man such infernal pain.)—

* * * * *

And more than this[87]—I’d have them driven
Across the great concave of heaven,
In chariots wrought of solid gold;
Choice diamonds, rubies, gems untold,
Should be inlaid about its sides;
And flying horses (o’er their hides
’Boss’d bullion-trappings, chaste and neat)
Should from their heads down to their feet
Be clad with * * * *;
That gods may envy those proud beings
Who drove from man those evil things—
The gout! the gout! the gout! the gout!—
I turn again my muse about,
And fancy yet I can’t refrain
From lauding in the highest strain—
(As ’twere—with organs, great in tone,
Reverb’rating from zone to zone,
And angels rivalling to intone
Their universal notes of joy;
Whilst all the hosts of heaven deploy
In armour wrought by gods of grace,
And shining through th’ ethereal space
With so much splendour that ’tis meet
One closed his eyes against the treat)—
These men who could the cure complete.

* * * * *

Old Doctor Samuel[88] said (I’m told)—
A pyramid of solid gold,
As high as heav’n—or higher still—
For him who could the villain kill,
Ought to be built upon a hill.
Aye! thousands would improve the pen,
In ecstasies, to praise the man,
Or rhetorise in words of bliss—
“To him perpetual happiness
Should be awarded from on high,
For ridding that dire enemy.” * * *
Oh! what a song of joy I’d write
If I could hear it said to-night—
“The plaguy rogue was kill’d outright.”
Alas! (I am most loath to state)
I fear not one, so fortunate,
Will ever be the poor man’s friend
To bring this d——l to an end.

[86] Bottle.

[87] The introduction to Mars, Jupiter, Mercury, &c.

[88] Doctor Samuel Johnson.

The Fox’s Lair.

Bleak is that spot, prone to the west,
When winter lays it bare,
And when among those rocks the blast
Moans harshly on the ear.

But there, though bleak, though rough, though wild,
Old Reynard makes his bed,
And shelter’d by those rocks, beguil’d,
Serenely rests his head.

Therein he lurks the livelong day,
There sleeps the wily thief;
He, like a robber, plans for prey,
But comes at last to grief.

Around and ’bout those mossy stones,
Wherein the felon prowls,
Lay strewn a thousand tiny bones—
The sunder’d frames of fowls,

Of lambs, and other innocents,
Bred to have ’dorn’d the plate:
Those sundry farm-yard ’habitants
Met a most wretched fate!

The sunbeams gild not Reynard’s brow,
He shuns it with dismay;
He feeds not with the old milch-cow
In open fields of day.

The last streaks of the sunken Joy
Are signals to advance;
Then the foul cave he leaves so coy,
And like a rogue doth glance

Below, above; his eyes roll round,
He sniffs the breath of night:
All’s silent now,—no yelping sound
Prevents his hasty flight.

Out, and upon his deathly track,
The coppice combs his hair;
Instinctively he weens his back
Will have a prize to bear.

Behold him on the farm-yard fence,
Surveying the peaceful fold:
See how the tartar sneaks from thence—
Ah! see—his jaws have hold! * * *

His little lambkin victim dies:
Then, with accustom’d skill,
He hurls it on his back, and flies
Home to the stony-hill.

There in his haunt (rocks and dank earth),
The daring burglar spills
His victim’s blood, with brigand’s mirth,
And sends it forth in rills * * *

Next morn, as usual, all the flock
Is counted o’er, and o’er,—
Suspicion is arous’d—the stock
Is minus one! (not more)—

The farmer hurriedly looks ’round,
Unwilling to believe
His little lamb’s not to be found,
Then he begins to grieve:

So ’round and ’round the yard he paced,
Scann’d every thought-of nook;
At length upon the fence he traced
The course the rebel took.

Beyond the fence a narrow pass
Through thick-grown furze led on
To where there was a patch of grass,
A spot both dank and lone;

Here turn’d the fiend through dwarfish oak,
Which stretch’d up half a mile,
Then nimbly cross’d a limpid brook,
And gain’d the granite pile.

Long ere the farmer reach’d this den
The wolfish feast was past:
He mourn’d his lost one, but ’twas vain,
And said—“This is thy last.”

Six rough-hair’d terriers, fresh from sleep,
All eager for the fray,
Compell’d the laughing fiend to weep
Before it was noon-day.

The clacking of each battle dog
Surprised the sharp-nosed thief;
Who doubtless stood shrunk like a slug,
Yet desperate in his grief.

Now raged the conflict doubly fierce:
Uncertain which had won,
The farmer listen’d: shrieks then pierce
His ear: he listen’d on—

Alas! he miss’d his favourite’s voice—
His darling’s tongue was hush’d;
From him—the warrior-dog of choice—
Life’s stream had freely gush’d,

Though his was not the only wound:
A pause: now all is mute:—
Then came five grisly dogs to ground;
They limp—the pain’s so ’cute.

Spill’d blood bespatter’d each rough skin,
Which spoke the dreadful strife
That murderously had raged within,
With sacrifice of life.

Yes! out they came, and bore along
The corpse of their slain mate:—
The farmer’s heart was sorely wrung
To see his favourite’s fate!

The Petrified Nest.[89]

This bulfinch’ nest, which you behold,
For thirty pence to me was sold:—
Bound round with tape, and fix’d in place,
Was petrified in twelve months’ space;
Then taken down, brought to the inn,
Where “Mother Shipton’s” sign is seen—
(Herself, the dear old lady’s drawn
In antique mantle, hood, and gown,)—
On which is writ, as trav’lers see,
The following lines of poetry—
“Near to this petrifying well,
I first drew breath, as records tell.”

* * * * *

O Knaresboro’, Knaresboro’! charms are thine;
Thee,[90] thousand beauties do combine:
Oh! would that thou wert my abode,—
Thou glorious spot inwrought by God!
With Him no workman can compare,
His skilful works are everywhere:
And He alone did carve the world,
Round which the mighty ocean curl’d.
Incumbent rocks, as they were hurl’d,
And mountains, tow’ring to the skies,
And verdant valleys, greet our eyes.
Here, ancient castles (once so grand)
Show marks of Time’s defacing hand;
Some, shatter’d by war’s hissing shot,
Leave only stones to tell the spot;
Whilst others, towers still abide
To mourn, alas! their former pride:
And thine, O Knaresboro’, shares the fall—
Now little but a crumbling wall.

[89] These lines were composed to accompany the nest, which the author purchased at the little museum of petrified curiosities in “Mother Shipton’s” Inn, situated about a quarter of a mile from the Dropping Wells at Knaresborough, and which he presented to his much respected friend and benefactor, J. Cutcliffe, Esq., then residing at Newcastle-under-Lyme, Staffordshire, August, 1865.

[90] Use the article “a.”

The Kingly Oak[91] of Bagot’s Park.[92]

The fearless monarch—old, yet hale,
More proud than in his youth—
Laughs and enjoys the passing gale,
Is happy; and—forsooth—

He’s like a king (who chance be good)
Surrounded by his court,
Or like a lord of merry mood,
Obtains a meet report.

He loves the fair one’s gentle touch,
The squeeze of hardier hands;
And with a bow—no elms can match—
Conveys “he understands.”

Two hundred winters now have fled
Since forth the seedling came;
A hundred more may crown his head,
Ere his is but a name.

Soft zephyrs shall caress his crown,
And curl around his form;
Horus, of old, shall oft go down;
While many a dreadful storm

Shall drench the monarch to the skin,
And ravage Bagot’s Park,
Ere his stout heart shall yield within
Its noble coat of bark.

Though grand his mien, he never boasts,
Nor e’er usurps the green;
But loves to see the minor hosts
Salute his distant queen.[93]

Many a tourist scans this oak:[94]
Some, measuring round his base,[95]
Exclaim, “’Tis worth a march to look
Upon his fine old face!”

Now when he’s angry (true ’tis not
That often he doth frown),
And when the winds, concerting, plot
To hurl him from his throne,

’Tis then he asserts his majesty,
And lifts his powerful voice;
But when the storm hath passèd by,
You will again rejoice

To see him as he deigns to laugh
And gently bend his head,
Inviting you to come, and quaff
Upon the grassy bed,—

(On which, and ’round about, regale
The antler’d buck, and deer,
And goats, and feather’d tribes,) t’inhale
The perfumes of the year.

Profoundly silent,[96] acres lay
Invig’rated by Time;
Whilst shelt’ring woodlands make them gay,
And deck the favour’d clime.

O! may’st thou[97] live to teach the young
The secret of that gift,
Through which thou’st grown so great, so strong,
Before thy trunk is rift;
That each may wear upon his brow,
Like thine—an honest mark,
And so retain, as thou dost now,
The pride of “Bagot’s Park.”[98]

[91] Supposed to be more than two centuries old.

[92] In Staffordshire.

[93] Another very large oak, called the “Queen.”

[94] The King.

[95] About twenty-four feet round, as measured by the author (of the poem) and his friend, Mr. E. Emery, of Abbots Bromley.

[96] Land, in its forest-like condition.

[97] The “Kingly Oak”.

[98] This poem was composed during the author’s visit to his friend, J. C——, Newcastle-under-Lyme, Sept., 1865.

SONG.

Up, up my Brave Comrades![99]

(An Exhortation to the Volunteers)

Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding,
Don your pouches and rifles—the bugle is sounding;
As our fathers of old quickly ’rose for the fray—
Up, up, and reply to its chivalrous lay:
And although its shrill blast bears no tidings of war,
Nor the boom of the gun on the ocean afar
Tells of death and destruction, yet of you we have need
For the weal of our Country, our Throne, and our Creed.
Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding,
Don your pouches and rifles—the bugle is sounding;
As our fathers of old quickly ’rose for the fray—
Up, up, and reply to its chivalrous lay.

Go forth, my brave comrades! the bugle hath sounded;
As of old let the foemen, who dare, be confounded;
But, thank God, there’s no foe—there’s no enemy near
To encounter the arm of our brave Volunteer:
Yet of you we have need, for our Throne and our hearth
Will be safe whilst protected by men of such worth:—
Therefore comrades go forth with a smile and a cheer,
For our country hath hope in the brave Volunteer.
Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding, &c.

March on, my brave comrades! the bugle’s still sounding;
On your path the hurrahs of a nation’s resounding;
And on yon foremost plain where the host shall deploy,
There shall echo the anthem of love and of joy:
There the contest of peace shall envelop the wold,
While the blue waves are dancing in spangles of gold;
While the clouds from your rifles obscure the blithe sky,
We’ll reflect and thank God there’s no foe to defy!—
Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding, &c.

[99] Composed on the occasion of the first Volunteer Review at Dover, on Easter Monday, 22nd April, 1867.

A Letter to His Lordship.

_76, Upper Ebury Street, Pimlico, S.W., 6th May, 1865._

My Lord,
I’ve scann’d your answer to my meek request,
Which prompts the feeling in my studious breast—
A silent hoping—that, some future day,
My pen may gain thy Lordship’s solacy.

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