OH! DEAR TO MEMORY ARE
THOSE HOURS.

OH! dear to memory are those hours
When every pathway led to flowers;
When sticks of peppermint possess'd
A sceptre's power o'er the breast,
And heaven was round us while we fed
On rich ambrosial gingerbread.
I bless the days of infancy,
When, stealing from a mother's eye,
Elysian happiness was found
On that celestial field, the ground;
When we were busied, hands and hearts,
In those important things, dirt tarts.
Don't smile, for sapient, full-grown man,
Oft cogitates some mighty plan;
And, spell-bound by the bubble dream,
He labours till he proves the scheme,
About as useful and as wise
As manufacturing dirt pies:

Then shone the meteor rays of youth,
Eclipsing quite the lamp of truth;
And precious those bright sunbeams were
That dried all tears, dispersed all care;
That shed a stream of golden joy,
Without one atom of alloy.
Oh! ne'er in mercy strive to chase
Such dazzling phantoms from their place!
However trifling, mean, or wild,
The deeds may seem of youth or child,
While they still leave untarnish'd soul,
The iron rod of stern control
Should be but gentle in its sway,
Nor rend the magic veil away.

I doubt if it be kind or wise
To quench the light in opening eyes,
By preaching fallacy and woe
As all that we can meet below.
I ne'er respect the ready tongue,
That augurs sorrow to the young;
That aptly plays a sibyl's part,
To promise nightshade to the heart.
Let them exult! their laugh and song
Are rarely known to last too long.
Why should we strive with cynic frown
To knock their fairy castles down?

SAILING SONG.

WE have left the still earth for the billows and breeze,
'Neath the brightest of moons on the bluest of seas;
We have music, hark! hark! there's a tone o'er the deep,
Like the murmuring breath of a lion asleep.
There's enough of bold dash in the rich foam that laves,
Just to whisper the slumber-wrapt might of the waves;
But yet there's a sweetness about the full swell,
Like the song of the mermaid—the chords of the shell.

We have jewels. Oh! what is your casket of gems
To the pearls hanging thick on the red coral stems?
Are there homes of more light than the one where we are,
For it nestles the dolphin and mirrors the star?
We may creep, we may scud, we may rest, we may fly;
There's no check to our speed, there's no dust for our eye;
Oh! well may our spirits grow wild as the breeze,
'Neath the brightest of moons on the bluest of seas!

THE SEA-CHILD.

HE crawls to the cliff and plays on a brink
Where every eye but his own would shrink;
No music he hears but the billow's noise,
And shells and weeds are his only toys.
No lullaby can the mother find
To sing him to rest like the moaning wind;
And the louder it wails and the fiercer it sweeps,
The deeper he breathes and the sounder he sleeps.

And now his wandering feet can reach
The rugged tracks of the desolate beach;
He creeps about like a Triton imp,
To find the haunts of the crab and shrimp.
He climbs, with none to guide or help,
To the furthest ridge of slippery kelp;
And his bold heart glows while he stands and mocks
The seamew's cry on the jutting rocks.

Few years have waned—and now he stands
Bareheaded on the shelving sands.
A boat is moor'd, but his young hands cope
Right well with the twisted cable rope;
He frees the craft, she kisses the tide,
The boy has climbed her beaten side:
She drifts—she floats—he shouts with glee,
His soul hath claim'd its right on the sea.

'Tis vain to tell him the howling breath
Rides over the waters with wreck and death!
He'll say there's more of fear and pain
On the plague-ridden earth than the storm-lash'd main.
'Twould be as wise to spend thy power
In trying to lure the bee from the flower,
The lark from the sky, or the worm from the grave,
As in weaning the sea-child from the wave.

THE MISER.

"TO be frugal is wise;" and this lesson of truth
Should ever be preach'd in the ears of youth.
The young must be curb'd in their spendthrift haste,
Lest meagre want should follow on waste:
But to see the hand that is wither'd and old
So eagerly clutch at the shining gold—
Oh! can it be good that man should crave
The dross of the world—so nigh his grave?

Sad is the lot of those who pine
In the gloomy depths of the precious mine!
But they toil not so hard in gaining the ore,
As the miser in guarding the glittering store.
He counts the coin with a feasting eye,
And trembles the while if a step come nigh:

He seeks the bed where he cannot rest,
Made close beside his idol chest;
He wakes with a wilder'd, haggard stare,
For he dreams a thief is busy there;
He searches around—the bolts are fast,
And the watchmen of the night go past.
His coffers are safe; but there's fear in his brain,
And the miser cannot sleep again!

He never flings the blessed mite
To fill the orphan child with delight.
The dog may howl, the widow may sigh,
He hears them not—they may starve and die.
His breast is of ice, no throbbing glow
Spreads there at the piercing tale of woe;
All torpid and cold, he lives alone
In his heaps, like the toad embedded in stone.

Death comes—but the miser's friendless bier
Is free from the sobbing mourner's tear;
Unloved, unwept, no grateful one
Will tell of the kindly deeds he'd done.
Oh! never covet the miser's fame,
'Tis a cheerless halo that circles his name;
And one fond heart that will truly grieve
Will outweigh all the gold we can leave.

THE MOTHER WHO HATH A CHILD
AT SEA.

THERE'S an eye that looks on the swelling cloud,
Folding the moon in a funeral shroud,
That watches the stars dying one by one,
Till the whole of heaven's calm light hath gone.
There's an ear that lists to the hissing surge,
As the mourner turns to the anthem dirge;
That eye! that ear! oh, whose can they be,
But a mother's who hath a child at sea?

There's a cheek that is getting ashy white,
As the tokens of storm come on with night;
There's a form that's fixed at the lattice pane,
To mark how the gloom gathers over the main,
While the yeasty billows lash the shore
With loftier sweep and hoarser roar.
That cheek! that form! oh, whose can they be,
But a mother's who hath a child at sea?

The rushing whistle chills her blood
As the north wind hurries to scourge the flood,
And the icy shiver spreads to her heart
As the first red lines of lightning start.
The ocean boils! All mute she stands,
With parted lips and tight-clasp'd hands:

She conjures up the fearful scene
Of yawning waves, where the ship between,
With striking keel and splinter'd mast,
Is plunging hard and foundering fast.
She sees her boy, with lank drench'd hair,
Clinging on to the wreck with a cry of despair.
Oh, the vision is madd'ning! No grief can be
Like a mother's who hath a child at sea.

She presses her brow—she sinks and kneels,
Whilst the blast howls on and the thunder peals:
She breathes not a word, for her passionate prayer
Is too fervent and deep for the lips to bear;
It is pour'd in the long convulsive sigh,
In the straining glance of an upturn'd eye,
And a holier offering cannot be,
Than the mother's prayer for her child at sea.

Oh! I love the winds when they spurn control,
For they suit my own bond-hating soul;
I like to hear them sweeping past,
Like the eagle's pinions, free and fast.
But a pang will rise, with sad alloy,
To soften my spirit and sink my joy,
When I think how dismal their voices must be
To a mother who hath a child at sea!

THE FREE.

THE wild streams leap with headlong sweep
In their curbless course o'er the mountain steep;
All fresh and strong they foam along,
Waking the rocks with their cataract song.
My eye bears a glance like the beam on a lance,
While I watch the waters dash and dance;
I burn with glee, for I love to see
The path of any thing that's free.

The skylark springs with dew on his wings,
And up in the arch of heaven he sings
Trill-la, trill-la—oh, sweeter far
Than the notes that come through a golden bar.
The joyous bay of a hound at play,
The caw of a rook on its homeward way,
Oh! these shall be the music for me,
For I love the voices of the free.

The deer starts by with his antlers high,
Proudly tossing his head to the sky;
The barb runs the plain unbroke by the rein,
With steaming nostrils and flying mane;
The clouds are stirr'd by the eaglet bird,
As the flap of its swooping pinion is heard.
Oh! these shall be the creatures for me,
For my soul was form'd to love the free.

The mariner brave, in his bark on the wave,
May laugh at the walls round a kingly slave;
And the one whose lot is the desert spot
Has no dread of an envious foe in his cot;
The thrall and state at the palace gate
Are what my spirit has learnt to hate:
Oh! the hills shall be a home for me,
For I'd leave a throne for the hut of the free.

SLEEP.

I'VE mourn'd the dark long night away,
    With bitter tears and vain regret,
Till, grief-sick, at the breaking day
    I've left a pillow cold and wet.

I've risen from a restless bed,
    Sad, trembling, spiritless and weak,
With all my brow's young freshness fled,
    With pallid lips and bloodless cheek.

Hard was the task for aching eyes
    So long to wake, so long to weep;
But well it taught me how to prize
    That precious, matchless blessing, sleep.

I've counted every chiming hour
    While languishing 'neath ceaseless pain;
While fever raged with demon power,
    To drink my breath and scorch my brain.

And oh! what earnest words were given!
    What wild imploring prayers arose!
How eagerly I ask'd of Heaven
    A few brief moments of repose!

Oh! ye who drown each passing night
    In peaceful slumber, calm and deep,
Fail not to kneel at morning's light,
    And thank your God for health and sleep.

HALLOWED BE THY NAME.

LIST to the dreamy tone that dwells
    In rippling wave or sighing tree;
Go, hearken to the old church bells,
    The whistling bird, the whizzing bee.
Interpret right, and ye will find
    'Tis "power and glory" they proclaim:
The chimes, the creatures, waters, wind,
    All publish "hallowed be thy name!"

The pilgrim journeys till he bleeds
    To gain the altar of his sires;
The hermit pores above his beads,
    With zeal that never wanes or tires;
But holiest rite or longest prayer
    That soul can yield or wisdom frame,
What better import can it bear,
    Than "Father! hallowed be thy name?"

The savage kneeling to the sun,
    To give his thanks or ask a boon;
The raptures of the idiot one,
    Who laughs to see the clear round moon;
The saint well taught in Christian lore,
    The Moslem prostrate at his flame—
All worship, wonder, and adore—
    All end in "hallowed be thy name!"

Whate'er may be man's faith or creed,
    Those precious words comprise it still:
We trace them on the bloomy mead,
    We hear them in the flowing rill.
One chorus hails the great Supreme,
    Each varied breathing tells the same:
The strains may differ—but the theme
    Is "Father, hallowed be thy name!"

WINTER.

WE know 'tis good that Old Winter should come,
Roving awhile from his Lapland home;
'Tis fitting that we should hear the sound
Of his reindeer sledge on the slippery ground:

For his wide and glittering cloak of snow
Protects the seeds of life below;
Beneath his mantle are nurtured and born
The roots of the flowers—the germs of the corn.

The whistling tone of his pure strong breath,
Rides purging the vapours of pestilent Death;
I love him, I say, and avow it again,
For God's wisdom and might show well in his train.

But the naked—the poor! I know they quail
With crouching limbs from the biting gale;
They pine and starve by the fireless hearth,
And weep as they gaze on the frost-bound earth.

Stand nobly forth, ye rich of the land,
With kindly heart and bounteous hand;
Remember 'tis now their season of need,
And a prayer for help is a call ye must heed.

A few of thy blessings, a tithe of thy gold,
Will save the young, and cherish the old;
'Tis a glorious task to work such good—
Do it, ye great ones! Ye can, and ye should.

He is not worthy to hold from heaven
The trust reposed, the talents given,
Who will not add to the portion that's scant,
In the pinching hours of cold and want.

Oh! listen in mercy, ye sons of wealth,
Basking in comfort and glowing with health;
Give whate'er ye can spare, and be ye sure
He serveth his Maker who aideth the poor.

THE ENGLISH SHIP BY MOONLIGHT.

THE world below hath not for me
    Such a fair and glorious sight,
As an English ship, on a rippling sea,
    In the clear and full moonlight.

My heart leaps high, as I fix my eye
    On her dark and sweeping hull,
Laying its breast on the billowy nest,
    Like the tired sleeping gull.

The masts spring up, all tall and bold,
    With their heads among the stars;
The white sails gleam in the silvery beam,
    Brailed up to the branching spars.

The wind just breathing to unrol
    A flag that bears no stain;
Proud ship! that need'st no other scroll,
    To warrant thy right on the main.

The sea-boy hanging on the shrouds
    Chants out his fitful song,
And watches the scud of fleecy clouds
    That melts as it floats along.

Oh! what is there on the sluggard land
    That I love so well to mark,
In the hallow'd light of the still midnight,
    As I do a dancing bark!

The ivied tower looks well in that hour,
    And so does an old church spire,
When the gilded vane and Gothic pane
    Seem tinged with quivering fire.

The hills shine out in the mellow ray,
    The love-bower gathers a charm,
And beautiful is the chequering play
    On the willow's graceful arm.

But the world below holds not for me
    Such a fair and glorious sight,
As a brave ship floating on the sea,
    In the full and clear moonlight.

WATER.

WINE, wine, thy power and praise
Have ever been echoed in minstrel lays:
But water, I deem, hath a mightier claim
To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame.
Ye who are bred in Anacreon's school,
May sneer at my strain as the song of a fool:
Ye are wise, no doubt, but have yet to learn
How the tongue can cleave and the veins can burn.

Should ye ever be one of a fainting band,
With your brow to the sun and your feet to the sand,
I would wager the thing I'm most loath to spare,
That your bacchanal chorus would never ring there:
Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell
What treasures exist in the cold deep well;
Sink in despair on the red parched earth,
And then ye may reckon what water is worth.

Famine is laying her hand of bone
On the ship becalm'd in a torrid zone;
The gnawing of hunger's worm is past,
But fiery thirst lives on to the last.
The stoutest one of the gallant crew
Hath a cheek and lips of ghastly hue;
The hot blood stands in each glassy eye,
And "Water, oh God!" is the only cry.

There's drought in the land, and the herbage is dead,
No ripple is heard in the streamlet's bed;
The herd's low bleat and the sick man's pant
Are mournfully telling the boon we want.
Let Heaven this one rich gift withhold,
How soon we find it is better than gold;
And water, I say, hath a right to claim
The minstrel's song and a tithe of fame.

SNOW.

BRAVE Winter and I shall ever agree,
Though a stern and frowning gaffer is he.
I like to hear him, with hail and rain,
Come tapping against the window pane:
I joy to see him come marching forth
Begirt with the icicle gems of the north;

A cheer for the snow—the drifting snow!
Smoother and purer than beauty's brow!
The creature of thought scarce likes to tread
On the delicate carpet so richly spread.
With feathery wreaths the forest is bound,
And the hills are with glittering diadems crown'd;
'Tis the fairest scene we can have below—
Sing, welcome, then, to the drifting snow!

The urchins gaze with eloquent eye
To see the flakes go dancing by;
In the thick of the storm how happy are they
To welcome the first deep snowy day;
Shouting and pelting—what bliss to fall
Half-smother'd beneath the well-aim'd ball!
Men of fourscore, did ye ever know
Such sport as ye had in the drifting snow?

I'm true to my theme, for I loved it well,
When the gossiping nurse would sit and tell
The tale of the geese—though hardly believed,
I doubted and question'd the words that deceived.
I rejoice in it still, and love to see
The ermine mantle on tower and tree.
'Tis the fairest scene we can have below—
Hurrah! then, hurrah! for the drifting snow!

BECKON WHERE THE WIMPLING
WATERS.

VAINLY do ye seek to win me
    To the festal loud and gay:
There's a rebel voice within me
    That will answer—"Nay!"

Beckon where the wimpling waters
    Ripple o'er their golden bed—
Where the dye of purple slaughters
    Never has been shed.

Beckon to the woodside dingle
    While the nectar dew is fresh,
Where the coppice branches mingle
    In one leafy mesh;—

Where the heath and furze-bloom glitter,
    Mocking all your princely gems;
Where young thrushes perch and twitter
    On the mossy stems.

Lead to forests: I will follow—
    Dell or desert, any where—
So that forms all false and hollow
    Cannot meet me there.

I have sigh'd, and shrunk, and trembled,
    'Mid your pleasure-gilded wiles,
Heart-sick, while my cheek dissembled,
    Wearing labour'd smiles.

There my brow is ever aching—
    There my sated eyes grow hot;
Listless, tired—but ne'er partaking
    Joys that suit me not.

Never, never shall ye win me
    To the festal loud and gay:
Nature's rebel voice within me
    Firmly answers—"Nay!"

OLD DOBBIN.

HERE'S a song for old Dobbin whose temper and worth
Are too rare to be spurn'd on the score of his birth;
He's a creature of trust, and what more should we heed?
'Tis deeds and not blood make the man and the steed.

He was bred in the forest, and turn'd on the plain,
Where the thistle-burs clung to his fetlocks and mane;
All ugly and rough, not a soul could espy
The spark of good humour that dwelt in his eye.

The summer had waned, and the autumn months roll'd,
Into those of stern winter, all dreary and cold;
But the north wind might whistle, the snow-flake might dance,
The colt of the common was left to his chance.

Half starved and half frozen, the hail-storm would pelt,
Till his shivering limbs told the pangs that he felt;
But we pitied the brute, and, though laugh'd at by all,
We fill'd him a manger, and gave him a stall.

He was fond as a spaniel, and soon he became
The pride of the herd-boy, the pet of the dame:
You may judge of his fame, when his price was a crown,
But we christen'd him Dobbin, and call'd him our own.

He grew out of colthood, and, lo! what a change,
The knowing ones said it was mortally strange,
For the foal of the forest, the colt of the waste,
Attracted the notice of jockeys of taste.

The line of his symmetry was not exact,
But his paces were clever, his mould was compact;
And his shaggy thick coat now appear'd with a gloss,
Shining out like the gold that's been purged of its dross.

We broke him for service, and tamely he wore
Girth and rein, seeming proud of the thraldom he bore;

He carried the master to barter his grain,
And ever return'd with him safely again:
There was merit in that, for, deny it who may,
When the master could not, Dobbin could find his way.

The dairy-maid ventured her eggs on his back,
'Twas him, and him only, she'd trust with the pack:
The team horses jolted, the roadster play'd pranks,
So Dobbin alone had her faith and her thanks.

We fun-loving urchins would group by his side;
We might fearlessly mount him, and daringly ride;
We might creep through his legs, we might plait his long tail,
But his temper and patience were ne'er known to fail.

We would brush his bright hide till 'twas free from a speck;
We kiss'd his brown muzzle, and hugg'd his thick neck;
Oh! we prized him like life, and a heart-breaking sob
Ever burst when they threaten'd to sell our dear Dob.

He stood to the collar, and tugg'd up the hill,
With the pigs to the market, the grist to the mill;
With saddle or halter, in shaft or in trace,
He was stanch to his work, and content with his place.

When the hot sun was crowning the toil of the year,
He was sent to the reapers with ale and good cheer;
And none in the corn-field more welcome was seen
Than Dob, and his well-laden panniers I ween.

Oh! these days of pure bliss shall I ever forget,
When we deck'd out his head with the azure rosette;
All frantic with joy to be off to the fair,
With Dobbin, good Dobbin, to carry us there?

He was dear to us all, ay, for many long years;
But, mercy! how's this? my eye's filling with tears.
Oh! how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start,
When Memory plays an old tune on the heart.

There are drops on my cheek, there's a throb in my breast,
But my song shall not cease, nor my pen take its rest,
Till I tell that old Dobbin still lives to be seen,
With his oats in the stable, his tares on the green.

His best years have gone by, and the master who gave
The stern yoke to his youth, has enfranchised the slave.
So browse on, my old Dobbin, nor dream of the knife,
For the wealth of a king should not purchase thy life.

THE DEWDROP.

THE sky hath its star, the deep mine hath its gem,
    And the beautiful pearl lights the sea;
But the surface of earth holds a rival for them,
    And a lustre more brilliant for me.

I know of a drop where the diamond now shines;
    Now the blue of the sapphire it gives:
It trembles—it changes—the azure resigns,
    And the tint of the ruby now lives.

Anon the deep emerald dwells in its gleam
    Till the breath of the south wind goes by,
When it quivers again, and the flash of its beam,
    Pours the topaz-flame swift on the eye.

Look, look, on the grass-blade, all freshly impearl'd,
    There are all of your jewels in one;
You may find every wealth-purchased gem in the world
    In the dewdrop that's kiss'd by the sun.

Apollo's own circlet is matchless, they say;
    Juno envies its sparkles and light;
For 'tis form'd of drops lit by his own burning ray,
    And Olympus shows nothing so bright.

STANZAS.—THE TOMB.

FEW years ago I shunn'd the tomb,
    And turn'd me from a tablet-stone;
I shiver'd in the churchyard gloom,
    And sicken'd at a bleaching bone.

Then all were round my warm young heart—
    The kindred tie—the cherish'd form;
I knew not what it was to part,
    And give them to the dust and worm.

But soon I lost the gems of earth,
    I saw the dearest cold in death;
And sorrow changed my joyous mirth
    To searing drops and sobbing breath.

I stood by graves all dark and deep,
    Pale, voiceless, wrapt in mute despair;
I left my soul's adored to sleep
    In stirless, dreamless slumber there.

And now I steal at night to see
    The soft, clear moonbeams playing o'er
Their hallow'd beds, and long to be
    Where all most prized have gone before.

Now I can calmly gaze around
    On osier'd heaps, with yearning eye,
And murmur o'er the grassy mound—
    "'Tis a glorious privilege to die."

The Grave hath lost its conquering might,
    And Death its dreaded sting of pain,
Since they but ope the path of light
    To lead me to the loved again.

THE QUIET EYE.

THE orb I like is not the one
    That dazzles with its lightning gleam,
That dares to look upon the sun,
    As though it challenged brighter beam.
That orb may sparkle, flash, and roll;
    Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly—
But not for me: I prize the soul
    That slumbers in a quiet eye.

There's something in its placid shade
    That tells of calm unworldly thought;
Hope may be crown'd, or joy delay'd—
    No dimness steals, no ray is caught:

There's meaning in its steady glance,
    Of gentle blame or praising love,
That makes me tremble to advance
    A word that meaning might reprove.
The haughty threat, the fiery look,
    My spirit proudly can defy;
But never yet could meet and brook
    The upbraiding of a quiet eye.

There's firmness in its even light,
    That augurs of a breast sincere;
And, oh! take watch how ye excite
    That firmness till it yield a tear.
Some bosoms give an easy sigh,
    Some drops of grief will freely start;
But that which sears the quiet eye
    Hath its deep fountain in the heart.

THE SMUGGLER BOY.

WE stole away at the fall of night,
When the red round moon was deep'ning her light,
But none knew whither our footsteps bent,
Nor how those stealthy hours were spent;
For we crept away to the rocky bay,
Where the cave and craft of a fierce band lay;
We gave the signal cry, "Ahoy!"
And found a mate in the smuggler boy.

His laugh was deep, his speech was bold,
And we loved the fearful tales he told
Of the perils he met in his father's bark,
Of the chase by day and the storm by dark;
We got him to take the light boat out,
And gaily and freshly we dash'd about,
And nought of pleasure could ever decoy
From the moonlight sail with the smuggler boy.

We caught his spirit and learnt to love
The cageless eagle more than the dove;
And wild and happy souls were we,
Roving with him by the heaving sea:
He whisper'd the midnight work they did,
And show'd us where the kegs were hid,

We sadly left him, bound to range
A distant path of care and change;
We have sought him again, but none could relate
The place of his home, or a word of his fate:
Long years have sped, but we dream of him now,
With the red cap toss'd on his dauntless brow;
And the world hath never given a joy
Like the moonlight sail with the smuggler boy.

STANZAS.

THOU hast left us long, my mother dear;
    Time's sweeping tide has run—
But fail'd to wash away the tear
    From the eye of thy youngest one.
The heart so closely knit to thine,
    That held thee as its all,
Adored too fondly to resign
    Its love with the coffin and pall.

Thou art lost to these arms, my mother dear,
    But they crave to unfold thee still;
And thy spirit may find those arms entwin'd
    Round thy gravestone damp and chill.

Thou hast fled from my gaze, my mother dear,
    But sleep is a holy boon,
For its happy visions bring thee near:
    Ah! why do they break so soon?
I look around when voices ring,
    Where thine once used to be;
And deep are the secret pangs that wring,
    For my eye still asks for thee.

Oh! I worship thee yet, my mother dear,
    Though my idol is buried in gloom:
I cannot pour my love in thine ear,
    But I breathe it o'er thy tomb.
Death came to prove if that love would hold
    When the sharpest ordeal tried;
But it pass'd like the flame that tests the gold,
    And hath only purified!

THE GALLANT ENGLISH TAR.

THERE'S one whose fearless courage yet has never fail'd in fight,
Who guards with zeal our country's weal, our freedom, and our right;
But though his strong and ready arm spreads havoc in its blow,
Cry "Quarter!" and that arm will be the first to spare its foe.
He recks not though proud glory's shout may be the knell of death,
The triumph won, without a sigh he yields his parting breath.
He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast! "In peace, my boys, or war,
Here's to the brave upon the wave, the gallant English tar."

Let but the sons of want come nigh and tell their tale to him,
He'll chide their eyes for weeping while his own are growing dim:
"Cheer up," he cries, "we all must meet the storm as well as calm"—
But turning on his heel Jack slips the guineas in their palm.

The dark blue jacket that enfolds the sailor's manly breast,
Bears more of real honour than the star and ermine vest.
The tithe of folly in his head may wake the lands-man's mirth,
But nature proudly owns him as her child of sterling worth.
His heart is warm, his hand is true, his word is frank and free,
And though he plays the ass on shore, he's lion of the sea.
He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast! "In peace, my boys, or war,
Here's to the brave upon the wave, the gallant English tar."

RECIPE FOR A SERENADE.

TAKE a "light" or "wild" guitar;
Let it rhyme with "evening star:"
Paint your sky the very blue
Of the real sapphire hue.
Let the moon be high and bright,
Shedding lots of "tender light;"
Then go on with "myrtle bowers,"
"Pearly dewdrops," "perfumed flowers;"
"Fanning zephyrs"—just awake—
"Gondolet" and "glassy lake,"
"Balmy odours," "orange grove,"
To chime with "dove," or "love," or "rove;"
And, above all, pray don't forget
The lady's locks of gold or jet,
"Swan-like neck," of Alpine snow,
Such "fairy form" as sylph might show;
Let her blooming cheeks and lips
Rose and coral far eclipse;
Then her eyes (of course) must be
Like diamonds—choice simile!

Vow thy constant, doting heart,
Aches, and quakes, and breaks to part;
That Death alone can ease your pain,
If she list not to your strain.

Arrange your cloak in graceful fold;
Never dream of catching cold;
Take your station, sound the key,
Two flats are proper, "Major" "B."

And when all these essentials mingle
In one smooth, soft, mellifluous gingle;
I'm sure you'll find that thus is made
A most delightful serenade.

THE GIPSY'S TENT.

OUR fire on the turf, and our tent 'neath a tree—
Carousing by moonlight, how merry are we!
Let the lord boast his castle, the baron his hall,
But the house of the gipsy is widest of all.
We may shout o'er our cups, and laugh loud as we will,
Till echo rings back from wood, welkin, and hill;
No joys seem to us like the joys that are lent
To the wanderer's life and the gipsy's tent.

Some crime and much folly may fall to our lot;
We have sins, but pray where is the one who has not?
We are rogues, arrant rogues:—yet remember! 'tis rare—
We take but from those who can very well spare.

Pant ye for beauty? Oh, where would ye seek
Such bloom as is found on the tawny one's cheek:
Our limbs, that go bounding in freedom and health,
Are worth all your pale faces and coffers of wealth.
There are none to control us; we rest or we roam;
Our will is our law, and the world is our home:
E'en Jove would repine at his lot if he spent
A night of wild glee in the gipsy's tent.

OUR NATIVE SONG.

OUR native song! our native song!
    Oh! where is he who loves it not?
The spell it holds is deep and strong,
    Where'er we go, whate'er our lot.
Let other music greet our ear
    With thrilling fire or dulcet tone;
We speak to praise, we pause to hear,
    But yet—oh! yet—'tis not our own!

The one who bears the felon's brand,
    With moody brow and darken'd name,
Thrust meanly from his fatherland,
    To languish out a life of shame;
Oh! let him hear some simple strain—
    Some lay his mother taught her boy:
He'll feel the charm, and dream again
    Of home, of innocence, and joy!
The sigh will burst, the drops will start,
    And all of virtue, buried long—
The best, the purest in his heart,
    Is waken'd by his native song.

Self-exiled from our place of birth,
    To climes more fragrant, bright, and gay,
The memory of our own fair earth
    May chance awhile to fade away:
But should some minstrel echo fall
    Of chords that breathe Old England's fame,
Our souls will burn, our spirits yearn,
    True to the land we love and claim.
The high! the low! in weal or woe,
    Be sure there's something coldly wrong
About the heart that does not glow
    To hear its own, its native song.

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES.

I NEVER see a young hand hold
The starry bunch of white and gold,
But something warm and fresh will start
About the region of my heart.
My smile expires into a sigh;
I feel a struggling in the eye,
'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray,
Till rolling tears have won their way:
For soul and brain will travel back
    Through memory's chequer'd mazes,
To days when I but trod life's track,
    For Buttercups and Daisies.

Tell me, ye men of wisdom rare,
Of sober speech and silver hair,
Who carry counsel, wise and sage,
With all the gravity of age;
Oh! say, do ye not like to hear
The accents ringing in your ear,
When sportive urchins laugh and shout,
Tossing those precious flowers about,
Springing, with bold and gleesome bound,
    Proclaiming joy that crazes,
And chorusing the magic sound
    Of Buttercups and Daisies?

Are there, I ask, beneath the sky,
Blossoms that knit so strong a tie
With childhood's love? Can any please,
Or light the infant eye like these?
No, no, there's not a bud on earth,
Of richest tint or warmest birth,
Can ever fling such zeal and zest
Into the tiny hand and breast.
Who does not recollect the hours
    When burning words and praises
Were lavish'd on those shining flowers,
    Buttercups and Daisies?

There seems a bright and fairy spell
About their very names to dwell;
And though old Time has mark'd my brow
With care and thought, I love them now.
Smile, if ye will, but some heart-strings
Are closest link'd to simplest things—
And these wild flowers will hold mine fast,
Till love, and life, and all be past:
And then the only wish I have
    Is, that the one who raises
The turf-sod o'er me, plant my grave
    With Buttercups and Daisies.

THE IDIOT-BORN.

"OUT, thou silly moon-struck elf,
Back, poor fool, and hide thyself!"
This is what the wise ones say,
Should the idiot cross their way:
But if we would closely mark,
We should see him not all dark;
We should find we must not scorn
The teaching of the idiot-born.

He will screen the newt and frog,
He will cheer the famish'd dog;
He will seek to share his bread
With the orphan, parish fed;
He will offer up his seat
To the stranger's wearied feet.
Selfish tyrants, do not scorn
The teaching of the idiot-born.

Use him fairly, he will prove
How the simple breast can love;
He will spring with infant glee
To the form he likes to see.
Gentle speech or kindness done,
Truly binds the witless one.
Heartless traitors, do not scorn
The teaching of the idiot-born.

He will point with vacant stare
At the robes proud churchmen wear;
But he'll pluck the rose, and tell
God hath painted it right well.
He will kneel before his food,
Softly saying, "God is good."
Haughty prelates, do not scorn
The teaching of the idiot-born.

Art thou great as man can be?—
The same hand moulded him and thee.
Hast thou talent?—taunt and jeer
Must not fall upon his ear.
Spurn him not—the blemish'd part
Had better be the head than heart.
Thou wilt be the fool to scorn
The teaching of the idiot-born.

THE WILLOW TREE.

TREE of the gloom, o'erhanging the tomb,
    Thou seem'st to love the churchyard sod;
Thou ever art found on the charnel ground,
    Where the laughing and happy have rarely trod.

The weeping maid comes under thy shade,
    Mourning her faithful lover dead;
She sings of his grave in the crystal wave,
    Of his sea-weed shroud and coral bed.
A chaplet she weaves of thy downy leaves,
    And twines it round her pallid brow;
Sleep falls on her eyes while she softly sighs,
    "My love, my dearest, I come to thee now."
She sits and dreams of the moaning sea,
While the night wind creeps through the willow tree.

The dying one will turn from the sun,
    The dazzling flowers, and luscious fruit,
To set his mark in thy sombre bark,
    And find a couch at thy moss-clad root.
He is fading away like the twilight ray,
    His cheek is pale and his glance is dim;
But thy drooping arms, with their pensive charms,
    Can yield a joy till the last for him;
And the latest words on his lips shall be,
"Oh, bury me under the willow tree!"

THE GIPSY CHILD.

HE sprung to life in a crazy tent,
Where the cold wind whistled through many a rent;
Rude was the voice and rough were the hands
That sooth'd his wailings and swathed his bands.
No tissue of gold, no lawn was there,
No snowy robe for the new-born heir,
But the mother wept, and the father smiled
With heartfelt joy o'er their gipsy child.

He grows like the young oak, healthy and broad,
With no home but the forest, no bed but the sward;
Half naked, he wades in the limpid stream,
Or dances about in the scorching beam.
The dazzling glare of the banquet sheen
Hath never fallen on him, I ween;
But fragments are spread and the wood-firepiled ,
And sweet is the meal of the gipsy child.

He wanders at large, while maidens admire
His raven hair and his eyes of fire;
They mark his cheek's rich tawny hue,
With the deep carnation flushing through:
He laughs aloud, and they covet his teeth,
All pure and white as their own pearl wreath;
And the courtly dame and damsel mild
Will turn to gaze on the gipsy child.

Up with the sun he is roving along,
Whistling to mimic the blackbird's song;
He wanders at nightfall to startle the owl,
And is baying again to the watch-dog's howl.
His limbs are unshackled, his spirit is bold,
He is free from the evils of fashion and gold;
His dower is scant and his life is wild,
But kings might envy the gipsy child.

NORAH M'SHANE.

I'VE left Ballymornach a long way behind me,
    To better my fortune I've cross'd the big sea;
But I'm sadly alone, not a creature to mind me,
    And, faith! I'm as wretched as wretched can be.
I think of the buttermilk, fresh as a daisy,
    The beautiful hills and the emerald plain;—
And oh! don't I oftentimes think myself crazy,
    About that young black-eyed rogue, Norah M'Shane.

I sigh for the turf-pile, so cheerfully burning,
    When barefoot I trudg'd it from toiling afar;
When I toss'd in the light the thirteen I'd been earning,
    And whistled the anthem of "Erin go bragh."

Oh! there's something so dear in the cot I was born in,
    Though the walls are but mud and the roof is but thatch;
How familiar the grunt of the pigs in the morning,
    What music in lifting the rusty old latch!
'Tis true I'd no money, but then I'd no sorrow,
    My pockets were light, but my heart had no pain,
And if I but live till the sun shines to-morrow,
    I'll be off to old Ireland and Norah M'Shane.

WHILE THE CHRISTMAS LOG IS BURNING.

HAIL to the night when we gather once more
    All the forms we love to meet;
When we've many a guest that's dear to our breast,
    And the household dog at our feet.
Who would not be in the circle of glee
    When heart to heart is yearning—
When joy breathes out in the laughing shout
    While the Christmas log is burning?

'Tis one of the fairy hours of life,
    When the world seems all of light;
For the thought of woe, or the name of a foe,
    Ne'er darkens the festive night.
When bursting mirth rings round the hearth,
    Oh! where is the spirit that's mourning,
While merry bells chime with the carol rhyme,
    And the Christmas log is burning?

Then is the time when the grey old man
    Leaps back to the days of youth;
When brows and eyes bear no disguise,
    But flush and gleam with truth.
Oh! then is the time when the soul exults,
    And seems right heavenward turning;
When we love and bless the hands we press,
    While the Christmas log is burning.

THE POET.

JOVE said, one day, he should like to know
    What would part the child of song from his lyre;
And he summon'd his minions, and bade them go,
With all their bribes and powers, below,
    Nor return till they wrought his desire.

The agents departed—Jove's will must be done,
    They vow'd to perform the deed full soon:
Vainly they search'd in the crowd and the sun,
But at last they found a high-soul'd one,
    Alone with his harp and the moon.

Fortune first tempted: she scatter'd her gold,
    And placed on his temples a gem-bright rim;
But he scarcely glanced on the wealth as it roll'd,
He said the circlet was heavy and cold,
    And only a burden to him.

Venus came next, and she whisper'd rare things,
    And praised him for scorning the bauble and pelf;
She promised him Peris, in all but the wings;
But he laugh'd, and told her, with those soft strings
    He could win such creatures himself.

Oppression and Poverty tried their spell,
    Nigh sure he would quail at such stern behest;
His pittance was scant, in a dark dank cell,
Where the foam-spitting toad would not choose to dwell,
    But he still hugg'd the harp to his breast.

They debated what effort the next should be,
    When Death strode forth with his ponderous dart;
He held it aloft— "ye should know," cried he,
"This work can only be done by me,
    So, at once, my barb to his heart!"

It struck: but the last faint flash of his eye
    Was thrown on the lyre as it fell from his hand:
The trophy was seized and they sped to the sky,
Where the Thunderer flamed in his throne on high,
    And told how they did his command.

Jove heard, and he scowl'd with a gloomier frown—
    'Twas the cloud Pride lends to keep Sorrow unseen;
He put by his sceptre and flung his bolt down,
And snatch'd from the glory that haloed his crown,
    The rays of most burning sheen.

He hasten'd to earth, by the minstrel he knelt,
    And fashion'd the beams round his brow in a wreath:
He ordain'd it immortal, to dazzle, to melt,
And a portion of godhead since then has still dwelt
    On the Poet that slumbers in death.

THE SEXTON.

"MINE is the fame most blazon'd of all;
    Mine is the goodliest trade;
Never was banner so wide as the pall,
    Nor sceptre so fear'd as the spade."

This is the lay of the Sexton gray,
    King of the churchyard he;
While the mournful knell of the tolling bell
    Chimes in with his burden of glee.

He dons a doublet of sober brown,
    And a hat of slouching felt;
The mattock is over his shoulder thrown,
    The heavy keys clank at his belt.

The dark damp vault now echoes his tread,
    While his song rings merrily out;
With a cobweb canopy over his head,
    And coffins falling about.

His foot may crush the full-fed worms,
    His hand may grasp a shroud;
His gaze may rest on skeleton forms,
    Yet his tones are light and loud.

He digs the grave, and his chant will break
    As he gains a fathom deep—
"Whoever lies in the bed I make,
    I warrant will soundly sleep."

He piles the sod, he raises the stone,
    He clips the cypress tree;
But whate'er his task, 'tis plied alone—
    No fellowship holds he.

For the Sexton gray is a scaring loon—
    His name is link'd with death;
The children at play, should he cross their way,
    Will pause with fluttering breath.

They herd together, a frighten'd host,
    And whisper with lips all white,—
See, see, 'tis he, that sends the ghost
    To walk the world at night.

The old men mark him, with fear in their eye,
    At his labour 'mid skulls and dust;
They hear him chant, "The young may die,
    But we know the aged must."

The rich will frown, as his ditty goes on,
    "Though broad your lands may be,
Six narrow feet to the beggar I mete,
    And the same shall serve for ye."

The ear of the strong will turn from his song,
    And Beauty's cheek will pale,
"Out, out," cry they, "what creature would stay,
    To list thy croaking tale!"

Oh! the Sexton gray, is a mortal of dread,
    None like to see him come near;
The orphan thinks on a father dead,
    The widow wipes a tear.

All shudder to hear his bright axe chink,
    Upturning the hollow bone;
No mate will share his toil or his fare,
    He works, he carouses alone.

By night or by day, this, this is his lay:
    "Mine is the goodliest trade;
Never was banner so wide as the pall,
    Nor sceptre so fear'd as the spade."

LOVE.

'TIS well to wake the theme of love,
    When chords of wild ecstatic fire
Fling from the harp, and amply prove
    The soul as joyous as the lyre.

Such theme is blissful when the heart
    Warms with the precious name we pour;
When our deep pulses glow and start
    Before the idol we adore.

Sing ye, whose doating eyes behold,
    Whose ears can drink the dear one's tone,
Whose hands may press, whose arms may fold,
    The prized, the beautiful, thine own.

But, should the ardent hopes of youth
    Have cherish'd dreams that darkly fled;
Should passion, purity, and truth,
    Live on, despairing o'er the dead;

Should we have heard some sweet voice hush'd,
    Breathing our name in latest vow;
Should our fast heavy tears have gush'd
    Above a cold, yet worshipp'd brow;—

Oh! say, then, can the minstrel choose
    The themes that gods and mortals praise?
No, no, the spirit will refuse,
    And sadly shun such raptured lays.

For who can bear to touch the string
    That yields but anguish in its strain;
Whose lightest notes have power to wring
    The keenest pangs from breast and brain?

"Sing ye of love in words that burn,"
    Is what full many a lip will ask;
But love the dead, and ye will learn
    Such bidding is no gentle task.

Oh! pause in mercy, ere ye blame
    The one who lends not love his lyre;
That which ye deem ethereal flame,
    May be to him a torture pyre.

THE CLOUDS.

BEAUTIFUL clouds! I have watch'd ye long,
Fickle and bright as a fairy throng;
Now ye have gather'd golden beams,
Now ye are parting in silver streams,
Now ye are tinged with a roseate blush,
Deepening fast to a crimson flush;
Now like aerial sprites at play,
Ye are lightly dancing another way;
Melting in many a pearly flake,
Like the cygnet's down on the azure lake;
Now ye gather again, and run
To bask in the blaze of a setting sun;
And anon ye serve as Zephyr's car,
Flitting before the evening star.

Now ye ride in mighty form,
With the arms of a giant to nurse the storm;
Ye grasp the lightning, and fling it on earth,
All flashing and wild as a maniac's mirth;
Ye cavern the thunder, and bravely it roars,
While the forest groans, and the avalanche pours;
Ye launch the torrent with headlong force,
Till the rivers hiss in their boiling course;
Ye come, and your trophies are scatter'd around
In the wreck on the waters, the oak on the ground.

THE ENGLISHMAN.

THERE'S a land that bears a well-known name,
        Though it is but a little spot;
    I say 'tis the first on the scroll of fame,
        And who shall aver it is not?
    Of the deathless ones who shine and live
        In arms, in arts, or song,
    The brightest the whole wide world can give
        To that little land belong.
    'Tis the star of earth, deny it who can,
    The island home of an Englishman.

    There's a flag that waves o'er every sea,
        No matter when or where;
    And to treat that flag as aught but the free,
        Is more than the strongest dare.

    There's a heart that leaps with burning glow
        The wrong'd and the weak to defend;
    And strikes as soon for a trampled foe
        As it does for a soul-bound friend.
    It nurtures a deep and honest love,
        The passions of faith and pride,
    And yearns with the fondness of a dove
        To the light of its own fire-side.
    'Tis a rich rough gem, deny it who can,
    And this is the heart of an Englishman.

    The Briton may traverse the pole or the zone,
        And boldly claim his right,
    For he calls such a vast domain his own,
        That the sun never sets on his might.
    Let the haughty stranger seek to know
        The place of his home and birth;
    And a flush will pour from cheek to brow
        While he tells his native earth.
    For a glorious charter, deny it who can,
    Is breathed in the words "I'm an Englishman."

FIRE

BLANDLY glowing, richly bright,
Cheering star of social light;
While I gently heap it higher,
How I bless thee, sparkling fire!
Who loves not the kindly rays
Streaming from the temper'd blaze?
Who can sit beside his hearth
Dead to feeling, stern to mirth?
Who can watch the crackling pile,
And keep his breast all cold the while?

Fire is good, but it must serve:
Keep it thrall'd—for if it swerve
Into Freedom's open path,
What shall check its maniac wrath?
Where's the tongue that can proclaim
The fearful work of curbless flame?
Darting wide and shooting high,
It lends a horror to the sky;
It rushes on to waste, to scare,
Arousing Terror and Despair;
It tells the utmost earth can know
About the demon scenes below;
And sinks at last, all spent and dead,
Among the ashes it has spread.

Sure the poet is not wrong
To glean a moral from the song.
Listen, youth! nor scorn, nor frown,
Thou must chain thy passions down:
Well to serve, but ill to sway,
Like the fire they must obey.
They are good in subject state
To strengthen, warm, and animate;
But if once we let them reign,
They sweep with desolating train,
'Till they but leave a hated name,
A ruin'd soul, and blacken'd fame.

HERE WAS MY HOME.

HERE was my home, when the vine-stalks laid
    Their arms on the topmost stone,
When the dove-cage hung in the jessamine shade,
    And the rose stopp'd the bee in its drone.
I remember the pear-tree, whose branches would trail
    With their burden of melting fruit;
But the spot where it stood breeds the toad and the snail,
    The axe has been laid at its root.

Here was my home, when my heart was glad,
    And gay as the flowers I trod;
But I come to it now and my bosom is sad,
    My tear-drops have moisten'd the sod.
For I see the wild ivy beginning to creep
    Up the walls that are crumbling and gray;
And where are the eyes that shall gaze and not weep,
    When the homes of our childhood decay?

THE ACORN.

BEAUTIFUL germ! I have set thee low
In the dewy earth—strike, spring and grow.
Oh! cleave to the soil, and thou may'st be
The King of the woods, a brave rare tree.
Acorn of England, thou may'st bear
Thy green head high in the mountain air.
Another age, and thy mighty form
May scowl at the sun and mock at the storm.

A hundred years, and the woodman's stroke
May fiercely fall on thy heart of oak.
Let time roll on, and thy planks may ride
In glorious state o'er the fathomless tide.

A hundred years, and in some fair hall
Thou may'st shine as the polish'd wainscot wall;
And ring with the laugh and echo the jest
Of the happy host and the feasting guest.
Acorn of England! deep in the earth
May'st thou live and burst in flourishing birth.
May thy root be firm and thy broad arms wave,
When the hand that plants thee is cold in the grave.

SONG OF OLD TIME.

I WEAR not the purple of earth-born kings,
Nor the stately ermine of lordly things;
But monarch and courtier, though great they be,
Must fall from their glory and bend to me.
My sceptre is gemless; yet who can say
They will not come under its mighty sway?
Ye may learn who I am, there's the passing chime,
And the dial to herald me, Old King Time!

Softly I creep, like a thief in the night,
After cheeks all blooming and eyes all light;
My steps are seen on the patriarch's brow,
In the deep-worn furrows and locks of snow.
Who laughs at my power? the young and the gay;
But they dream not how closely I track their way.
Wait till their first bright sands have run,
And they will not smile at what Time hath done.

I eat through treasures with moth and rust;
I lay the gorgeous palace in dust;
I make the shell-proof tower my own,
And break the battlement, stone from stone.
Work on at your cities and temples, proud man,
Build high as ye may, and strong as ye can;
But the marble shall crumble, the pillar shall fall,
And Time, Old Time, will be king after all.

THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY.

THE holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay—
    Come give the holly a song;
For it helps to drive stern Winter away,
    With his garment so sombre and long.

It peeps through the trees with its berries of red,
    And its leaves of burnish'd green,
When the flowers and fruits have long been dead,
    And not even the daisy is seen.
Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,
    That hangs over peasant and king:
While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glitt'ring boughs,
    To the Christmas holly we'll sing.

The gale may whistle, and frost may come,
    To fetter the gurgling rill:
The woods may be bare, and the warblers dumb—
    But the holly is beautiful still.
In the revel and light of princely halls,
    The bright holly-branch is found;
And its shadow falls on the lowliest walls,
    While the brimming horn goes round.
Then drink to the holly, &c.

The ivy lives long, but its home must be
    Where graves and ruins are spread;
There's beauty about the cypress tree,
    But it flourishes near the dead:
The laurel the warrior's brow may wreathe,
    But it tells of tears and blood:
I sing the holly, and who can breathe
    Aught of that that is not good?
Then sing to the holly, &c.

THE THAMES.

LET the Rhine be blue and bright
In its path of liquid light,
Where the red grapes fling a beam
Of glory on the stream;
Let the gorgeous beauty there
Mingle all that's rich and fair;
Yet to me it ne'er could be
Like that river, great and free,
        The Thames! the mighty Thames!

Though it bear no azure wave,
Though no pearly foam may lave,
Or leaping cascades pour
Their rainbows on its shore;
Yet I ever chose to dwell
Where I heard its gushing swell;
And never skimm'd its breast,
But I warmly prais'd and blest
        The Thames! the mighty Thames!

Can ye find in all the world
A braver flag unfurl'd
Than that which floats above
The stream I sing and love?

Did ribs more firm and fast
E'er meet the shot or blast,
Than the gallant barks that glide
On its full and steady tide?
Would ye seek a dauntless crew,
With hearts to dare and hands to do?
You'll find the foe proclaims
They are cradled on the Thames.
        The Thames! the mighty Thames!

They say the mountain child
Oft loves his torrent wild
So well, that should he part
He breaks his pining heart;
He grieves with smother'd sighs,
Till his wearing spirit dies.
And so I yearn to thee,
Thou river of the free,
        My own, my native Thames!

STANZAS.

THEY told me in my earlier years
    Life was a dark and tangled web,
A gloomy sea of bitter tears,
    Where Sorrow's influx had no ebb.

But such was vainly taught and said,
    My laugh rung out with joyous tone;
The woof possess'd one brilliant thread,
    Of rainbow colours, all my own.

They talk'd of trials, sighs, and grief,
    And call'd the world a wilderness,
Where dazzling bud or fragrant leaf
    But rarely sprung to cheer and bless.

But there was one dear precious flower
    Engrafted in my bosom's core,
Which made my home an Eden bower,
    And caused a doubt if Heaven held more.

I boasted—till a mother's grave
    Was heap'd and sodded—then I found
The sunshine stricken from the wave,
    And all the golden thread unwound.

Where was the flower I had worn
    So fondly, closely, in my heart?
The bloom was crush'd, the root was torn,
    And left a cureless, bleeding part.

Preach on who will—say "Life is sad,"
    I'll not refute as once I did;
You'll find the eye that beam'd so glad
    Will hide a tear beneath its lid.

Preach on of woe; the time hath been
    I'd praise the world with shadeless brow:
The dream is broken. I have seen
    A mother die: I'm silent now.

I LAUGHED AT THE STORM.

DID my heart e'er fail, or my cheek turn pale,
    When I stood on the starting deck?
Did my strong arm flinch, did I quail an inch,
    Though the beautiful bark was a wreck?
No, no; it might blow, and wake all below,
    Death might come in his demon form;
But, fierce with delight, I laugh'd outright,
    Ha! ha! how I laugh'd at the storm!

I bared my teeth to the gulf beneath,
    While the salt foam laved my lips;
My upturn'd eye rejoiced the sky
    Was lost in the dark eclipse.
The groaning blast that levell'd the mast,
    Was pleasing music to me;
I dared to rave at the giant wave,
    Though that wave my shroud might be.
Though I heard the yell of a last farewell
    In a messmate's gurgling cry,
Yet I firmly stood 'mid the lightnings and flood,
    To laugh at the storm or to die!

NAE STAR WAS GLINTIN OUT ABOON.

NAE star was glintin out aboon,
The cluds were dark and hid the moon;
The whistling gale was in my teeth,
And round me was the deep snaw wreath.

But when I trod the same way back,
It seem'd a sad and waefu' track;
The brae and glen were lone and lang,
I did na sing my cantie sang,
I felt how sharp the sleet did fa',
And coud na face the wind at a':
Oh, sic a change! how could it be?
I ken fu' weel, and sae may ye—
The sunshine had been gloom to me,
                            While ganging frae my Katie.

CUPID'S ARROW.

YOUNG Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day,
    And besought him to look at his arrow;
"'Tis useless," he cried, "you must mend it, I say,
    'Tisn't fit to let fly at a sparrow.

"I have straighten'd, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare,
    I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs;
'Tis feather'd with ringlets my mother might wear,
    And the barb gleams with light from young eyes;
But it falls without touching—I'll break it, I vow,
    For there's Hymen beginning to pout;
He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low,
    That Zephyr might puff it right out."

Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale,
    Till Vulcan the weapon restored;
"There take it, young sir; try it now—if it fail,
    I will ask neither fee nor reward."
The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made,
    The wounded and dead were untold;
But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade,
    For the arrow was laden with gold.

A B C.

OH, thou Alpha Beta row,
Fun and freedom's earliest foe;
Shall I e'er forget the primer,
Thumb'd beside some Mrs. Trimmer,—
While mighty problem held me fast,
To know if Z was first or last?
And all Pandora had for me
Was emptied forth in A B C.

Teazing things of toil and trouble,
Fount of many a rolling bubble,
How I striv'd, with pouting pain,
To get thee quarter'd on my brain.
But when the giant feat was done,
How nobly wide the field I'd won!
Wit, reason, wisdom, all might be
Enjoy'd through simple A B C.

Steps that lead to topmost height
Of worldly fame and human might,
Ye win the orator's renown,
The poet's bays, the scholar's gown;
Philosophers must bend and say
'Twas ye who ope'd their glorious way.
Sage, statesman, critic, where is he
Who's not obliged to A B C?

Ye really ought to be exempt
From slighting taunt and cool contempt;
But drinking deep from learning's cup,
We scorn the hand that fill'd it up.
Be courteous, pedants—stay and thank
Your servants of the Roman rank,
For F.R.S. and LL.D.
Can only spring from A B C.

LINES TO THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND.

LADY, perchance my untaught strain
    May little suit a royal ear;
But I would break my lyre in twain
    Ere aught it yield be insincere.

There's been enough of dulcet tone
    To praise thy charms and greet thy youth;
But I, though standing by thy throne,
    Would proudly dare to sing the truth.

I cannot join the minstrel throng
    Who pour idolatrous pretence;
Because I deem such fulsome song
    Must sadly pall upon thy sense.

Thou art a star, whose leading light
    Must beacon through a stormy way:
Shine out, and, if thou guid'st aright,
    Our hearts will bless the saving ray.

If thou would'st walk a better path
    Than regal steps have chiefly trod,
So sway thy sceptre, that it hath
    Some glorious attributes of God.

Peace, Mercy, Justice, mark his reign,
    And these should dwell with all who rule;
Beware! resist the poison bane
    Of tyrant, knave, or courtier fool.

Thou hast been train'd by goodly hand
    To fill thy place of mighty care;
And Heaven forbid that Faction's band
    Should turn our hopes to blank despair.

Lean on thy people, trust their love,
    Thou'lt never find a stronger shield;
The "toiling herd" will nobly prove
    What warm devotion they can yield.

Remember, much of weal or woe
    To millions rests alone with thee;
Be firm, and let Old England show
    A nation happy, wise, and free.

A LOVE SONG.

DEAR Kate, I do not swear and rave,
    Or sigh sweet things, as many can;
But though my lip ne'er plays the slave,
    My heart will not disgrace the man.
I prize thee—ay, my bonnie Kate,
    So firmly fond this breast can be,
That I would brook the sternest fate
    If it but left me health and thee.

I do not promise that our life
    Shall know no shade on heart or brow;
For human lot and mortal strife
    Would mock the falsehood of such vow.
But when the clouds of pain and care
    Shall teach us we are not divine,
My deepest sorrows thou shalt share,
    And I will strive to lighten thine.

We love each other, yet perchance
    The murmurs of dissent may rise;
Fierce words may chase the tender glance,
    And angry flashes light our eyes.
But we must learn to check the frown,
    To reason rather than to blame;
The wisest have their faults to own,
    And you and I, girl, have the same.

You must not like me less, my Kate,
    For such an honest strain as this;
I love thee dearly, but I hate
    The puling rhymes of "kiss" and "bliss."
There's faith in all I've said or sung,
    I woo thee as a man should woo;
And though I lack a honey'd tongue,
    Thou'lt never find a breast more true.

THE YOUNG MARINERS.

BRED up beside the rugged coast, three brothers bold were we,
Wild urchin mariners, who knew no play-place but the sea:
We spurn'd all space the earth could give—the valley, hill, and field;
The main—the boundless main alone, our reckless sports could yield.
We long had borrow'd sail and skiff,—obliged to be content
With any crazy, sluggard hull that kindly fisher lent:
At last our spirits, like our limbs, all strong and broad had grown,
And all our thoughts were centered in "a vessel of our own!"

The eldest-born, our hope and pride, the brightest of the three,
Had enter'd on the busy world, a sturdy shipwright he,
And mighty project fill'd our heads—we sat in council sage,
With earnest speech and gravity beseeming riper age:
We dared to think, we dared to say, that he could frame a boat,
And many others said the same, but question'd,— "would it float?"
Yet lines were drawn and timbers bought, all well and wisely plann'd,
And steadily he set to work to try his "'prentice hand."

He soon gave proof of goodly skill, and built a tiny craft,
While grey-haired sailors shook their heads and beardless landsmen laugh'd;
"'Tis a sweet cockleshell," cried they, "well form'd to please a boy;
With silken sails the thing will be a pretty water toy."
We took their taunts all quietly, till she was fit to launch,
And then some eyes began to find she look'd a little stanch;
All trim and neat, rigg'd out complete, we hail'd our fairy bark,
And chose her name the Petrel, from the bird of storm and dark.

We three, and Will, the smuggler's son, composed her stripling crew,
Her sheets were white as breakers' spray, her pennon old true blue;
And blessed was the breezy hour, and happy wights were we,
When first we gave her wings the wind, and saw her take the sea:
She clear'd the bay and shot away with free and steady speed;
Ne'er faster sped the Desert child upon his Arab steed;
And though that squally day had served the fishers to deter,
The Petrel fairly show'd us that it fail'd to frighten her.

We reef'd—she slack'd; "helm down!" she tack'd; she scudded, went about,
All nobly done, our hopes were won—what triumph fill'd our shout!
And miser never prized his heaps, nor bridegroom loved his bride,
As we did our brave Petrel when she cut the booming tide.
Full many a fearful trip we made, no hazard did we shun,
We met the gale as readily as butterflies the sun;
No terror seized our glowing hearts, the blast but raised our mirth,
We felt as safe upon her planks as by our household hearth.

When many a large and stately ship lay rolling like a log,
With more of water in her hold than that which served for grog,
"What, ho!" we'd cry, while skimming by, "Look here, ye boasting band—
Just see what boys with water toys and silken sails can stand!"
Old Nep might lash his dolphins on with fierce and splashing wrath,
And summon all the myrmidoms of death about his path;
The Triton trumpeter might sound his conch horn long and loud,
Till scaly monsters woke and toss'd the billows to the cloud:

The Nereids might scream their glee, bluff Boreas howl and rave,
But still the little Petrel was as saucy as the wave:
By day or night, in shade or light, a fitting mate was she,
To ramble with her sponsor-bird, and live on any sea.
She tempted with a witching spell, she lured us to forget
A sister's fear, a mother's tear, a father's chiding threat:
Away we'd dash through foam and flash, and take the main as soon
Amid the scowling tempest as beneath the summer moon.

Some thirty years of toil and moil have done their work since then,
And changed us three young mariners to staid and thoughtful men;
But when by lucky chance we meet, we ne'er forget to note
The perils that we dared with such a "wee thing" of a boat.
Oh! were it so that time could give some chosen moments back,
Full well we know the sunniest that ever lit life's track;
We'd ask the days beside the coast, of freedom, health, and joy—
The ocean for our play-place, and the Petrel for our toy.

THIS IS THE HOUR FOR ME.

I'LL sail upon the mighty main—but this is not the hour,
There's not enough of wind to move the bloom in lady's bower:
Oh! this is ne'er the time for me: our pretty bark would take
Her place upon the ocean like a rose-leaf on a lake.

Now, now the night-breeze freshens fast, the green waves gather strength,
The heavy mainsail firmly swells, the pennon shows its length,
Our boat is jumping in the tide—quick, let her hawser slip;
Though but a tiny thing, she'll live beside a giant ship.
Away, away! what nectar spray she flings about her bow,
What diamonds flash in every splash that drips upon my brow:
She knows she bears a soul that dares, and loves the dark rough sea.
More sail! I cry; let, let her fly!—this is the hour for me.

NIGHT.

THE God of day is speeding his way
    Through the golden gates of the west;
The rosebud sleeps in the parting ray,
    The bird is seeking its nest.

I love the light—yet welcome, Night!
    For, beneath thy darkling fall,
The troubled breast is sooth'd in rest,
    And the slave forgets his thrall.

The peasant child, all strong and wild,
    Is growing quiet and meek;
All fire is hid 'neath his heavy lid,
    The lashes yearn to the cheek.

He roves no more in gamesome glee,
    But hangs his weary head;
And loiters beside the mother's knee
    To ask his lowly bed.

The butterflies fold their wings of gold,
    The dew falls chill in the bower;
The cattle wait at the kineyard gate,
    The bee hath forsaken the flower.

The roar of the city is dying fast,
    Its tongues no longer thrill;
The hurrying tread is faint at last,
    The artisan's hammer is still.

Night steals apace. She rules supreme;
    A hallow'd calm is shed:
No footstep breaks, no whisper wakes—
    'Tis the silence of the dead.

The hollow bay of a distant dog
    Bids drowsy Echo start;
The chiming hour from an old church tower
    Strikes fearfully on the heart.

All spirits are bound in slumber sound,
    Save those o'er a death-bed weeping;
Or the soldier one that paces alone,
    His guard by the watchfire keeping.

With ebon wand and sable robe,
    How beautiful, Night, art thou;
Serenely set on a throne of jet,
    With stars about thy brow!

Thou comest to dry the mourner's eye,
    That, wakeful, is ever dim;
To hush for awhile the grieving sigh,
    And give strength to the wearied limb.

Hail to thy sceptre, Ethiop Queen!
    Fair mercy marks thy reign,
For the care-worn breast may take its rest,
    And the slave forget his chain.

OH! NEVER BREATHE A DEAD ONE'S
NAME.

OH! never breathe a dead one's name
    When those who loved that one are nigh:
It pours a lava through the frame
    That chokes the breast and fills the eye.
It strains a chord that yields too much
    Of piercing anguish in its breath;
And hands of mercy should not touch
    A string made eloquent by death.

Oh! never breathe a lost one's name
    To those who call'd that one their own:
It only stirs the smouldering flame
    That burns upon a charnel stone.
The heart will ache and well nigh break
    To miss that one for ever fled;
And lips of mercy should not wake
    A love that cherishes the dead.

A SONG FOR MERRY HARVEST.

BRING forth the harp, and let us sweep its fullest, loudest string,
The bee below, the bird above, are teaching us to sing
A song for merry harvest, and the one who will not bear
His grateful part, partakes a boon he ill deserves to share.
The grasshopper is pouring forth his quick and trembling notes,
The laughter of the gleaner child, the heart's own music floats.
Up! up! I say, a roundelay from every voice that lives,
Should welcome merry harvest, and bless the God that gives.

The buoyant soul that loves the bowl may see the dark grapes shine,
And gems of melting ruby deck the ringlets of the vine;
Who prizes more the foaming ale may gaze upon the plain,
And feast his eye with yellow hops and sheets of bearded grain.

THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND.

THE sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the isle;
The soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while;
But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers' halls,
And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals:
We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn,
To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the saffron morn;
We'll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land,
The ploughshare of old England, and the sturdy peasant band!

The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly told,
We see it in the teeming barns, and fields of waving gold:
Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain lingers there;
God speed it well, and let it thrive unshackled every where.
The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust,
But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and rust.
Fill up, fill up, with glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land,
The ploughshare of old England, and the sturdy peasant band!

THY WILL BE DONE.

LET the scholar and divine
    Tell us how to pray aright;
Let the truths of Gospel shine
    With their precious hallow'd light;
But the prayer a mother taught
    Is to me a matchless one;
Eloquent and spirit fraught
    Are the words—"Thy will be done."

Though not fairly understood,
    Still those words, at evening hour,
Implied some Being, great and good,
    Of mercy, majesty, and power.
Bending low on infant knee,
    And gazing on the setting sun,
I thought that orb his home must be,
    To whom I said—"Thy will be done."

I have search'd the sacred page,
    I have heard the godly speech,
But the lore of saint or sage
    Nothing holier can teach.
Pain has wrung my spirit sore,
    But my soul the triumph won,
When the anguish that I bore
    Only breathed—"Thy will be done."

They have serv'd in pressing need,
    Have nerv'd my heart in every task,
And howsoe'er my breast may bleed,
    No other balm of prayer I ask.
When my whiten'd lips declare
    Life's last sands have almost run,
May the dying breath they bear
    Murmur forth—"Thy will be done."

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

I LOVE it, I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,
I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with sighs;
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart,
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell? a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I linger'd near
The hallow'd seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watch'd her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey;
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled,
And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child.
Years roll'd on, but the last one sped,
My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

GRATITUDE.

THE hound will fawn on any one
    That greets him with a kind caress;
The flower will turn towards the sun
    That nurtures it in loveliness.

The drooping bird, with frozen wing,
    That feeds in winter at your sill,
Will turn his glossy plumes in spring,
    And perch about your window still.

The grazing steed will mark the voice
    That rules him with a gentle word;
And we may see the brute rejoice,
    As though he loved the tones he heard.

I've taught the speckled frog to leap
    At twilight for the crumbs I've spread;
I've lured the fawn till it would keep
    Beside me, crouching, bound and led.

We find the fiercest things that live,
    The savage born, the wildly rude,
When sooth'd by Mercy's hand, will give
    Some faint response of gratitude.

But man!—oh, blush, ye lordly race!—
    Shrink back, and question thy proud heart!
Do ye not lack that thankful grace
    Which ever forms the soul's best part?

Will ye not take the blessings given,
    The priceless boon of ruddy health,
The sleep unbroken, peace unriven,
    The cup of joy, the mine of wealth!

Will ye not take them all? and yet
    Walk from the cradle to the grave,
Enjoying, boasting, and forget
    To think upon the God that gave.

Thou'lt even kneel to blood-stain'd kings,
    Nor fear to have thy serfdom known;
Thy knee will bend for bauble things,
    Yet fail to seek its Maker's throne.

The bosom that would most repine,
    At slightest comfort snatch'd away—
The lip that murmurs to resign,
    Is last to thank, is last to pray.

Call home thy thoughts, vain child of dust!
    However sad thy lot may be,
There is a something good, that must
    Demand acknowledgment from thee.

What would'st thou have from Him above?
    Gaze but on Nature's ample field,
And that one type of mystic love
    Will ask more praise than thou can'st yield.

THE ENGLISH HOLIDAY.

EACH minstrel hand must fondly greet
Young Spring, the redolent and sweet:
All voices hail the breezy balm,
The peeping leaf, and golden palm.
The freshen'd sod and deep'ning sky
Wake hope and light in heart and eye;
And cold's the lyre that does not own
A richer breathing in its tone.

May blessings fall upon the hour
When Freedom takes the sovereign power;
When the swarth brow may wear a smile,
And lose the lines of care awhile;
When drum and trumpet, bravely woke
By infant breath and pigmy stroke,
Proclaim the gladsome "uproar wild"
Is shared e'en by the lisping child.
I love to mark the bounding tread,
    The treasured vestments, clean and gay;
I prize the happiness that's shed
    Upon a people's holiday.

'Tis true that revelry and noise
May herald forth their frantic joys—
That Prudence flies the motley crowd,
"Quite shock'd" at Folly's bells so loud.
Some few may loathe the merry din,
Deeming blythe laughter deadly sin,
And spurn the thronging multitude,
As "creatures" worthless, base, and rude:
Yet think, their lives of toil and gloom
    But rarely meet a sunny ray,
And none perchance that e'er illume
    So brightly as a holiday.

Such hours, such days, too soon are o'er,
Too few! Ah! would that they were more!
The outburst of a million's mirth
Is the most grateful sound on earth.
Shade to his name—woe to his breast,
Whose selfish aim would strive to wrest
And trample down their sacred right
With tyrant zeal, and iron might!
Hail to the festal wide and free,
    And ne'er may charter know decay
That ratifies a people's glee,
    And grants an English holiday!

THE FAIRY OF THE SEA.

THERE'S a frigate on the waters, fit for battle, storm, or sun,
She dances like a life-boat, though she carries flag and gun;
I'm rich and blest while I can call that gallant craft my own,
I'm king of her, and Jove himself may keep his crown and throne.
She'll stem the billows mountain high, or skim the moonlit spray,
She'll take a blow and face a foe, like lion turn'd at bay.

The gale is up, she feels the breath, the Petrel is behind,
She travels through the white foam like an arrow on the wind.
Softly, softly—hold her in—let her slacken in her pace,
She'll do the pilot's bidding with a greyhound's gentle grace.
The rocks are round her—what of that? she turns them like a swan;
There are boiling breakers near, but she is safely creeping on.
Hurrah! hurrah! she's clear again! More canvass, helm a-lee!
Away she bounds, like deer from hounds, the Fairy of the Sea.

I've met with life's rough-weather squalls, and run on shoals ashore;
All pass'd me under scudding-sails, and friends were friends no more:
But when the storm-fiend did its worst, and blanch'd the firmest crew,
No timber yawn'd, no cordage broke, my bark, my bark was true.

STANZAS.

I'VE track'd the paths of the dark wild wood,
    No footfall there but my own;
I've linger'd beside the moaning flood,
    But I never felt alone.
There were lovely things for my soul to meet,
    Rare work for my eye to trace:
I held communion close and sweet
    With a Maker—face to face.

I have sat in the cheerless, vacant room,
    At the stillest hour of night,
With nought to break upon the gloom
    But the taper's sickly light;

I may rove the waste or tenant the cell,
    But alone I never shall be;
While this form is a home where the spirit may dwell,
    There is something to mate with me.
Wait till ye turn from my mindless clay,
    And the shroud o'er my breast is thrown,
And then, but not till then, ye may say,
    That I am left alone!

THE SAILOR'S GRAVE.

OUR bark was out—far, far from land,
When the fairest of our gallant band
Grew sadly pale, and waned away
Like the twilight of an autumn day.
We watch'd him through long hour's of pain,
But our cares were lost, our hopes were vain:
Death-struck, he gave no coward alarm,
For he smiled as he died on a messmate's arm.

He had no costly winding-sheet,
But we placed a round shot at his feet,
And he slept in his hammock as safe and sound
As a king in his lawn-shroud, marble-bound.
We proudly deck'd his funeral vest
With the English flag about his breast;
We gave him that as the badge of the brave,
And then he was fit for his sailor's grave.

Our voices broke—our hearts turn'd weak—
Hot tears were seen on the brownest cheek,
And a quiver play'd on the lips of pride,
As we lower'd him down the ship's dark side:
A plunge—a splash—and our task was o'er;
The billows roll'd as they roll'd before;
But many a rude prayer hallow'd the wave
That closed above the sailor's grave.

I MISS THEE, MY MOTHER!

I MISS thee, my mother! Thy image is still
    The deepest impress'd on my heart,
And the tablet so faithful in death must be chill
    Ere a line of that image depart.

I miss thee, my mother, in circles of joy,
    Where I've mingled with rapturous zest;
For how slight is the touch that will serve to destroy
    All the fairy web spun in my breast!
Some melody sweet may be floating around—
    'Tis a ballad I learnt at thy knee;
Some strain may be played, and I shrink from the sound,
    For my fingers oft woke it for thee.

I miss thee, my mother; when young health has fled,
    And I sink in the languor of pain,
Where, where, is the arm that once pillow'd my head,
    And the ear that once heard me complain?
Other hands may support, gentle accents may fall,
    For the fond and the true are yet mine;
I've a blessing for each—I am grateful to all—
    But whose care can be soothing as thine?

I miss thee, my mother, in summer's fair day,
    When I rest in the ivy-wreath'd bower,
When I hang thy pet linnet's cage high on the spray,
    Or gaze on thy favourite flower.

I miss thee, my mother, in winter's long night:
    I remember the tales thou would'st tell—
The romance of wild fancy, the legend of fright,
    Oh! who could e'er tell them so well!
Thy corner is vacant—thy chair is removed;
    It was kind to take that from my eye,
Yet relics are round me—the sacred and loved—
    To call up the pure, sorrow-fed sigh.

I miss thee, my mother! Oh, when do I not?
    Though I know 'twas the wisdom of Heaven
That the deepest shade fell on my sunniest spot,
    And such tie of devotion was riven;
For when thou wert with me my soul was below,
    I was chain'd to the world I then trod;
My affections, my thoughts, were all earth-bound, but now
    They have follow'd thy spirit to God!

THE HEART THAT'S TRUE.

TELL me not of sparkling gems,
Set in regal diadems;
You may boast your diamonds rare,
Rubies bright and pearls so fair:
But there's a peerless gem on earth,
Of richer ray and purer worth;
'Tis priceless, but 'tis worn by few—
It is, it is the heart that's true.

Bring the tulip and the rose,
While their brilliant beauty glows;
Let the storm-cloud fling a shade,
Rose and tulip both will fade:
But there's a flower that still is found,
When mist and darkness close around;
Changeless, fadeless in its hue—
It is, it is the heart that's true.

Ardent in its earliest tie,
Faithful in its latest sigh;
Love and Friendship, godlike pair,
Find their throne of glory there.
Proudly scorning bribe and threat,
Nought can break the seal once set:
All the evil gold can do
Cannot warp the heart that's true.

First in Freedom's cause to bleed,
First in joy when slaves are freed;
Their hearts were true, and what could quell
The might of Washington or Tell?
Oh! there is one mortal shrine
Lighted up with rays divine.
Seek it, yield the homage due,
Deify the heart that's true.

THE LOVED ONE WAS NOT THERE.

WE gather'd round the festive board,
    The crackling faggot blazed,
But few would taste the wine that pour'd,
    Or join the song we raised.
For there was now a glass unfill'd—
    A favour'd place to spare;
All eyes were dull, all hearts were chill'd,
    The loved one was not there.

No happy laugh was heard to ring,
    No form would lead the dance;
A smother'd sorrow seem'd to fling
    A gloom in every glance.

THE WORLD.

TALK who will of the world as a desert of thrall,
    Yet—yet, there is bloom on the waste:
Though the chalice of life hath its acid and gall,
    There are honey-drops too for the taste.

We murmur and droop should a sorrow-cloud stay,
    And note all the shades of our lot;
But the rich scintillations that brighten our way,
    Are bask'd in, enjoy'd, and forgot.

Those who look on mortality's ocean aright,
    Will not moan o'er each billow that rolls,
But dwell on the glories, the beauties, the might,
    As much as the shipwrecks and shoals.

How thankless is he who remembers alone
    All the bitter, the drear, and the dark!
Though the raven may scare with its woe-boding tone,
    Do we ne'er hear the song of the lark?

We may utter farewell when 'tis torture to part,
    But in meeting the dear one again,
Have we never rejoiced with that wildness of heart
    Which outbalances ages of pain?

Who hath not had moments so laden with bliss,
    When the soul, in its fulness of love,
Would waver, if bidden to choose between this
    And the paradise promised above?

Though the eye may be dimm'd with its grief-drop awhile,
    And the whiten'd lip sigh forth its fear,
Yet pensive indeed is that face where the smile
    Is not oftener seen than the tear.

There are times when the storm-gust may rattle around,
    There are spots where the poison-shrub grows;
Yet are there not hours when nought else can be found
    But the south wind, the sunshine, and rose?

O haplessly rare is the portion that's ours,
    And strange is the path that we take,
If there spring not beside us a few precious flowers,
    To soften the thorn and the brake.

The wail of regret, the rude clashing of strife,
    The soul's harmony often may mar;
But I think we must own, in the discords of life,
    'Tis ourselves that oft waken the jar.

Earth is not all fair, yet it is not all gloom,
    And the voice of the grateful will tell,
That He who allotted Pain, Death, and the Tomb,
    Gave Hope, Health, and the Bridal as well.

Should Fate do its worst, and my spirit oppress'd
    O'er its own shatter'd happiness pine,
Let me witness the joy in another's glad breast,
    And some pleasure must kindle in mine.

Then say not the world is a desert of thrall,
    There is bloom, there is light on the waste;
Though the chalice of life hath its acid and gall,
    There are honey-drops too for the taste.

THERE'S A STAR IN THE WEST.

THERE'S a star in the west that shall never go down
    Till the records of valour decay;
We must worship its light, though it is not our own,
    For liberty burst in its ray.
Shall the name of a Washington ever be heard
    By a freeman, and thrill not his breast?
Is there one out of bondage that hails not the word
    As the Bethlehem star of the west?

"War, war to the knife! be enthrall'd or ye die,"
    Was the echo that woke in his land;
But it was not his voice that promoted the cry,
    Nor his madness that kindled the brand.
He raised not his arm, he defied not his foes,
    While a leaf of the olive remain'd;
Till, goaded with insult, his spirit arose
    Like a long-baited lion unchain'd.

He struck with firm courage the blow of the brave,
    But sigh'd o'er the carnage that spread:
He indignantly trampled the yoke of the slave,
    But wept for the thousands that bled.
Though he threw back the fetters and headed the strife,
    Till man's charter was fairly restored;
Yet he pray'd for the moment when freedom and life
    Would no longer be press'd by the sword.

Oh! his laurels were pure, and his patriot name
    In the page of the future shall dwell,
And be seen in all annals, the foremost in fame,
    By the side of a Hofer and Tell.
Revile not my song, for the wise and the good
    Among Britons have nobly confess'd,
That his was the glory and ours was the blood
    Of the deeply-stain'd field of the west.

STANZAS.

THE dark and rugged mountain steep,
    The sloping emerald glade,
The beam-lit valley, where vines may creep,
    The hare-bell low in the shade:

The towering hill, the shimmering rill,
    The fields and forest trees—
Oh, he is blind who cannot find
    Good company in these.

I have seen the harvest sun pour down
    Its rays on the rustling sheaf,
Till gold flash'd out from the wheatear brown,
    And flame from the poppy's leaf.

I have heard the music the woods have made
    In deep and sullen roar,
When the mighty winds of Winter play'd
    On branches grey and hoar.

I have seen the merry Spring steal nigh,
    And my soul has leap'd to meet
The rainbow clouds that flitted on high,
    The daisy that kiss'd my feet.

I have watch'd the slowly gathering gloom
    Of mournful Autumn throw
Its pensive shade on the dying bloom,
    Like sorrow on beauty's brow:

And though I have garner'd little of light
    From learning's glorious store,
These—these have taught God's mercy and might,
    And who can teach me more?

My spirit has glow'd, the rapt, the blest,
    Flush'd with the fervent zeal
That may gush from the eyes and burn in the breast,
    But the weak lips ne'er reveal.

The giant rock, the lowliest flower
    Can lead to Him above,
And bid me worship the hand of power,
    Of mystery and love.

Does my heart grow proud! I need but turn
    To Nature, and confess
A Maker's greatness—shrink and learn
    My own unworthiness!

HANG UP HIS HARP, HE'LL WAKE
NO MORE!

HIS young bride stood beside his bed,
    Her weeping watch to keep;
Hush! hush! he stirr'd not—was he dead,
    Or did he only sleep?

His brow was calm, no change was there,
    No sigh had fill'd his breath;
Oh! did he wear that smile so fair
    In slumber or in death?

"Reach down his harp," she wildly cried,
    "And if one spark remain,
Let him but hear 'Loch Erroch's side,'
    He'll kindle at the strain.

"That tune e'er held his soul in thrall,
    It never breathed in vain;
He'll waken as its echoes fall,
    Or never wake again."

The strings were swept, 'twas sad to hear
    Sweet music floating there;
For every note call'd forth a tear
    Of anguish and despair.

"See! see!" she cried, "the tune is o'er,
    No opening eye, no breath;
Hang up his harp, he'll wake no more,
    He sleeps the sleep of death."

THE BONNIE SCOT.

THE bonnie Scot! he hath nae got
    A hame o' sun an' light;
His clime hath aft a dreary day
    An' mony a stormy night.
He hears the blast gae crooning past,
    He sees the snawflake fa';
But what o' that? He'll tell ye still,
    His land is best o' a':
He wadna' tine, for rose or vine,
    The gowans round his cot;
There is nae bloom like heath an' broom,
    To charm the bonnie Scot.

The roarin' din o' flood an' linn
    Is music unco sweet;
He loves the pine aboon his head,
    The breckans 'neath his feet:

CHILDHOOD.

HAIL to the days of romp and racket,
Of azure sash and skirtless jacket!
Let Fortune lavish all she will,
There's something in the bosom still
Insinuates that "prisoner's-base "
Was worth all manhood's pomp and place.
There's nought that memory extols
So glowingly as dumps and dolls;
We cannot fancy that we meet
With "honey pots" so truly sweet
As those we form'd "long, long ago,"
To taste and weigh "all of a row!"

I doubt if those who fairly claim
The highest altitude of fame,
Are half so happy and content
As when their strength and wits were spent
Endeavouring to climb and keep
The pinnacle of some earth-heap,
Shouting with wild vocif'rous glee,
"King of the Castle—I am he!"

I'm not quite sure that Love and Hope
Make up for ball and skipping-rope;
And though my digits now may hold
The precious note or shining gold,
I'm certain that my wealth was more
When nought but copper form'd my store:
What spendthrift bliss it was to stand
With eager gaze and pence in hand,
Before the tempting sugar'd stall,
Choosing 'twixt cake and brandy-ball!

How soon we bluster, fume, and fret,
At each discourteous thrust we get
In after years! What pride we show
At jostled side or trodden toe—
But who e'er heeded kick or cuff
Receiv'd in "whoop" or "blindman's buff?"
The awkward thump—the tumble down
Elicited nor plaint nor frown.
Up—foremost in the game again,
The vest might keep its dusty stain;

The knuckle grazed, was eyed askance,
With cool heroic Spartan glance;
Or should a bursting sudden tear,
Like summer's passing shower, appear,
While the big drop yet gemm'd the lash,
Joy's sun-ray would again outflash,
And, vivid with some new delight,
Yield such a rainbow, deep and bright,
That all who mark'd the meteor eye
Would almost fail to wish it dry.

Oh, ye who deign to list my rhyme,
Do ye not love that olden time,
When marbles, buttons, and such things,
Outbalanced empires, states, and kings?
I know ye'll freely answer "Yes,"
And will not like the minstrel less
Whose muse descends to sing and praise
Life's fairy epoch—"Childhood's days!"

SONG OF THE CARRION CROW.

THE wolf may howl, the jackal may prowl,
    Rare brave beasts are they;
The worm may crawl in the carcass foul,
    The tiger may glut o'er his prey:

The bloodhound may hang with untired fang,
    He is cunning and strong, I trow;
But Death's stanch crew holds none more true
    Than the broad-wing'd carrion crow.

My roost is the creaking gibbet's beam,
    Where the murderer's bones swing bleaching;
Where the clattering chain rings back again
    To the night-wind's desolate screeching.

To and fro, as the fierce gusts blow,
    Merrily rock'd am I;
And I note with delight the traveller's fright
    As he cowers and hastens by.

I scent the deeds of fearful crime,
    I wheel o'er the parricide's head;
I have watch'd the sire, who, mad with ire,
    The blood of his child hath shed.

I can chatter the tales at which
    The ear of innocence starts;
And ye would not mark my plumage as dark
    If ye saw it beside some hearts.

I have seen the friend spring out as a foe,
    And the guest waylay his host;
And many a right arm strike a blow
    The lips never dared to boast.

I have seen the soldier millions adored
    Do other than deed of the brave,
When he wore a mask as well as a sword,
    And dug a midnight grave.

I have flutter'd where secret work has been done,
    Wrought with a trusty blade;
But what did I care, whether foul or fair,
    If I shared the feast it made?

A struggle, a cry, a hasty gash,
    A short and heavy groan!
Revenge was sweet, its work was complete,
    The dead and I were alone!

I plunged my beak in the marbling cheek,
    I perch'd on the clammy brow;
And a dainty treat was that fresh meat
    To the greedy carrion crow.

I have follow'd the traveller dragging on
    O'er the mountains long and cold;
For I knew at last he must sink in the blast,
    Though spirit was never so bold.

I hover'd close—his limbs grew stark,
    His life-stream stood to congeal;
And I whetted my claw, for I plainly saw
    I should soon have another meal.

He fell, and slept like a fair young bride,
    In his winding-sheet of snow;
And quickly his breast had a table guest
    In the hungry carrion crow.

If my pinions ache in the journey I take,
    No resting-place will do
Till I light alone on a churchyard stone,
    Or a branch of the gloomy yew.

Famine and plague bring joy to me,
    For I love the harvest they yield;
And the fairest sight I ever see
    Is the crimson battle-field.

Far and wide is my charnel range,
    And rich carousal I keep,
Till back I come to my gibbet home,
    To be merrily rock'd to sleep.

When the world shall be spread with tombless dead,
    And darkness shroud all below,
What triumph and glee to the last wilt be
    For the sateless carrion crow.

ENGLAND.

MY heart is pledg'd in wedded faith to England's "merry isle,"
I love each low and straggling cot, each famed ancestral pile;
I'm happy when my steps are free upon the sunny glade,
I'm glad and proud amid the crowd that throng its mart of trade;
I gaze upon our open port, where Commerce mounts her throne,
Where every flag that comes ere now has lower'd to our own.
Look round the globe, and tell me can ye find more blazon'd names,
Among its cities and its streams, than London and the Thames?

My soul is link'd right tenderly to every shady copse,
I prize the creeping violets, the tall and fragrant hops;
The citron tree or spicy grove for me would never yield
A perfume half so grateful as the lilies of the field.

I'll ask if there's a British boy, whate'er may be his rank,
Who does not dearly love to climb his native bramble bank;
Who would not trudge for many a mile to gain a nutting track,
Proud of the crook'd stick in his hand and basket at his back?
Our songsters, too, oh! who shall dare to breathe one slighting word,
Their plumage dazzles not—yet say, can sweeter strains be heard?
Let other feathers vaunt the dyes of deepest rainbow flush,
Give me old England's nightingale, its robin, and its thrush.

I'd freely rove through Tempe's vale, or scale the giant Alp,
Where roses list the bulbul's tale, or snow-wreaths crown the scalp;

I'd own a brother in the good and brave of any land,
Nor would I ask his clime or creed before I gave my hand;
Let but the deeds be ever such that all the world may know,
And little recks "the place of birth," or colour of the brow;
Yet, though I'd hail a foreign name among the first and best,
Our own transcendent stars of fame would rise within my breast;
I'd point to hundreds who have done the most e'er done by man,
And cry "There's England's glory scroll—show brighter if ye can!"

"THY KINGDOM COME."

'TIS human lot to meet and bear
    The common ills of human life;
There's not a breast but hath its share
    Of bitter pain and vexing strife.
The peasant in his lowly shed—
    The noble 'neath a gilded dome—
Each will at some time bow his head,
    And ask and hope, "Thy kingdom come."

When some deep sorrow, surely slow,
    Despoils the cheek and eats the heart,
Laying our busy projects low,
    And bidding all earth's dreams depart—
Do we not smile, and calmly turn
    From the wide world's tumultuous hum,
And feel the immortal essence yearn,
    Rich with the thought, "Thy kingdom come?"

The waves of care may darkly bound
    And buffet, till, our strength outworn,
We stagger as they gather round,
    All shatter'd, weak, and tempest-torn:
But there's a light-house for the soul,
    That beacons to a stormless home;
It safely guides through roughest tides—
    It shines, it saves! "Thy kingdom come!"

To gaze upon the loved in death,
    To mark the closing beamless eye,
To press dear lips, and find no breath—
    This—this is life's worst agony!
But God, too merciful, too wise,
    To leave the lorn one in despair,
Whispers, while snatching those we prize,
    "My kingdom come!" "Ye'll meet them there!"

THE BOW.

        A CHEER for Robin Hood
        And Nottingham's famed wood,
When the greensward was the merry men's resort;
        When the tough and springy yew
        Was the bravest tree that grew,
And the bow held foremost place in English sport.

        Right glorious I ween,
        Was the olden forest scene,
When bugles rang and sturdy yeomen met;
        When the flying bird was hit,
        The willow sapling split,
And bow and shaft had fame unrivall'd yet.

        In the fields our fathers won,
        We shall find the bow has done
Some work our annals proudly may record;
        Did they prove it bent in vain,
        On Poictiers or Cressy's plain?
Had the arrow there less glory than the sword?

        The whizzing barb that flew
        Bore its message home, and true,
As swift as sun-ray, free as eagle's wing;
        And many a haughty foe
        Was taught to feel and know
What English arms could do with wood and string.

        See, see the archer hold
        His weapons firm and bold,
With spreading chest, and clear uncover'd brow;
        The arrow 'neath his eye,
        Drawn to the head, let fly,
Fix'd in the prey. Ha! ha! who scorns the bow?

        Then a cheer for Robin Hood
        And Nottingham's famed wood,
When the greensward was the merry men's resort;
        When the tough and springy yew
        Was the bravest tree that grew,
And the bow held foremost place in English sport.

THE FOREST TREES.

UP with your heads, ye sylvan lords,
    Wave proudly in the breeze,
For our cradle bands and coffin boards
    Must come from the forest trees.

We bless thee for thy summer shade,
    When our weak limbs fail and tire;
Our thanks are due for thy winter aid,
    When we pile the bright log fire.

Oh! where would be our rule on the sea,
    And the fame of the sailor band,
Were it not for the oak and cloud-crown'd pine
    That spring on the quiet land?

When the ribs and masts of the good ship live,
    And weather the gale with ease;
Take his glass from the tar who will not give
    A health to the forest trees.

Ye lend to life its earliest joy,
    And wait on its latest page;
In the circling hoop for the rosy boy,
    And the easy chair for age.

The old man totters on his way,
    With footsteps short and slow;
But without the stick for his help and stay
    Not a yard's length could he go.

The hazel twig in the stripling's hand
    Hath magic power to please;
And the trusty staff and slender wand
    Are pluck'd from the forest trees.

Ye are seen in the shape of the blessed plough
    And the merry ringing flail;
Ye shine in the dome of the monarch's home
    And the sacred altar rail.

In the rustic porch, the wainscotted wall,
    In the gay triumphal car;
In the rude-built hut or the banquet hall,
    No matter! there ye are!

Then up with your heads, ye sylvan lords!
    Wave proudly in the breeze;
From our cradle bands to our coffin boards
    We're in debt to the forest trees.

THE HORSE.

THE horse! the brave, the gallant horse—
    Fit theme for the minstrel's song!
He hath good claim to praise and fame,
    As the fleet, the kind, the strong.

What of your foreign monsters rare?
    I'll turn to the road or course,
And find a beauteous rival there
    In the horse, the English horse.

Behold him free on his native sod,
    Looking fit for the sun-god's car;
With a skin as sleek as a maiden's cheek,
    And an eye like the Polar star.

Who wonders not such limbs can deign
    To brook the fettering girth,
As we see him fly the ringing plain,
    And paw the crumbling earth?

His nostrils are wide with snorting pride,
    His fiery veins expand;
And yet he'll be led by a silken thread,
    Or sooth'd by an infant's hand.

He owns the lion's spirit and might,
    But the voice he has learnt to love
Needs only be heard, and he'll turn to the word
    As gentle as a dove.

The Arab is wise who learns to prize
    His barb before all gold;
But is his barb more fair than ours,
    More generous, fast, or bold?

A song for the steed, the gallant steed—
    Oh! grant him a leaf of bay;
For we owe much more to his strength and speed
    Than man can ever repay.

Whatever his place, the yoke, the chace,
    The war-field, road, or course,
One of Creation's brightest and best
    Is the horse, the noble horse!

THE KING OF THE WIND.

HE burst through the ice-pillar'd gates of the North,
And away on his hurricane wings he rush'd forth;
He exulted all free in his might and his speed,
He mock'd at the lion and taunted the steed;
He whistled along, through each cranny and creek,
He whirl'd o'er the mountains with hollow-toned shriek;
The arrow and eagle were laggard behind,
And alone in his flight sped the King of the Wind.

He swept o'er the earth—the tall battlements fell,
And he laugh'd, as they crumbled, with maniac yell;
The broad oak of the wood dared to wrestle again,
Till, wild in his fury, he hurl'd it in twain;
He grappled with pyramids, works of an age,
And dire records were left of his havoc and rage;
No power could brave him, no fetters could bind,
Supreme in his sway was the King of the Wind.

He career'd o'er the waters with death and despair,
He wreck'd the proud ship and his triumph was there;
The cheeks that had blanch'd not at foeman or blade,
At the sound of his breathing turn'd pale and afraid;
He rock'd the stanch lighthouse, he shiver'd the mast,
He howl'd—the strong life-boat in fragments was cast;
And he roar'd in his glory, "Where, where will ye find
A despot so great as the King of the Wind!"

MY GRAVE.

SWEET is the ocean grave, under the azure wave,
    Where the rich coral the sea-grot illumes;
Where pearls and amber meet, decking the winding sheet,
    Making the sailor's the brightest of tombs.

Let the proud soldier rest, wrapp'd in his gory vest,
    Where he may happen to fall on his shield;
To sink in the glory-strife was his first hope in life,
    Dig him his grave on the red battle-field.

Lay the one great and rich in the strong cloister niche,
    Give him his coffin of cedar and gold;
Let the wild torchlight fall, flouting the velvet pall,
    Lock him in marble vault darksome and cold.

But there's a sunny hill, fondly remember'd still,
    Crown'd with fair grass and a bonnie elm tree;
Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf,
    There be the resting-place chosen by me!

Though the long formal prayer ne'er has been utter'd there,
    Though the robed priest has not hallow'd the sod;
Yet would I dare to ask any in saintly mask
    "Where is the spot that's unwatch'd by a God!"

There the wind, loud and strong, whistles its winter song,
    Shrill in its wailing and fierce in its sweep;
'Tis music now sweet and dear, loved by my soul and ear,
    Let it breathe on where I sleep the last sleep.

There in the summer days rest the bright flashing rays,
    There spring the wild flowers—fair as can be;
Daisy and pimpernel, lily and cowslip-bell,
    These be the grave flowers chosen by me.

There would I lie alone, mark'd by no sculptur'd stone,
    Few will regret when my spirit departs;
And I loathe the vain charnel fame, praising an empty name,
     Dear after all but to two or three hearts.

Who does not turn and laugh at the false epitaph,
    Painting man spotless and pure as the dove?
If aught of goodly worth grace my career on earth,
    All that I heed is its record above.

'Tis on that sunny hill, fondly remember'd still,
    Where my young footsteps climb'd, happy and free;
Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf—
    There be the sleeping-place chosen by me.

SONG OF THE SUN.

SUPREME of the sky—no throne so high—
    I reign a monarch divine;
What have ye below that doth not owe
    Its glory and lustre to mine?
Has beauty a charm I have not help'd
    To nurture in freshness and bloom?
Can a tint be spread—can a glance be shed
    Like those I deign to illume?
Though ye mimic my beams, as ye do and ye will,
Let all galaxies meet, I am mightiest still!

The first red ray that heralds my way,
    Just kisses the mountain top;
And splendour dwells in the cowslip bells
    While I kindle each nectar drop:
I speed on my wide refulgent path,
    And Nature's homage is given;
All tones are pour'd to greet me adored
    As I reach the blue mid-heaven,
And the sweetest and boldest, the truly free,
The lark and the eagle come nearest to me.

The glittering train so praised by man,
    The moon, night's worshipp'd queen,
The silvery scud, and the rainbow's span,
    Snatch from me their colours and sheen.

My strength goes down in the crystal caves,
    I gem the billow's wide curl,
I paint the dolphin and burnish the waves,
    I tinge the coral and pearl.
Love ye the flowers? What power, save mine,
    Can the velvet rose unfold?
Who else can purple the grape on the vine,
    Or flush the wheat-ear with gold?
Look on the beam-lit wilderness spot—
'Tis more fair than the palace, where I come not.

Though giant clouds ride on the whirlwind's tide,
    And gloom on the world may fall,
I yet flash on in gorgeous pride,
    Untarnish'd above them all.
So the pure warm heart for awhile may appear,
    In probations of sorrow and sin,
To be dimm'd and obscured, but trial or tear
    Cannot darken the spirit within.
Let the breast keep its truth, and life's shadows may roll,
But they quench not, they reach not the sun nor the soul.

THE MOURNERS.

KING Death sped forth in his dreaded power
To make the most of his tyrant hour:
And the first he took was a white-robed girl,
With the orange bloom twined in each glossy curl.
Her fond betroth'd hung over the bier,
Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear;
He madly raved, he shriek'd his pain,
With frantic speech and burning brain;
"There's no joy," cried he, "now my dearest is gone,
Take, take me, Death; for I cannot live on!"

The sire was robb'd of his eldest-born,
And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn:
Other scions were round as good and fair,
But none seem'd so bright as the breathless heir.
"My hopes are crush'd," was the father's cry,
"Since my darling is lost I too would die."
The valued friend was snatch'd away,
Bound to another from childhood's day;
And the one that was left exclaim'd in despair,
"Oh! he sleeps in the tomb—let me follow him there!"

A mother was taken whose constant love
Had nestled her child like a fair young dove,

Death smiled as he heard each earnest word,
"Nay, nay," said he, "be this work deferr'd;
I'll see thee again in a fleeting year,
And if grief and devotion live on sincere,
I promise then thou shalt share the rest
Of the being now pluck'd from thy doting breast;
Then if thou cravest the coffin and pall
As thou dost this moment, my spear shall fall."
And Death fled till Time on his rapid wing
Gave the hour that brought back the skeleton king.

But the lover was ardently wooing again,
Kneeling in serfdom and proud of his chain;
He had found an idol to adore,
Rarer than that he had worshipp'd before;
His step was gay, his laugh was loud,
As he led the way for the bridal crowd;
And his brow own'd not a moment's shade,
Though he went by the grave where his first love laid.
"Ha! ha!" shouted Death, "'tis passing clear
That I am a guest not wanted here!"

The father was seen in his children's games,
Kissing their flush'd brows and blessing their names!
And his eye grew bright as he mark'd the charms
Of the boy at his knee and the girl in his arms:
His voice rung out in the merry noise,
He was first in all their hopes and joys;
He ruled their sports in the setting sun,
Nor gave a thought to the missing one.
"Are ye ready?" cried Death, as he raised his dart,
"Nay! nay!" shriek'd the father, "in mercy depart!"

The friend again was quaffing the bowl,
Warmly pledging his faith and soul;
His bosom cherish'd with glowing pride
A stranger form that sat by his side;
His hand the hand of that stranger press'd,
He praised his song, he echoed his jest,
And the mirth and wit of that new-found mate
Made a blank of the name so prized of late.
"See! see!" cried Death, as he hurried past,
"How bravely the bonds of friendship last!"

But the orphan child! Oh, where was she?
With clasping hands and bended knee,
All alone on the churchyard's sod,
Mingling the names of mother and God.
Her dark and sunken eye was hid,
Fast, weeping beneath the swollen lid;
Her sigh was heavy, her forehead was chill,
Betraying the wound was unheal'd still;

Her's was the love all holy and strong—
Her's was the sorrow fervent and long—
Her's was the spirit whose light was shed
As an incense fire above the dead.
Death linger'd there and paused awhile,
But she beckon'd him on with welcoming smile.
"There's a solace," cried she, "for all others to find,
But a mother leaves no equal behind."
And the kindest blow Death ever gave,
Laid the mourning child in the parent's grave.

SONG OF THE RUSHLIGHT.

OH, scorn me not as a fameless thing,
Nor turn with contempt from the song I sing;
'Tis true, I am not suffer'd to be
On the ringing board of wassail glee:
My pallid gleam must never fall
In the gay saloon or lordly hall,
But many a tale does the rushlight know
Of secret sorrow and lonely woe.

I am found in the closely-curtain'd room,
Where a stillness reigns that breathes of the tomb—
Where the breaking heart and heavy eye
Are waiting to see a loved one die—
Where the doting child with noiseless tread,
Steals warily to the mother's bed,
To mark if the faint and struggling breath
Is fluttering still in the grasp of death.

I am the light that quivering flits
In the joyless home where the fond wife sits,
Waiting the one that flies his hearth,
For the gambler's dice and drunkard's mirth:
Long hath she kept her wearying watch,
Now bitterly weeping, now breathless to catch
The welcome sound of a footstep near,
Till she weeps again as it dies on her ear.

Her restless gaze, as the night wears late,
Is anxiously thrown on the dial plate;
And a sob responds to the echoing sound,
That tells the hand hath gone its round:
She mournfully trims my slender wick,
As she sees me fading and wasting quick;
And many a time has my spark expired,
And left her still the weeping and tired.

I am the light that dimly shines
Where the friendless child of genius pines—

I see the hectic fingers fling
The thoughts intense that flashingly spring,
And my flickering beam illumes the page
That may live in the fame of a future age;
I see the pale brow droop and mope,
Till the breast turns sick with blasted hope—
Till the harsh cold world has done its worst,
And the goaded spirit has groan'd and burst.

I am the light that's doom'd to share
The meanest lot that man can bear;
I see the scanty portion spread,
Where children struggle for scraps of bread—
Where squalid forms and faces seem
Like phantoms in a hideous dream—
Where the soul may look, with startled awe,
On the work of Poverty's vulture claw.

Many a lesson the bosom learns
Of hapless grief while the rushlight burns;
Many a scene unfolds to me
That the heart of Mercy would bleed to see:

THE SMUGGLER KING.

THERE'S a brave little bark, stealing out in the dark,
    From her nest in the beetling bay;
The fresh wind meets her dingy sheets,
    And softly she darts away:
She never must run in the eye of the sun,
    But along with the owl takes wing;
She must keep her flight for the moonless night,
    For she carries the Smuggler King.

And monarch is he, as bold as can be,
    Of a strong and daring band;
The bullet or blast may go whistling past,
    But he quails not heart or hand:
He lives or dies with his fearful prize;
    Like a hunted wolf he'll spring,
With trigger and dirk, to the deadliest work,
    And fight like a Smuggler King.

Back from the wave to his home in the cave,
    In the sheen of the torches glare,
He reigns the lord of the freebooters board,
    And never was costlier fare.
Right firm and true are the hearts of his crew,
    There's faith in the shouts that ring,
While, staving the cask and draining the flask,
    They drink to the Smuggler King.

GOD HATH A VOICE.

GOD hath a voice that ever is heard
In the peal of the thunder, the chirp of the bird;
It comes in the torrent, all rapid and strong,
In the streamlet's soft gush as it ripples along;
It breathes in the zephyr, just kissing the bloom;
It lives in the rush of the sweeping simoom:
Let the hurricane whistle, or warblers rejoice,
What do they tell thee, but God hath a voice!

God hath a presence, and that ye may see
In the fold of the flower, the leaf of the tree;
In the sun of the noonday, the star of the night;
In the storm-cloud of darkness, the rainbow of light;

THE OLD WATER-MILL.

AND is this the old mill-stream that, ten years ago,
Was so fast in its current, so pure in its flow;
Whose musical waters would ripple and shine
With the glory and dash of a miniature Rhine?

Can this be its bed? I remember it well,
When it sparkled like silver through meadow and dell;
When the pet-lamb reposed on its emerald side,
And the minnow and perch darted swift through its tide.

And here was the miller's house, peaceful abode!
Where the flower-twined porch drew all eyes from the road;
Where roses and jasmine embower'd a door,
That never was closed to the wayworn or poor.

Where the miller, God bless him! oft gave us "a dance,"
And led off the ball with his soul in his glance;
Who, forgetting grey hairs, was as loud in his mirth
As the veriest youngsters that circled his hearth.

Blind Ralph was the only musician we had,
But his tunes—oh! such tunes—would make any heart glad;
"The Roast Beef of Old England," and "Green grow the Rushes,"
Woke our eyes' brightest beams and our cheeks' warmest flushes.

No lustre resplendent its brilliancy shed,
But the wood fire blazed high and the board was well spread;
Our seats were undamask'd, our partners were rough,
Yet, yet we were happy, and that was enough!

And here was the mill where we idled away
Our holiday hours on a clear summer day;
Where Roger, the miller's boy, loll'd on a sack,
And chorus'd his song to the merry click-clack.

But, lo! what rude sacrilege here hath been done?
The streamlet no longer purls on in the sun;
Its course has been turn'd, and the desolate edge
Is now mournfully cover'd with duck-weed and sedge.

The mill is in ruins.—No welcoming sound
In the mastiff's quick bark and the wheels dashing round;
The house, too, untenanted—left to decay—
And the miller, long dead: all I loved pass'd away!

This playplace of childhood was graved on my heart,
In rare Paradise colours that now must depart;
The old water-mill's gone, the fair vision is fled,
And I weep o'er its wreck as I do for the dead.

THE WELCOME BACK.

SWEET is the hour that brings us home,
    Where all will spring to meet us;
Where hands are striving as we come,
    To be the first to greet us.
When the world hath spent its frowns and wrath,
    And care been sorely pressing;
'Tis sweet to turn from our roving path,
    And find a fireside blessing.
Oh, joyfully dear is the homeward track,
If we are but sure of a welcome back.

What do we reck on a dreary way,
    Though lonely and benighted,
If we know there are lips to chide our stay,
    And eyes that will beam love-lighted?
What is the worth of your diamond ray,
    To the glance that flashes pleasure;
When the words that welcome back betray,
    We form a heart's chief treasure?
Oh, joyfully dear is our homeward track,
If we are but sure of a welcome back.

THE WREATHS.

WHOM do we crown with the laurel leaf?
The hero god, the soldier chief.
But we dream of the crushing cannon-wheel,
Of the flying shot and the reeking steel;
Of the crimson plain where warm blood smokes,
Where clangour deafens and sulphur chokes.
Oh, who can love the laurel wreath,
Pluck'd from the gory field of death?

Whom do we crown with summer flowers?
The young and fair in their happiest hours.
But the buds will only live in the light
Of a festive day or glittering night;

Who wears the cypress, dark and drear?
The one who is shedding the mourner's tear:
The gloomy branch for ever twines
Round foreheads graved with sorrow's lines.
'Tis the type of a sad and lonely heart,
That hath seen its dearest hopes depart;
Oh, who can like the chaplet band,
That is wove by Melancholy's hand?

Where is the ivy circlet found?
On the one whose brain and lips are drown'd
In the purple stream—who drinks and laughs
Till his cheeks outflush the wine he quaffs.
Oh, glossy and rich is the ivy crown,
With its gems of grape-juice trickling down:
But bright as it seems o'er the glass and bowl,
It has stain for the heart, and shade for the soul.

But there's a green and fragrant leaf
Betokens nor revelry, blood, nor grief:
'Tis the purest amaranth springing below,
And rests on the calmest, noblest brow:
It is not the right of the monarch or lord,
Nor purchased by gold nor won by the sword,
For the lowliest temples gather a ray
Of quenchless light from the palm of bay.

Oh! beautiful bay! I worship thee—
I homage thy wreath—I cherish thy tree;
And of all the chaplets Fame may deal,
'Tis only to this one I would kneel:
For as Indians fly to the banian branch,
When tempests lower and thunders launch,
So the spirit may turn from crowds and strife,
And seek from the bay-wreath joy and life,

OLD PINCHER.

WHEN I gave to old Dobbin his song and his due,
Apollo I fear'd would look scornfully blue;
I thought he might spurn the low station and blood,
And turn such a Pegasus out of his stud.

But another "fourfooted" comes boldly to claim
His place beside Dobbin in merits and fame;
He shall have it,—for why should I be over nice,
Since Homer immortalized Ilion and—mice?

I frolick'd, a youngling, wild, rosy, and fat,
When Pincher was brought in the butcher-boy's hat,
And the long promised puppy was hail'd with a joy
That ne'er was inspired by a gold-purchased toy.

"What a darling," cried I, while my sire, with a frown,
Exclaim'd, "Hang the brute! though 'tis easy to drown;"
But I wept at the word, till my sorrowful wail
Won his total reprieve from the rope or the pail.

Regarding his beauty, I'm silent, forsooth,
I've a little old-fashion'd respect for the truth,
And the praise of his colour or shape to advance
Would be that part of history known as romance.

There were some who most rudely denounced him a "cur"—
How I hated that name, though I dared not demur!
I thought him all fair, yet I'll answer for this,
That the fate of Narcissus could ne'er have been his.

Now Dobbin, the pony, belonged to us all,
Was at every one's service, and every one's call;
But Pincher, rare treasure, possession divine,
Was held undisputed as whole and sole mine.

Together we rambled, together we grew;
Many plagues had the household, but we were the two
Who were branded the deepest; all doings reviled,
Were sure to be wrought by "that dog and that child."

Unkennell'd and chainless, yet truly he served;
No serfdom was known, yet his faith never swerved:

If my own kin or kind had demolish'd my ball,
The transgression were mark'd with a scuffle and squall;
But with perfect consent he might mouth it about,
Till the very last atom of sawdust was out.

When halfpence were doled for the holiday treat,
How I long'd for the comfits so lusciously sweet:
But cakes must be purchased, for how could I bear
To feast on a luxury Pinch could not share?

I fondled, I fed him, I coax'd or I cuff'd,—
I drove or I led him, I sooth'd or I huff'd;
He had beatings in anger, and huggings in love,
But which were most cruel, 'twere a puzzle to prove.

If he dared to rebel, I might battle and wage
The fierce war of a tyrant with petulant rage;
I might ply him with kicks, or belabour with blows,
But Pincher was never once known to oppose.

Did a mother appear the loud quarrel to learn,
If 'twere only with him it gave little concern;
No ill-usage could reuse him, no insult could chafe,
While Pinch was the playmate, her darling was safe.

If the geese on the common gave signal of fear,
And screams most unmusical startled the ear,

Had the pantry been rifled of remnant of beef,
Shrewd suspicions were form'd of receiver and thief,—
For I paused not at crime, and I blush'd not at fibs
That assisted to nurture his welt-cover'd ribs.

The warren was sacred, yet he and I dared
To career through its heath 'till the rabbits were scared:
The gamekeeper threaten'd me Pinch should be shot,—
But the threat was by both of us always forgot.

The linen, half-bleach'd, must be rinsed o'er again;
And our footsteps in mud were "remarkably" plain:
The tulips were crush'd, to the gardener's dismay,
And when last we were seen we were bending that way.

When brought to the bar for the evil we'd done,
Some atrocious spoilation I chose to call "fun:"
Though Pinch was Tiberius, those who might try,
Knew well that the active Sejanus was I.

But we weather'd all gales, and the years sped away,
Till his "bonnie black" hide was fast turning to gray
When accents were heard most alarmingly sad,
Proclaiming that Pincher, my Pincher, was mad.

It was true; his fixed doom was no longer a joke,—
He that moment must die; my young heart was nigh broke.
I saw the sure fowling-piece moved from its rest,
And the sob of keen anguish burst forth unsuppress'd.

A shot, a faint howl, and old Pincher was dead:
How I wept while the gardener prepared his last bed.
Something fell on his spade too, wet, sparkling, and clear;
Though he said 'twas a dew-drop, I know 'twas a tear.

Our winter-night circle was now incomplete,
We miss'd the fond brute that had snoozed at our feet;
All his virtues were praised, all his mischief forgot,
We lauded his merits, and sigh'd o'er his lot.

Poodle, spaniel, and greyhound, were brought for my care,
Of beauty and breed reckon'd preciously rare;
But the playmate of infancy, friend of my youth,
Was link'd with a lasting affection and truth.

He was never supplanted—nay mention him now,
And a something of shadow will steal from my brow;
"Poor fellow!" will burst in such tone of regret,
That whispers my heart is his lurking-place yet.

No wonder, for memory brings back with him
The thoughts that will render the lightest eye dim;

The smile of a parent, the dearest, the best,
The joys of my forest home spring to my breast,
And those days reappear with a halo divine,
When old Pincher, a mother, and childhood were mine.

KINGS.

OH, covet not the throne and crown,
    Sigh not for rule and state;
The wise would fling the sceptre down,
    And shun the palace gate.

Let wild Ambition wing its flight,
    Glory is free to all;
But they who soar a regal height
    Will risk a deadly fall.

Take any high imperial name,
    The great among the great;
What was the guerdon of his fame,
    And what his closing fate?

The hero of immortal Greece,
    Unhappy, fled to wine,
And died in Saturnalian peace,
    As drunkard, fool, and swine.

The first in arms, Rome's victor son,
    Fell by a traitor's aim,
And drew the purple robes he'd won
    To hide his blood and shame.

Bold Richard, England's lion heart,
    Escaped the burning fray,
To sink beneath a peasant's dart,
    And groan his life away.

Gaul's eagle, he whose upraised hand
    Sway'd legions of the brave,
Died in a prison, "barr'd and bann'd,"
    An exile and a slave.

Scores may be found whose tyrant time
    Knew not one hour of rest;
Their lives one course of senseless crime,
    Their every deed unblest.

Ye blazing stars of gems and gold,
    What aching hearts ye mock!
Strong marble walls, do ye not hold
    Sword, poison, axe, and block?

Many have cursed the crown they've worn
    When hurl'd from place and rank,
They met a people's groaning scorn,
    And trod the scaffold plank.

"Uneasy lies the monarch's head,"
    Despite his dazzling wreath;
The hireling by his dying bed
    May aid the work of death.

His cringing horde may bow the neck,
    Though bid to lick the dust;
He may have serfs to wait his beck,
    But not one friend to trust.

Ye lowly born, oh! covet not
    One right the sceptre brings;
The honest name and peaceful lot
    Outweigh the pomp of kings.

THE DEAD.

WHEN the clear red sun goes down,
    Passing in glory away;
And Night is spreading her twilight frown,
    On the open brow of Day;—
When the faintest glimmering trace is gone,
    And all of light is fled;
Then, then does memory, sad and lone,
    Call back the dear ones dead.

When the harp's soul-touching chord
    Is roughly fray'd and torn;
When of all tones the string that pour'd
    The fullest is outworn;
When it is heard to breathe and break
    Its latest magic shed,
Then, then will my warm heart bleed and ache,
    And cherish the kind ones dead.

When the elm's rich leaf is seen
    Losing its freshness fast,
And paleness steals on its vivid green,
    As the autumn wind moans past:
When it eddies to the cold damp ground,
    All crush'd beneath the tread;
Then, then may the tear in my eye be found,
    For I muse on the fair ones dead.

For like that orb of light,
    That chord—and shining leaf,
Forms were once near as rare and bright,
    And oh! their stay as brief.
I watch'd them fading—I saw them sink,
    Light, Beauty, Sweetness fled;
And a type of their being bids me think
    Too fondly of the dead.

The sun will rise again,
    The string may be replaced,
The tree will bloom—but the loved in the tomb,
    Leaves the world for ever waste.
Let earth yield all the joys it may,
    Still should I bow my head;
Still would my lonely breathing say,
    Give, give me back the dead.

As the thickest verdure springs
    From the ashes of decay;
And the living ivy closest clings
    To the ruins cold and gray.
So my feelings most intense and deep,
    By the shrouded and lost are fed;
So my thoughts will yearn, and my spirit turn,
    To be nurtured by the dead.

SONG OF THE GOBLET.

I HAVE kept my place at the rich man's board
    For many a waning night,
Where streams of dazzling splendour pour'd
    Their galaxy of light:
No wilder revelry has rung
    Than where my home has been;
All that the bard of Teos sung,
    Has the golden goblet seen;
And what I could tell full many might deem
A fable of fancy, or tale of a dream.

I have beheld a courteous band
    Sit round in bright array;
Their voices firm, their words all bland,
    And brows like a cloudless day:
But soon the guests were led by the host
    To dash out Reason's lamp;
And then God's noble image had lost
    The fineness of its stamp:
And their sober cheeks have blush'd to hear
What they told o'er me without shame or fear.

Their loud and tuneless laugh would tell
    Of a hot and reeling brain;
Their right arms trembled, and red wine fell
    Like blood on a battle plain.

But all the golden goblet has wrought
    Is not of the evil kind;
I have help'd the creature of mighty thought,
    And quicken'd the godlike mind.
As gems of first water may lie in the shade,
    And no lustre be known to live,
Till the kiss of the noontide beam has betray'd
    What a glorious sheen they can give:
So, the breast may hold fire that none can see,
Till it meet the sun-ray shed by me.

I have burst the spirit's moody trance,
    And woke it to mirth and wit,
Till the soul would dance in every glance
    Of eyes that were rapture lit.
I have heard the bosom all warm and rife
    With friendship, offer up
Its faith in heaven, its hope on earth,
    With the name it breathed in the cup!
And I was proud to seal the bond
Of the truly great and the firmly fond.

I have served to raise the shivering form
    That sunk in the driving gale;
I have fann'd the flame that famine and storm
    Had done their worst to pale:
The stagnant vein has been curdled and cold
    As the marble's icy streak;
But I have come, and the tide hath roll'd
    Right on to the heart and cheek;
And bursting words from a grateful breast
    Have told the golden goblet was blest.

Oh! Heaven forbid that bar or ban
    Should be thrown on the draught I bear;
But woeful it is that senseless man
    Will brand me with sin and despair.
Use me wisely, and I will lend
    A joy ye may cherish and praise;
But love me too well, and my potion shall send
    A burning blight on thy days.
This is the strain I sing as ye fill—
"Beware! the goblet can cheer or kill!"

THE LAST LOOK.

LONG, long had he waned from life, but now
    Strange faintness drain'd his breath;
An icy paleness stole to his brow—
    The shadow of coming death.
He gazed around the little room
    Where his happiest hours had been spent,
Conning the page of poet and sage,
    Or holding merriment:
He felt he was dying, and calmly took
A sad, a long, last farewell look.

He threw a glance on all he prized—
    A glance that was glazing and dim:
He mark'd the lute unstrung and mute,
    To be woke no more by him.
He dwelt where the precious volumes lay—
    Those treasures of pure delight,
That had charm'd away the lonely day,
    And solaced the sleepless night:
Cherish'd till they had form'd a part
Of idols closest to his heart.

He raised his eye, with a gentle sigh,
    To the picture-blazon'd wall,
And his father's portrait met him there,
    The dearest thing of all!

But the sand was out, his drooping head
    Sunk heavily on his breast;
The chord had snapp'd, and his soul had fled
    Where "the weary are at rest!"
Years have gone by, but memory still
    E'er yields to his spirit's claim
My cheek will whiten, my eye will fill
    To hear his whisper'd name;
For the moment passes when he took
His last, that long, that dying look.

STANZAS.

THEY tell us that the deep sea hath
    More dangers than the shore;
They whisper tales of ocean wrath,
    And breakers' deadly roar.

Why should the soul withdraw its trust
    Upon the foamy track?
HE who gave life, all wise and just,
    Knows when to ask it back.
Though death were nigh, I would not shrink,
    My faith, my hope should rest
Upon a Maker's will, and think
    Whate'er HE will'd the best.
I'd ever trust the ruling hand,
    Howe'er the storm might rave,
For HE who watches o'er the land
    Sleeps not above the wave.

SONG OF THE MARINERS.

THE miser will hold his darling gold
Till his eyes are glazed and his hands are cold;
The minstrel one to his wild lyre clings,
As though its chords were his own heart-strings;
No dearer boon will the reveller ask,
Than the draught that deepens the purple flask;
But the firmest love-link that can be,
Chains the mariners bold to the pathless sea.

Choose ye who will earth's dazzling bowers,
But the great and glorious sea be ours;
Give us, give us the dolphin's home,
With the speeding keel and splashing foam,
Right merry are we as the sound bark springs
On her lonely track like a creature of wings;
Oh, the mariner's life is blythe and gay,
When the sky is fair and the ship on her way.

We love the perilous sea, because
It will not bend to man or his laws;
It ever hath roll'd the uncontroll'd,
It cannot be warp'd to fashion or mould:
Now quiet and fair as a sleeping child;
Now rousing in tempests madly wild;
And who shall wean the mighty flood
From its placid dream, or passionate mood?

We are not so apt to forget our God,
As those who dwell on the dry safe sod,
For we know each leaping wave we meet
May be a crystal winding sheet:
We know each blustering gale that blows
May requiem to a last repose;
And the chafing tide, as it roars and swells,
Hath as solemn a tone as the calling bells.

The land has its beauty, its sapphire and rose,
But look on the colours the bright main shows;
While each billow flings from its pearly fringe
The lucid jewels of rainbow tinge.
Go, mark the waters at sunny noon,
Go float beneath the full clear moon,
And cold is the spirit that wakes not there,
With wondering praise and worshipping prayer.

'Tis true, we may sink 'mid deluge and blast,
But we cope with the strong, we are quell'd by the vast,
And a noble urn is the founder'd wreck;
Though no incense may burn, and no flower may deck,
We need no stately funeral car,
But tangled with salt weeds and lash'd to a spar;
Down, down below the mariners go,
While thunders volley and hurricanes blow.

But little do we bold mariners care
What hour we fall, or what risk we dare,

THE FLAG OF THE FREE.

'TIS the streamer of England—it floats o'er the brave—
'Tis the fairest unfurl'd o'er the land or the wave;
But though brightest in story and matchless in fight,
'Tis the herald of mercy as well as of might.
In the cause of the wrong'd may it ever be first—
When tyrants are humbled and fetters are burst:
Be "Justice" the war-shout, and dastard is he,
Who would scruple to die 'neath the flag of the free!

It may trail o'er the halyards a bullet-torn rag,
Or flutter in shreds from the battlement crag;
Let the shot whistle through it as fast as it may,
Till it sweep the last glorious tatter away.

Have we ever look'd out from a far foreign shore,
To mark the gay pennon each passing ship bore;
And watch'd every speck that arose on the foam,
In hope of glad tidings from country and home:—
Has our straining eye caught the loved colours at last,
And seen the dear bark bounding on to us fast?—
Then, then have our hearts learnt how precious can be
The fair streamer of England—the flag of the free!

THE BRAVE.

FOR whom are your gyves? for the cowardly one,
Who would strike in the dark, and steal back in the sun?
For the felon who never hath used his right hand
But to injure his brothers and merit the brand?

Could a Wallace or Washington—spirits divine!
Live on as the captured to languish and pine?
Should earth show a wall as the dungeon of such,
Or aught like a fetter profane with its touch?
No, no! when the destiny woven by fate
Gives us power to trample and vanquish the great,
Strike, strike in pure mercy, 'twere torture to save;
Fell at once, but oh! forge not a link for the brave.

The lion may yield—let him sink, let him bleed,
But seek not to tame him, to bind, and to lead,
Launch thy barb, bring the proud eagle down from his swoop,
But a curse on the hand that would build him a coop.
Oh, give not the noble one trammels to wear,
Till the heart-strings are snapt by the pressure they bear:
Let him fall like the free—give him death and a grave,
But never, in mercy, place chains on the brave!

STANZAS TO THE YOUNG.

LONG have the wisest lips confess'd
    That minstrel ones are far from wrong,
Who "point a moral" in a jest,
    Or yield a sermon in a song.

So be it! Listen ye who will,
    And, though my harp be roughly strung,
Yet never shall its lightest thrill
    Offend the old or taint the young,

Mark me! I ne'er presume to teach
    The man of wisdom, grey and sage;
'Tis to the growing I would preach
    From moral text and mentor page.

First, I would bid thee cherish truth,
    As leading star in Virtue's train;
Folly may pass, nor tarnish youth,
    But falsehood leaves a poison stain.

Keep watch, nor let the burning tide
    Of impulse break from all control;
The best of hearts needs pilot-guide
    To steer it clear from error's shoal.

One wave of passion's boiling flood
    May all the sea of life disturb,
And steeds of good but fiery blood
    Will rush on death without a curb.

Think on the course ye fain would run,
    And moderate the wild desire;
There's many a one would drive the sun,
    Only to set the world on fire.

Slight not the one of honest worth,
    Because no star adorns his breast;
The lark soars highest from the earth,
    Yet ever leaves the lowest nest.

Heed but the bearing of a tree,
    And if it yield a wholesome fruit,
A shallow, envious fool is he
    Who spurns it for its forest root.

Let fair humanity be thine,
    To fellow man and meanest brute;
'Tis nobly taught; the code's divine—
    Mercy is God's chief attribute.

The coward wretch whose hand and heart
    Can bear to torture aught below,
Is ever first to quail and start
    From slightest pain or equal foe.

Be not too ready to condemn
    The wrong thy brothers may have done;
Ere ye too harshly censure them
    For human faults, ask—"Have I none?"

Live that thy young and glowing breast
    Can think of death without a sigh;
And be assured that life is best
    Which finds us least afraid to die!

PRAYER.

How purely true, how deeply warm,
    The inly-breathed appeal may be,
Though adoration wears no form,
    In upraised hand or bended knee.
One spirit fills all boundless space,
    No limit to the when or where;
And little recks the time or place
    That leads the soul to praise and prayer.

Father above, Almighty one,
    Creator, is that worship vain,
That hails each mountain as thy throne,
    And finds an universal fane?

Oh, prayer is good when many pour
    Their voices in one solemn tone;
Conning their sacred lessons o'er,
    Or yielding thanks for mercies shown.
'Tis good to see the quiet train
    Forget their worldly joy and care,
While loud response and choral strain
    Re-echo in the house of prayer.

But often have I stood to mark
    The setting sun and closing flower;
When silence and the gathering dark
    Shed holy calmness o'er the hour.
Lone on the hills my soul confess'd
    More rapt and burning homage there;
And served the Maker it address'd
    With stronger zeal and closer prayer.

When watching those we love and prize,
    Till all of life and hope be fled;
When we have gazed on sightless eyes,
    And gently stayed the falling head:
Then what can soothe the stricken heart,
    What solace overcome despair;
What earthly breathing can impart
    Such healing balm as lonely prayer?

When fears and perils thicken fast,
    And many dangers gather round;
When human aid is vain and past,
    No mortal refuge to be found;—
Then can we firmly lean on heaven,
    And gather strength to meet and bear;
No matter where the storm has driven,
    A saving anchor lives in prayer.

Oh, God! how beautiful the thought,
    How merciful the blest decree,
That grace can e'er be found when sought,
    And nought shut out the soul from Thee.
The cell may cramp, the fetters gall,
    The flame may scorch, the rack may tear;
But torture-stake or prison-wall,
    Can be endured with faith and prayer.

In desert wilds, in midnight gloom,
    In grateful joy, in trying pain;
In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb,
    Oh when is prayer unheard or vain?
The Infinite, the King of kings,
    Will never heed the when or where;
He'll ne'er reject a heart that brings
    The offering of fervent prayer.

THE KING'S OLD HALL.∗

FEW ages since, and wild echoes awoke
In thy sweeping dome and panelling oak;
Thy seats were fill'd with a princely band—
Rulers of men and lords of the land.
Loudly they raved, and gaily they laugh'd,
O'er the golden chalice and sparkling draught;
And the glittering board and gem-studded plume
Proclaim'd thee a Monarch's revelling room.

But now the spider is weaving his woof,
Making his loom of thy sculptured roof;
The slug is leaving his slimy stain,
Trailing his way o'er thy Gothic pane;
Weeds have gather'd and moss has grown
On thy topmost ridge and lowest stone;
And the wheeling bat comes flapping his wing
On the walls that circled a banqueting King.

The idle stare and vulgar tread
May fall where the regal train was spread;
The gloomy owl may hide its nest,
And the speckled lizard safely rest.

[Note *:]

Eltham Palace, Kent.

Who were the revellers? where are their forms?
Go to the charnel, and ask of the worms.
They are low in the dust, forgotten and past,
And the pile they raised is following fast.

Oh man—vain man! how futile your aim,
When building your temples to pleasure and fame!
Go—work for Heaven with faith and care—
Let good works secure thee a mansion there.
For the palace of pageantry crumbles away,
Its beauty and strength are mock'd by decay,
And a voice from the desolate halls of kings,
Cries "Put not your trust in corrupted things!"