Chapter IV: Part 4

Throughout the strain a mournful sadness breathed,
Yet mixed with elevated hope, and made
All bosoms move in sympathy, and eyes
Suffuse themselves with tears. But not of grief
And sorrow unalloyed. For there are thoughts
So lofty, elevated, pure and sweet,
Linked with affection and devotion, warm
In contemplating loved ones passed from earth,
That the bright tears they strew upon the cheek
Are more like dew-drops, ’neath some twilight sky
All glad and rosy, than the chilling rain
That falls from gloomy clouds. Now sacred thought
Was kindled in each breast, and musings calm
Which suited well the season and the hour;
Then all spoke of retiring, for the time
When the first star that shewed its feeble light,
Whilst day was darkening, in the furthest east,
Should have attained its highest point in heaven
Had come, but oh how swiftly! Happy hours
And peaceful had been spent, and every heart
Was filled with gladness; and a holier love
Warmed every bosom, such sweet fellowship
Had reigned triumphant there. With cheerful looks
And grateful, farewell greetings for the night
To host and hostess, each delighted guest
Went to the room warm hospitality
Had set apart for him; yet with the hope,
The glad and confident hope that day would bring—
And many days succeeding—such pure joys
And pleasures innocent, as o’er his heart
Had softly flowed amid the recent hours
Of social glee. The antique hall was soon
By its gay crowd deserted. On the hearth
The giant yule-log, lessened to a stick,
Burnt with a crimson glow, but through a veil
Of thin white wavering ash. The warmth it gave
Is now diminished, and the keen frost-air
Pierces the lonely room. Farewell old scene
Of oft-remembered joys—to thee, good night!
And now withdrawn to solitude, I may
Let thought make free excursions, and review
The recent hours of pleasure. There are times
When we think inwardly, that is more deep
Within our being, so that images
Distinct and palpable, are scarcely seen
To flit before the mental eye; yet thought
Rolls on in fulness, like a mountain stream
Deep, sweeping, vast, but ’neath the clouds of night
Silent and unrevealed. Such most is felt
When many persons, actions, words, and things
Have passed before us quickly; then they crowd
The mind too fully, to let each stand out
In individual being; but they all
Are lodged within the memory, and come forth
So fresh and vital, during future days,
And oft so unexpectedly, we start
To see them rise again as from the grave.
Oh wondrous is our being! every thing
That e’er hath passed before us: every thought
That flitted cloud-like o’er our realm of mind;
And every feeling that hath urged the heart,
E’en with a slight vibration, seems to leave
A certain impress stamped upon the soul
As with a seal eternal: sendeth forth
A living substance, from the which is built
Our being and identity; conjoins
By mystic sympathies, and secret links,
Our spirits unto others. Little knows
Philosophy, though brightly on advance,
About the inner world, the world of mind.
The earth’s deep crust she pierced hath, and made
Mankind astonished at its boundless age;
Her outstretched hand has spanned the wilds of space,
And shewn the distance infinite of stars;
Her hawk-like glance hath downward looked, and seen
Whole worlds of vital being in dim grains
As small as summer dust. High are these truths,
And mighty and ennobling; but still more
And greater have to come, when she hath searched
The world of matter more, till its known laws,
And comprehended principles have given
A greater strength, and more divining power
To pierce far deeper mysteries, and scan
The inner world of spirit. Newton learnt
The law that binds the universe in one
From a mere apple’s fall. If sages pore
As thoughtfully on mind, may they not bring
Some hidden things to light, that may reveal
Great laws and simple, that shall elevate
All science far beyond its present flight,
Though eagle-like its wing now seems to reach
The sun of Truth, so loftily it soars.
How warm and pleasant is this curtained room
Assigned for night’s repose. The cheerful fire,
With its bright tongues of flame, illuminates
The walls with fitful gleams, and ruddier light
Than issues from the lamp. ’Twere sweet to sit
And muse for some hours longer, but the night
Is far advanced, and though the stillness round
Invites to contemplation, yet the time
And prudence too forbids. Before I give
Myself to slumber let me draw aside
The heavy curtain, o’er the window hung,
Excluding cold and wind; and thence look forth
Upon the landscape to behold the scene
Arrayed in winter’s garb. Oh gorgeous sight,
Unutterably grand! The morn was black
And dark and dismal; through the middle day
The storm’s white burden was cast down to earth
With strange rapidity; and now the night
Shines bright and glorious, beautiful and fair!
Far o’er the head, so lofty that the eye
Can scarce rise up to view her, glows the moon
With keen intensity of silver light,
And from her heavenly altitude pours down
Such floods of radiance on the snow-clad earth
As fills the heart with rapture. Scarce a star
Can shew its beam amid the purple sky
So rich her bright rays spread. The frosty air,
Sharp, keen, and subtle, hath a delicate haze
That beautifies all objects, giving them
A softer aspect, a more lovely hue,
A spirit-like appearance. On the trees,
Leafless and verdureless, a foliage lies
Of splendid whiteness. A strange stillness holds
Their forms gigantic, and their stretching boughs,
As if they slumbered in the midnight air.
Short shadows cast they on the even ground,
Night’s silver regent hath her throne so nigh
The summit of heaven’s arch. Along the lawn
How softly spreads the radiant plain of snow,
More smooth and level than a temple floor
Of alabaster framed. O’er all the beds
And borders ranged for flowers, no smaller shrub
Or plant can shew a branch; but buried deep
Beneath a downy burden, mark their tombs
By hemispheres of white. When looking far
Across the landscape, every object gleams
As it recedes by distance, more refined,
More unsubstantial, till the veiling mist,
Long ere the eye can reach th’ horizon’s bound,
In softened beauty, blends the earth with heaven.
Far to the left, some cottage roofs appear,
Where lies the village, rearing chimneys tall,
Now smokeless in the moonlight. Nigh the wood
Which swells in highest grandeur, o’er the hill
That rises to the westward, stands the church
All pure and peaceful in the holy light.
On its embattled tower the moonbeams fall,
And seem to hallow it, so fair and calm
It gleams within them. From its summit shoots
The tall and taper spire, and high o’ertops
The loftiest trees around, and stands alone
Amid the ether, whilst its form sublime
With emblematic finger points to heaven!
When morn arises, from that ancient tower
An anthem-peal will ring, a music rich
And pregnant with deep thoughts. For centuries
The selfsame tones have burst upon the air
And made it thrill with harmony. It fell
On ears that listen on this earth no more,
And when we hear it, it will be a link
Uniting us with them. Oh! mystical
And wonderful is sound. A single note
May call our past life up, and make it live
All vivid in the present. Every thing
Has its own voice, its sound. As once I passed—
Not having passed it for a length of years—
An old park-gate in manhood, which I oft
Had entered when a boy, the simple click
Of its loud latch, was recognised again
In one brief moment, and it brought to sight
All those companions who, in school-boy days,
Had there surrounded me; and heavy thoughts
Pressed on my spirit, for I knew that some
Were carried to the grave; and some were gone
I knew not whither; and the most, perhaps,
I should behold no more! Then what deep thoughts,
What thoughts of piety should Christmas bells
Awake within the soul! Their mighty tones
Teem with the memories of two thousand years
Or nigh thereto. What wonderful events
Since then have happened, how the world hath changed,
And man hath been exalted, since the Words
Divine of Christ were mingled with his lore!
And who is he? “Emanuel, God with us!”
O mighty name and nature, on his arm
“The government shall rest!” In him we see
Jehovah manifest! To us “a child
Is born, a son is given,” and his name
Is “Wonderful!” Oh wonderful indeed
That he who ’habiteth eternity
Should stand revealed in time; that he who dwells
Far o’er the heavens, should yet descend to earth;
That He, enthroned in “unapproached light”
Should visit this world’s darkness! Many names
And titles glorious, hath the Son of God,
In whom we see the Father, one with Him
So true and absolute, whoso beholds
The Son beholds the Father. Search the Word
And see if these things be so; let it tell
The truth in its own language. “In Him dwells
The fullness of the Godhead bodily.” He is
“The true God and Eternal life.” In flesh
Christ came, and he “is over all God blest
For evermore.” Still further it reveals
“God was in Christ,” and “reconciling” there
“The world unto himself.” Jehovah says
Times oft repeated in the elder Word
He is the Saviour, and none else but He;
He is Redeemer, and he will not give
His glory to another. We should hold
Exalted notions of that Saviour who
Was born to David, and is “Christ the Lord.”
Whom prophecy hath named “the Mighty God,
The everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”
What mighty words, and wonderful are these
To waken thought within the humble mind
And make it strive to apprehend and know
The mystery sublime. But comprehend
It never can, such lies not in the power
Of finite mind, its feeble grasp can ne’er
Include infinity. Then let us pause
And ponder deeply, for the truth is not
More difficult to hold, or to believe,
Than that creation at the first sprang forth
Beneath the fiat of Almighty Will,
And finitude was born, and time began!
Ring out ye bells! and with glad notes proclaim
The glorious advent of the Prince of Peace.
And let your melodies resound aloud
Till every heart with pious joy is filled!
Princes of war have desolated earth
And ravaged nations, cities, homes, and hearths,
Till men cried out in misery, and made
The vaulted heaven re-echo to their cries.
But wars shall cease, and men shall beat at length
Their swords to ploughshares; and all peaceful arts
Shall flourish on the earth. Then Truth shall shine
With her own cheerful radiant light, and bless
The kingdoms of the World, and Goodness dwell
Enthroned in every heart. Then life shall run
In one pure current, as a crystal stream,
And every deed in excellence shall shine
Like stars of heaven. A bond of holy love
Shall make a glorious brotherhood of man,
And heaven-descended charity shall link
The nations into one. Then holy joy
Shall elevate each heart, the song of praise
Burst gladly from each lip, and men shall lift
Their voice in anthems, whose ascending notes
Shall fill the skies with harmony sublime.
Oh! that the bright and happy hour were come
When earth exulting shall behold the reign
Of Christ the great Messiah! Once he came,
In deep humility, to taste of death,
In weakness and in weariness; but soon
As prophecy foretells, he shall appear
Revealed to men, in majesty and might.
In spirit and in power, to build his church,
His kingdom, on the earth, and stablish it
In peace profound, in holiness secure,
In truth unshaken, happiness supreme
And rich with glory that shall know no end!
Then shall Jerusalem lift up her voice
In songs of gladness, when she is arrayed
In garments fair of righteousness; her head
Encrowned with wisdom’s sparkling diadem,
And she rejoiced o’er as a beauteous bride
By Him who framed her. Then her sun no more
Shall set in darkness, or her moon withdraw,
But God shall be her everlasting light,
Her walls Salvation, her wide portals Praise,
And her deep mourning cease for evermore!
My meditations have ascended high,
Yet are they fitting to the time; it brings
Unnumbered thoughts like these! The human soul
Created in God’s image seems to share
In His infinity. Evolving thought,
For ever growing, can within it dwell,
And oft ascending and ascending still
To higher points of elevated Truth,
View things around it with extended glance,
And with more god-like insight. What can fill
Its vast capacity, or quench the thirst
It bears for knowledge. It was born to rise
For ever upward into brighter light!
Lift high the banner of “Excelsior.”
On! on! the watchword! Let us search for Truth
With steadfast heart, and holy trust in God,
Then never can we fail! Where shall we find
The thing we look for? In the musty tomes
Of darkening ages, in the harsh decrees
Of priests king-ruling, in the twilight dim
That settles on the past! Ah! no, not there
Look to the future, to the morning light
Appearing in the east! Three books are writ,
Three books divine; their pages rightly conned
Will blend their full triunity of Truth
In one bright blaze of wisdom. Pierce within,
And read the volume there, and it will tell
Of something higher than the world around,
More living, more substantial; look abroad,
O’er the vast universe of worlds and suns,
That border on infinitude; then turn
Another page, and read inscribed thereon,
A like infinitude, within the small
And tiny measurements of living grains
And vital atoms, all disposed by laws
Sublime in their simplicity, that bind
The great and little in one mighty whole.
Lessons like these will fit the mind to see
That in a written book, indeed divine,
A like infinitude of Truth must dwell
Concealed within the letter. Human minds
That have enlodged themselves in books, leave there
A record of their greatness. Learned men
Have conned the documents, that sages writ,
With care unceasing, and at last confessed
They had not reached the ultimate of thought
Embodied in them. What must be the depths,
The vast profundities of pages penned
From perfect inspiration? Christ hath said
Flesh profits nothing, but the words I speak
Are spirit and are life. The letter kills,
The spirit giveth life, hath Paul announced.
How shall we pierce this body to let forth
The spirit of pure truth. From whence attain
The “key of knowledge” to unlock the stores
Of hidden wisdom in the word divine.
The promise saith that brighter light shall come,
And many hearts now need it! Thought, with them,
Hath been enlarged by pure philosophy,
From nature’s pregnant book. They yearn to see
Its perfect harmony with truth divine,
And find all streamlets from the Fount of Truth
Blend in one lucid river. Let us wait
In patience and humility the time
Of this grand consummation! Let us up
To the high mountain tops, from thence to watch
The dawning sunlight of earth’s brighter day.
Such day shall come, though it hath tarred long,
And yet may tarry, for the certain harp
Of sacred prophecy hath oft foretold
Its glorious advent—let us watch, and wait!
It is full time that I should now arrest
Thought’s current in the midst. Though on a theme
So full and teeming, it might swiftly run
Its rapid course for ever. O’er the earth
The cold increases, and the bitter frost
Draws flowers upon each pane. I must retire
From this unsullied prospect, fair and calm
And eminently beautiful. The fire
Burns low within the grate, and embers lie
In darkness on the hearth, that but of late
Were red and glowing. In the shade of sleep,
And night’s oblivion, I must seek to quench
The fire of thought, and for awhile forego
A life of consciousness. Yet with a hope
Of sweet refreshment, and with strength renewed,
To spring up cheerful when the morning sun
Makes bright the winter landscape, and enjoy
That intellectual pleasure, pure delight,
And social intercourse, that ever form
The banquet rich of Christmas at the Hall!

END OF CHRISTMAS AT THE HALL.

The Hero’s Grave.

Bear on the Hero to his resting place,
The tomb of honour that his deeds have won;
His glorious obsequies the nations grace,
And million hearts are beating now as one.
Hark! to the trumpets’ sound!
Hark! to the muffled drum!
The dead-march pealing its deep notes around
Proclaims—his ashes come!
High on a trophied car,
Beneath a gorgeous canopy,
Behold the coffin borne;
And glittering bright afar,
His mighty sword of victory,
Reminds how deep we mourn!
No more that dauntless hand and heart
Will wield its lightning-blade;
No more that warrior’s thunder-voice
Will marshall hosts arrayed,
In Battle’s iron panoply,
To fight for freedom and the free!
Age was upon his brow,
The glory of white hairs;
’Twas for our fathers that he fought,
And to the lasting peace he bought
We long have been the heirs!
We were but children when
His mightier deeds were done;
The rising greatness of his name,
His Indian glory, Spanish fame,
Through mists of time, so distant gleam,
They seem of th’ ages gone!
Yet will those deeds survive—
The glorious combats of Assaye,
Of Badajos, Vittoria,
And more as bright, in long array,
By Fame he kept alive.
But that, the greatest and the best,
Which bade mankind with peace be blest.
As in the earth’s young prime—
The crown of all, great Waterloo—
A sound to make the heart rejoice,
Shall with a mighty prophet-voice
Go sweeping on through time!—
The warrior sheathed his sword,
But loved his country still,
And sought by statesman-skill,
Diplomacy and counsel sage,
To aid her in a peaceful age,
And with determined will
A patriots love fulfil.
Oh hear him lift his voice,
War’s horrors to proclaim,
And speak the words of peace!
A man denouncing war
That gave him gorgeous fame?
Ye Kings and Emperors hear!
Then bid your jarrings cease,
And learn how greater far
To bind your aweful brows
With olive crown of peace,
Than the laurel wreath of war!
Oh, world! this lesson learn,
Let this holier truth prevail,
Till amidst each teeming vale,
And along each fertile plain,
The accursed sound of war
Shall be never heard again!—
But the cavalcade comes on,
The great hero on his car,
With the trumpet and the muffled drum,
And the death-march pealing far.
Where shall we find a grave
For this king of warrior-men;
Where, amidst the great and brave
Of the land, he fought to save,
His mighty dust may mingle,
With its kindred dust again?
In the Nation’s greatest temple,
Beneath her highest dome,
Let the hero, sage, and statesman
There find a fitting tomb.
Let the warrior of the earth,
And the warrior of the sea,
Slumber calmly side by side,
’Neath that gorgeous canopy.
Let Wellington and Nelson,
Unite and mingle dust,
As in Britain’s glorious story
Their bright fames for ever must.
In death they lie together—
Yea bone to bone is nigh!
Oh have their glorious spirits met
In the living world on high?
For there each noble feeling,
That fills our earthly hearts
From fetters free, more full in strength
To higher being starts.
May not the hero-sages,
Who’ve loved their native land,
E’en to the death, in yon bright realm,
Compose one radiant band.
We dare not limit Mercy—
Truth’s power to purify—
Nor judge the heart—which none can know
But the Omnipresent eye.—
Oh have their mighty spirits met
In the living world on high?—
Hark! in solemn music stealing
Through the sable-curtained pile,
Loudly swells the mournful anthem
Down each broad-arched, columned aisle.
’Tis a requiem for the dead,
To his dark tomb onward lead,
Whilst a nation bows the head
With a heart-consuming sorrow,
That no forms of grief need borrow,
Bending o’er the sacred bier,
There heaving forth the sigh, and there letting fall the tear.
Amid an aweful silence
The priestly voice hath said,
Now “Ashes unto ashes,
And dust to kindred dust,”
Whilst on the coffin dashes,
With dull sound, the crumbled mould,
But strikes the heart more strongly
Than if a knell had tolled.
Then prayers and hymns and anthems
Again from thousands rise,
Loud sounding through that mighty dome
And seem to pierce the skies!
Farewell, then, noble Hero,
The last tribute we can pay
Above thy once commanding form,
We’ve offered thee this day,
The witness of a nation’s love,
Esteem for thy desert,
And promise to remember thee
All uttered from the heart.
We ne’er shall see this noble dome,
Ascend gigantic to the clouds,
But deem it as the monument
Of that great hero it enshrouds.
Our thoughts will often on thy virtues dwell,
Thy dauntless courage, and puissant arm.
We will thy glories to our children tell,
And they to theirs, to bind them as a charm
To love the bold, the noble, and the free,
And every virtue bright, the world was taught by thee!

Sonnet to Harriet Beecher Stowe.

O Lady! heiress to a living fame,
Most loving, pious, pure, and true of heart,
Whose mighty pen hath made the whole world start
Aghast and wond’ring that the blighting shame
Of slavery should blot the earth; and claim
Her advocates in men, who to the mart
Drag on their fellows, groning ’neath the smart
Of blasted hopes, divided loves, and aim
Their manhood to crush out, and bow them down
Like soul-less brutes by torture and the lash!
Oh! noble is thine end! and may God crown
The work with rich success, and swiftly dash
Such yokes in twain, till men shout “Victory!
A Jubilee on earth! all slaves are free!”

Night Musings.

The sun’s keen rays are hidden by the hills,
But golden glories flame along the sky,
Shooting their radiance to the lofty crown
Of heaven’s bright vault. Unnumbered floating clouds
Skirt the horizon, and their crimson folds
Burn like a furnace in the glowing light,
Yet softly, gently; no fierce earthly fire
Is passing on them, but they calmly rest
As in the warmth and lustre of some sphere
By spirits tenanted; and gazing deep
Through yon refulgent vistas of the west,
The heart is ’wakened to immortal thoughts
Of higher beings, or of purer worlds;
To contemplations fitted to receive
The starry lessons of the coming night.
More soft and pure, more varied and serene,
The rainbow hues of fading twilight grow.
Above the summit of yon mountain peak,
The glittering star of evening sparkles fair
With gem-like radiance. O’er the darkening earth
The warm mists hover, and on buds and bells
Distil their fragrant life-inspiring dews.
Sweet flowers send forth their incense of perfume,
And fill the air with odour, breathing round

A rich refreshment, grateful to the heart.
Deep shadows spread, as if from heaven’s high arch,
Night, like a purple curtain, slowly fell,
Enfringed with gold, and richly ’broidered o’er
With sparkling gems, all scintillating bright.
The purple deepens, and one star-filled dome,
Circles with lustre all the earth around
So calm and peaceful, so serenely fair,
That earth’s wild passions at the glorious sight
Seem awed into repose; and man, brought forth
Amid a solitude sublime, to muse
With elevated thoughts, and higher aims,
Infused from heaven, and kindled by the glance
Of those far orbs, so lucid soft and clear,
Till all his soul in humble worship melts,
And holy reverence before the high,
Majestic presence of the starry worlds.
Ye gleaming lights, how beautiful ye shine,
Filling the night with loveliness. Not one,
Of all your myriads, but reveals a tale
Of ages so remote and vast, they seem
As an eternity to short-lived man.
Thus calmly shone ye when the formless deep
Heaved with the birth-throes of this present world,
And mountain summits forced their jagged heads
Through the dark surges of the boiling main.
Slow spread the continents beneath your light
In fearful desolation. Turbid flowed

The new-born rivers through the wilderness,
Herbless and treeless their wild, dreary banks.
But soon the life-touch of Creative breath
Passed o’er this desert, and it swiftly bloomed,
In verdant beauty. Herb and fruit and flower
Mingled their loveliness beneath the shade
Of trees umbrageous. The wide waters teemed
With pregnant life, the groves were filled with song,
And hill and valley echoed to the cry
Of new-formed creatures sporting in delight.
When earth was fitted to receive her guest,
After long ages of successive change
And wondrous preparation, man appeared,
Creation’s crown, the culminating point
Where finite and where infinite unite;
Where thought could dwell, and with sublime ascent,
Rise from all creatures to their Living Cause.
How fearful and how wonderful is mind!
A mystic mirror, fitted to reflect
The universe with all its varied forms,
In pure unsullied beauty; thence to pierce
Through the rich vision, and the fair array,
And deeply search each hidden spring and cause
Till, link by link, the golden chain is found
That binds creation to the Throne of Power.
How full of wonder man’s first ardent gaze
Around the earth, in daylight beauty bright;
But higher wonder must have stirred his soul—

More deep religious awe—when first the night
Revealed the glories of her ebon shade,
With thousand lamps attendant. Soon his mind
Would strive to learn the mystery immense
Of all their fair array. “Are ye mere lights
Amid the azure canopy of heaven,
In order marshalled, to redeem the night
From utter desolation? Oh! ye move
In wondrous sequence, and keep up a march
O’er the same pathway that the sun hath trod.
How godlike is your aspect, ye must rule
The destinies of man. Your varied fires
Control the life within him and around,
And make the kingdoms of the earth your own.”
Thus, in the infancy of mind, the stars,
Bright realms of light, by erring thought, were made
To shed a darkness on the human soul,
And bind its free-born energies. But now,
When thought, through centuries its march sublime
Hath onward held, and Science hath enlarged
Her bounds as ocean: to man’s questionings
The heavens unfold their secrets, and send down
Their revelations to astound his soul.
Her magic tube Astronomy hath held
With power aloft, and pierced the hidden depths,
Then turned to earth again, and told the tale,
The mighty tale, most wonderful yet true—
That yon bright specks are gorgeous worlds and suns,
In countless millions, far apart and spread
Throughout immensity, in ordered clans,
Harmonious systems, moving swiftly on
With power past utt’rance, through the aweful, vast,
Infinitude of space, and had their birth
Or first commenced their race sublime amid
Such deep profundity of ancient Time
It seems Eternity. Ye mighty worlds,
Like them of old, still would I fondly think
That on your orbs man’s destiny is writ
In brighter, fairer characters than e’er
Chaldean sage decyphered. Tell ye not
The greatness of that essence that can link
Itself by thought with ye? And are ye not
The cradles of his being, the primal worlds
Where his immortal destiny begins,
From whence ascending, into higher spheres,
His growing spirit may at length find rest
In spiritual realms? Your numbers tell
Of “numbers numberless” of finite minds,
Created likenesses of God most High,
In whose full myriads he may image forth
His own infinity, and fill their souls
With heavenly goodness, wisdom high and pure,
That thus receiving from the fount of Life
The living stream, their natures may become
Divine, angelical, prepared to form
A still increasing universe of bliss.

Oh thought ennobling, destiny sublime!
Happy the man who marks the canons writ
On his own being, on the sacred page
Of revelation, and the ordered frame
Of this fair world, and with an effort firm
And persevering, strives to win the prize!
How grand the lessons of creation’s book,
How mighty every page, when read aright,
To teach humility to man, and fill
His breast with sacred confidence and love
And holy fear. Then, bow ye, and adore,
The infinite of Love whence all things are,
The infinite of Truth that gave them frame,
The infinite of Power wherein they dwell,
The one Creating and Redeeming God!

The Sailor’s Bride.

The stars they shone keen in the deep blue sky,
And the moonlight softly slept
O’er the frozen earth, and the pale cold snow
That chirped as the traveller stept.

Poor Mary sat chilled by her lonely fire,
Her babe in its cradle lay,
As she watched its slumbers with cheerless breast,
On the eve of Christmas day.

“Thy father is yet on the wide, wide sea,”—
Her mournful heart thus sung,—
“I hoped he’d have been in our home, baby,
Ere the Christmas bells had rung.

“This time, so full of affection’s delights,
Of pure and innocent mirth,
Is lonely and sad, since he is not here
To joy with me o’er thy birth.

“When last he sailed forth, all the bright green buds
Just peeped on the branches bare;
And thou, my child, like the beautiful flowers,
Hadst breathed not the spring’s sweet air.

“Since then, fearful storms have darkened the sky,
And tempests disturbed the main,
And the sprightly glance of his loving eye
I ne’er may behold again!

“He never has looked on thy cherub form,
Or seen thy soft curling hair;
Or watched the quick smile, on thy rosy cheek,
Like a bright wave rippling there.

“To place thee, with joy, in thy father’s arms,
How my ardent soul doth yearn;
But still disappointed, each anxious day,
In solitude drear I mourn.

“But hark! do I dream? or a sharp quick step
Approaches our cottage door?
A well-known hand, lifts the opening latch,—
I clasp thee, my husband, once more!”

She’s pressed to the heart, of her sailor bold,
Their child in his arms he rears;
The sound of his kiss on its pure soft cheek,
Like a spell dispersed her tears!

The gloom from that dwelling hath passed away;
The hearth hath a glow more bright;
And the glorious sun next morning shone
For them with a richer light.

They love the sweet sounds from yon grey church tower,
Recalling their bridal day;
And thither they wend, with most grateful hearts,
Their tribute of thanks to pay.

Then in their own home, with its glowing fire,
And neighbours and friends around,
That loving pair hark with intense delight
To the Christmas bells’ glad sound.

Birth of the First-Born.

Beloved Eva! fain would I impart
The fervent feelings of a poet’s heart,
And in sweet-numbered melody make known
How glad I hail thee, and thy first-born son!
Thou art a mother! and thou now wilt share
All the rich pleasures of a mother’s care;
Wilt clasp thine infant to thy raptured breast,
And know on earth the feelings of the blest.
How kindly has the Author of our frame
Lit in our souls affection’s holy flame;
Bound heart to heart by kindred’s golden ties,
Fond links of love, delightful sympathies,
Whence deeper, richer, purer pleasures flow
Than all but those celestial joys bestow.
Of all deep chords within the human breast
One sounds with harmonies beyond the rest,
In sweeter music, more ecstatic tone,
And dwells in woman’s gentle heart alone.
Then first its thrilling melody was heard,
Surpassing Eden’s most enchanting bird,
When loving Eve, with silent rapture smiled,
On smiles returned her by her infant child.
Since that sweet hour what myriad hearts have glowed
With like soft gladness, and what eyes have flowed
With sparkling tears, that were by joy distilled,
From minds maternal happiness hath filled.
Such be thine ecstacy, such be thy joy,
Thy tender pleasure o’er thine infant boy;
Be it thy rich felicity to prove
The deepest raptures of maternal love.
’Tis sweet to cultivate some simple flower,
And watch its form expanding every hour,
From the green bud that swells upon the spray
Till full-blown petals meet the sunny ray,
Unfold bright tints, disclose surpassing bloom,
And shed around their delicate perfume.
But higher, nobler is the task assigned
To tend the first unfoldings of the mind,
And cultivate the young expanding heart,
The task which falls to every mother’s part.
Such sacred duty thou canst well fulfil,
Wake softest feeling, richest truth instil,
Raise latent thought, and evil’s growth arrest
Within thine infant’s slowly opening breast;
And as a flower erects its head on high
To meet the bright refulgence of the sky,
And gain refreshment from the dewy morn,
That fairer beauties may its form adorn,
So wilt thou teach, unceasingly, thy child
With gentle precept and instruction mild,
To look to heaven, fix its affections there,
And raise the incense of aspiring prayer.
From thy kind hand I know he will receive
All that a mother’s tenderness can give,
A ready help preventing every need,
The fond intention, and the kindly deed;
The watchful eye, the prompt protection share,
And constant efforts of unwearied care.
Thus taught by thee, to manhood may he rise,
Through childhood’s innocent and simple guise;
Through virtuous youth, improving year by year,
In all perfections which the heart endear;
Till strong in truth, of every good possessed,
A generous spirit and a candid breast,
A soul enlarged, a great and noble mind;
With feelings fervent, delicate, refined,
And that unspotted purity of heart
Which Heavenly blessing can alone impart,
He shall thy cares abundantly repay,
A constant solace to thy latest day:
Yielding rich happiness, like grateful soil
Returning harvest for the tillers toil,
Fruitful and rich, inviting to his hand,
In golden ripeness teeming o’er the land.

Lines to a Great Philanthropist.

Oh Wilderspin! I would attune the harp
Of sweetest poesy to tell thee how,
With heart and spirit, I esteem the work
And labour of thy life! no harsher sound
Than softest music will befit the theme—
No tone less ’trancing than the poet’s lyre.
Kind friend of Infants! who in early life,
Amidst the haunts and dwellings of the poor,
Looking around thee, saw them left to roam
In paths of wickedness, untrained, untaught,
Save in the deeds of ill; and with a heart
Of tender care, a mind resolved to act,
Didst love and pity them;—with deepest thought
And observation piercing and intense,
Didst keenly study all the mystic laws
Of mind unfolding in the infant breast,
And feeling rising in each little heart,
That to the one thou mightest know aright
Sweet simple truth in fitting form to give,
And train the other in all moral good,
Beneath the blessing of that God who gives
Full oft a life to truth within the mind,
As to the seeds we scatter in the ground.
By simple stories from the sacred page,
By parables and life-informing texts,
And milk sincere, pure from the Word Divine,
It was thy wish to lead them on to Christ,
And teach them of His love. Woe lies on those
Who with a wilful hand would force strong meat
On minds of delicate and tender age,
And thereby cause offence. The warning kind,
The simple precept, and the promise sweet,
The perfect picture of a holy life,
The lovely prospect of a world of light,
And joy and happiness, with God on high,
Are food for little ones, and cords of love
Whereby the Spirit may draw hearts to Him.
Teacher of babes! thy cause, when in its rise,
Drew friends around, who fostered it with care,
Endured a little time, and then fell off.
Alone, undaunted, in the face of scorn,
Of opposition, slander, ridicule,
And all that most can sink the heart of man
And baffle perseverance, thou didst still,
Upheld by strength imparted from on high,
With boldness persevere, and plead the cause
Of helpless infancy around the land,
And work unceasing for its lasting good
With untired ardour. Others now would reap
The fields which thou hast sown, and cast aside
Thy name into oblivion; would avail
Themselves of all thy labours; would forget
The mind from which they sprung, and leave thee now,
When the chill winter of old age comes on,
In dim obscurity. Nay, more than this—
Some would traduce thee, and use slander’s tongue:
But let the sinless cast a stone at thee!
And let all judge thee by thy noble works,
Thy deeds of true philanthropy, then all
Would look upon thee with a heart of love,
Of wonder, of astonishment and joy.
And oh may “He who doth the ravens feed,
Yea providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to thine age.” May He who said,
A cup of water given in his name
To little ones should have a full reward,
Give thee the riches of eternal life,
A spirit pure, a heart prepared and meet,
For joy and glory in the worlds above!

1845

Wye Dale, Buxton.

Here Nature, with a lavish bounty, pours
Her grandest beauties from her richest stores;
On either hand high rifted rocks uprear
Their summits proud that touching heaven appear,
Whilst on their shelves soft mountain herbage grows,
Fresh moss springs green, the pretty wild flower blows,
And many a tree, on their steep sides, is seen
Stretching broad branches, decked in living green,
’Mongst which the yew its gloomy boughs extends,
Where the grey crag’s terrific form impends;
Here the gay warbler’s sweetly carolled song
Resounds reverberating rocks among,
Whilst o’er mossed stones Wye’s new-born waters wail
Spreading their murmurs through this lonely dale.

Rydal Water.

Addressed to Wordsworth.

How fair beneath the noontide light,
In splendour rests this silver lake,
Engirt by many a mountain height,
High soaring rock, and purple peak.

Yon central isle, of sombre pines,
With dark green hue, and spreading bough,
Reflected in the water shines,
A softer vision seen below!

Around, unnumbered fairy isles
In rich luxuriant verdure lie,
Like gems amidst the waters’ smiles,
Or bright clouds on a summer sky.

Fair, spreading trees along the shore
Adorn each lofty headland steep;
Or on the marge their branches lave
Amidst the shining crystal deep.

Woods, rocks, and fells, and mountain peaks,
Sublime in hue, or rich and bright
As through the clouds the sunbeam breaks,
Reveal a vision of delight;

A scene so glorious and grand,
We well might deem that He whose word
Created all things, o’er this land
Had primal paradise restored.

Can man such loveliness behold,
So wondrous fair in every part,
And not as incense give to heaven
The adoration of his heart.

O! Lake, so beautiful and bright,
How oft the Rydal Bard on thee
Hath glanced his eye’s poetic light,
Till song gushed forth like torrents free.

The soft and gentle summer breeze,
As fairy-like it wanders round,
With deep-toned music midst the trees,
Gives forth his harp’s entrancing sound.

Each mountain soars in richer hues,
Each rock gives forth a sound of fame,
And streams in murmurs sweet diffuse
The gentle sound of Wordsworth’s name.

O could Parnassus’ far famed peak,
Or Castalie’s resplendent spring,
More glorious feeling in us wake
Or brighter dreams to fancy bring?

Amid a scene so rich and fair
How does my spirit long to dwell,
And quit the world, with all its care,
And bid its noisy haunts farewell.

My heart was never framed to toil
With Commerce on his crowded mart,
From his rough tasks my thoughts recoil,
But, oh! they love the poets’ art.

How sweet to me the woodland glade,
The wild-flower pearled with morning dew,
The noontide sun, the evening shade,
And all that nature gives to view.

And sweet to see them pictured bright
Upon the bard’s immortal page,
Enshrined in pure and heavenly light,
To charm the world from age to age.

Harp of the ancient British Bards!
Had I but skill to tune thy strings,
Entranced by thy delicious notes,
My heart would leave all meaner things.

Thy music owns a magic spell
To thrill my breast with glowing love;
Each rising throb of anguish quell
And make my pulse enraptured move!

No hoards of classic lore are mine;
Few treasures of historic truth;
No ancient themes my thoughts refine,
And past’s the sunshine of my youth.

Thus boding sadness chills my heart,
And bows my hopeless spirit down;
In vain I woo the poets’ art,—
The laurel wreath I ne’er shall own!

Sonnet to Elfrida.

Immortal being, whose career of time
Hath just begun, with holy hope we bring
Thee to the Temple of our Heavenly King,
To ask his gracious blessing in the prime
Of life’s fair infancy, ere earthly crime
Hath cast its stains upon thee; and whilst now
We sprinkle o’er thee, mid deep prayer and vow,
Baptismal water, emblem most sublime,
Of God’s eternal sanctifying Truth:
Oh may his goodness, and restoring grace,
Renew thy spirit, and from earliest youth
Sustain thee onwards in a heavenly race
And glorious fight of faith, till thou shaft rise
By death to blissful life beyond the skies.

The Mountain Height.

Come with me, and climb the proud mountain’s brow,
To view with high wonder the scene below,
Where huge hills heave like a foaming sea
By enchantment struck to tranquility.

Oh naught can depict to the mind’s deep sight
The terrible view from a mountain height,
As to fancy that ocean in awful storm
Had been turned to stone, with each wave in form.

In vallies beneath, calm lakes glitter bright
With radiant gleams of silvery light,
As they sweetly lie mid fair woodland shores,
Whence the purple peak of the mountain soars.

The hollow wind moans round these lofty rocks,
Whence the waterfalls gush with echoing shocks,
As they bound from their steeps with sparkling glee
To sweep in bright streams to their parent sea.

Here slender blue bells, and the purple heath
With flowery thyme, sweet fragrance breathe;
And the rush, and the moss, and the short soft grass
Spread a verdant pathway inviting to pass.

Oh! come let us climb the wild mountain brow,
Where Solitude dwells mid the trickling flow
Of rock-channelled rills, and desolate winds,
And the strong winged eagle an eyrie finds.

Farewell to Elloughton.

This fair and sunny afternoon,
Upon the green hill’s side
Reclined, beneath a shady tree,
To view the prospect wide,
In varied beauty spread beneath
Of woodland, corn-field, dell—
I would invoke the Muse to give
A poet’s warm farewell!

Farewell to all the rural walks
I’ve ta’en with calm delight;
Farewell to landscapes richly seen
In evening’s golden light;
Farewell—the deep dark woodland shade,
The meadow’s flowery plain;
But yet a farewell full of hope,
The hope to meet again.

When man forsakes the crowded town,
The loud and bustling mart,
Amid the calm of rural scenes
To renovate his heart,
So peaceful, pure, and sweet around
The lovely prospect lies,
He feels as if his footsteps trod
Again in paradise.

In childhood how we love to play
Mid fields and woods and flowers,
And ’neath the sunshine wile away
Our infancy’s glad hours;
And when such scenes in after years
Can purest joy impart,
It haply proves we yet retain
Like innocence of heart!

How fair is Nature’s every scene,
Viewed as a work Divine,
When pious thought, and filial love,
Make each green nook a shrine;
The sunlight spreading o’er the land,
Seems smiles from Heaven above,
The gentle breeze a “still small voice”
That whispers of His Love.

And where, to waken pure delight,
Or elevate the thought,
Can fairer, brighter charms be found,
Or more with beauty fraught,
Than here, where high and breezy hills
O’er look Old Humber’s wave,
And view the rich, green, wooded shores
That His broad waters lave?

Far o’er the ample plain beneath,
Lanes, corn-fields, woodlands lie,
Till lost in distant purple hues
They mingle with the sky.
The lordly seat, the village church,
The hamlet, cot and farm,
’Mid shady trees, or open grounds,
With varied beauty charm.

O’er Humber’s wide-spread flowing stream,
White, gliding sails are seen,
Illumined by the sun’s bright rays,
Or ’neath some cloudy screen;
Whilst all His further shores repeat
The brighter, nearer view—
More faintly touched, more dimly seen—
Arrayed in softest blue.

Here Welton’s richly wooded dale,
Or Elloughton’s dark dell,
Or Brantingham’s romantic vale,
Charm as by magic spell!
The song-bird’s note, the bee’s rich hum,
The insect’s merry flight,
The wild-flowers and the fragrant pines
Must all enhance delight!

He who would choose the deep lone wood,
Or forest’s tangled shade,
The mingled prospect far and wide
O’er distant lands displayed;
The rural lane, the rustic walk,
The cultivated plain,
The woodbine or the wild-rose path—
His every wish may gain.

In years long gone, I’ve wandered o’er
Each nook of this sweet spot,
To fill the mind with pictures fair
That memory ne’er forgot;
And now when all has been reviewed,
It glows more fresh and bright
And beauteous than in those first hours
Of innocent delight.

Farewell, then, rural Elloughton,
And each rich scene around!
Full oft on Fancy’s pictured page
Will all be clearly found;
And oft these hours of pleasure pure
O’er thought will fondly reign;—
Farewell, until thy much-loved walks
My footsteps trace again!

Killiney Bay.

The sunset lights are streaming
Along Killiney Bay,
And o’er its gentle ripples
Like gems of splendour play.

Upon the distant mountains
Soft hues of purple rest;
And deeper shades of evening
The sombre vales invest.

O’er all the varied landscape
The richest beauty glows;
And light and shade are mingling
In calmness and repose.

Whilst thus sublimely roving
The mountain’s lofty brow,
We hear the calm sea murmur
Amid the rocks below.

Around the thyme and heather,
Bloom fragrant, fresh and fair,
And health and joy seem floating
Upon the breezy air.

The insect’s happy murmur,
The wild bird’s rapid flight,
The distant vessel gliding,
All give the heart delight!

From scenes so rife with beauty,
Sweet thoughts of gladness rise
All calm and pure and peaceful,
Like dreams of paradise.

But that which adds a sweetness,
These circling joys above,
Is this our happy meeting
Of kindred—friendship—love!

This hour must gain a record
On memory’s brightest page,
And live in hues most lovely
To life’s remotest age.

That scene hath swiftly faded,
That time hath passed away,
But oft is re-illumined
By fancy’s kindling ray.

Whilst now in peace enjoying
An English hearth and home,
The mountain scenes of Erin
In glorious vision come;

And thoughts and fancies flutter
To prove this truth most sweet,
That friends by distance parted
Can yet in spirit meet!

Descent of the Dove.

The incident alluded to was represented to the writer, at the time of composition, as a natural one; but although its artificial character diminishes the poetry of the fact, it alters not the spirit of the poem.

Thousands on thousands throng
The City’s spacious street,
With loud acclaim and raptured shout
A coming Queen to greet.

Exultant cries of joy
Ring through the sun-bright air,
And with one vast and giant-voice
A Nation’s love declare.

“Queen of the brave and free!
Queen of the ocean-foam!
Welcome to this green Sister-isle,
Glad as a welcome home!”

To utter forth the joy
All human voices fail,
So Nature sends her messenger
To tell the gladsome tale.

Emblem of truth and love,
Of peace like heaven serene,
Forth flies Her timid gentle dove
To greet the glorious Queen.

Bird of the woodland shade,
And solitary calm,
What spirit high thy breast inspired
To fly without alarm,

Mid that joy-shouting crowd
In pomp and bannered pride,
To rest thy wing and nestle by
Victoria’s loving side?

In Greece, the wise of old,
From flights of birds divined
The will of heaven, and deemed therein
Deep prophecies enshrined.

Bird of the olive branch,
Sweet harbinger of peace,
Heaven sent thee to the Ark to tell—
“The deluge-waters cease.”

We, like the patriarch hoar,
And like those ancient seers,
Would deem thy mystic flight portends
Joy for the coming years.

Now Erin knows her Queen,
And greets with welcome smile,
And sees she bears a heart of love
For th’ sons of th’ Emerald Isle.

She of the wild warm heart,
Henceforth her harp will tune
To songs of peace, and lays of love,
Beneath the summer noon.

Waves, on their silver crests,
Will waft the music o’er,
Mixed with their own proud melody
To Britain’s naval shore.

The Sister-Isles shall dwell
In concord yet unknown,
And shamrock wreathed with olive twine
VICTORIA’S glorious crown!

Lines to a Butterfly.

Blithe reveller in sunny air,
How gaily moves thy happy wing,
In search of rich and dainty fare
Amid the blooming flowers of spring.

The splendid colours brightly glance,
Which form thy beautiful attire,
Like tinted clouds o’er heaven’s expanse
Illumed by sunset’s rosy fire.

How sprightly is thy rapid flight,
Beneath the warm and cheering ray;
Thine seems a life of pure delight,
Gay innocence and mirthful play.

I would not mar thy joyous glee!
Such happiness be ever thine!
I only wish that light and free
And buoyant were my heart as thine.

Stanzas.

Oh! where is the rose which was placed on thy bosom?
Is it withered and strewn, and the giver forgot?
Fond hope would now tell me—ah am I too sanguine—
That brighter and fairer was its destined lot.

It was a mere trifle, yet given with feeling,
When suddenly fated in sorrow to part:
And gifts are not valued by trade’s sordid dealing,
But esteem’d the more rich as they flow from the heart.

If this be their standard, that rose was a treasure!
Yet how great its value I’ll not now reveal,
But muse in calm silence, with sweet hopeful pleasure,
On her who did it in her bosom conceal.

Dane’s Dyke, Flambro’.

How sweet in this secluded vale
On soft green turf to calmly lie,
And spend an hour in musing well,
Whilst gazing on the sun-bright sky.

The busy world seems all shut out
By circling hills on every side,
So lofty, that you scarce can hear,
O’er their proud tops, the breaking tide.

Here solitude and silence reign,
Enhanced—not lost—by rural sounds;
Wild, varied, woodland scenes prevail
Within this deep glen’s winding bounds.

The rude furze clothes each rugged steep,
And trees adorn each upland swell;
Whilst in the warm and sheltered nooks,
A thousand wild-flowers sweetly dwell.

The ash tree waves its feath’ry boughs
Obedient to the light, soft breeze;
And on the sense delightful falls
The song of birds—the hum of bees.

Whilst ’mid this peaceful landscape laid,
So free from strife, and thoughts of pain;
It seems as if the pastoral days
Of ancient times had come again.

Those days of happiness and calm,
Ere war was known, or gold was found,
When shepherds sung their dulcet lays,
With flocks of lambkins feeding round.

What pure refreshment does it give,
To leave awhile life’s bustling stage;
And here to please and soothe the soul
As calm as in a hermitage.

But why on such a scene as this
Bestow, as if in mockery vain,
The name—allied to blood and war—
Of th’ ancient and piratic Dane?

Perhaps ’tis well! as thought returns,
Back to that time of feud and war;
The contrast makes us prize this age,
Ruled o’er by Peace’s brightest star!

A Sea-Side Wish.

The sun shines clear on the sea,
All calm beneath his ray;
And the tiny waves, with musical sound,
O’er the winding sand-beach ripple around,
And with the shingle play.

Oh! that I a mermaid were,
To sport o’er the blue expanse,
To scatter around me, in joy and delight,
A wide circle of foam-drops, sparkling bright,
And mid the free waters dance.

I’d o’er the smooth surface glide,
Like a sea-bird through the air;
And in the cool bath of the briny wave
Each languishing limb for refreshment lave,
And play in rich luxury there.

When the golden glow of morn,
Or the eve’s soft crimson beam,
Illumined the glass of the azure deep,
Should be the sweet time my revels to keep,
And sport in the ocean’s stream.

But, midst high fervours of noon,
I’d dive to the depths below,
And dwell in the cool of the rock’s deep cells,
Where lurk the rich agates and pink-valved shells,
And many-hued seaweeds grow.

Oh! that I a mermaid were,
To know all the sea’s delights,
And make its broad waters—its snowy foam—
And the calm of its dark green caves my home,
And see all its glorious sights!

The Sea-Bird.

Oh! how fair is the sea-bird winging
Its flight with a breast like snow,
When its form, from the high rock springing,
Is glassed in the sea below.

How it floats o’er the reefs and shallows,
And glides round the rock’s rough form;
It darts through the waves’ deep hollows,
Undaunted amid the storm.

Oh, blithe bird of the mighty ocean,
Would I had a breast like thine;
As free from each passion’s commotion,
As calm when life’s pleasures shine.

No deep waves of sorrow should daunt me,
No winds of adversity chill;
And if dark clouds of care should haunt me,
My soul would be placid and still.

If all life should be fair and shining,
How calm would my spirit be;
Like thy pathway in brightness soaring,
Alone o’er the sunlit sea.

Oh, bird of the ocean how lovely
Thy pure and delicate form!
Either floating in splendour above me,
Or piercing through cloud and storm.

The Voice of the Sea.