Chapter XIX: Part II (2)

Merry it is on a winter’s night,
To listen to tales of elf and sprite,
Of caves and castles so dim and old,--
The dismallest tales that ever were told;--
And then to laugh, and then to sing,
You may take my word is a merry thing,--
But ’tis merrier far to swing--to swing!

Down with the hoop upon the green;
Down with the ringing tambourine;--
Little heed we for this or for that;
Off with the bonnet, off with the hat!
Away we go like birds on the wing!
Higher yet! higher yet! “Now for the King!”
This is the way we swing--we swing!

Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is so light,
Mount up behind him--there, that is right!
Down bends the branch now;--swing him away;
Higher yet--higher yet--higher I say!
Oh, what a joy it is! Now let us sing
“A pear for the Queen--an apple for the King!”
And shake the old tree as we swing--we swing!

ELLEN MORE.

“Sweet Ellen More,” said I, “come forth
Beneath the sunny sky;
Why stand you musing all alone,
With such an anxious eye?
What is it, child, that aileth you?”
And thus she made reply:

“The fields are green, the skies are bright,
The leaves are on the tree,
And ’mong the sweet flowers of the thyme
Far flies the honey-bee;
And the lark hath sung since morning prime,
And merrily singeth he.

“Yet not for this shall I go forth
On the open hills to play,
There’s not a bird that singeth now,
Would tempt me hence to stray;--
I would not leave our cottage door
For a thousand flowers to-day!”

“And why?” said I, “what is there here
Beside your cottage door,
To make a merry girl like you
Thus idly stand to pore?
There is a mystery in this thing,--
Now tell me, Ellen More!”

The fair girl looked into my face,
With her dark and serious eye;
Silently awhile she looked,
Then heaved a quiet sigh;
And, with a half-reluctant will,
Again she made reply.

“Three years ago, unknown to us,
When nuts were on the tree,
Even in the pleasant harvest-time,
My brother went to sea--
Unknown to us, to sea he went,
And a woful house were we.

“That winter was a weary time,
A long, dark time of woe;
For we knew not in what ship he sailed
And vainly sought to know;
And day and night the loud, wild winds
Seemed evermore to blow.

“My mother lay upon her bed,
Her spirit sorely tossed
With dismal thoughts of storm and wreck
Upon some savage coast,
But morn and eve we prayed to Heaven
That he might not be lost.

“And when the pleasant spring came on,
And fields again were green,
He sent a letter full of news,
Of the wonders he had seen;
Praying us to think him dutiful
As he afore had been.

“The tidings that came next were from
A sailor old and gray,
Who saw his ship at anchor lie
In the harbor at Bombay;
But he said my brother pined for home,
And wished he were away.

“Again he wrote a letter long,
Without a word of gloom;
And soon, and very soon he said,
He should again come home;
I watched, as now, beside the door,
And yet he did not come.

“I watched and watched, but I knew not then
It would be all in vain;
For very sick he lay the while,
In a hospital in Spain.--
Ah, me! I fear my brother dear
Will ne’er come home again!

“And now I watch--for we have heard
That he is on his way,
And the letter said, in very truth,
He would be here to-day.
Oh! there’s no bird that singeth now
Could tempt me hence away!”

--That self-same eve I wandered down
Unto the busy strand,
Just as a little boat came in
With people to the land;
And ’mongst them was a sailor-boy
Who leaped upon the sand.

I knew him by his dark blue eyes,
And by his features fair;
And as he leaped ashore he sang
A simple Scottish air,--
“There’s nae place like our ain dear hame
To be met wi’ onywhere!”

A DAY OF DISASTERS.

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN PETER AND ZEDEKIAH.

PETER.--Zedekiah, come here!

ZEDEKIAH.--Well now, what’s the matter?

PETER.--Look at my hat; the more I set it right, it only gets the
flatter.

ZEDEKIAH.--Why, Peter, what’s come to your hat? I never saw such a
thing.

PETER.--I’ve had nothing but ill-luck to-day; I did this with the
swing;
I’ve been tossed into the apple-tree just as if I was a ball,
And though I caught hold of a bough, I’ve had a terrible fall;
I’m sure I should have cracked my scull, had it not been for my hat.
You may see what a fall it was, for the crown’s quite flat;
And it never will take its shape again, do all that ever I may!

ZEDEKIAH.--Never mind it, Peter! Put it on your head, and come along,
I say!

PETER.--Nay, I shall not. I shall sit down under this tree;
I’ve had nothing but ill-luck to-day. Come, sit down by me,
And I’ll tell you all, Zedekiah, for I feel quite forlorn;
Oh dear! oh dear! I’m lamed now!--I’ve sate down upon a thorn!

ZEDEKIAH.--Goodness’ sake! Peter be still--what a terrible bellow--
One would think you’d sate on a hornet’s nest; sit down, my good
fellow.

PETER.--I’ll be sure there are no more thorns here, before I set
down;
Pretty well of one thorn at a time, Master Zedekiah Brown!
There, now, I think this seat is safe and easy--so now you must know
I was fast asleep at breakfast time; and you’ll always find it so,
That if you begin a day ill, it will be ill all the day.
Well, when I woke, the breakfast-things were clattering all away:
And I know they had eggs and fowl, and all sort of good things;
But then none may partake who are in bed when the morning bell
rings;
So, sadly vexed as I was, I rolled myself round in bed,
And, “as breakfast is over, I’ll not hurry myself,” I said,
So I just got into a nice little doze, when in came my mother;
And “for shame, Peter,” she said, “to be a-bed now! well, you can’t
go with your brother!”
Then out of the door she went, without another word;
And just then a sound of wheels, and of pawing horses’ hoofs I
heard;
So I jumped up to the window to see what it was, and I declare
There was a grand party of fine folks setting off somewhere:
There was my brother, mounted on the pony so sleek and brown;
And Bell in her white frock, and my mother in her satin gown;
And my father in his best, and two gentlemen beside;
And I had never heard a word about it, either of drive or ride!
I really think it was very queer of them to set off in that way--
If I’d only known over-night, I’d have been up by break of day!
As you may think, I was sadly vexed, but I did not choose to show
it,
So I whistled as I came down stairs, that the servants might not
know it;
Then I went into the yard, and called the dog by his name,
For I thought if they were gone, he and I might have a good game;
But I called and called, and there was no dog either in this place
or th’ other;
And Thomas said, “Master Peter, Neptune’s gone with your brother.”
Well, as there was no dog, I went to look for the fox,
And sure enough the chain was broke, and there was no creature in
the box;
But where the fellow had gone nobody could say,
He had broken loose himself, I suppose, and so had slipped away;
I would give anything I have but to find the fox again--
And was it not provoking, Zedekiah, to lose him just then?

ZEDEKIAH.--Provoking enough! Well, Peter, and what happened next?

PETER.--Why, when I think of it now, it makes me quite vexed;
I went into the garden, just to look about
To see, if the green peas were ready, or the scarlet-lychnis come
out;
And there, what should I clap my eyes on but the old sow,
And seven little pigs, making a pretty row!
And of all places in the world, as if for very spite,
They had gone into my garden, and spoiled and ruined it quite!
The old sow, she had grubbed up my rosemary and old-man by the root,
And my phlox and my sunflowers, and my hollyhocks that were as black
as soot;
And every flower that I set store on was ruined for ever;
I never was so mortified in all my life--never!

ZEDEKIAH.--You sent them off, I should think, with a famous swither!

PETER.--Grunting and tumbling one over the other, I cared not
whither.
Well, as I was just then standing, grieving over the ruin,
I heard Thomas call, “Master Peter, come and see what the rats have
been doing--
They’ve eaten all the guinea-pigs’ heads off!”

ZEDEKIAH.--Oh, Peter, was it true?

PETER.--Away I ran, not knowing what in the world to do!--
And there--I declare it makes me quite shudder to the bone--
Lay all my pretty little guinea-pigs as dead as a stone!
“It’s no matter of use,” says Thomas, “setting traps; for you see
They no more care for a trap, than I do for a pea;
I’ll lay my life on’t, there are twenty rats now down in that hole,
And we can no more reach ’em, than an underground mole!”
I declare, Zedekiah, I never passed such a day before--not I;
It makes me quite low-spirited, till I’m ready to cry.
All those pretty guinea-pigs! and I’ve nothing left at all,
Only the hawk, and I’ve just set his cage on the wall.

ZEDEKIAH.--Hush! hush, now! for Thomas is saying something there,

PETER.--What d’ye say, Thomas?

THOMAS.--The hawk’s soaring in the air! The cage-door was open, and
he’s flown clean away!

PETER.--There now, Zedekiah, is it not an unfortunate day?
I’ve lost all my favourites--I’ve nothing left at all,
And my garden is spoiled, and I’ve had such a dreadful fall!
I wish I had been up this morning as early as the sun,
And then I should have gone to Canonley, nor have had all this
mischief done!
I’m sure its quite enough to make me cry for a year--
Let’s go into the house, Zedekiah; what’s the use of sitting here?

THE YOUNG MOURNER.

Leaving her sports, in pensive tone,
’Twas thus a fair young mourner said,
“How sad we are now we’re alone,--
I wish my mother were not dead!

“I can remember she was fair;
And how she kindly looked and smiled,
When she would fondly stroke my hair,
And call me her beloved child.

“Before my mother went away,
You never sighed as now you do;
You used to join us at our play,
And be our merriest playmate too.

“Father, I can remember when
I first observed her sunken eye,
And her pale, hollow cheek; and then
I told my brother she would die!

“And the next morn they did not speak,
But led us to her silent bed;
They bade us kiss her icy cheek,
And told us she indeed was dead!

“Oh, then I thought how she was kind,
My own beloved and gentle mother!
And calling all I knew to mind,
I thought there ne’er was such another!

“Poor little Charles, and I! that day
We sate within our silent room;
But we could neither read nor play,--
The very walls seemed full of gloom.

“I wish my mother had not died,
We never have been glad since then!
They say, and is it true,” she cried,
“That she can never come again?”

The father checked his tears, and thus
He spake, “My child, they do not err,
Who say she cannot come to us;
But you and I may go to her.

“Remember your dear mother still,
And the pure precepts she has given;
Like her, be humble, free from ill,
And you shall see her face in heaven!”

THE SOLDIER’S STORY.

“Heaven bless the boys!” the old man said,
“I hear their distant drumming,--
Young Arthur Bruce is at their head,
And down the street they’re coming.

“And a very noble standard too
He carries in the van;
By the faith of an old soldier, he
Is born to make a man!”

A glow of pride passed o’er his cheek,
A tear came to his eye;
“Hurra, hurra! my gallant men!”
Cried he, as they came nigh.

“It seems to me but yesterday
Since I was one like ye,
And now my years are seventy-two,--
Come here, and talk with me!”

They made a halt, those merry boys,
Before the aged man;
And “tell us now some story wild,”
Young Arthur Bruce began;

“Of battle and of victory
Tell us some stirring thing!”
The old man raised his arm aloft,
And cried, “God save the King!

“A soldier’s is a life of fame,
A life that hath its meed--
They write his wars in printed books,
That every man may read.

“And if you’d hear a story wild,
Of war and battle done,
I am the man to tell such tales,
And you shall now have one.

“In every quarter of the globe
I’ve fought--by sea, by land;
And scarce for five and fifty years
Was the musket from my hand.

“But the bloodiest wars, and fiercest too,
That were waged on any shore,
Were those in which my strength were spent,
In the country of Mysore.

“And oh! what a fearful, deadly clime
Is that of the Indian land,
Where the burning sun shines fiercely down
On the hot and fiery sand!

“The life of man seems little worth,
And his arm hath little power
His very soul within him dies,
As dies a broken flower.

“Yet spite of this, was India made
As for a kingly throne;
There gold is plentiful as dust,
As sand the diamond stone;

“And like a temple is each house,
Silk-curtained from the sun;
And every man has twenty slaves,
Who at his bidding run.

“He rides on the lordly elephant,
In solemn pomp;--and there
They hunt the gold-striped tiger,
As here they hunt the hare.

“Yet it is a dreadful clime! and we
Up in the country far
Were sent,--we were two thousand men,
In a disastrous war.

“The soldiers died in the companies
As if the plague had been;
And soon in every twenty men,
The dead were seventeen.

“We went to storm a fort of mud--
And yet the place was strong--
Three thousand men were guarding it,
And they had kept it long.

“We were in all three hundred souls,
Feeble and worn and wan;
Like walking spectres of the tomb,
Was every living man.

“Yet Arthur Bruce, now standing there,
With the ensign of his band,
Reminds me of a gallant youth,
Who fought at my right hand.

“Scarce five and twenty years of age,
And feeble as the rest,
Yet with the bearing of a king,
That noble soul expressed.

“But a silent grief was in his eye,
And oft his noble frame
Shook like a quivering aspen leaf,
And his colour went and came.

“He marched by my side for seven days,
Most patient of our band;
And night and day he ever kept
Our standard in his hand.

“They fought with us like tigers,
Before that fort of mud;
And all around the burning sands
Were as a marsh with blood.

“We watched that young man,--he to us
Was as a kindling hope;
We saw him pressing on and on,
Bearing the standard up.

“At length it for a moment veered--
A ball had struck his hand,
But he seized the banner with his left,
Without a moment’s stand.

“He mounted upward to the wall;
He waved the standard high,--
But then another smote him!--
And the captain standing by

“Said, ‘Of this gallant youth take care,
He hath won for us the day!’
I and my comrades took him up,
And bore him thence away.

“There was no tree about the place,
So ’neath the fortress shade
We carried him, and carefully
Upon the red sand laid.

“I took the feather from my cap,
To fan his burning cheek;
I gave him water, drop by drop,
And prayed that he would speak.

“At length he said, ‘mine hour is come!
My soldier-name is bright;
But a pang there is within my soul,
That hath wrung me day and night:

“‘I left my mother’s home without
Her blessing;--she doth mourn,
Doth weep for me with bitter tears,--
I never can return!

“‘This bowed my eagle-spirit down,
This robbed mine eye of rest;
I left her widowed and alone:--
Oh that I had been blessed!’

“No more he said,--he closed his eyes.
And yet he died not then;
He lived till the morrow morning came,
But he never spoke again.”

This tale the veteran soldier told,
Upon a summer’s day;--
The boys came merrily down the street,
But they all went sad away.

THE CHILD’S LAMENT.

I like it not--this noisy street
I never liked, nor can I now--
I love to feel the pleasant breeze
On the free hills, and see the trees,
With birds upon the bough!

Oh, I remember long ago,--
So long ago, ’tis like a dream--
My home was on a green-hill side,
By flowery meadows, still and wide,
’Mong trees, and by a stream.

Three happy brothers I had then,
My merry playmates every day--
I’ve looked and looked through street and square,
But never chanced I, anywhere,
To see such boys as they.

We all had gardens of our own--
Four little gardens in a row,--
And there we set our twining peas;
And rows of cress; and real trees,
And real flowers to grow.

My father I remember too,
And even now his face can see;
And the gray horse he used to ride,
And the old dog that at his side
Went barking joyfully!

He used to fly my brothers’ kites,
And build them up a man of snow,
And sail their boats, and with them race;
And carry me from place to place;
Just as I liked to go.

I’m sure he was a pleasant man,
And people must have loved him well!
Oh, I remember that sad day
When they bore him in a hearse away,
And tolled his funeral bell!

Thy mother comes each night to kiss
Thee, in thy little quiet bed--
So came my mother years ago;
And I loved her--oh! I loved her so,
’Twas joy to hear her tread!

It must be many, many years
Since then, and yet I can recall
Her very tone--her look--her dress,
Her pleasant smile and gentleness,
That had kind words for all.

She told us tales, she sang us songs,
And in our pastimes took delight,
And joined us in our summer glee,
And sat with us beneath the tree!
Nor wearied of our company,
Whole days, from morn till night.

Alas! I know that she is dead,
And in the cold, cold grave is hid;
I saw her in her coffin lie,
With the grim mourners standing by;
And silent people solemnly
Closed down the coffin lid.

My brothers were not there--ah me!
I know not where they went; some said
With a rich man beyond the sea
That they were dwelling pleasantly--
And some that they were dead.

I cannot think that it is so,
I never saw them pale and thin,
And the last time their voice I heard,
Merry were they as a summer-bird,
Singing its bowers within.

I wish that I could see their faces,
Or know at least that they were near;
Ah! gladly would I cross the sea,
So that with them I might but be,
For now my days pass wearily,
And all are strangers here.

A DAY OF HARD WORK.

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN HARRY AND KITTY.

KITTY.--Well, now you’ve been running about so, pray can’t you sit
still?
I want to have some talk with you, and I certainly will:
I’ve got all this unpicking to do, for while I talk I must work;
You boys can run about idling--I sit stitching like a Turk,
Come, now tell me, can’t you, something about the farm-yard?
How many eggs has the turkey laid--and is that muddy place dry and
hard?
Come, tell me in a minute, I haven’t patience to wait;
And till you begin, sir, there’s a thimble-pie for you on the top of
your pate.

HARRY.--Oh Kitty! you’ve knocked me so, I’ll tell my mother, that I
will!
If you do so, miss, nobody will like you, so you’d better be still.

KITTY.--Well, then, tell me something! why should I be still and
nobody talking?

HARRY.--Oh! I’m tired with this running about, and this riding, and
this walking;
I wish there was no such thing as running or walking at all;
And I wish every horse were in the fields, or else tied up in its
stall!
What’s your work, Kitty? sitting still in the house at ease;
You’ve nothing to do but to sit down, and get up again, just as you
please;
And yet you talk of your work, as if ’twas the hardest that e’er was
done,
Why compare it with mine, child, and I’m sure it’s nothing but
fun!

KITTY.--Child! I’m no more child than you; I’m but younger by a
year,
I desire you to speak respectfully to me, now, sir,--do you hear?

HARRY.--Yes, yes, I hear! But I really am so tired, as I was just
now saying;
I wish you’d get your work done, and let’s begin playing!
You can’t believe, I’m sure, all the work I’ve done this day--
I’ve weeded two carrot beds, and the onions-- and carried all the
weeds away;
And I’ve been down to Thomas Jackson’s to tell him to get the horse
shod;
And in coming back there was a great, big, rusty nail, upon which I
trod,
And it lamed me so, I don’t believe I shall walk for a week,
At least as I ought to do, for my ancle has quite a creak!

KITTY.--Oh dear, let me look at it! Why, I’m sure it is quite
shocking--
See, there’s a hole as large as my thimble in the ancle of your
stocking!

HARRY.--Oh no, ’tis the other foot--that I tore with a bramble;
And that reminds me, Jack Smith and I had such a terrible scramble!
We were catching the pony that I might ride down to the mill,
To bid him bring the flour home, for I declare he has it still;
And we shan’t have a bit of white bread in the house, nor a pudding,
nor a pie,
If he don’t bring it home--every one says he’s shamefully idle, and
so do I.
Well, but I haven’t told you after all, what a deal of work I’ve
done;
And I’m sure if you knew what weeding was, you would not call it
fun;
It makes one’s back ache so, stooping to weed all day,
I shall be famously glad when it’s done!

KITTY.--But are you quite ready for play?
I’ve but a little bit to do--I shall have done in half a quarter of
an hour;
And as you’ve nothing to do, just run and see if that lavender’s in
flower--
There’s a good Harry, do; I’ll do seven times as much for you;
You know I sewed, yesterday, that old clasp in your shoe.

HARRY.--I’d go, if I thought you’d have done by the time I come
back:

KITTY.--To be sure I shall!--I wish you would not waste so much
time with your clack!

HARRY.--Well, just let me pull up my shoe, and put by this peacock’s
feather,

KITTY.--Nay, you may as well stay now; I’ve just done, and we’ll
both go together;
For I want to show you something like a magpie’s nest up in a tree,
Only I don’t think it is a magpie’s nest, and I can’t think what it
can be;
And it is just by the lavender bush, and ’twill save us going there
twice:--
There, now I’ve done my work! and I shall be ready in a trice!

HARRY.--Well, then let us begone; we shall have two whole hours for
play;
I didn’t think we should have had so much time, and I’ been working
all day!

THE OLD MAN AND THE CARRION CROW.

There was a man and his name was Jack,
Crabbed and lean, and his looks were black--
His temper was sour, his thoughts were bad;
His heart was hard when he was a lad.
And now he followed a dismal trade,
Old horses he bought and killed and flayed,
Their flesh he sold for the dogs to eat;
You would not have liked this man to meet.
He lived in a low mud-house on a moor,
Without any garden before the door.
There was one little hovel behind, that stood,
Where he used to do his work of blood;
I never could bear to see the place,
It was stained and darkened with many a trace;
A trace of what I will not tell--
And then there was such an unchristian smell!

Now this old man did come and go,
Through the wood that grew in the dell below;
It was scant a mile from his own door-stone,
Darksome and dense, and overgrown;
And down in the drearest nook of the wood,
A tall and splintered fir-tree stood;
Half-way up, where the boughs outspread,
A carrion crow his nest had made,
Of sticks and reeds in the dark fir-tree,
Where lay his mate and his nestlings three;
And whenever he saw the man come by,
“Dead horse! dead horse!” he was sure to cry,
“Croak, croak!” if he went or came,
The cry of the crow was just the same,
Jack looked up as grim as could be,
And says, “what’s my trade to the like of thee!”
“Dead horse! dead horse! croak, croak! croak, croak!”
As plain as words to his ear it spoke.
Old Jack stooped down and picked up a stone,
A stout, thick stick, and dry cow’s bone,
And one and the other all three did throw,
So angry was he, at the carrion crow;
But none of the three reached him or his nest,
Where his three young crows lay warm at rest;
And “Croak, croak! dead horse! croak, croak!”
In his solemn way again he spoke;
Old Jack was angry as he could be,
And says he, “On the morrow, I’ll fell thy tree,--
I’ll teach thee, old fellow, to rail at me!”

As soon as t’was light, if there you had been,
Old Jack at his work you might have seen;
I would you’d been there to see old Jack,
And to hear the strokes as they came “thwack! thwack!”
And then you’d have seen how the croaking bird
Flew round as the axe’s stroke he heard,
Flew round as he saw the shaking blow,
That came to his nest from the root below,
One after the other, stroke upon stroke;
“Thwack! thwack!” said the axe, said the crow, “Croak! croak!”
Old Jack looked up with a leer in his eye,
And “I’ll hew it down!” says he, “by and bye!
I’ll teach thee to rail, my old fellow, at me!”
So he spit on his hands, and says, “have at the tree!”
“Thwack!” says the axe, as the bark it clove;
“Thwack!” as into the wood it drove;
“Croak!” says the crow in a great dismay,
“Croak!” as he slowly flew away.
Flap, flap went his wings over hedge and ditch,
Till he came to a field of burning twitch;
The boy with a lighted lantern there,
As he stood on the furrow brown and bare,
He saw the old crow hop hither and thither,
Then fly with a burning sod somewhither.

Away flew the crow to the house on the moor,
A poor, old horse was tied to the door;
The burning sod on the roof he dropped,
Then upon the chimney stone he hopped,
And down he peeped that he might see,
How many there were in family--
There was a mother and children three.
“Croak! croak!” the old crow did say.
As from the roof he flew away,
As he flew away to the tree, to watch
The burning sod and the dry grey thatch,
He stayed not long till he saw it smoke,
Then he flapped his wings, and cried, “Croak, croak!”
Away to the wood again, flew he,
And soon he espied the slanting tree,
And Jack, who stood laughing with all his might,
His axe in his hand--he laughed for spite;
In triumph he laughed, and took up a stone,
And hammered his axe-head faster on;
“Croak, croak!” came the carrion crow,
Flapping his wings with a motion slow;
“Thwack, thwack!” the spiteful man,
When he heard his cry, with his axe began;
“Thwack, thwack!” stroke upon stroke;
The crow flew by with a “Croak, croak!”
With a “Croak, croak!” again he came,
Just as the house burst into flame.
With a splitting crash, and a crackling sound,
Down came the tree unto the ground;
The old’s crow’s nest afar was swung;
And the young ones here and there were flung;
And just at that moment came up a cry,
“Oh Jack, make haste, or else we die;
The house is on fire, consuming all,
Make haste, make haste, ere the roof tree fall!”
The young crows every one were dead;
But the old crow croaked above his head;
And the mother-crow on Jack she springs,
And flaps in his face her great, black wings;
And all the while he hears a wail,
That turns his cheek from red to pale--
’Twas wife and children standing there
Wringing their hands and tearing their hair!
“Oh woe, our house is burnt to cinder,
Bedding and clothes all turned to tinder;
Down to the very hearth-stone clean,
Such a dismal ruin ne’er was seen:
What shall we do?--where must we go?”
“Croak, croak!” says the carrion crow.

* * * * *

Now ye who read this story through,
Heed well the moral--’tis for you;--
Strife brings forth strife; be meek and kind
See all things with a loving mind;
Nor e’er by passion be misled,--
Jack by himself was punished.

THE LITTLE MARINER.

Ay, sitting on your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee,
How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea!
My father was a mariner, and from my earliest years,
I can remember, night and day, my mother’s prayers and tears.
I can remember how she sighed when blew the stormy gale;
And how for days she stood to watch the long-expected sail:
Hers was a silent, patient grief; but fears and long delay,
And wakeful nights and anxious days were wearing her away.

And when the gusty winds were loud, and autumn leaves were red,
I watched, with heavy heart, beside my mother’s dying bed;
Just when her voice was feeblest, the neighbors came to say,
The ship was hailed an hour before, and then was in the bay.

Alas! too late the ship returned, too late her life to save;
My father closed her dying eyes, and laid her in the grave.
He was a man of ardent hopes, who never knew dismay;
And, spite of grief, the winter time wore cheerfully away.

He had crossed the equinoctial line, full seven times or more,
And sailing northward, had been wrecked on icy Labrador:
He knew the Spicy-isles, every one, where the clove and nutmeg grow,
And the aloe towers a stately tree with clustering bells of snow.

He had gone the length of Hindostan, down Ganges’ holy flood;
Through Persia, where the peacock broods a wild bird of the wood;
And, in the forests of the West, had seen the red-deer chased,
And dwelt beneath the piny woods, a hunter of the waste.

Oh! pleasant were the tales he told of lands so strange and new;
And, in my ignorance I vowed, I’d be a sailor too:
My father heard my vow with joy,--so in the early May,
We went on board a merchant-man, bound for Honduras’ bay.

Right merrily, right merrily, we sailed before the wind,
With a briskly heaving sea before, and the landsman’s cheer behind.
There was joy for me in every league, delight on every strand,
And I sate for days on the high fore-top, on the long look-out for
land.

There was joy for me in the nightly watch, on the burning Tropic
seas,
To mark the waves, like living fires, leap up to the freshening
breeze.
Right merrily, right merrily, our gallant ship went free,
Until we neared the rocky shoals within the Western sea.

Yet still none thought of danger near, till in the silent night,
The helmsman gave the dreadful word of “breakers to the right!”
The moment that his voice was heard, was felt the awful shock;
The ship sprang forward with a bound, and struck upon a rock.

“All hands aloft!” our captain cried;--in terror and dismay
They threw the cargo overboard, and cut the masts away;
’Twas all in vain, ’twas all in vain! the sea rushed o’er the deck,
And shattered with the beating surf, down went the parting wreck.

The moment that the wreck went down, my father seized me fast,
And leaping ’mid the thundering waves, seized on the broken mast:
I know not how he bore me up, my senses seemed to swim,
A shuddering horror chilled my brain, and stiffened every limb.

What next I knew, was how at morn, on a bleak barren shore,
Out of a hundred mariners, were living only four.
I looked around, like one who wakes from dreams of fierce alarm,
And round my body still I felt, firm locked, my father’s arm.

And with a rigid, dying grasp, he closely held me fast,
Even as he held me when he seized, at midnight on the mast.
With humbled hearts and streaming eyes, down knelt the little band,
Praying Him who had preserved their lives, to lend his guiding hand.

And day by day, though burning thirst and pining hunger came,
His mercy, through our misery, preserved each drooping frame:
And after months of weary woe, sickness, and travel sore,
He sent the blessed English ship that took us from that shore.

And now, without a home or friend, I wander far and near,
And tell my miserable tale to all who lend an ear.
Thus sitting by your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee,
How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea!

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB OF THE COTTAGE.

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, ’tis full of grief and pain,
It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain,
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain!

The children of the rich man have not their bread to win:
They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin;
Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin.

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear;
In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share;
They walk among life’s pleasant ways, and never know a care.

The children of the poor man--though they be young, each one,
Early in the morning they rise up before the rising sun,
And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task is done.

Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with
pride,--
The sunshine of the summer’s day, the flowers on the highway side,
Or their own free companionship, on the heathy common wide.

Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three;
But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty:--
It may not have one thing to love, how small soe’er it be.

A thousand flocks were on the hills--a thousand flocks, and more,--
Feeding in sunshine pleasantly,--they were the rich man’s store;
There was the while, one little lamb, beside a cottage door;

A little lamb that did lie down with the children ’neath the tree;
That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled on their knee;
That had a place within their hearts, as one of the family.

But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed,
The father laboured all day long, that his children might be fed;
And, one by one, their household things, were sold to buy them bread.

That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,
Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued;
“What is the creature’s life to us?” said he, “’twill buy us food!

“Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head
Each does his small craft mournfully!--the hungry must be fed;
And that which has a price to bring, must go, to buy us bread!”

It went--oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring,
But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,
With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing!

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,
Most sorrowful to hear them plead for their pet so piteously;--
“Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?

“Let’s take him to the broad, green hills,” in his impotent despair,
Said one strong boy, “let’s take him off, the hills are wide and
fair;
I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there!”

’Twas vain!--they took the little lamb, and straightway tied him
down,
With a strong cord they tied him fast;--and o’er the common brown,
And o’er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.

The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow
From everything about the house a mournful thought did borrow;
The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow!--

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, ’tis full of grief and pain--
It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain;
It maketh even the little child, with heavy sighs complain!

AMERICA.

A STORY OF THE INDIAN WAR.

“I was at William Penn’s country-house, called Pensbury, in Pennsylvania, where I staid some days. Much of my time I spent in seeing William Penn, and many of the chief men among the Indians, in council concerning their former covenant, now renewed on his going away for England. To pass by several particulars, I may mention the following: ‘They never broke covenant with any people,’ said one of their great chiefs; and, smiting his hand upon his head, he said, ‘they made not their covenants there, but _here_,’ said he, smiting on his breast three times.

* * * * *

“I, being walking in the woods, espied several wigwams, and drew towards them. The love of God filled my heart; and I felt it right to look for an interpreter, which I did. Then I signified that I was come from a far country with a message from the Great Spirit (as they call God,) and my message was to endeavour to persuade them that they should not be drunkards, nor steal, nor kill one another, nor fight, nor put away their wives for small faults; for if they did these things, the Great Spirit would be angry with them, and would not prosper them, but bring trouble on them. On the contrary, if they were careful to refrain from these evils, then would he love them, and prosper them, and speak peace to them. And when the interpreter expressed these things to them in their own language, they wept till tears ran down their naked bodies.

* * * * *

“They manifested much love towards me in their way, as they did mostly to upright, plain-dealing Friends; and whilst I was amongst them my spirit was very easy: nor did I feel that power of darkness to oppress me, as I had done in many places amongst people calling themselves _Christians_.”--_Journal of John Richardson, one of the early Friends._

* * * * *

They read of rapine, war, and woe,
A party by an English fire,--
Of Indian warfare in the wood,
Of stern and ruthless ire.

They read of torture worse than death--
Of treachery dark--of natures base--
Of women savage as the beast--
Of the red Indian race.

“Hold!” said the matron of the hearth,
A woman beautiful in age;
“And let me of the Indian speak;
Close, close that faithless page!

“My father was the youngest born
In an old rural English hall;
The youngest out of five stout sons,
With patrimony small.

“His boyhood was in greenwood spent;
His youth was all a sylvan dream;
He tracked the game upon the hills;
He angled in the stream.

“Quiet was he, and well content,
With naught to fret, and none to chide;
For all that his young heart desired
The woods and streams supplied.

“Small knowledge had a youth so trained,
College or school ne’er knew his face;
And yet as he grew up, he grew
Superior to his race.

“His brethren were of sordid sort,
Men with coarse minds, and without range;
He grew adventurous and bold,
Inquisitive of change.

“And, as he grew, he took to books,
And read what’er the hall supplied;
Histories of admirals, voyages old,
And travels far and wide.

“He read of settlers, who went forth
To the far west, and pitched their tent
Within the woods, and grew, ere long,
To a great, prosperous settlement.

“He read of the bold lives they led,
Full of adventure, hardy, free;
Of the wild creatures they pursued,
Of game in every tree.

“And how the Indians, quaintly gay,
Came down in wampum-belt and feather,
To welcome them with courteous grace;
How they and the free forest race
Hunted and dwelt together.

“And how they and their chosen mates
Led lives so sweet and primitive:
Oh! in such land, with one dear heart,
What joy it were to live!

“So thought he, and such life it were
As suited well his turn of mind;
For what within his father’s house
Was there to lure or bind?

“Four needy brothers, coarse and dull;
A patrimony, quite outspent;
A mother, long since in her grave;
A father, weak and indolent!

“At twenty he had ta’en a mate,
A creature gentle, kind, and fair;
Poor, like himself, but well content
The forest-life to share.

“She left an old white-headed sire;
A mother loving, thoughtful, good;
She left a home of love, to live
For him, within the wood.

“And that old couple did provide,
Out of their need, for many a want
Else unforseen; their daughter’s dower
In gifts of love, not scant.

“His father with cold scorn received
So dowered a daughter, without name;
Nor could his purposed exile win
Either assent or blame.

“All was a chill of indifference;
And from his father’s gate he went,
As from a place where none for him
Had kindred sentiment.

“And in the westren world they dwelt;
Life, like a joyous summer morn,
Each hope fulfilled; and in the wild
To them were children born.

“All that his youth had dreamed he found
In that life’s freshness; peril strange;
Adventure; freedom; sylvan wealth;
And ceaseless, blameless change.

“And there he, and his heart’s true mate,
Essay’d and found how sweet to live,
’Mid nature’s store, with health and love,
That life so primitive!

“But that sweet life came to an end.--
As falls the golden-eared corn
Before the sickle, earthly bliss
In human hearts is shorn.

“Sickness--bereavement--widowhood--
Oh, these three awful words embrace
A weight of mortal woe that fell
Upon our sylvan dwelling place!

“It matters not to tell of pangs,
Of the heart broken, the bereft;
I will pass over death and tears,
I will pass on to other years,
When only two were left!

“I and a sister; long had passed
The anguish of that time, and we
Were living in a home of love,
Though in a stranger’s family.

“Still in the wilderness we dwelt,
And were grown up towards womanhood;
When our sweet life of peace was stirred
By tales of civil feud.

“By rumors of approaching war,
Of battle done, of armed bands;
Of horrid deeds of blood and fire,
Achieved by Indian hands.

“We heard it first with disbelief:
And long time after, when had spread
Wild war throughout the land, we dwelt
All unassailed by dread.

“For they with whom our lot was cast,
Were people of that Christian creed
Who will not fight, but trust in God
For help in time of need.

“The forest round was like a camp,
And men were armed day and night;
And every morning brought fresh news
To heighten their affright.

“Through the green forest rose the smoke
Of places burn’d the night before;
And from their victims, the red scalp
The excited Indian tore.

“This was around us, yet we dwelt
In peace upon the forest bound;
Without defence, without annoy,
The Indian camp’d all round.

“The door was never barr’d by night,
The door was never closed by day;
And there the Indians came and went,
As they had done alway.

“For ‘these of Onas are the sons,’
Said they, ‘the upright peaceful men!’
Nor was harm done to those who held
The faith of William Penn.

“But I this while thought less of peace,
Than of the camp and battle stir;
For I had given my young heart’s love
Unto a British officer.

“Near us, within the forest-fort,
He lay, the leader of a band
Of fierce young spirits, sworn to sweep
The Indian from the land--

“The native Indian from his woods--
I deem’d it cowardly and base;
And, with a righteous zeal I pled
For the free forest-race.

“But he, to whom I pled, preferr’d
Sweet pleading of another sort;
And we met ever ’neath the wood
Outside the forest-fort.

“The Indian passed us in the wood,
Or glared upon us from the brake;
But he, disguised, with me was safe,
For Father Onas’ sake.

“At length the crisis of the war
Approach’d, and he, my soul’s beloved,
With his hot band, impatient grown,
Yet further west removed.

“There he was taken by the foe,
Ambush’d like tigers ’mid the trees:
You know what death severe and dread
The Indian to his foe decrees

“A death of torture and of fire--
Protracted death; I knew too well,
Outraged and anger’d, as of late
Had been the Indian spirit, fell
Would be their vengeance, and, to him,
Their hate implacable.

“When first to me his fate was told,
I stood amazed, confounded, dumb;
Then wildly wept and wrung my hands,
By anguish overcome.

“‘Wait, wait!’ the peaceful people said;
‘Be still and wait, the Lord is good!’
But when they bade me trust and wait,
I went forth in my anguish great,
To hide me in the wood.

“I had no fear; the Indian race
To me were as my early kin:
And then the thought came to my brain,
To go forth, and from death and pain,
My best beloved to win.

“With me my fair, young sister went,
Long journeying on through wood and swamp:
Three long days’ travel, ere we came
To the great Indian camp.

“We saw the Indians as we went,
Hid ’mong the grass with tiger ken;
But we were safe, they would not harm
The daughters of the peaceful men.

“In thickets of the woods at length
We came to a savannah green;
And there, beneath the open day,
The Indian camp was seen.

“I turned me from that scene of war,
And from the solemn council-talk,
Where stood the warriors, stern, and cold,
War-crested, and with bearing bold,
Listening unto a sachem old,
Who held aloft a tomahawk.

“I knew they were athirst for blood;
That they had pity none to spare;--
Besides, bound to a tree, I saw
An English captive there.

“I saw his war plume, soil’d and torn;
I knew that he was doom’d to die;
Pale, wounded, feeble, there he stood;
The ground was crimson’d with his blood;
Yet stood he as a soldier should--
Erect, with calm, determined eye.

“I would not he should see me then,--
The sight his courage had betray’d;
Therefore unseen we stepp’d aside,
Into the forest-glade.

“An Indian woman there was set,
We knew her, and to her were known;
The wife of a great chief was she,
Deck’d in her Indian bravery;
Yet there she sat alone.

“‘Woman,’ I said, the silence breaking,
‘Thou know’st us--know’st that we belong
To peaceful people, who have ne’er
Done to thy nation wrong.

‘Thou know’st that ye have dwelt with us,
As friend upon the hearth of friend;--
When have ye ask’d and been denied,
That this good faith should end?’

“The Indian did not raise her head,
As she replied in accents low,
‘Why come ye hither unto me,
When I am sitting in my woe?’

“‘Woman,’ I said, ‘I ask for life--
For life, which in your hands doth lie;
Go bid thy tribe release the bands
Of him now doomed to die!

“‘Go, Indian woman, and do this,
For thou art mighty with thy race!’
The Indian made me no reply,
But looked into my face.

“‘Mighty! said’st thou?’ at length she spoke,
‘Mighty!--to one no longer wife!
The hatchet and the tomahawk
Lie by me on the forest-walk;
The great chief in my hut lies low,
The ruthless pale-face struck the blow--
And yet thou com’st to me for life!’

“‘By that chief’s memory,’ I cried,
‘Whom ne’er the peaceful men gainsaid;
To whom the peaceful men were dear;
Rise, though thou stricken be, and aid!

“‘Crave not REVENGE,’ and with my words
My tears flow’d fast, though hers were dry;
‘But look upon this pictured face,
And say if such a one shall die!’

“Long looked she on the pictured face,
Which from my neck I took and gave;
Long looked she ere a word was spoke,
And then she slowly silence broke,
‘The hatchet is not buried yet;
The tomahawk with blood is wet;
And the great chief is in his grave!

“‘Yet for the father Onas’ sake--
For their sakes who no blood have shed,
We will not by his sons be blamed
For taking life which they have claimed;--
The red man can avenge his dead!’

“So saying, with her broken heart--
She went forth to the council-stone;
And when the captive was brought out,
’Mid savage war-cry, taunt and shout,
She stepp’d into the fierce array,
As the bereaved Indian may,
And claim’d the victim for her own.

“He was restored. What need of more
To tell the joy that thence ensued!
But sickness followed long and sore,
And he for a twelvemonth or more,
With our good, peaceful friends abode.

“But we, two plighted hearts, were wed;
A merry marriage ye may wis;--
And guess ye me a happy life--
In England here, an honoured wife,--
Sweet friends, ye have not guess’d amiss!

“But never more let it be said,
The red man is of nature base;
Nor let the crimes that have been taught,
Be by the crafty teachers brought
As blame against the Indian race!”

MOURNING ON EARTH.

She lay down in her poverty,
Toil-stricken, though so young;
And the words of human sorrow
Fell trembling from her tongue.

There were palace-houses round her;
And pomp and pride swept by
The walls of that poor chamber,
Where she lay down to die.

Two were abiding with her,
The lowly of the earth,--
Her feeble, weeping sister,
And she who gave her birth.

She lay down in her poverty,
Toil-stricken, though so young;
And the words of human sorrow
Fell from her trembling tongue.

“Oh, Lord, thick clouds of darkness
About my soul are spread,
And the waters of affliction
Have gathered o’er my head!

“Yet what is life? A desert,
Whose cheering springs are dry,
A weary, barren wilderness!--
Still it is hard to die!

“For love, the clinging, deathless,
Is with my life entwined;
And the yearning spirit doth rebel
To leave the weak behind!

“Oh Saviour, who didst drain the dregs
Of human woe and pain,
In this, the fiercest trial-hour,
My doubting soul sustain!

“I sink, I sink! support me;
Deep waters round me roll!
I fear! I faint! O Saviour,
Sustain my sinking soul!”

REJOICING IN HEAVEN.

“Oh spirit, freed from bondage,
Rejoice, thy work is done!
The weary world is ’neath thy feet,
Thou brighter than the sun!

“Arise, put on the garments
Which the redeemed wore!
Now sorrow hath no part in thee,
Thou sanctified from sin!

“Awake and breathe the living air
Of our celestial clime!
Awake to love which knows no change,
Thou, who hast done with time!

“Awake, lift up thy joyful eyes,
See, all heaven’s host appears;
And be thou glad exceedingly,
Thou, who hast done with tears!

“Awake! ascend! Thou art not now
With those of mortal birth,--
The living God hath touch’d thy lips,
Thou who hast done with earth!”

AN ENGLISH GRAVE AT MUSSOOREE.