THE EAGLE'S NEST. Grace Adam was a farmer's daughter, Her youth in the far west was spent, Where Mississippi's mighty water Rolls like a flood that will have vent. She was a blooming country maiden, Like those one sees in market towns, With egg and butter baskets laden, Dressed in their smartest hats and gowns. In household work and dairy labours Her time passed pleasantly away, A pattern she to all the neighbours, Healthy and cheerful as the day. Grace Adam was a farmer's daughter,— Some share of beauty she could boast, And lovers, near and far off, sought her, Each striving who could flatter most. From 'mong them all her heart selected One gentle youth who seemed sincere, He was by every one respected, And more it needs not saying here. Within an outfield stood an only Old beech-tree, lightning-smote, and dead,— Its branches bare, and bleached, and lonely, An eagle built its nest amid. Forsook the mountain's summit hoary, The beetling cliff above the sea, Sought not the forests of Missouri, But sheltered on this shattered tree. And oft to see this noble creature, Many there came from parts thereby, Training its young, as is its nature, To spread their wings and upward fly. Among the rest a student, rambling In woods and meadows, also came, In search of useful knowledge scrambling, Wherever he could find the same. Grace Adam was a farmer's daughter,— Her father had approved her choice; For duty and her feelings taught her 'Twere best to have her parents' voice. Oft as the summer sunset glowing Came down in splendour o'er the west, The lovers forth together going, Would wander to the eagle's nest. And there in courtship sweet and prudent The happy hours fast slipt away;— And often there, too, came the student, To watch the birds at close of day. And so they soon became acquainted, He knew they were betrothed before; But while their future bliss they painted, His object still was to explore. The marriage-day, longed for yet dreaded By maidens fair, at last came round, Grace Adam and her love were wedded, With hope and every blessing crowned. Their home was in a distant city Far, far from where her youth was spent, Where Mississippi's water mighty Pours like a flood that will have vent. And never more the lordly river, Or its green banks, was Grace to see, The dear-loved farm, no more, and never The lonely shattered eagle's tree. New duties claimed now her attention, New feelings rose at name of wife, And as time passed, she ceased to mention The loved scenes of her early life. Some years had gone, and she could gather Her children round about her knee,— Long since in churchyard lay her father, And fallen was the eagle's tree. And now in course of worldly changes Another town their home became; For business oft-times turns the hinges Of man's condition and his aim. And there they settled, growing older, But Grace aright years passing read; For the grey hairs appearing told her Time left its shadow on her head. Years twenty since the farmer's daughter Left the scenes where her youth was spent, Where Mississippi's mighty water Rolls like a flood that will have vent. Within that town broke out a fever, Smiting alike the rich and poor; 'Twas typhus, grim Death's surest lever To turn the churchyards o'er and o'er. Many, o'erborne with grief and watching At couch of those oppressed with pains, A hurried hour of slumber snatching, Woke with the fever in their veins. Spared not the children or the father, Passed not the anxious mother by, In one swift grave the parents gather Their offspring with them as they lie. Lamented many a one his dearest Borne to the house whence no retrace, Mourned high and low for friends the nearest Soon carried to their resting place. A time of gloom, and doubt, and terror, A time of sorrow and dismay; The breath of death upon life's mirror All ghastly and infectious lay. A time of judgment, when God's dealings Make the most careless cry to Him,— A time to try the human feelings,— When even Hope grows faint and dim. Just at the last, when near expending Its baleful force ere sped away, Grace caught the fever while attending A smitten neighbour as she lay. Grief in the house but late so cheerful, Pain on the heart but late so light, Her husband and her children tearful Watched o'er her sickbed day and night. Beat low the pulse with languid movement, And stopped the functions of the brain, No sign her eye gave of improvement As day and night return again. Hastened the Doctor, if yet human Aid might avail to save her life, He saw and knew the suffering woman, Although not as a wedded wife. Years twenty since the farmer's daughter Had met the student at the tree, Where Mississippi's mighty water Rolls like a full flood to the sea. Bent near the Doctor then, and laid he His hand upon her wasted breast, And with low cheerful whisper said he No more words than "the eagle's nest!" The change was sudden and amazing,— Opened her eyes and closed again, And like the keel of vessel grazing The ground, grated her teeth in twain. Gasped a long breath, as if a struggle Were going on, as night with morn, No sound made but a low faint guggle, Like cry of infant newly born. A smile passed o'er her features sunken, Grasped she the hand beside her then, Remembrance, just as one half-drunken, Strove to retrace its course again. Ah! then came back the well-known faces Of her young days upon her mind, The scenes of long ago, in traces All clear and full and well defined. She saw her father as he taught her Her youthful lessons at his knee, Where Mississippi's mighty water Rolls like a full flood to the sea. She saw her mother too beside her Long, long since taken to her rest, And then, as opened Memory wider, She stood beneath the eagle's nest, With him she loved, in courtship prudent, And of love's sweetest cup she drank, She saw again the youthful student,— All that came after was a blank. Thus ever Memory touched can bring time, With its past feelings into light, And thus the sweet joys of her spring-time Came rushing thickly on her sight. Thus, too, doth roused Imagination Vibrate the tender chords that bind The wide links of Association Within the chambers of the mind. Then turned the fever, as the meeting Of the free air upon her brain, Her pulse resumed a quickened beating, Revolved the wheels of life again. And day by day she gained new strength then Beneath the Doctor's care and skill, Able to quit her bed at length then, 'Twas this she loved to talk of still, That when Death's dart did o'er her hover, And she could find no sleep or rest, 'Twas this that made her to recover, The simple words, "the eagle's nest!" (9)
THE ADVENT OF TRUTH. A time there is, though far its dawn may be, And shadows thick are brooding on the main, When, like the sun upspringing from the sea, Truth shall arise, with Freedom in its train; And Light upon its forehead, as a star Upon the brow of heaven, to shed its rays Among all people, wheresoe'er they are, And shower upon them calm and happy days. As sunshine comes with healing on its wing, After long nights of sorrow and unrest, Solace and peace, and sympathy to bring To the grieved spirit and unquiet breast. No more shall then be heard the slave's deep groan, Nor man man's inhumanity deplore, All strife shall cease and war shall be unknown, And the world's golden age return once more. And nations now that, with Oppression's hand, Are to the dust of Earth with sorrow bowed, Shall then erect, in fearless vigour, stand, And with recovered freedom shout aloud. Along with Truth, Wisdom, her sister-twin, Shall come—they two are never far apart,— At their approach, to some lone cavern Sin Shall cowering flee, as stricken to the heart. Right shall then temper Justice, as 'tis meet It should, and Justice give to Right its own; Might shall its sword throw underneath its feet, And Tyranny, unkinged, fall off its throne. Then let us live in hope, and still prepare Us and our children for the end, that they Instruct may those who after them shall heir, To watch and wait the coming of that day.
LINES,
SUGGESTED BY A WALK IN A GARDEN. Balmy as the dew from its own blossoms, And soothing as the fragrance it creates, Comes the sweet influence of this summer eve To my o'erchargËd heart—there is a breeze Moving amid the foliage, soft and low, As cradled murmur from a babe asleep. It is a time for holy thoughts to spring, And contemplation fill the awakened mind. Lo! a bright sunbeam stands 'tween heaven and earth, Taking its farewell look ere day departs, And seeking still to light the gloom below, As Hope,—even when the darkness comes, and Joy Hath fled,—to cheer the heart, still lingering, smiles: And when it goes,—ah! no, it ne'er all goes:— The sunbeam fades, a moment, and its light, All shed, dies still-born, swiftly shone and o'er; But Hope, blest Hope, ev'n when it seems away, Is near, evermore near, it cannot live Apart, 'tis wedded to the soul for aye,— God joined them twain, and nought can sunder them,— Near, ever near, and ever bringing peace, Groping among the dark things of man's spirit, And shedding o'er the troubled mind its light, As a stray ray of sunshine wanders 'mong The shattered arches of a fallen ruin. Ere sunset leaves the world, and sinks behind The illumined ocean, let me muse awhile. 'Twas in a garden that that hideous thing, Sin, first was born accurst, and now all through The wide wide universe it ranges fierce. Where man has placed his foot its trace is seen. The serpent's slimy trail is everywhere, Disfiguring, polluting, and destroying, Death following in its track inseparably. But oh! my soul be humbled, yet rejoice;— It was, too, in a garden that the great, The only all-sufficient, all-atoning Propitiatory sacrifice for sin Commenced its consummation, when the Man Christ Jesus swat for thee great drops of blood, (Even he, the Second Person of the Godhead,) And prayed in agony that the cup might pass, If so his Father willed; but none on earth Or yet in Heaven could drink it, none save Him; And when the sacrifice was all complete On Calvary, and satisfied was Justice, Mercy and Hope held out their hands to man, And, in Christ's name, showed him redemption's way. The shame and misery that Adam felt In Eden's garden, when the first great sin Was challenged, was as nothing to compare With the deep agony which on that night,— That dreadful night in which he was betrayed,— Our Surety felt, when in Gethsemane He took upon himself to pay the full Ransom and penalty of that first sin Which Adam sinned, and all his race in him. Of that first sin did Adam put the blame On Eve, "the woman whom thou gavest me." Eve on the serpent shifted it, and proud Was he that he had circumvented both, Doomed on his womb to crawl in dust, and bruised His head by woman's seed, short-lived his pride.— Christ took upon Himself the sin and all Its anguish, nor like Adam vainly strove To shift it to another, knowing well No other could redeem it but Himself. Sinless, a sacrifice for sin, that sin Might from the souls of men be washed away. 'Twas for that sin, and its infeftments wide That Jesus died, that its entail cut off Might be from Adam and his lineage, far As generations yet to come extend, And man restored to his lost paradise. No flaming sword waves at its portals now, Entrance to bar to the redeemed on earth; No angels guard the gates to keep them shut, But open ever are they to the elect, And there bright angels stand, with joy To welcome all who come in Christ's name in. But now the sun hath bade the world good night, And gathering darkness warns me to my home.
SONNET.
SUNSHINE. On the old forest, bright the sunrays play, And from the boughs hang, tinging the green leaves With golden light that downward interweaves, Past branch and stem finding itself a way; And on the greensward, and among the fern, Some trace of sunshine still we can discern, A sunbeam's scattered droppings gone astray Among the wild-flowers, where they nestle close Within the long grass, or the woodland moss, Making for Earth a dress with colours gay. Oh! on our pathway thus may sunshine fall, And like the little flowers, our hopes still bloom,— A share of it at least, if not it all,— To light the darkness and to cheer the gloom.
SONG.
AT E'ENING, WHAN THE KYE WAR IN. At e'ening whan the kye war in, An' lasses milking thrang, A neebour laird cam ben the byre, The busy maids amang. He stood ahint the routin' kye An' round him glowered a wee, Then stole to whar young Peggy sat, The milkpail at her knee. "Sweet Peggy, lass," thus spoke the laird, "Wilt listen to my tale?" "Stan' out the gate, laird," Peggy cried, "Or you will coup the pail: "Mind, Hawkie here's a timorous beast, An' no acquent wi you." "Ne'er fash," quo' he, "the milking time's The sweetest time to woo. "Ye ken, I've aften tauld ye that I've thretty kye and mair, "An' ye'd be better owning them Than sittin' milkin' there. "My house is bein, and stocket weel In hadden and in ha', "An' ye've but just to sae the word Tae leddy be o' a'." "Wheesht, laird," quo Peggy, "dinna mak' Yersel a fule an' me, "I thank ye, for yer offer kind, But sae it canna be. "Maybe yer weel stocked house and farm, An' thretty lowing kine, "May win some ither lassie's heart, They hae nae charms for mine; "For in the kirk I hae been cried, My troth is pledged and sworn, "An' tae the man I like mysel', I'll married be the morn'." The laird, dumfoundered at her words, Had nae mair will to try'r; But turned, and gaed far faster out, Than he'd come in the byre.
STANZAS
ON A BUST OF MARSHAL NEY, Presented by the Prince De Moskwa to Donald Sinclair, Esq. Edinburgh. There stands the hero, "bravest of the brave," A name well earned, that he to whom alone Ney, second, scarce to him, in glory shone, After a hard fought day in honour gave: And ever shall his laurels greenly wave,— Still flourishing with time, for time can ne'er Blight his deserved renown not even there,— Over his bloody and untimely grave. Where flew the Eagle in its wide domain, There was he ever foremost in the fight, Leading his band of heroes, strong in might, To conquest still,—In Switzerland and Spain, And where the Rhine, majestic to the main, Through many fertile lands, doth proudly flow, His prowess won applause, even from the foe, Midst blood and carnage on each battle plain. High rose his genius with the tide of war, His country's annals of his valour tell, Impetuous as the torrent, when the swell Of waters fierce pours onward from afar, And sweeps before it every stop and bar: Where'er his sword flashed, with its sunlike ray, There victory followed closely on the way, And danger's track was marked by many a scar. Rednitz and Neuwied well his courage knew, When yet his early deeds foretold the fame That soon would throw a halo round his name; Manheim and Hohenlinden felt it too, And Elchingen and Jena found him true, Eylau and Friedland, names of high renown, Moscow and its retreat, his glory crown, Which paled not even at bloody Waterloo! Immortal warrior, could France reward Thy mighty deeds but with a traitor's death? The shame is hers, not thine; thy latest breath Was for thy country, and as one prepared Thou met'st thy fate, as soldier should on guard: And still shall time, with every rolling year The more thy memory to France endear, And mourned thy fate shall be by patriot and bard. Thy death has left a blot upon the fame Of Wellington and England, ne'er to be Removed or justified,—alas! that he, Who with a word thy safety could proclaim, With callous heart refused to speak the same. The deed, like that which stained, with blackest ray, Great Nelson's honour in Palermo's bay, Our history records "with sorrow and with shame." (10)
WINTER. Written at Two-Waters, Herts, 11th January 1840, for a Lady's Album. Come! we will wander to the lone hill-side, And, awe-struck, view the winter in its pride;— Crispy the grass and scant; The little flowers have vanished, not a trace Is left of blossom on pale Nature's face:— Restraint lies mighty on the stream—it sings No more—dead, dead now,—like all other things; The trees, as spectres gaunt, Or churchyard monuments, all scattered stand, As if they mourned the bareness of the land,— Meagre as pallid want. Where be the fairies now, the little fays, That dance in buttercups in summer days, Though only Poets view Their gambols in the flowers and in the rays Of noonday, which the common sight gainsays, To Fancy ever new! The grasshopper is gone. Ah, me! can death Have will to stop its modicum of breath? Swift fly the clouds, why should they fly so swift? Come they like Angel-spirits, with a gift Of mercy to mankind? In this drear time, the heart asks where are they That tell of sunshine being on the way? The harbingers of light and genial heat, That make the meadows and the valleys sweet When softly sighs the wind: Make rich the upland grass to mountain goat, When balm and beauty through the ether float, Like gossamer reclined. Oh! for a cheerful note from blackbird—gone, All gone, the songster and his song are flown; There's nought to cheer the ear. Oh! now to list the mavis in the wood,— The psalms of Nature's singers, always good, Bring solace to the year. Oh! for one glimpse of sunshine, to remind The Earth of summer, ever bland and kind.
HUMAN CONDUCT. Why is it that the heart of man So full is of vagary, That when he's told what's right, he jerks The rein, and does contrary. Like skittish horse, or stubborn pig, Or other self-willed creature, That in the public highways shows Its vile and perverse nature. There's many a lesson taught to man, But little does he mind them, Many's the warning given to him,— He throws them all behind him. But let me a short tale relate Instead of moralising, You'll prize it more, I dare to say, Than any such premising. The sun was shining on the hills, The countryside looked sweeter, And brighter and more beautiful Than I can tell in metre. It was the spring-time of the year, That pleasant balmy season, When freshness passes o'er the earth, And come the buds the trees on. When Nature young looks, and is young, But though she dresses gaily, The time grows old, for Time, like man, Grows older daily, daily! Ah me! that men should be so weak As not to read the lesson,— Ripe fruits are offered them, but they The garbage love to mess on. One day along a country road With hedge and hawthorn bristling, A country lad was passing, and In merry mood was whistling. Stout was he and his joints well knit, And firm as time-tried timber, But light withal and agile too, No sapling yet was limber. Anon a horseman came that way Who sat on horseback rarely, This the horse knew as well as he, And so had bolted fairly. The young man eyed him as he came And was by no means idle, For as he passed he leapt in front, And caught him by the bridle. The horse reared back, and with the shock His rider fell right over Among the mud, and well for him The place was soft as clover. Brought to his feet, without a hurt, But all o'er very muddy, He thanked the lad, well-pleased to find He sound was and unbloody. He was a thin spare man, and past Mid-life, and looking sickly; Not that his health was touched at all, Or that his limbs were weakly; But he had been for many years In towns a constant dweller, Confined to business close, and this On health is oft a teller. He had an eye for bales and goods, And turnings of the market; But for the country's picturesque, His shadow rare did dark it. He rode out had to breathe the air, And give his nerves a bracing, His steed unruly had become, His horsemanship disgracing. The countryman pulled up some grass, No readier thing appearing, And rubbed him down in ostler style, The mud from off him clearing. And then for having saved his life,— To cut my tale the shorter,— He offered him, as a reward, To take him as his porter; And if he showed capacity, To give him education, To make him fit in course of time, To fill a higher station. The youth agreed to't, for he thought, (While handing back the bridle) He'd like the change, besides just then He happened to be idle. In Glasgow busy city now, Behold this country clown bred, First porter and then junior clerk, And learning to be town bred. Years passed, the sun shines once a day, But days make years, and every Sun that rises counts one, thus time Flows on, as water rivery. Through all gradations of the desk The youth, still true and steady, Had risen till, from senior clerk, He partner was already. The merchant now, as commerce had To counting-house long held him, Resolved to take his ease at last, And came to business seldom: The junior partner and head-clerk Care of the cash-box keeping, While he himself had chosen to be What's called the partner sleeping. The countryman, no longer young, Had toiled both late and early, And gained some wealth, and 'twas his boast That he had won it fairly. But with it he had learnt betimes And aye the more the faster, Some of the city's ways that were Not pleasing to his master. He ne'er had married, and was fond Of being hospitable; For 'twas his pride always to have His friends around his table: And so extravagant became, To feasting much addicted, And rich wines drinking, which of course His income much restricted. One night his master was in town And heard he had a party, An old man now, not wanting sense, But humorous and hearty; Yet this he to himself oft thought, He thought that 'twas a pity, His clerk should spend his money in Thus feasting all the city. And so resolved to call on him And bring him to his senses, Not by a lecture commonplace Of prudence and expenses: But by a something which he had, A sort of old memento, That in his judgment was well worth Of lectures grave a cento. It was a frosty night, and there Had been a fall of snow on, The slippery streets required great skill And caution them to go on. With but one fall, he reached the house, The entrance well he knew there, Sudden and unexpected burst Amidst the jovial crew there. The gas burnt clear, the host looked blue, And not the lights, as use is When one particular guest appears That no one introduces. He said, "Lies the skeleton frost On one street and another, "I tripped and fell, and where I lay One skeleton hugged his brother. "His breath is on each pane congealed, Cold enters through each portal, "How my teeth chatter with the cold, A sign that we are mortal. "What's this, a banquet spread and rich, The wines all bright and glowing, "No thought of this when you I met Along the road-side going." He then produced a bundle which He opened with derision, And singly held up the contents To their astonished vision. There was the wellworn hairy cap, The corderoys to back it, His host had owned, and there too was His former fustian jacket. These were the clothes the country lad Had on at their first meeting, And these he now brought forth to be To him his present greeting; That he might pause in his career Of jollity and revel, Lest in his age, reduced he should Be to his former level. 'Tis strange that human conduct oft So reckless is and hollow, That when the right path reason shows, It seeks the wrong to follow. The master having said and done, Quick vanished from them after: The host attempted at the time To turn it off with laughter. Next morn reflection made him take The hint,—and to be brief then,— Though roughly put, 'twas kindly meant,— He turned o'er a new leaf then. MORAL. To be of any use, reproof Still strong should be and home put, A lecture grave or saying wise The mind is quickly from put; Instead of gen'ral moral saws, Facts personal lay stress on, And like a surgeon probing deep, Reform is in the lesson.
COURTSHIP LINES. Oh! let not sorrow cloud thine eye, Or doubt oppress thy heart, For love, like truth, can never lie, Nor truth, like love, depart. To be mine own, I've chosen thee, From all the world deems fair; And I've vowed thine own to be, Then wherefore cherish care? Thou canst not think a love like mine, Could e'er to thee cause pain; Or make thy gentle heart repine That it has loved in vain: Thee still mine eyes desire to see, Like sunlight from above; For all my heart is full of thee, And all my heart is love.
LOVE-WEAKNESS. I canna' get my mouth about it, It lies so deeply on my heart, That aye when trying to divulge it, My thoughts fly somehow all apart. Were I to learn the best confession That e'er by pen of man was writ, To try to speak it in her presence I should not have the power or wit. As in the rose's opening petals Devotion pure is ever spread, So in the flushings of my countenance She my heart's feelings must have read. Oh! gladly anywhere I'd venture, Dare anything to prove it true; But to disclose my ardent passion Is just the thing I canna' do. I canna' get my mouth about it, It lies so deeply on my heart, That aye when trying to divulge it, My thoughts fly somehow all apart.
LINES
TO THE REV. HENRY DUDLEY RYDER, On reading his volume, entitled "The Angelicon, a Gallery of Sonnets, on the Divine Attributes, and the Passions, the Graces, and the Virtues." Thy strains, sweet poet, have the power To give a solace to the mind, What time the clouds of sadness lour,— Like sighs of thine own "lyrËd wind." For when thy page I deeply trace, Where thoughts and fancies thickly throng, It brings to mind free nature's grace, Where wood-birds tune their mystic song; And pleasant streams in ways remote, Where sweetest music loves to reign; Where solitude gives birth to thought, And thought is born of thought again; Visions of earth, the pure and bright, As poet only hath divined, When high-toned genius pours her light, Upon the rapt and feeling mind. Well hast thou sung the grace and love Th' Almighty deigns bestow on man, When seeking mercy from above By His own sole appointed plan. And well, too, hast thou shown the sway The passions have o'er mortal kind, Avarice, Ambition, Jealousy, And other turmoils of the mind. These, like the rays that burst from heaven, Shine brightly forth in verse of thine, For the proud gift to thee is given, To charm, to waken, to refine. Go on thy way, thy song must claim, From a dull world its ardent praise; With saintly Herbert's twine thy name, And bind with Herbert's verse thy lays.
THE POET. I was told yesterday by one with wise Solemn aspect, and wrinkles 'bout his eyes, That poetry is an idle trade, alack! He had a good black coat upon his back, And deemed himself respectable,—he said, too, That he who verses writes will never do Well in the world, that his character is gone, And he himself no better than a drone. So having said he walked away well pleased;— Now that's a man, I say, whose mind's diseased. Has he in summer ever watched a rose Burst into blossoming, and as it grows More and more beautiful, sweeten all the air With its rich perfume,—poetry was there. A sunbeam thrown across The clouds, that makes them glow With light ineffable To eyes from earth below; A small wave of the sea When the vast ocean waits The coming of the storm, That slightly agitates Its surface passing,—as When of danger near First made aware, the roused Lion, though not in fear Looks up, the watchfire then Kindling in his eye, His mane scarcely as yet Moved, nor erected high His head, but his proud glance Circling keen, rapid, stern,— There poetry is seen By one that can discern. A priest of Nature's own, One she herself ordains, The poet walks in brightness, And still new blessings gains. The sky above hath in it More beauty to his sight, Than to the world it shines In its canopy of light. The flowers his kindred are That grow in fields remote; They waken in his heart The pure wellsprings of thought: They speak to him alone With low and whispering voice, Like gentle maiden to The lover of her choice. And none but he can tell What is it that they say, For a most sweet communion Is their's to cheer his way. The ocean in its vastness, He loves, too, as he sees It driven by the tempest, Or slumbering in the breeze. It brings into his vision The coming of that day, When Time within Eternity Shall merge itself away. The forest trees antique Are his familiar friends, With the spirit of the woods His own for ever blends: And voices of the past, With fancies of old times, Do their murmurings recall Which he fondly puts in rhymes. Echoes of distant lands Beyond the western sea, Or in the burning east, Where'er they chance to be, Are brought to him at night And cheer his spirit then, When sleep forsakes the eyes Of care-worn worldly men. And ever for his kind Doth his spirit warmly yearn, And his verses speak of things Which only he can learn. The human heart, and all Its feelings, hopes and fears, All that it fondly loves, All that it blindly fears, Its sympathies, affections, Its duties and desires, All that its doubts foreshadow, All that its pride inspires, Its sorrows and its faintings, Its buoyancy and glee, Its passions and its promptings, Its truth and constancy; He knows, and can depicture, For of the human mind He is the chosen minister, The prophet of his kind. Such, yea and more, the poet is, Had he had a choice Of destinies, if in his fate Had been heard his voice; It might have been so that he had Been a worldling born, And looked solemn like his scorners, And had gravely worn A black coat too, of fashion's cut, And smoothed trim his beard, And shook his head wisely, and been Sententious, and feared The world's opinion, and condemned Poetry as idle, But in his vocation he can Ne'er his feelings bridle. His thoughts are in a stronger hand Than his own, his mind Has thinks passing in it still, that Cannot be confined: Like the birds flying as they list Through the summer air, Or the clouds driven by the breeze Floating everywhere.
LIGHT AND SHADOW. Shine down, fair sun, on vale and hill, And light each height and hollow;— No shade rests in the air, but still On earth the shadows follow. Grow green, old trees, where'er you may Your festival be keeping;— On branch and stem, on leaf and spray, Decay is slowly creeping. Bloom bright, fair flowers, in wild or mead, Around you all perfuming;— The blight that mingles with each seed, The blossom is consuming. Grow well, sweet fruit, on garden walls, Or in hot-houses hasting;— The sooner ripe, the sooner falls Corruption with its wasting. Flow on, calm river, still flow on With ever constant motion;— Soon shalt thou mingle, all unknown, Forgotten in the Ocean. Play up, sweet music, to the ear, A merry note of gladness;— The chords that lively stricken cheer, Give also tones of sadness. Shine bright, young Summer, o'er the earth, And fill the land with laughter;— Soon Autumn comes to mar thy mirth, And winter follows after. Burn high, fair hope, within the breast, By pleasant things attended;— Misdoubt and fear do still molest Our life, till it is ended. Fill slow, oh! Time, the rounded cup Of numbered hours that's set us; Soon shall our days be gathered up, And even our own forget us. Then shine, fair sun, on vale and hill, On tower and town and meadow;— 'Tis Heaven that sends the brightness still, Earth only gives the shadow.
THE EARLY DEAD. On my youngest Daughter, died 20th March 1845, aged twenty-one months. She rests within her little grave, A bud of promise too soon taken, And wanting the sweet smile she gave, We deem ourselves as if forsaken. Life wore for her no luring guise, She tasted time, and found it dreary, Calmly she closed her gentle eyes, As one that falls asleep aweary: Like to a star whose little ray Is quenched ev'n when 'tis brightly shining; Or as a flower that fades away While yet its bloom tells nought of pining. And when her latest sigh was spent, And fled her spirit to its Giver, We felt as with it also went A lapsed part of our heart for ever. Oh! twice before we knew the blight Upon the heart that deeply falleth, When death for ever from the sight, Of our own life a portion calleth: But though it has the power to slay, Still is this consolation given, It cannot take the hope away That we shall meet again in heaven. There is a place of rest above, A home for children there provided, To which away from earth, in love Their guileless spirits still are guided. And when our hearts with sorrow sink And our weak eyes are sore with weeping, 'Twill soothe and cheer us still to think That they sweet watch are o'er us keeping. And in the dark and lonely night, When sleep our eyelids have forsaken, We'll see again the faces bright Of our three babes so early taken.
A DIRGE. Mourn for the untimely dead! Early blossoms quickly shed! Soon taken to their long long rest, Now there waves The green grass thickly o'er their breast, On their graves. Neither care nor sorrow now Leaves its trace upon their brow, Nor can pain them more molest, For there waves The green grass thickly o'er their breast, On their graves. Little flowers their heads begem, But they cannot look at them, For death's cold hand their eyes have prest, And there waves The green grass thickly o'er their breast On their graves. Winds sigh through the shadowing trees, Summer brings the hum of bees; But no sounds can their ears invest, Where there waves The green grass thickly o'er their breast On their graves. Still they lie in their low beds, To sleep till the last morn sheds Its light upon their place of rest: Now there waves The green grass thickly o'er their breast On their graves.
A BENEDICTION. God bless thee! is my fervent prayer, At morn and eve, from day to day, Ev'n as thou tend'st, with anxious care, Thy children dear with love alway. God keep thee ever in His grace, And still new mercies on thee shower, Ev'n as thou fold'st in thy embrace Thine infants tender every hour. God love thee, with the love he shows Still to his own, in earth and heaven, Ev'n as thou lov'st, with true love, those Who to thy keeping have been given. God guide thee still through all thy days, And let no evil on thee light, Ev'n as thou guid'st and guard'st the ways, Of thy dear offspring day and night. God comfort thee in all thy grief, And ever thy sure Hope remain, Ev'n as thou comfort'st with relief Thy little ones in woe and pain. God cherish thee throughout thy life, In weal and woe thy guardian be, Ev'n as a mother and a wife Thou still hast cherished them and me.
HEALTH. Oh! what a thing is health to lose, And what a prize to gain, Most valued when the spirit woos Its coming back again. After long days and restless nights, Reclined on weary bed, How sweet when first its blessing lights Upon the aching head. Its coming turns the life, as doth The ocean with its tide, Or as the spring renews the growth Of what Earth's stores provide. Power, fame, and with them cherished gold, That form man's constant aim, All would be gladly overtold Its halcyon bliss to claim. It passes life and death between, From heaven's own portals borne, Like the sweet under-light scarce seen That parts the night from morn. An emblem of the peace that springs, To chase away all strife, An earnest of the grace, that brings Life to the inner life.
THE GAME OF LIFE. Watching the game of life as daily played, One marvels at the blunders that are made; Few trust to chance alone to gain their aim, But with the means they use 'tis just the same. Low cunning some employ, and call it skill, Or substitute for Reason headstrong Will; And when they win the prize for which they strive, To their own genius they the credit give; But when they lose, the blame on fate is thrown; They never think the fault may be their own. Others who boast that cunning they disdain, Affect by Pride their purposes to gain; High-reaching objects do their minds devise, By which they blind their own and neighbours' eyes; Aiming at lofty things, they highly rate Their own designings, but they find too late That for success mere unassisted Pride Does not all necessary means provide; So thinking surely to promote their aim, And win the stake of their ambition's game, But not particular as to how 'tis played, They call, Pride's contrast, meanness to their aid: Yet ev'n though Fortune should their hopes attend, It does not change the matter in the end; Meanness and Pride may climb the highest hill, But Pride and meanness they continue still. Since Life's a game where all their part must play, Reason and Truth should in it have the sway, Or wanting these, as is too oft the case, Folly and Passion will usurp their place. When this weak body dwindles into dust, And man becomes the nothing that he must, How puny then will to the soul appear All that man toils and struggles for when here! Bound to the narrow aims and views of Earth, At death his spirit finds that all is dearth That to this world relates, and well that he Makes Time provide still for Eternity.
CONSUMPTION. Like monumental Patience, see Decay Watching the sand-glass slowly wear away, While Death at hand, amid her waning powers, Counts, as a monk his beads, her numbered hours. Upon her brow, o'er which the tresses wave, The cold dew gathers, dankly, of the grave, And in her pale mild eyes a lustre shines, As if her spirit, as she wastes, refines; While ever and anon her sunken cheek, Life's fading beauties delicately streak; As the departing sun from ocean's brinks Sheds out its glories brightly ere it sinks!
CHANGE. Grief and change and sure decay All on earth are doomed to know, What the Past's memorials say Must the Present undergo. Time but shifts his glass about, And the sands their aims adjust, In Creation's bounds throughout All that is returns to dust. On the bud and on the flower, On the child and man grown grey, Change is passing every hour, Death has set his snare to slay. And the feelings when they glow With a taste of joy intense, Soon a tinge of sadness know, Dimming quickly all the sense. Vainly do we strive to keep Such scant solace as we feel, Blight unseen on all doth creep, Pleasures hidden stings conceal. Weary soon become the things That at first make glad our way, And To-morrow never brings The same joy we knew To-day. Toil exhausts, and strong Desire Wasteth both the heart and head With its strugglings, as the fire Fastest burns the more 'tis fed. Life is all a chequered score, Death and Time direct the chess, One hath not a triumph more, Nor the other one the less. Thus amid Mutation's range, Man, impatient of relief, Learns himself to long for change, Even though bringing with it grief.
VIRTUE. He was a sage old man who said, While in the public way he stood, Virtue is best of all, because Without it there is nothing good. He was no stoic who thus spoke A word so practical and true, Nor sophist that would grandly say What he would ne'er attempt to do: But one of those wise heathen men Who Reason followed as a guide, And by it he was learned a truth So humbling to mere human pride. Yet even to him, with all the lore Philosophy amassed of old, Was the full meaning all unknown Of what unaided Reason told. A wiser man than he hath said, By God's own spirit taught the same, That wisdom is the chiefest thing Deserving of man's fervent aim. Wisdom and virtue both are one, And only are attained aright In their whole fulness and intent, When sought in Revelation's light. By it the sage old heathen's word In all its breadth is understood; Wisdom is best of all, he said, Without it there is nothing good. (11)
VAIN HOPES. Vain is his labour who begins to sow, Ere he has well prepared the soil below; And vainer still his aim who hopes to win To Heaven, before repenting of his sin. Weak is his wish who looks for full crops grown, Who has prepared his land and no seed sown; But weaker still his hopes who thinks to win To Heaven, with mere repentance of his sin. To till the land and lay it out for seeds, And yet none sown, will bring forth nought but weeds; And wanting grace to fill, the void within Breeds, with self-merit, all presumptuous sin. Fruitless his skill who would a vessel steer Without a rudder to direct and veer; More fruitless still his aim who seeks to win To Heaven, when wanting prayer for light within. Hopeless his task who seeks to safely go, Without a chart the dangerous rocks to show; More hopeless still his aim, who seeks to win To Heaven, when wanting faith to lead him in.
THE VALLEY OF LIFE. In the still midnight hour I sat alone Within my chamber, sunk in reverie, No sound disturbed my musings, all was hushed In silence and in sleep, the light near done, A dim uncertain flickering threw around. The waning fire was but a heap of ashes, While there and there a feeble red remained, That now and then threw out a fitful gleam. Something like slumber fell upon my eyes, And a dream passed o'er my spirit stealthily, As, in the early grey of morn, the mists, Gathered in masses, up the hill-sides creep, Ere they dissolve before the sun away. Remembrance cannot all its features tell, Though vivid and particular they seemed When that dread vision on my senses came, And I could trace the shadowy details, As one might mark a phantom army march O'er its last field of battle, ere it passed, Into obscurity,—could note it then,— But afterwards cannot recall the place, Order and rank, of each brigade and file. Methought I stood upon a bare hill-top, And overlooked a vast and fertile plain Peopled with many multitudes,—there met Men of all tribes and nations that the globe Holds in its wide extent, of every kind, The Mongol, the Malayan, and the Negro, The red American and Caucasian fair. Among them Evil strode ubiquitous, And threw its shadow wheresoe'er it came. Its Jackal, lewd Temptation, went before, With angel face and soft alluring eyes, While close behind Guilt, Anguish, Care, and Pain Followed incessantly, and left on all Their mark impressed as with hot iron seared. As then I looked upon the scene below, Meseemed that wheresoe'er Temptation came, And she came everywhere,—no spot escaped,— That many, most indeed of these vast crowds, Themselves threw madly in her way, and sought To win her smiles, nor deemed them poisonous; And once within her meshes, few had will To fly them, or to manfully resist, As a strong man confronts his enemy, And strives to overthrow him where they meet;— And she the while assumed all shapes and moods That suited were to their intents and aims, For, with a penetrating eye precise, Intuitively still their minds she knew, Tendencies and dispositions, and wore,— As snares in readiness she had for all,— The very guise adapted for their lure, But carefully concealed the stings they bore. Disease and sorrow on her victims fell, Too late they felt the curse that is entailed On all who to the Tempter yield, and thus Become an early prey to Evil, whose Inheritance is misery and woe. And I beheld some 'mongst the various crowds Who stood aloof from her, and would not be Entangled with her witcheries or wiles. These with a resolute will refused to come Within her reach, and so escaped the first Of Evil's followers, Guilt, though more or less, They had their share of what the others left Behind,—Care, Pain, and Anguish,—for the doom Pronounced on Man was on them, but they knew That these, to all who hold out to the end, With a pure conscience and unspotted mind, To their endurance will be tempered still, And, in due season, turn to lasting good, Which to their spirits consolation brought. The valley watered was with goodly rivers, Upon the banks of which were many met. Prudence was one, and on its grassy sides Sat some who, calculating every chance, A deaf ear to Temptation, when she came, Turned, unseduced from their proprieties. Repentance was another, near it lay Those who Remorse felt and a wounded spirit, Seeking relief from agonising thought And racking self-reproach. Beyond these two Was Perseverance, where returning health Was found by all who there due time remained. And farther still, with borders ever green, And fresh flowers ever springing, ever new, Were two sweet rills, Virtue and Faith their names, Where peace of mind was known and purity: And those who sought their banks,—they were not few, Though, midst the mighty myriads around, They seemed but small in number and select,— Remained unshaken in their constancy, Resisting all enticements of the Tempter, And gladly following the path of duty, Which brought to them a sure and high reward. On these, whate'er their griefs and trials were, And they had many, to refine their souls, And make them nobler after victory, Enduring hope and perfect peace abode. But whereso'er I looked besides, was seen The power of Ill, shedding on all who bore The fated impress of humanity, Torment and fear, and bitter agony, And pain intolerable,—At the sight My spirit shrank, and, starting, I awoke!
AFTER-THOUGHT. Man values many things far more Than their own worth told o'er and o'er, Computed at its highest score. He counts his gold with anxious care, As his whole heart's desire were there, And hoards up treasures for his heir. He gives his labour, time, and health, To add still something to his wealth, And life enjoys as if by stealth. When pleasure's mood his thoughts employ, He plays with every passing joy, Just as a child does with its toy. He does not to reflexion call What after reckoning may befall, For how he has possessed them all. In the lapse onward of his years, Ere age or grief his spirit sears, He keeps no note of hopes or fears. Nor does he estimate his days, That each its after-mead conveys, Whether for censure or for praise, As they deserve especially, Each day it is his lot to see, As bearing on futurity. At night he tells up all his gains, The more he gets the more he strains, Or at his losses he complains. And then, as one who does his best, He folds his arms upon his breast, And with contentment takes his rest. Thus daily should he estimate His bygone hours, and calculate Their good or ill upon his fate; That when his days all vanished have, They may no bitter reckoning crave,— There's no renewal in the grave.
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