Christmas at the Hall,
The Hero’s Grave; Night Musings,
And other Poems,
BY T. J. TERRINGTON,
Author of “WELTON DALE,” etc.
“And verses vain, but verses are not vain.”
SPENSER.
London:
LONGMAN, GREEN, AND LONGMAN.
Hull:
JOSEPH W. LENG.
To
Samuel Wilderspin, Esq.,
The Founder of Infant Schools,
The Promoter of General Education,
And a Friend of
Liberty and Truth:
This little volume is affectionately inscribed by his
Son-in-Law,
The Author.
Christmas at the Hall, &c.
Preface.
The author of the present volume has had for many years an intense and
almost insuperable bias towards poetical composition. This has often
been restrained rather than encouraged; but particular circumstances,
that need not here be detailed, have from time to time compelled to
the cultivation of the propensity, and made him desirous of striking
out, if possible, a path into the literary world, or at least trying
to ascertain his real strength in that arena. Nearly twelve years ago
the poem of “Welton Dale” was written for such a purpose; but a want of
self-confidence, and a perhaps unnecessary fear of unfair and severe
criticism, acting on a sensitive temperament, caused it to be withheld
from publication. As stated in the preface, its recent issue resulted
from a conversation with the Hull Publisher, having especial regard to
the printing of the present work; but had it been foreseen, at the time
of writing, that it would have met with such a favourable reception as it
has so far done, undoubtedly it then would have been given to the public.
This book was mainly written, and is issued solely as an experiment,
to see how far criticism and public feeling may adjudge the author to
possess poetic talents, which, if properly cultivated and assiduously
applied, might be capable of producing works of a useful character and
beneficial tendency. Fame is a secondary consideration with him, and
he only desires it as an indicator that another sphere of usefulness
and suitable occupation may be before him; for he has the feeling
strongly, that if this publication should in whole, or in part, meet
with encouragement, approval, and hopeful criticism, he should perhaps
not be very long in producing something of a higher and more permanent
character. The origin of “Christmas at the Hall” was simply a desire to
link together into one piece, a few separate poems on different topics
and in different metres, so as to manifest versifying acquirements; and
it was thought this might be done in the form of a Christmas family
party, as well as in any other mode. It was begun at the close of last
September, and amid many interruptions, concluded at the commencement of
the present year; but when the first half dozen pages were written, the
author was as little aware of precisely what would follow as the reader
will be when he has proceeded no further. “The Hero’s Grave” also was
written during that period, and intended to be done, a considerable time
before the Laureat issued his Ode on the same subject, or it was even
thought that other writers would be sure to take up the theme. The series
of sea-pieces commencing with “Dane’s Dyke,” were composed during the
early part of last autumn, and “Night Musings,” nearly a year previously;
shortly after which the other small pieces alluding to Christmas, and
several of the sacred poems were written. Thus it will be seen that the
chief bulk of the volume is of recent composition; but the rest of the
pieces bear various dates, one or two of them going so far back as
almost twenty years. Considerable time and diligence have been expended
in revising the whole whilst passing through the press; but most probably
some typographical and minor errors have escaped notice, which may be
avoided in future, should the writer happily be called upon to gain yet
further experience in authorship.
In the lower grades of nature, instincts and propensities seldom miss
of their aim and accomplishment. But with man this is not always the
case; and therefore the author places little confidence in those deep
yearnings and instinctive longings to be a poet, which from time to time
have, uncalled for, possessed his mind; particularly as in other things
during past life, he has had to experience, like many other people, much
disappointment, and much of that “hope deferred which maketh the heart
sick.” It is not often that he has given utterance to these aspirings,
and the only three pieces set apart to them ever composed, are inserted
together, under a full confidence that they will not be mis-read, but
taken in the spirit intended. The last one, “Love of the Lyre,” page
176, originated thus:—The writer was seated in Dane’s Dyke one “balmy
day of” August “weather,” composing the lines that bear that name, when
so pleasing, so congenial was the occupation to his inmost nature, that
he could not but turn aside from the work, and give utterance to the
new feelings prompted—the little piece literally burst forth from him.
The remark may be needless, but the lines on Wilderspin were composed
long before the writer had any notion of possessing that relationship
to him which he now so happily holds; and he sees no grounds in this
for suppressing them. They were a tribute, during the early period of
first acquaintanceship, which but feebly conveyed the deep sense then
entertained of the excellence of his improvements in education, as shewn
in his “Infant System,” and his arduous and devoted labours in furthering
them as recorded in the “Early Discipline.”
In conclusion, if I am not worthy to follow, even at a great distance, in
the wake of those
“Bards triumphant born in happier days,”
I have no wish to do so; but if the present volume merits encouragement,
and still further, if it offers hope and expectation for the future,
I trust such will be given me, so that I may have firmer grounds for
devoting myself diligently and assiduously to the Muse, in order, if
possible, to rise to something better,—a work that would, indeed be to
me, a “labour of love.”
_Lister-Street, Hull, March, 1853._
Contents.
PAGE
Dedication V.
Preface VII.
Christmas at the Hall 1
—— The Social Hearth 45
—— Passing Thoughts on Love 49
—— Lucy 53
—— Sonnet to the Master-Minds of Earth 61
—— Love of Spring 63
—— Fidelio and Lenore 67
—— —— Serenade 70
—— —— Troubadour’s Song 74
—— —— The Melody 78
—— —— Canzonet 82
—— Elegy on Edith 86
Christmas at the Hall, conclusion 88
The Hero’s Grave 102
Sonnet to Harriet Beecher Stowe 107
Night Musings 108
The Sailor’s Bride 113
Birth of the First-Born 116
Lines to a Great Philanthropist 118
Wye Dale, Buxton 121
Rydal Water—addressed to Wordsworth 122
Sonnet to Elfrida 125
The Mountain Height 126
Farewell to Elloughton 127
Killiney Bay 131
Descent of the Dove 133
Lines to a Butterfly 135
Stanzas 136
Dane’s Dyke, Flambro’ 137
A Sea-Side Wish 138
The Sea Bird 140
The Voice of the Sea 141
The Fisherman 142
The Head-Land 144
The Storm-King 146
Farewell to the Sea 148
Lines to the Sun 150
The Muse 152
Song—Young Spring 153
Autumn 155
The Reaper 156
The Widow 158
The Blind Musician 159
Hope 160
Lines to a Young Child 161
Ballad 162
The Old Man’s Smile 164
The Village Church 166
Elegy 167
“In Memoriam” 169
Lines for the Bazaar in Aid of St. James’ National Schools, Hull 172
A Poet’s Aspiration 173
Lines Suggested by a Review in the “Hull Packet” 175
Love of the Lyre 176
Christmas Bells 177
Christmas Carol 178
Angels Appearing to the Shepherds 180
Christmas Thoughts 182
New-Year Thoughts 184
Birth-Day Lines 185
Affliction 187
Hebrew Melody 188
The Starry Heavens 189
Omnipresent Power 190
Providence 191
Angelic Visits 192
Joy in God 194
The Great Object of Life 195
The Close of Life 196
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring happy bells across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
...
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
Tennyson.
Christmas at the Hall.
The morn was gloomy, and the russet earth
Gave to the eye a landscape drear and dim;
The clouds, low hung, seemed resting on the hills
Fraught with unusual weight, and cast around
Deep shades of blackness o’er each swelling peak,
By leafless woodlands clad; along the vales
The farmsteads glimmered, and the fields around—
Some grey with stubble, some with scanty grass
Pinched yellow by the cold, and some dark brown,
Where recent ploughshares had turned up the soil,—
A varied scene presented to the eye,
But sombre all, and sad. Not that the earth
Hath aught of sadness, but at all times gives
Some beauty to the mind, e’en when the smile
Of sunshine and fertility least glows
On her rich countenance, for then she speaks
In tones prophetic to the heart, and tells
Of secret strength preparing to bring forth
The gifts and bounties of another year.
The hollow wind moaned wildly through the trees,
And waved their solemn branches to and fro
In endless motion. Scarce a single leaf,
Scarlet or golden, olive or red-brown,
Adorned the forest, save where gloomy firs
Stretched their red arms, or melancholy pines
Reared their tall pyramids of foliage black,
Filling the dusky scene with deeper shade,
And adding darkness to the clouds of heaven.
The naked branches of the hedgerow elms
Lashed wildly round, and threatened to cast forth
The jetty masses of the old rook nests
Lodged midst their topmost twigs. The withered leaves
Coursed swiftly o’er the ground, and danced about
In strange fantastic coils, and eddies wild
Like whirlpools in a river. Heaven and earth
Foretel a coming storm, that soon will clothe
The naked landscape in a robe of white,
Until it shines more beautiful and pure
Than fleecy cloudlets o’er the sun-bright sky.
How calm and peaceful, e’en amidst the gloom,
The simple village looks! With aspect south,
From a hill-side of mild declivity,
It gazes sweetly o’er the meads below,
Through which a winding river, o’er mossed stones,
Makes pleasing murmurs. All the cottage roofs
Are clad with rustic thatch, and round their doors
In summer time, the climbing plants creep up,
And make sweet scented bowers. A garden-plot,
For use and beauty, is assigned to each,
Which industry’s firm hand, by pleasing toil,
Arrays in loveliness so rich and bright,
It seems a nook from paradise. But now
In tidy order they await the spring
To make them bloom again. Amongst the trees
That rise in stately tiers above the roofs,
Along the hill-side steep o’er steep, the smoke
In light blue wreaths, from every chimney curls
With ample convolution, giving note
Of snug warm hearths, and comfortable homes
Where winter is not feared. The lattice-panes
Shine clear and bright, and to each flitting ray
Give keen reflections, whilst their cheerful glance
Bespeaks the reign of cleanliness. O’er all
There broods an air of quiet and content
Of peace, of plenty in that lowly sphere
Where heart meets heart in pure simplicity
Unchecked by station, and unchilled by wealth.
Oh that the earth of such calm homes were full!
And such fair villages adorned the plains
In countless numbers, where the labouring poor
Might live respected, and respect themselves!
Who is a hero,—he who daily fights
The fearful hosts of poverty and want
With industry’s strong sword, and wins the spoils,
The honourable spoils of raiment, food,
And kindly shelter to make glad all hearts
Around his hearth. No stately cenotaph
Of costly stones is to his honour reared,
But yet he owns a richer monument,
Built up of kindly thoughts within each mind,
That justly thinks, and loves the really great,
The honest and the true. How much of good,
One being can perform, whose heart delights
To see all prosperous round! And here dwells one
Who scatters blessings with a liberal hand,
Directed wisely by a mind discreet,
That seeks the greatest good. He strives to give
Employment to each hand, and due reward
To each that labours. With new thought to swell
The poor man’s stock of knowledge, that his work
May yield a richer harvest; to instil
Instruction varied on his craving mind,
That it may be matured, to bear the flowers
Of pure and simple pleasure; and the fruits
Of profit and utility. To sow,
To plant, to prune; to plan, frame, rear, and build;
To watch the seasons, to enrich the soils,
And do unnumbered things to multiply
The simple comforts of their quiet homes
Have each been taught. And still a higher lore
Has thereunto been added; that which tells
Of man’s immortal destiny, and seeks
To elevate his thought to higher good
Than earth contains, and holier principles
Than this world’s maxims; that the heart may love
In just equality each fellow-man,
And bow with holy reverence and joy
Before the throne of Light; and thus become
More pure and happy, and a citizen
Of higher worlds whilst sojourning on earth.
And who is he who wisely ministers
To all the wants of poor humanity,
Each in its kind, and strives to scatter round
Throughout his sphere the purest happiness
That earth can own? Sir Arthur, at the Hall!
To him belong the fertile acres round,
To him the village; but he holds them not
In pomp and pride and narrow selfishness,
But as a man amongst his fellowmen,
Knowing and feeling that his hand hath power
To curse or bless, and with determined heart
He chooses blessing. With an eye that beams,
As with parental love, he looks on all,
The young, the old, and with a kindly voice
Speaks words of warm encouragement; or gives
The needed counsel, or the calm rebuke.
His words are ever welcome; e’en the churl
Who meets reproof, does so in quietness,
Straight thinks thereon, and turns him to amend.
All look upon him with respectful love
And firm devotion. Never hero bold
Of ancient feudal times, who led along
His faithful vassals to the battle field,
To crown them with renown, and win proud fame,
Was e’er encompassed with such fervent hearts
And such dependent zeal. He leads them on
To purer triumphs, conquests more benign;
They overcome not to spread round them tears
And misery and death. The wars they wage
Are with the stubborn soil; the wreaths they win
Are fruits and flowers. The triumphs they attain,
Are over ignorance, and want and sin,
Which bring their meed of pleasure and of peace.
The old Age had its heroes, and the new
Must have its heroes also. Men of thought,
Of knowledge and of skill, whose ample minds
Are armories of wisdom to supply
The need of lesser minds, and lead them on
All strong and mighty to the coming war
Of truth with falsehood. Times have greatly changed;
And errors and traditions growing dim
Flicker like fleeting mists. Their power is gone,
And hearts are yearning for the morning beams
Of pure, unsullied truth! When will arise
The mighty Prophet, radiant with light
To lighten nations; to lift up mankind
From petty sects and systems, groveling thoughts,
Vain dreams, false policies, and bring them forth
To bask serenely in truth’s cheerful light
United into one? Man’s heart hath hope,
By prophecy upheld, and though he long
Hath tarried for it, nigh two thousand years,
Yet now the dawning seems to streak the east,
All things are stirring, slumberers awake,
And watchers peer into the rising day!
Thus much in passing! Ere we enter in
That antique Hall, more fully to attain
A knowledge of its owner, all whose acts
Are works of goodness, and whose pure life breathes
The spirit of rich charity: We’ll trace
A ready path across yon meadow-field,
To where, in solitude and calm repose,
The village church rears up its ancient spire
Above surrounding trees. Its antique walls
Are softly tinted by the hand of time
With varied hues, all chastened and subdued,
But exquisitly beautiful. Each arch,
Each massive column, and each window quaint,
Compels to thoughts of long-passed, hoary days
And human ancestry. Oh where are they
Who reared that tower, and they whose voices woke
The first deep echo from those sacred walls
By sounds of holy minstrelsey? And they
Of generations, each succeeding each,
Through the long current of a thousand years,
Down to the last whose bones were hither brought,
And o’er whose grave of brown and roughened soil
The grass hath not yet crept? “They sleep in dust,”
“They slumber in the ground”—’tis thus we speak,
And by such speaking we in thought forego
The glorious truths of immortality;
The birth-right of the soul! What sleeps in dust?
What brought we here to slumber deep in earth?
The living spirit or the soulless clay?
That thing of thought, that seeing, hearing mind,
That living active being first had fled,
And left its husk rejected. This alone
Was hid in earth, to veil it from the sight
Ere severed by corruption, part from part,
And scattered widely to the winds of heaven,
Or cast abroad through earth. Then let not thought
Stop chained below, or buried in the grave,
But bearing upwards, as with eagle flight,
Behold earth’s habitants assembled all,
Contemporaneous in the spirit-world,
The great, the grand receptacle of life,
Where all live unto God, for he is God
Not of the dead but living. Each one there
Is gathered to his fathers, not of flesh,
But of the spirit. Like is linked with like,
The pure with pure; the evil, filthy, vile,
Are with their fellows. As the tree has fallen
So it lies. Oh contemplation great,
Sublime and aweful; yet enriched by hope,
Where faith is strong in God’s Redemptive love,
And knows his Providence, from evil brings
A birth of good. The sorrows, pains, and cares
Of outward life, oft deeply work within
To purify the spirit, and exalt
To holier thought and feeling. Let none then
Pass judgement on his fellow, but in love,
And fitting charity. The inward life
No human eye can read; or what that life
May yet bring forth. Then let us judge ourselves,
And looking round on things that make us mourn,
Console our spirits with the glorious truth
Christ hath not died in vain! Though in the grave
The spirit lies not, and the form of clay
Is soon dispersed amid the elements,
Yet in the church-yard, or the place of tombs,
Fraught with mementos of the ancient past,
Our thought is strengthened, and the links re-bound
That join us to the dead. We there revive
Old loves, and sweet affections, purified,
Refined, and softened; and go forth to life
More calm in spirit, and with brighter hopes.
The threatened storm advances—snowy flakes
Fall thin and waving to the half-froze ground,
Then slowly melt. They soon in quick descent
Must seek the earth, and whirling densely down
Shut out the landscape, and array the scene
In gorgeous raiment of unsullied white.
But ’ere this chances ’twill be well to seek
The hospitable shelter of the Hall,
And gain a certain welcome. Christmas-tide,
So full of joy and open-hearted love,
Finds there a liberal reign. But do not think
A few more steps will bring us to some seat
Of wealth and stately grandeur, whose high lord,
Just scatters round his superfluity
And blesses as by chance. No marble walls,
No colonnades, no proud magnificence,
Have now to greet us, but an antique home,
Not spacious, but of ample size for all,
The needs and elegance of cultured life.
Far down yon avenue of noble limes,
That spread their leafless branches broad and free,
You may behold it. Pointed gables rise
And straight tall chimneys rear themselves aloft
In strange variety, and by their forms
Bespeak a mansion that for centuries
Has held a worthy hearth. Though winter broods,
The park around looks beautiful, and shews
The strictest neatness, and incessant care;
For many hands here labour, not alone
To please the owner, and delight the sight,
But that they each by honest work may gain
An independent home, and eat therein
That sweetest of all bread—the justly earned!
And though Sir Arthur has a taste refined,
A sense most delicate, a mind alive
To every beauty, native or of art,
It is not merely to regale this taste
That such pure elegance and order reign,
But rather that his feeling heart thereby
May spread a due prosperity around
Through every grade, and thus he strives to give
Unfailing work to all within his sphere.
Before the mansion a broad terrace spreads,
By steps ascended, and quaint balustrades
With pillars, globes and urns, engird it well.
And in the centre, most grotesque of form
All richly carved, a massive sundial stands
To mark the hours. Most ancient horologe
That gives a tongue to nature, and compels
The mighty sun to measure out the time!
Below the terrace, on a velvet lawn,
There stands a fountain, where a cherub boy,
Carved in white marble, beautiful as life,
Holds proudly high a waterlilly’s bell,
Whence springs a copious shower of silver rain
To drop in music, mid the pool below,
And fill the air with murmurs. Here and there,
In open spaces, or mid spreading trees,
Pure statues stand, or elevated busts
Of men renowned, whose mighty deeds or songs
Have blessed mankind. Nor is there wanting here
Some sweet embodiments of Grecian thought
And ancient fable. The bright water-nymph,
Pure as the fount; or that enamoured youth,
Who gazed for ever in the crystal well
Entranced by his own beauty. Clumps of trees,
Some in the hollows, some upon the knolls,
Give rich variety; and through the dell
A winding river sweeps, now polished bright
Like some fair mirror, and anon in foam
As beautiful as snow, from dashing down
A rocky shelf, or gushing o’er mossed stones
With playful freakishness. Thick woods enclose
The outskirts of the park, with frequent breaks,
Through which the sight, well pleased, may wander far
O’er distant lands, and view the soft blue hills.
The quaint stone carvings, round the massive porch,
Along the gables, cornices and sills,
Have lost their sharpness, softly moulded down,
But not defaced, and time-tints cover all
With pleasing richness. O’er the once bright brick
Grey hues are dappled, and give harmony
That blends the building with the ancient oaks,
Planes, beeches, chesnuts, whose outstretching arms
Give shelter and protection. Entering in
The lofty vestibule, the eye perceives
A mixed array of ancient armour, swords,
Pikes, shields, and banners, antlered heads of stags,
Brave hunting horns, with arrows, bows, and spears,
And other relics marking the career
Of different ages—freeborn forest life—
The reign of chivalry—bold sporting days—
Down to the quiet of the present time
Of peace and fireside comfort. Many rooms,
To link the present with the past, unchanged
Retain their ancient fashion, some are framed
To modern elegance in style and form.
Ancestral thoughts! they fall upon the mind
Like twilight shadows, or the first fresh dews
That cool the earth! As some soft pensive strain
Of mournful music, heard at sombre eve,
Recalling early joys, so they recall
Dim visions of the vanished. Who can pace
An oaken old apartment, dim with years,
And not re-people it again by thought
And bring the past before him? Youthful forms,
Arrayed in early beauty, mid the joys
Of feast and dance and song, who soon became
Themselves the parents of a race as bright,
And passing onwards to life’s calm decline,
In honourable age, with aspect mild,
Sat hoary-headed by the hearth to watch
Their children’s children act again the sports
That once were their delight. The voices heard
In olden times, within such walls, no more
Will echo softly there, but virtues bright
May be re-copied, or revive again
As fresh plants spring from seed. The great, the good
Might thus become immortal on the earth
Beyond their immortality of fame,
And live a second deathless life enshrined
In thoughts and deeds of men. It is the pride,
The true, the noble pride of ancestry,
When man, on his forefathers looking, strives
Their virtues to re-build within his soul,
And make their goodness his. Thus would he bear
Their shield with honour, and their heraldry
By undisputed right be justly his.
Such is the aim of some, and here dwells one
Whom honour thus engirds. The portraits hung
Upon his walls, Sir Arthur views with pride,
But ’tis a pride whose inmost life is formed
Of deep humility. Such words are weak
To truly tell its nature! Joy he feels
That such men were before him; deep desire
To copy out their merits, and adapt
Their sterling virtues to the present age;
And linked with this a sense of feebleness,
Of unattained perfection, chastens down
All exultation, and to gentleness
Subdues his mind. Where’er he comes, his eye
Is bright with pleasure, and pure joy to greet
Each he esteems a friend. His silver hair
Twines thinly round his brow, whose high expanse
Reveals keen intellect; upon his cheek
The hue of healthy age; and that calm smile—
If such it may be called—which ever plays
Like autumn sunshine on the countenance,
Where pure benevolence and holy hopes
Possess the heart. It seems a thing of heaven,
And hath on earth no antitype but when
Some lovely infant, in life’s early bloom,
And calm sweet innocence, in slumber lies,
And smiles amidst its sleep. Yet firmness too,
And dauntless energy, possess his soul
With mighty perseverance. Naught can turn
His steady purpose when assured of right,
Or warp him to the wrong. Yet soft and bland
His manner, and the utterance of his thought
To those who differ. No harsh words destroy
The harmony of truth, or proud looks mar
Its beauty to the hearer. Like to one
Who, mid spring sunshine, sows prolific seed,
He gently scatters round improving thoughts,
And leaves the soil to raise them into life
According to its nature. Thus he wins
The love of all, and the unfeigned esteem;
For those whose maxims are opposed to his
Respect his firm opinion; held they see
In deep sincerity; with deference due
And fit regard to independent thought,
And moral freedom in all other minds.
’Tis not alone amid the villagers
This influence beneficent hath wrought
With elevating power. We might speak
Of public life, and more extensive spheres
Of thought and action, did the time permit
And were occasion fitting. But as now
For some few happy days we dwell amidst
The circle round his hearth; and at this time
Of social joy, and glad festivity,
’Twere better far to give a picture bright,—
Were but my pencil equal to the task—
Of that calm happiness, that tranquil joy,
That interchange of mental pure delight
Which here prevails, and which has risen up
Like some rich harvest ’neath the fostering care
Of such a parent, whose example spoke
More loudly than his precepts. But ere this,
A few quick sketches, of the chief events
That marked his life, and helped to mould its form,
Shall now be made—though feeble to portray
The bright reality, or give life and form
To inward workings of the subtil mind.
Sir Arthur was the sole surviving child
Of him whose name he bears. The other sons
And infant daughters passed away from earth
Like fruit-tree blossoms, beautiful and brief
In their career. The tablets in the church,
Recording ancestry through ages past,
Record as briefly the short time betwixt
Their birth and death. Thus he alone was left
The living centre, where the fervent love
Of two fond parents, could condense its rays.
From budding infancy, the tender care
And sweet affection of a mother’s breast,
Filled his young heart with tenderness. In youth
A father’s wish, and more ambitious love
Gave each advantage, and secured each means
That could advance in life. A home so fraught
With kind indulgence, and where every wish
Within the bounds of reason was fulfilled
Almost as soon as framed was not a school
Best fitted to prepare an active mind,
To struggle boldly with the ills of life,
And combat with its evils. But their love
Rose higher in its grade, than that which thinks
Alone of ease and pleasure and delight.
It far preferred a future happiness
To present joy; and sterling moral worth,
With intellectual wealth, and mental strength,
As man’s chief earthly good. And hence it came
That when his young mind had imbibed at home
Ennobling principles and pious thoughts
To give it strength, their faithful love forewent
The pleasure of his presence to secure
The sterner discipline of school, and bring
Those precepts into action. With an eye
Of keenest vigilance, and heart of care,
They watched his progress, and with rich delight
Beheld the fruits of their unwearied love
Swell into promise. Here he learned to feel,
As one amongst a many, and to know
The limits of his rights, and thence regard
The rights of others. Being much beloved
Amongst his playmates, for a truthful heart,
An amiable temper, and due skill
In many boyish sports; to which was joined
Inventive talent, ingenuity,
Mechanic art, by which was aptly framed,
Things strange and curious, and thus he gained
A fame for intellect, and soon became
A leader of his fellows, whilst his days
Passed on in peace and happiness serene.
When youth was verging into man, he went
To college, that severer discipline,
And study more intense, might build his mind
In knowledge, strength, and vigour. Honours due
Were soon awarded, and he home returned
Well nurtured to take part in public life,
And serve the state whene’er it might require.
The time of leisure had employment due
In lighter studies, caring the estate,
And welcome visits to the nobles round,
That ever won such friendship and esteem
As time could not revoke. Amid the fair,
The lovely and the beautiful, to him
One shone more lovely, fair, and beautiful
Than all the rest; as shines the evening star
Above the brightness of the ether round.
Wealth, station, grandeur, shed their gifts on her
And all their rich endowments. In her eye
There beamed the light of pure and gentle love,
Whilst in her heart the modest virtues dwelt
Calm, soft and feminine; a woman she,
“A perfect woman”—one whose form of soul
Was framed for union with the heart of man
To be its solace, to restore its strength
When wearied with the world; to pour the oil
Of rich affection on the wounded soul,
To heal the spirit, to revive the mind,
And with angelic ministrings restore
To life and health again. Such sway when reign
The storms of trial and adversity,
But through the calm and balmy days of life,
To make his home a temple, and his hearth
An altar, where for ever glowing bright,
The flame of gentle and enduring love
Sheds its clear beams around, and burning fair
Points sweetly up to heaven. When first his eye
Beheld this loveliness, he felt within
A new life waken, and the life gone by
Seemed but a heavy dream. Bright hopes, glad thoughts
And richest feelings stirred within his breast
In joyous tumult. Solitary hours,
And woodland musings, nursed the passion sweet,
Until that Being had become the star
Of his life’s destiny. In hope, in doubt,
In strange conflicting turbulence of soul,
He sought, he sued, he won. One blushing word
Of sweet consent from her pure modest lips
Turned all to peace again, and more than peace,
To ecstacy and rapture! Earth seemed changed
To paradise, and heaven above him shone
With brighter radiance. Happy fled the hours,
All swiftly bringing in their golden train
Their brightest and their best, the hour to seal
This bliss for ever his. The bridal wreath,
The fair attire, the pure attendant maids,
And all the pomp and pageantry that tells
The joy and gladness that awaits the bond,
And consummation of a holy love,
Were each prepared. When ah! the fearful change
Awaiting mortal destinies! A cloud
Spread its black shadow o’er this sunny scene,
And from its bosom, thunder-charged, sent forth
The shaft of death! A sudden illness seized
The young and beautiful. Her bridal train
Wept o’er her bier. And he who should have led
A bride in triumph from the altar, strewed
Sad flowers on Ellen’s grave, and with a grief
Tearless, consuming, in its mighty strength,
Himself seemed death-struck. Agony intense,
Dark desolation of the inmost soul,
And dread prostration of its sympathies
He long endured. The light of life to him
Appeared for ever gone; the glorious earth
Bereft of all its beauties. Cheerless, lone,
He felt as in a desert; naught in life
Could win his spirit to activity,
And social links seemed severed. Soon again
His footsteps rested on the gloomy verge
Of the dark sepulchre. The voice of death
Called that fond parent, who with gentle love
Had nurtured his weak infancy, and she,
With heavenly meekness, listened to the call,
And softly passed from life. He who had sat
Beside the self-same hearth, when auburn hair
Curled round her brow, till now bright silver braids
Adorned her aged forehead, missed the look,
The fair, the placid look of time-tried love
Illumining his home, and though his soul
Held calmest resignation, yet he pined
With secret longing to rejoin in heaven
She who had been an angel on the earth,
In purity and gentleness. The sun
Had scarcely circled round the seasons ere
His spirit’s prayer was answered, and he seemed
To melt from time into eternity,
So peaceful was his end. Thus left alone,
And of all nearest earthly ties bereaved,
A double desolation, cast its gloom
On Arthur’s wounded heart. Though wealth was his,
Titles and honours, they retained no charm
To soothe his broken spirit. In the prime
Of early manhood, just emerged from youth
When life is full of promise, life to him
Had scarce a promise left. Home scenes, beloved
From early childhood, and endeared by thoughts
Of warm affection, only served to pierce
His breast with deeper pangs. In vain he sought
To cast aside his sorrows and arouse
The slumbering energies of mind to snap
The gloomy bonds that fettered. Efforts vain,
Attempts abortive, drove him forth at length
An exile from his country, in the search
Of unknown scenes, whose aspects new and strange,
Could not recall dark visions of the past
To fix them stronger on the memory.
In foreign lands, mid mountain peaks sublime
And desolate rocks, he sought companionship
And soothing solace. Nature’s placid face,
Her calm, her stillness, and her solitudes
Wrought with an healing influence. The song
Of ancient bards, the clear historic page,
Called forth his spirit as the years fled by
From inward cankering. The face of man,
The voice of friendship, and affection’s smile
Again had light for him. But in his heart
There was a hollowness, a fearful void
That naught could fill. The power of love seemed gone,
But yet his soul, yearned ardently for love,
With unquenched thirst. No more could Beauty’s smile
Or her bright glances, kindle in his breast
A living warmth. He would have given worlds
To feel its vital strength revive again
The life of his affections; and to pour
Their freshness on some sweet responsive heart
Linked into one with his. This seemed denied
To him for ever. But the discipline
Of sorrowful years, and agonising thoughts,
Built up within a grandeur of the soul
And purified his spirit. Feelings deep,
Expansive views, and sympathies enlarged,
Had hence a birth. More elevated thoughts
Of human life, and human destiny,
With all its strange vicissitudes arose;
A brighter faith in providence; and hopes
More calm and cheerful; lifting thought beyond
Time’s narrow bounds; to see existence stretch
Far on in realms immortal; and a faith
That pierced the clouds of evil, and beheld
The light of Goodness shining bright above
With vast extense of ray. A loftier life
Seemed now within him, and a cheerfulness
Illumed his countenance; yet like some bold
And dauntless hero, whose deep wounds were healed,
He yet retained dark scars. Life now for him
Revealed some pleasures; and its duties gave
In their performance, solace and delight,
But never more could he have hoped to gain
That freshness of the heart, that warmth of soul
Which glows in faithful love. He oft had sought
To wake such life within him; but he strove
In vain, in vain! Though years had passed away,
He seemed as doomed to carry on through life
A solitude of soul. Returning home
To his paternal mansion, greetings kind
And cheerful welcomes waited him. With firm
Determined spirit, he resolved to fill
His life with deeds of usefulness, and spread
Some happiness around. Whilst thus employed
The days grew brighter, and the hours fled by
On wings of cheerfulness. Upon the hearth
Darkness yet brooded, and a shadow there
Sat undisturbed, and, as he thought, for ever!
Alas for human life, how oft its hopes
Are vain and fruitless! yet the truth to add
Its fears are oft as vain. Forebodings dark
Have no fulfilment, and the things we dread
Are changed to joys and pleasures, like a night
Of storm and tempest that brings forth a morn
Of radience and beauty. Thus employed
In deeds of charity; all thoughts of love
For ever laid aside; Sir Arthur’s life
Passed smoothly onwards, as some stream whose course,
Though clear and lovely, is o’erhung with shade
Of forest boughs, and feels not the full warmth
Of glowing glorious day. As oft a turn
Abrupt and sudden brings the river forth
Along the open plain, a change as bright
Awaited in his destiny. The hour
Of restitution had arrived, and soon,
Amidst the maidens beautiful and fair
That passed before him, moving not his heart
To deep pulsations, one, amidst the train,
Lovely as moonlight on the summer sea,
Awoke a mystic sympathy, and called
To life renewed, the throbbings of his breast.
Her form was beautiful, her eye was bright,
And rosy blushings tinted o’er her cheek
With softest dyes. But yet the beauty there
Sprang chiefly from the spirit, whose pure light
Illumined every feature. On her brow,
Lofty and polished, intellect sat throned
In mild dominion. Modesty’s fair beams
Arrayed the countenance; and holy love,
Benevolence, and purity of soul,
Shone forth with living radiance, and threw
Celestial lustre round her. Gentle, mild,
And bland of manner, calmly she withdrew
From observation like some pale spring flower
That woos the lonely shade. Her aspect wore
The touch of sorrow past, that beautified
And made it still more lovely; like the sky
Revealing fairer hues when summer clouds
To earth have fallen in refreshing rains.
Her heart had known the depths of agony,
And care and anguish. In that deadly strife
The soul had conquered; and she stood on earth
With spirit chastened, purified, subdued,
And strengthened by the conflict. Her light step
Had something saint-like, as, with upward look,
She trod the earth; and her soft mellow voice
Bore music in its tones, as rich and deep
In all its modulations, as if caught
From distant echoes of angelic song.
How strange are human sympathies! and all
The subtle secret workings of the soul
That link us to each other. Oft we meet
Some unknown being, and short converse gives
A knowledge as of ages; then again
Long years of converse cannot bring our minds
In unison with others. We may live
In friendship, kindness, gentle amity,
But yet our hearts are conscious of a power
Preventing inmost union. This is seen
Oft in the intercourse of man with man;
But still more oft, though not less wonderful,
Of man with woman; chiefly where the love
Is pure and perfect, from the inmost mind.
Two beings now, whose spirits were prepared
For union with each other—though each thought
Such thing could never be—together met,
And scarce had met before they felt within
An inward prompting, instinct of the soul,
That their two lives were destined to run on
In one united course. Passion for them
Had lost its fiery power and heedless rage,
And burnt with steady flame. Like summer morn
From rosy twilight, with expansion calm,
Unfolding into day, such was the course
Of their unsullied love. Their hands were pledged
With hopeful promise, ’ere few moons had passed;
And ’ere the seasons once had circled round,
Before the altar of yon village church,
Fraught with old memories of wedded love,
The happy pair confirmed their truthful vows
With sacred sanction. Joyous was the day
Through the glad village, and the ancient Hall
Was filled with loud rejoicings. All things wore
An aspect of rich promise, e’en the sky,
As if in sympathy, shone forth with light
More clear and radiant. The early sun
Rose with keen splendour, and at eve he set
In pomp of gold and crimson. Fleecy clouds,
With rainbow colours, graced the burnished vault
Of heaven’s cerulean azure. Day declined
In hues prophetic of succeeding days
As fair and bright, and sweetly shadowed forth
As by an omen, calmer life had dawned
And happier seasons for that wedded pair.
We may grow old in heart, ’ere old in years,
And share age-wisdom, ’ere its glory-crown
Of hoary hairs hath sanctified the brow.
Whatever stirs the inmost depths of soul,
Arousing thought and feeling, calling forth
Life’s strongest passions, rearing into strength
All free-born energies, more swiftly brings
A full maturity than passing time
And common life experience. Thus were taught
These inmates of the Hall; and thus had learned
To look on life with more discerning eye,
Regarding its true aims, its happiness,
And noblest objects. They had felt and found
Earth’s purest pleasures, dwell in social love
And sweet serenities of home, and not
In gaudy pomp and pageantry and show.
Hence with united aim they sought to rear
To loftier growth each faculty and power,
Each thought and feeling that could beautify,
Enrich and sanctify the homely hearth.
The joys of wealth, its dignity and power
Were not despised. The grandeur it confers
Had due appreciation; but the strength
It lends the hand to scatter blessing round
Was thought its noblest privilege. To give,
With generous freedom to the mild demand
Of true necessity, was deemed delight;
But not to scatter with a thoughtless hand
In very wantonness of teeming wealth,
And think such bounty charity. They knew
The richest benefit their aid could give,
The most enduring, most replete with joy
And noble independence, was the means
To all who sought their aid and sustenance,
To help themselves, and by their native power
Rear their own weal. Such prudent practice spread
That peace and comfort, cheerfulness and joy
Amidst the peasants, and around their homes
Threw comliness and beauty; whilst it gave
A richer harvest for the scattered seed
Of generous gift, and made a little wealth
Produce more goodness and true happiness,
Than fortunes lavished with imprudent zeal
And indiscreet deficiency of thought.
Sir Arthur had just passed the middle term
Of “three score years and ten,” when full of hope
Renewed, and cheerful thought, with joy he led
His fair bride from the altar. Every day,
As time rolled on, gave precious proof that hope
Was not unfounded. Brighter grew each hour
Of his expanding life, whilst now he found
The strength of purpose, and the joy of heart
A kindred spirit gives; as thought with thought,
And feeling with deep feeling, swiftly rose
With sweet coincidence in either breast.
And thus their path of life ran smoothly on
Unvaried in direction, like a stream
Whose waters pure had hitherto been led
Within two separate channels; but anon
In peaceful union joining, henceforth pass
Straight onwards o’er some sunny, flowery plain,
To mingle with the ocean. Not that life
For them was destitute of cares and tears
And piercing sorrows; but those fearful pangs,
That tear the heart, and lacerate the soul,
No more were theirs; and having known of such,
And borne with resignation, fortitude,
And hopeful patience, now the lesser ills,
The common pains of life, struck not so deep
Nor with so fell a shock, as arrows glance
Aside from sturdy breasts in armour cased,
And shake not by impinging. Round the hearth
Their richest joys were clustered. Oft at eve,
In converse sweet, enriched by love’s dear tones,
The hours fled gladly by, as on the wings
Of woodland birds rejoicing. Now the muse
Of history would unfold her living page
And make the past the present; and anon
Some work of fiction, writ with moral aim,
Would stir their spirits, as with truthfulness
It shewed the workings of the human heart
And uttered wisdom whilst it gave delight.
Full oft the music of the poet’s page
Would spring to life again: his numbers sweet
Translated into vocal harmony, and thoughts
Transcendent, eloquent, impassioned, bright,
Revealed by living lips. Thus noble minds
Of bygone ages, or of modern date,
Moulded their spirits to a lofter thought
And more exalted feeling. Kindled thus
In kindly concert, to like sympathies
And deep emotions, their united hearts
Grew to more strict similitude, and beat
More perfect in their unison. A bliss,
So calm and sweet, so purely of the soul,
Enriched their life, that earth to them resumed,
Full oft, amidst its shadows and its clouds,
A radiance as of primal paradise.
Twice had the sun’s benign prolific ray
Enrobed the earth with harvest, since the hour
When bridal peals made all the village glad,
And gave a mistress to the vacant Hall,
To dwell there in her beauty, when again
The old bells uttered forth as rich a strain
Of heart-arousing melody. A Son
Was born to carry down that ancient line
To future generations, and all hearts
Rejoiced in sympathy with that glad hope
Which swelled each parent’s breast. The passing years
Gave now a daughter, and anon a son,
Till six fair children filled that home with glee
And childhood’s happy laughter. Each grew up
From innocent sweet infancy to days
Of blossoming youth. The elders now have reached
Life’s prime maturity, and one alone,
Fair Edith, ranking fourth in age, hath been
Translated to the heavens. One spring hath passed
On its gay flowery path, since earth received,
When twenty summers had adorned her brow,
Her mortal vestments, and the spirit fled
To the bright regions of immortal life.
The first-born bears his father’s honoured name;
Matilda, Alfred, Eva, and Lucrece,
Mark out the rest, and each one duly shares
In nature’s gift of beauty. Mind and form
Are of the highest, and amidst them all
Great likeness and great difference prevails,
Giving a oneness with variety,
Like forest trees of diverse branch and leaf,
Or sweet flowers intermixed in form and hue.
Oh! what a change, beneficent and fair
Some thirty years have wrought! The vacant hearth,
Deserted by its owner, lone and drear,
Is now illumined by the happy looks
Of many radiant faces. Stillness deep,
And mournful as the charnel, brooding there,
Is now exchanged for music far more sweet
Than harp or viol; voices breathing forth
Affections purest tones, rich words of joy,
And sprightly laughter from the gladsome heart!
How rich the happiness Sir Arthur feels,
And how enhanced, when with the dreary past
Contrasted. His unfolding lot in life
Seems like a plant, whose form in winter months
Lies buried deep in earth, but in the spring
Puts forth green shoots, expands its swelling buds,
And through the summer multiplies fair flowers
All beautiful in sunshine. Grateful thoughts
And holy aspirations, crowd his breast
And give a blessedness, a joy, a peace
Not often known on earth. As every child
Was ushered into life, his heart enlarged
With love’s divine affections. His delight
And steady aim was to prepare each mind
For usefulness in life, for well he knew
It was the shortest path to happiness:
To mark each talent and each faculty
In its first opening, and to bring it forth
By fitting cultivation; to supply
Of intellectual food the purest, best
And most ennobling; to rear into strength
Each moral purpose, and direct the will
To loftiest objects; and above the rest
To elevate the heart by cheerful hopes
And prospects sweet of immortality,
Till fervent love, and reverent piety
Glowed in each breast; such was the constant mode
Of teaching he pursued, and such he taught
By precept and example, till the lore
Sank deeply on each heart, and every child
In its own individuality, gave birth
To noble fruitage, that repaid this care.
By such tuition it was sought to mould
Their minds to power and strength: but to refine
And add due elegance, the finer arts
Of music, painting, poetry, and song
Were called in aid; and to unbend awhile
And give free recreation, every taste
Had due scope granted—some were left to rear
Fair flowers to beauty; some sought far and wide
Things strange and curious, to store them up
For full inspection; others tried at will
The powers of elements, mechanic force,
Or laws of nature, by experiment
Renewed and oft repeated. Every hour
Had thus its full employment, every heart
Some worthy object, and the day fled by
On cheerful wing, for every mind was gay,
Filled with delight by pure and useful thoughts.
All evil is perversion of the good
Through wrong direction, or by foul excess!
How gaily skips the lambkin in the field
Mid sunshine and bright daises. How the fawn
Bounds light and gladsome o’er the grassy slope
Exulting in existence. Insects wing
Their wondrous measures, music-timed, amidst
The golden twilight. Health and vigour flow