Whose strength is fretted by the cares of mind
As well as toils of body, to renew
His wearied spirits by the livening joys
Awaiting on the dance? Whene’er prolonged
To midnight hours, immodestly pursued,
Or borne to weariness, a thing thus good
Transmutes itself to evil. But not so
Was it perverted at the Hall. Sometimes
When weariness of mind forbad the strain
Attending mental efforts, music’s sounds
Distinct and marked, would summon to the dance
Amid the social circle, or at times
Of friendly meeting it would oft afford
Sweet interchange of pleasure, intermixed
With cheerful converse, modulated song
Or sound of instrumental harmonies.
The power of competition oft unfolds
A latent genius into richer growth
Or more energic action. To bring forth
Each talent to full strength, Sir Arthur sought,
Amid his household, to stir loving strife
And friendly rivalry, by calling all
To execute some task of art or skill
In one department.—Now to picture fair
Some view from nature, or by fancy’s aid
Create a scene of beauty. Now to strive
On their respective instruments, to give
The richest utterance to the magic notes
Of some inspired musician; and anon
To choose a song, each one to private taste,
And then to execute with utmost skill,
And see who won, by free consent of all,
The palm of willing praise. Thus each was brought
To shew some excellence, by right their own,
And feel that they contributed a share
To mutual joy and benefit. ’Tis thus
Mankind are aided by each others skill
And nations linked by wants in turn supplied.
Of all the arts that elevate mankind,
Refine their feelings, and exalt their thoughts
From gross and base conceptions, Poesy
Must reign pre-eminent. It is the next
To inspiration, and almost divine.
From human nature’s inmost depths it springs,
And blends the will and intellect, till both
Give forth their life with strange intensity,
And seek to live incarnated in words
Through many generations. To the terms
Of daily life and common intercourse,
It gives new strength, and o’er their rudeness breathes
Rich music and soft beauty. When the soul
Is sublimated by poetic thought
And raptured feeling, no unnumbered words
Can give fit utterance, but it seeks by song
To tell the harmonies that reign within,
And visions bright reveal. The poet’s page
Is as a casket, wherein he has hid
The treasures of his heart. The talisman,
The magic key which can alone unlock
Such sacred jewels, is a mind attuned
Responsive to his own. Where this is not,
His book becomes a blank, and sordid breasts
Can find no beauty there. How happy they
Whose finer spirits can with joy perceive
The luscious sweetness of the poet’s song,
Partake the grandeur of like noble thought,
And feel entranced with him. The gains of gold,
The pomp of life, the pride of circumstance,
Can ne’er convey such pleasure to the heart
Or give a bliss so pure. To her high bards
The world owes much, and more than oft is thought.
’Tis not alone that they have lit the fires
Of sacred poesy in other breasts,
And taught young bards to touch the lyric strings
To sweet, though meaner music; but the might
Of their high thoughts hath kindled in the souls
Of statesmen, warriors, sage philosophers,
And all earth’s greatest emulative thought
And nobleness of heart. Whene’er the world
Neglects sweet poesy, and dis-esteems
The songs of bards, her holier life burns dim
And flickers in the temple, and the voice
Of prophets may send forth the cry of woe!
Oft when the spirit hath been deeply tried
By grief or love, or disappointment stern,
A healing balsam hath the poet’s skill
Sent forth to soothe such smarting wounds of soul
And still their fearful throbbing. Melodies
Of mournful music, breathing from the heart
A vital sympathy, have given strength
And healed a kindred sorrow; till at last
The unstrung chords within the shattered breast
Have been retuned, and every note restored
Could sound a richer music than before!
Thus was it with Sir Arthur; and the lays
Of ancient bards were blended with his life
And wrought into his being. On their songs
His heart was nourished in his hour of woe
Till strengthened into joy. With reverence deep
He now beheld them, and their subtle power
To give delight, and elevate the soul
By ministries of pleasure. Now he sought
To wake in others, a like sense and taste
To relish their chaste beauties. From its birth
He strove to open in each child the spring
Of freshly flowing poesy. The book,
For his chief teaching, was the glorious scenes
Of ever-verdant nature; sunset skies;
Soft floating clouds; umbrageous forest shades;
Bright stars or flowers; the splendour of the noon,
The gloom of storms; the gorgeous pall of night,
Were each a lesson, that with double power,
Taught Piety and Poetry. Fair twins
And loving sisters are they! sent to raise
Mankind to higher purity of thought
And holier purposes. With cheerful smiles
And love reciprocal, they, hand in hand,
Oft journey on together, noting well
The true and beautiful in all around.
Whilst Poesy points out the fair and bright
The pure and lovely, Piety will lift
Her hand aloft to indicate the Source
Whence such sweet visions spring; then both rejoice
With kindred raptures, and with keener zest
Seek fresh occasions for exalted praise.
With hearts thus moulded from their early years
And tutored into song, each one hath gained
Some small perfection in the gentle art
Of linking thought with verse. This Christmas eve—
A season dedicate to showing forth
Their loving strife by works of utmost skill—
To grace the festival, each one must bring,
By former compact, an original poem
Wrought out in solitude, from private thought
And inward feeling, so as best to shew
The individual heart. By privilege
Of ancient friendship, from our boyish days,
And love as that of brotherhood, I’ve come
To join the circle by Sir Arthur’s fire,
Partake his hospitality, and share
The social converse round this happy hearth.
Oh Christmas, what a host of sacred thoughts
Come thronging at thy name! The mind is filled
With holy visions of our human loves
Exalted and refined. The charities
Of daily life, of kindred and of home,
Glow warmer ’neath thy sway. With hasty flight
The mind runs backward to more ancient times
And simpler manners, when the pomps of life
Had wrought not such division, but the heart
Of man met that of man, and all rejoiced
As in one brotherhood, at higher hopes
And brighter prospects, given to the earth
By Him who made it. Round the blazing fire
Each family assembled, must’ring all
Their nearest kindred; whilst with social love
And hospitable cheer, mid dance and song
And mirth and minstrelsey, the hours fled by
With joy and brightness, leaving on the heart
A glow more warm than autumn sunshine throws
On corn-clad uplands. Plenty filled the barns,
And teeming stores gave birth to grateful thoughts
And heavenly musings; whilst sweet carols sung
Took up the burden of the angels’ song
Of “peace on earth, good will to man,” and made
A holy joy pervade the sportive glee.
To grace the season, at this ancient Hall,
The feast is held, in the most antique room,
And largest it contains. With wainscoting
Of polished oak, and carvings rich and quaint
The walls are clad. Along the ceiling run
Strong oaken beams that oft each other cross,
Dividing all into compartments square,
With pendents hanging down, adorned with gold
And flower-like wreathings. Pannels here and there
Are filled with pictures, where some classic piece,
Or ancient love tale, gives to modern eyes
The thoughts and feelings in the heart of old.
The noble hearth spreads wide, and glorious flames
Roar up the chimney, as if wild with joy
And laughing at the bitter frost without.
Amid their light the yule-log huge burns red,
Diffusing round a warmth that seems to reach
The very heart and make it happier. Boughs
Of laurel, fitted to entwine the brows
Of heroes, mingled with all evergreens
The season yields, in gay and rich festoons,
Or proud bouquets, adorn the walls around.
The holly, with its grey-green crumpled leaves
And berries bright as rubies, shoots red gleams
Like sunset through a forest. Mistletoe,
The choice of Druids, with its slimy balls
And mystic branchings, fills the pensive mind
With memories wild and weird. All things are here
To link thought to the past; all emblems full
Of rich memento, giving to the heart
Sweet impulses, the while the village bells
Peal their glad music with the same deep notes
That struck the ear long centuries ago.
The group assembled owned the mystic power
Of these associations. Ancient rites,
Time-honoured customs, and the cheerful sounds
All sacred to the season, gave delight
That brightened in the countenance. Not one
But felt the mind o’erflowing with rich thoughts,
And stirred with deeper feelings. But on earth
Pure joy can never reign, whilst death can part
The loved and the beloved. And as around
That smiling family the Father glanced,
And saw one vacant chair, a tear bedimmed
His eye for his lost daughter. On the brow
Of her fond Mother, resignation sat
In peaceful calm, that gave a purer tone
To every word and look. The lively band
Of sisters and of brothers, though the heart
In youthful freshness hath a buoyant spring,
Amid their songs and merry laughter, shewed
Their spirits dwelt on Edith. Converse sweet
And mutual interchange of sprightly thought
Passed on the hours—such hours as leave the mind
More full of love and charity, and gleam
With starry radiance o’er our path of life
When viewed in retrospection. Intervals
Of song or music would beguile the time
And make the moments sweeter. Verses framed
By some skilled poet breathing truth and life,
Where raised to loftier power by the voice
In melody’s deep tones, transmuting them
To heart-enchaining songs. Sweet instruments,
Diverse in sort, combined their varied notes
In dulcet harmonies, and made a stream
Of music as delightful to the ear,
As to the eye a gorgeous bank of flowers,
Where richly mingled every size and height,
And hue and tint, combine their lovely forms
To make the fancy, at the splendid scene,
Straight dream on paradise. The evening’s feast
In rich abundance shewed the liberal hand
Of hospitality. Rare viands, meats,
With varied wines and drinks, o’erspread the board;
But chiefly those which custom, ancient right
And use ancestral, have with willing heart
Devoted to the season. Flowing thought,
The play of merriment, the flash of wit,
Enriched the banquet, whilst o’er all there reigned
The sway of Temperance. She, with cheerful smile,
Gave each enough, the while a graver look
Forbad excess, and by this healthful rule
Increased the gladness of the social meal.
The dearest friends and closest kindred formed
Alone this meeting; such as would delight
To hear the strains of poetry brought forth
By Members of that household, and not deem,
With chill austerity, and critic scorn,
Their bringing forth an effort at display.
Cheered by the pure repast, and seeking now
Some other source of pleasure, all the guests
With one consent proceeded to demand
The promised boon—for boon in truth ’twas deemed,
And held on promise too, since last they met
To celebrate this season. In the course
Of varied conversation on the art
Of poesy, the skill required to make
Words run in music, subjects fit to frame
A song of beauty, desultory talk
On power of language, criticism just,
And kindred subjects; it was then proposed,
Half jest, half earnest, that Sir Arthur should,
With each one of his family, present
A poem as portion of the Christmas feast
When next they met. With merry laugh from all
The challenge was accepted, and the scheme
Of reading then laid down: Sir Arthur first
Should bring forth his production; then the sons
And daughters, each in order of their years,
Should offer theirs; and to conclude the scene,
The Mother chose, with modest diffidence,
To rank the last. Now seated round the hearth
In one vast circle, with the sparkling eye
Of expectation, and the eager glance
Of curiosity, the group are ranged
To have the plan fulfilled. The ruddy glow
Of blazing faggots gives the cheek of youth
Redoubled beauty. As the firelight smiles
Throughout th’ illumined room, its lustre falls
On looks more cheerful still. The lively warmth
That fills the sprightly air, now clear by frost,
Diffuses gladness, and a cheerful sense
Of home-born pleasures—purest of the earth!
Delighted with the scene, as one he loved
And prized beyond all price, Sir Arthur brought
Without delay, his manuscript, and read
In tones that shewed the utterance of his heart,
To auditors attentive, what he’d named—
The Social Hearth.
How oft man looks for happiness afar,
Amid loud tumult, or the din of war;
O’er foreign lands, through distant climes, he’ll roam
To win that pleasure he may gain at home.
Here does the error in its root begin;
He seeks without when he should search within,
And strive to see included in his breast
The seeds of happiness, the germs of rest.
All bounteous nature upon man doth shower
Her gifts of pleasure, with more equal dower
Than we, dim-sighted and unwise, discern,
But by due effort we the truth may learn.
In the charmed circle of the cheerful hearth
Life’s purest pleasures, richest joys have birth;
Where heart meets heart with confidence serene,
Truth smiles in brightness, Goodness rules benign.
How calmly sweet, how soothing to retire
From pains and toils to peace beside the fire;
Whilst round the blaze, true-hearted friends are met,
In whose gay converse we all care forget.
The merry laugh, the simple playful jest,
The soul of gladness in each look expressed,
The wit retorted, and the temperate mirth,
Are like rich sunshine glowing o’er the earth.
Fresh thoughts imparted, truths unknown before,
In freedom given but increase our store;
And each kind feeling with prolific reign
In kindred breasts is multiplied again.
When song or music elevates the time,
The homely dance or poet’s lofty rhyme,
All feel their pleasure and delight increased
By each partaking in the social feast.
When thus we mingle, how it will impart
Feelings more kind and noble to the heart,
Increase its warmth by love unknown before,
And where it has loved, make it love the more.
The sacred psalmist strung his harp to tell
How goodly ’tis in harmony to dwell;
E’en like the ointment poured upon the head,
That to the skirts of priestly vestments spread!
Oh! ne’er should scandal, or detraction mean,
Or words unkindly desecrate the scene;
But all with pure sincerity conspire
To strengthen friendship, fan love’s holy fire.
If thus we meet—if thus in peace unite,
And make each home a temple of delight,
Our hearts will tell us there is not on earth
A place more sacred than the social hearth.
As this sweet strain of poesy came forth,
All felt its truth and beauty. It described
The pleasures now enjoyed, and but portrayed
Such scenes of innocent and social glee
As often filled that room. The feelings pure
Therein expressed, the higher tone of life,
The sweeter charity, unfolded clear,
Was but a transcript of that law which ruled
The spirit of their Host. Whene’er the life
Is tuned accordant to the poet’s song,
And all his actions manifest his lays
The offspring of sincerity, how great
How wonderful their power! And not alone
Its truthfulness was valued; but the skill
In poetry its melody displayed
Surpassed expectance. Each delighted guest
Felt curiosity within him rise
To know what subject would compose the next,
And how it would be treated. Arthur then
Was called upon for his. With roguish look
He begged them all to guess the theme he chose
To render into verse. Some thought it War,
Some Peace, some Honour, some Heroic life,
Some Solitude. At last a venturous voice
Whispered it might be Love. The simple word
Gave birth to pleasant smiles. When does it not?
To old, to young, to those of middle years,
It aye comes welcome. Those who have not known
The power of love, with curious longing hope,
Still wish that they may know it. Those who feel
Its present sway, if they but hear its name,
Have sacred visions to their fancy brought
Of certain curling locks, bright eyes, sweet smiles,
And forms to them angelic. Those who’ve past
That passion’s mysteries, recall with joy
The season of its sway, and dote to see
Young hearts just flitting o’er the selfsame net
By which they were entangled. Is not this
A picture of the truth, all ye who bear
The hearts of warm humanity? The smile
Was not diminished when the heir confessed
Such guess was near the mark. With steady voice,
And gravity maintained by effort firm,
As conscious that the subject well deserved
High thought and lofty sentiment, he gave
A quick recital to a lyric piece
Entitled simply—
Passing Thoughts on Love.
The ancient poets sang a love
Whose spell of wild and fiery power
Ruled men below, and gods above,
And conquered in its burning hour.
The wine-cup’s rich delicious draught
Ne’er maddened more the reeling brain,
Or filled the heart so full, when quaffed,
With ecstacy akin to pain.
Then like a dream it passed away,
A fervid vision of the night,
Till some bright beauty’s potent sway
Awoke again the fierce delight.
Such might be passion’s wayward course
That flashes like the lightning’s gleam;
But ne’er was love, whose fountain-source
Sends ever forth a constant stream.
True love is like the stars on high
That shine with undiminished ray,
And glows all warm and fervently
As does the splendid orb of day.
Naught but the beauty of the soul,
Arrayed in virtue’s peerless dress,
Can pure love waken, or controul
The bosom with its loveliness.
It is the glorious bond of life
That joins two kindred souls in one;
And when they meet, amid earth’s strife,
The same bright path they journey on.
Heart yields to heart a living strength,
And thought to thought increase of light,
Until their happy days at length
Well nigh partake of heaven’s delight.
’Tis not the high and manly brow
Enlinked to beauty’s witching charm,
Can make such deep-soul’d passion glow,
Or keep it from decay and harm.
The pure in heart, the pure in thought,
Alone such inward union gain;
And by the law in heaven wrought
Such souls can never more be twain.
Alas! for earth where love is sold
For station, honour, pride, and power;
Bartered for fame, betrayed for gold,
And often scarcely lasts an hour.
Yet some there be who do partake
A measure of this love divine;
Then such deep love, for love’s pure sake,
Oh may I own, or none be mine!
The smiling look, and cheerful playfulness,
Continued through the piece. But many found
A loftier element pervade the song,
And deeper sentiments than they had deemed
Indwellers of such theme. When he had done
He cast around a furtive glance to see
The influence of his verse. All faces wore
A look of bland approval. One alone
Hung bending down, as if to mark the bloom
Of rosy flowerets in the rich bouquet
That beautified her bosom. Did her cheek
Catch deeper crimson from their loveliness
That made it glow so brightly? Sooth to tell
There was a hue like that of sunset clouds
Which fluttered sweetly there. It might be caught
By strong reflection from those happy flowers
Which hung upon that breast; or it might spring
From thoughts still happier, nestled warm within,
Whose stirring motions made the pure blood flow
More freely o’er that cheek. Were such the truth,
It might betoken sympathy of soul
With those high sentiments, and with the heart
That gave them utterance. Young Arthur long
Had deemed her beautiful, and she to him
Had moved a star of light; but mutual words
Of loving import had not yet revealed
Their hearts unto each other. With a glance
Of quick delight, like to the lambent flash
Of summer lightning, he beheld that blush,
So meek and rosy, and with instinct true
His soul divined its meaning. With a word
Of rapid whisper in Matilda’s ear,
He bad that sister hasten to bring forth
Her promised verse; whilst he awhile withdrew
From the gay circle, that in solitude
He might indulge the overpowering thought
Which filled his raptured breast. His joy intense,
No words could tell; whilst now in soul convinced
That Emma’s noble and susceptive heart
Was his for ever! Shortly he returned
With looks elate, and joys delightful glow
On his proud countenance. When he rejoined
His father’s guests, his sister had not yet
Commenced her promised task. With timid heart
And shrinking feeling, she awhile forbore
In modest diffidence; for she was one
Of tender nature, of affections warm,
And delicately sensitive of soul.
Her truth of heart, and nobleness of thought,
Made her abhor all wrong. Her simple mind,
As clear as crystal, made her ever love
Simplicity in all things. Hence she chose
To frame a ballad of domestic scenes
And their endearments. In a gentle voice,
Replete with feeling, she began to read
A tale of rural life, of fervent passion,
That bore inscribed the humble name of—
Lucy.
Sweet Lucy, in the Pastor’s house
Had dwelt from early years,
The scene of all her childish joys,
Gay hopes, young smiles and tears.
It stood beside the rustic church
Engirt with noble trees;
A quiet nook, a calm abode,
A home for rural peace.
Before its walls with roses twined,
And ivy interlaced,
A lovely plot of cultered flowers
The simple dwelling graced
A rustic fence, with lattice gate,
The sole dividing bound,
Between that garden, fair and rich,
And grassy graves around.
And here, an infant, free from care,
In summer’s jocund hours
Glad Lucy played, as insect blithe,
Companion of the flowers.
To her, amidst the dawning blush
Of life’s unfolding bloom,
The grave was not a thing to wake
A thought of pain or gloom.
Yet well it might—beneath the sod
Her parents both were laid;
The father ere her hour of birth
Was numbered with the dead.
Her mother, pierced with keenest grief,
Heart-broken with deep woe,
Scarce heard the little infant cry
Ere she departed too.
The babe, forlorn, compassion found,
Though kindred she had none;
The Pastor took her to his heart
And reared her as his own.
He childless was, yet with a soul
In children to delight;
To see the love he bore to this
It was a touching sight!
An orphan! O, the very thought
Brings tenderness of heart;
Then what must one so frail and young
To his pure breast impart?
’Twas like some holy vision fair
To see his glance so mild,
His hoary head, his moistened eye,
Bent over that sweet child.
How joyed he at the first clear sounds
Her infant lips could make,
And o’er the first free wandering steps
Her little feet could take.
His friend of life, his wife beloved,
In all felt equal glee,
And joined to rear the orphan maid
In truth and purity.
As feeling grew within her breast,
To them a love she bore
As fervent as an own child’s love—
Yea warmer, deeper, more.
Yet were her parents oft in mind;
A holier thought was given,
And purer love to those she deemed
Her guardians in heaven.
What can so elevate the soul,
Refine its richest love,
As to be linked by kindred’s ties
To radiant worlds above?
A mind so delicate and pure
In learning took delight,
And treasured up each noble thought
And deed with virtue bright.
But chiefly was the Sacred page
Engraven on her heart,
And did to her its lofty hopes,
Its joys, its peace impart.
Thus she who was his highest joy
In childhood’s sprightly day,
Became the Vicar’s cheerful friend
And aid in life’s decay.
How graceful was her lovely form,
How rich her curling hair,
And her cheeks’ hue like rosy beams
Of evening blushing there.
Her gladsome smile’s delicious play,
Her eyes’ entrancing light
Won sweet regard from every heart
And filled it with delight.
Such peerless charms! how could they fail
To rouse impassioned love?
And bind some willing heart in chains,
A captive loth to move.
Young Albert to the village came
And saw the maid so fair;
Then straight resolved to win her heart
A trophy rich to wear.
His manly form, his dauntless look,
His elegance of mien;
A voice that spoke in dulcet tones,
An eye with glances keen;
A ready flow of touching words
To tell a tender tale;
Must they not fire a maiden’s soul
And make a suit prevail?
His words of love! as dew they fell
Upon her stainless heart,
And made it, like fresh fragrant flowers,
To loftier being start.