“But let us hence,” said Marien;
And with the earliest morn,
Within the slender carved boat,
They left the isle forlorn.
A light breeze from the desert shore
Over the waters blew,
And the little boat sailed on before,
Till the isle was out of view.
As friends long parted, met once more,
They sat; and of times gone,
And of the blessed dead conversed,
As the slender boat sailed on.
And as they sailed, sweet Marien
Over the Gospel bent,
And read of joy that is in heaven
O’er sinners that repent;
And of the weary prodigal
Returning bowed with shame,
And the good father hastening forth
To meet him as he came;
And how he bade the fairest robe
Be brought; the golden ring;
Shoes for the feet; and music sweet,
As if to hail a king.
“For this, my son,” said he, “was dead,
And is alive; is found,
Who was long lost: ’tis meet, therefore,
That stintless joy abound!”
“Oh, child of woe,” said Marien,
“Look up, for thou art he;
And round about the father’s throne
Many rejoice for thee!”
“Oh Lord, I bless thee,” said the youth,
“That of thy mercy great,
Thou hast vouchsafed to rescue me
From my forlorn estate!
And henceforth, to thy work of love
Myself I dedicate!
“The meanest of thy creatures, low
I bend before thy throne,
And offer my poor self to make
Thy loving-kindness known!
“Oh father, give me words of power,
The stony hearts to move;
Give me prevailing eloquence,
To publish forth thy love!
“Thy love which wearieth not; which like
Thy sun, on all doth shine!
Oh Father, let me worship Thee
Through life, by gladly serving Thee!
I love not life; I ask not wealth;
My heart and soul, my youth and health,
My life, oh Lord, are thine!”
So spake the youth; but now the boat
The glorious island neared,
Which, like a cloudland realm of bliss,
Above the sea appeared.
Skyward rose sunny peaks, pale-hued
As if of opal glow;
And crested palms, broad-leaved and tall,
In valleys grew below.
A lovely land of flowers, as fair
As Paradise, ere sin
And sorrow, that corrupting pair,
With death had entered in.
A lovely land!--“And even now,”
Cried Marien, “see they come,
Children of love, my brother, now
To bid thee welcome home!
“For these, God kept thee in the wild,
From sinful men apart!
For these, his people, through distress
Made pure thy trusting heart!
“Thy work is here! Go forth, ’mid these
Meek children of the sun,
Oh servant of the Lord, and tell
What He for thee hath done!”
Down to the shore the thousands came,
A joyous, peaceful host,
To welcome Marien back, whom they
Had sorrowed for as lost.
“And welcome to thee, little child!”
They sang forth sweet and clear;
“And welcome to the stranger poor,
Who cometh with thee here!”
And then they brought him silken cloth,
Since he was meanly dressed;
And juicy, mellow fruits to eat,
And perfumed waters for his feet,
And mats whereon to rest.
And ever as they served him,
They sang forth sweet and low,
“Would this repose might solace thee,
These apples cure thy woe!”
And though the twain knew not their speech
Yet well they understood
The looks of love that welcomed them,
Their actions kind and good.
With them for many a year abode
The youth, and learned their tongue;
And with the sound of Christian praise
The hills and valleys rung.
Oh beautiful beyond all lands
That lay beneath the moon,
Was that fair isle of Christian love
Of Christian virtues boon.
A joyful people there they dwelt,
Unsuffering from their birth;
Of simplest life; benignly wise;
As angels on the earth.
And with them dwelt the holy youth,
Their chief, their priest, their friend,
Beloved and loving, for their sakes
Willing himself to spend.
Like to some ancient church of Christ,
From worldly taint kept free,
Lay this delicious isle of love
Amid its summer sea.
But now the work he had to do
Was done; and ere his day
Approached its noon, his strength, his life,
Was wearing fast away.
They saw his cheek grow thin and pale;
His loving eye grow dim;
And with surpassing tenderness
They sorrowed over him.
Old men, and youths, and women meek,
And children wild and young,
Followed his steps with watchful care,
And weeping round him hung.
In flowery thickets of the hills
Sad mourners knelt in prayer,
That God this servant so revered,
This friend beloved would spare.
And round about his feet they sat,
Observant, meek, and still,
To gather up his latest words,
To do his slightest will.
Now all this while good Marien
Had wandered far and wide,
Through divers realms, for many a year,
The hand of Heaven her guide.
And now unto the glorious isle
She came; but on the shore
She saw no wandering company,
As she had seen before.
’Twas Sabbath eve, and o’er the isle
A solemn stillness lay;
A stillness, how unlike the calm
Of many a Sabbath day;
A hush, as of suspended breath,
Ere some great grief began;
For the mournful people silently
Stood round the dying man.
Through the still vales went Marien,
And came at length to where,
’Mid flowering trees, knelt many a one
In agony of prayer.
Onward she went, not many steps,
With heart of mournful ruth,
When, like a dying angel laid,
She saw the holy youth.
With closed eyes and pallid lips
He lay, as one whose life
Meeteth with death, yet waiteth still
The last conflicting strife.
Beside him knelt she on the turf,
And spoke in accents low
Words of strong love, which like new life
Seemed through the frame to go.
He raised himself, and blessing God,
That He of him had care,
And now in his dark trial-hour,
Had sent his angel there;
With low-toned voice, more musical
Than softest lute could make,
Looking upon his weeping friends
With fervent love, he spake.
“Oh friends, beloved friends! weep not,
Nor be oppressed with woe;
’Tis of His will, who doeth right,
That I am called to go!
“Fain would I tarry, but the cry
Hath sounded in mine ear,
‘Haste to depart, the Lord hath need
Of thee no longer here!’
“Even like the Master whom I serve,
I pray ye not to grieve;
But as ye have believed in me,
Also in Him believe!
“I go, but leave you not forlorn,
As sheep without a guide;--
For Christ the unfailing Comforter
Shall still with you abide!
“Oh weep not, friends; a better home
Awaits me, and I go,
But to that home which is prepared
For ye who love me so!
Farewell, farewell! Unto my God,
And unto yours, I go!”
The Sabbath sun went down amid
A golden, cloudless sky;
And the freed spirit, cleansed from sin,
Arose to God on high.
Beneath the trees where he had died,
They buried him, and there
Enwove the flowery boughs to form
A quiet house of prayer.
Long time with them dwelt Marien,
Until she was sent forth,
At the Lord’s bidding to perform
New service on the earth.
Good speed to thee, thou blessed child,
May angels guide thy bark,
’Mid slumbrous calm, ’mid tempests wild,
And o’er the waters dark!
Good speed to thee, thou blessed child--
The angel of the poor--
And win from sorrow and from sin
The world from shore to shore!
OLD CHRISTMAS.
Now he who knows old Christmas,
He knows a carle of worth;
For he is as good a fellow,
As any upon the earth.
He comes warm cloaked and coated,
And buttoned up to the chin,
And soon as he comes a-nigh the door,
We open and let him in.
We know that he will not fail us,
So we sweep the hearth up clean;
We set him the old armed chair,
And a cushion whereon to lean.
And with sprigs of holly and ivy
We make the house look gay,
Just out of an old regard to him,--
For it was his ancient way.
We broach the strong ale barrel,
And bring out wine and meat;
And thus have all things ready,
Our dear old friend to greet.
And soon as the time wears round,
The good old carle we see,
Coming a-near;--for a creditor
Less punctual is than he!
He comes with a cordial voice
That does one good to hear;
He shakes one heartily by the hand,
As he hath done many a year.
And after the little children
He asks in a cheerful tone,
Jack, Kate, and little Annie,--
He remembers them every one!
What a fine old fellow he is,
With his faculties all as clear,
And his heart as warm and light
As a man’s in his fortieth year!
What a fine old fellow, in troth!
Not one of your griping elves,
Who, with plenty of money to spare,
Think only about themselves!
Not he! for he loveth the children;
And holiday begs for all;
And comes with his pockets full of gifts,
For the great ones and the small!
With a present for every servant;--
For in giving he doth not tire;--
From the red-faced, jovial butler,
To the girl by the kitchen-fire.
And he tells us witty old stories,
And singeth with might and main;
And we talk of the old man’s visit
Till the day that he comes again!
Oh he is a kind old fellow,
For though that beef be dear,
He giveth the parish paupers
A good dinner once a year!
And all the workhouse children
He sets them down in a row,
And giveth them rare plum-pudding,
And two-pence a piece also.
Oh, could you have seen those paupers,
Have heard those children young,
You would wish with them that Christmas
Came oft and tarried long!
He must be a rich old fellow,--
What money he gives away!
There is not a lord in England
Could equal him any day!
Good luck unto old Christmas,
And long life, let us sing,
For he doth more good unto the poor
Than many a crowned king!
THE TWELFTH HOUR.
My friends, the spirit is at peace;
Oh do not trouble me with tears;
Petition rather my release,
Nor covet for me length of years,
Which are but weariness and woe;
Resign me friends, before I go!
I know how strong are human ties;
I know how strong is human fear!
But visions open to mine eyes,
And words of power are in mine ear;
My friends, my friends, can ye not see,
Nor hear what voices speak to me?
“Thou human soul,” they seem to say,
“We are commissioned from above,
Through the dark portal to convey
Thee to the paradise of love;
Thou needest not shrink, thou need’st not fear;
We, thy sure help, are gathered near!
“Thy weakness on our strength confide;
Thy doubt upon our steadfast trust;
And rise up, pure and glorified,
From thine infirm and sinful dust,
Rise up, rise up! the eternal day
Begins to dawn--why wilt thou stay?
“Look forth--the day begins to dawn;
The future openeth to thy view;
The veil of mystery is undrawn;
The old things are becoming new;
The night of time is passing by:
Poor trembler, do not fear to die!
“Come, come! the gates of pearl unfold:
The eternal glory shines on thee;
Body, relax thy lingering hold,
And set the struggling spirit free!”
’Tis done, ’tis done!--before my sight
Opens the awful infinite:
I see, I hear, I live anew!
Oh friends, dear friends,--adieu, adieu!
THE BLIND BOY AND HIS SISTER.
“Oh brother,” said fair Annie,
To the blind boy at her side:
“Would thou could’st see the sunshine lie
On hill and valley, and the sky
Hung like a glorious canopy
O’er all things far and wide!
“Would thou could’st see the waters
In many a distant glen;
The mountain flocks that gaze around;
Nay, even this patch of stony ground,
These crags, with silver lichen crowned,
I would that thou could’st ken!
“Would thou could’st see my face, brother,
As well as I see thine;
For always what I cannot see
It is but half a joy to me.
Brother, I often weep for thee,
Yet thou dost ne’er repine!”
“And why should I repine, Annie?”
Said the blind boy with a smile;
“I ken the blue sky and the grey;
The sunny and the misty day:
The moorland valley stretched away
For many and many a mile!
“I ken the night and day, Annie,
For all ye may believe;
And often in my spirit lies
A clear light as of mid-day skies;
And splendours on my vision rise,
Like gorgeous hues of eve.
“I sit upon the stone, Annie,
Beside our cottage door,
And people say, ‘that boy is blind,’
And pity me, although I find
A world of beauty in my mind,
A never-ceasing store.
“I hear you talk of mountains,
The beautiful, the grand;
Of splintered peaks so grey and tall;
Of lake, and glen, and waterfall;
Of flowers and trees;--I ken them all;--
Their difference understand.
“The harebell and the gowan
Are not alike to me,
Are different as the herd and flock,
The blasted pine-tree of the rock,
The waving birch, the broad, green oak,
The river and the sea.
“And oh, the heavenly music,
That as I sit alone,
Comes to mine inward sense as clear
As if the angel voices were
Singing to harp and dulcimer
Before the mighty throne!
“It is not as of outward sound,
Of breeze, or singing bird;
But wondrous melody refined;
A gift of God unto the blind;
An inward harmony of mind,
By inward senses heard!
“And all the old-world stories
That neighbours tell o’ nights;
Of fairies on the fairy mound,
Of brownies dwelling under ground,
Of elves careering round and round,
Of fays and water-sprites;
“All this to me is pleasantness,--
Is all a merry show;
I see the antic people play,--
Brownie and kelpie, elf and fay,
In a sweet country far away,
Yet where I seem to go.
“But better far than this, Annie,
Is when thou read’st to me
Of the dear Saviour meek and kind,
And how he healed the lame and blind.
Am I not healed!--for in my mind
His blessed form I see?
“Oh, love is not of sight, Annie,
Is not of outward things;
For, in my inmost soul I know,
His pity for all mortal woe;
His words of love, spoke long ago,
Unseal its deepest springs!
“Then do not mourn for me, Annie,
Because that I am blind;--
The beauty of all outward sight;
The wondrous shows of day and night;
All love, all faith, and all delight,
Are strong in heart and mind!”
THE POOR CHILD’S HYMN.
We are poor and lowly born;
With the poor we bide;
Labour is our heritage,
Care and want beside.
What of this? our blessed Lord
Was of lowly birth,
And poor, toiling fishermen
Were his friends on earth!
We are ignorant and young;
Simple children all;
Gifted with but humble powers,
And of learning small.
What of this? our blessed Lord
Loved such as we;--
How he blessed the little ones
Sitting on his knee!
THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.
AN OLD SEAMAN’S STORY.
PART I.
I’ll tell ye, if ye hearken now,
A thing that chanced to me--
It must be fifty years agone--
Upon the southern sea.
First-mate was I of the Nancy,
A tight ship and a sound;
We had made a prosperous voyage,
And then were homeward bound.
We were sailing on the Tropic seas,
Before the trade-wind’s power;
Day after day, without delay,
Full thirteen knots an hour.
The sea was as a glassy lake,
By a steady gale impressed;
There was nought for any man to do
But just what liked him best.
And yet the calm was wearisome;
The dull days idly sped;
And sometimes on a flute I played,
Or else a book I read.
And dallying thus one afternoon,
I stood upon the deck;
When far off, to the leeward,
I saw a faintish speck.
Whether ’twas rock, or fish, or cloud,
At first I did not know;
So I called unto a seaman,
That he might look also.
And as it neared, I saw for sure
That it must be a boat;
But my fellow swore it was not so,
But a large bamboo afloat.
We called a third unto us then,
That he the sight might see;
Then came a fourth, a fifth, a sixth;
But no two could agree.
“Nay, ’tis a little boat,” I said,
“And it roweth with an oar!”
But none of them could see it so,
All differing as before.
“It cometh on; I see it plain;
It is a boat!” I cried,
“A little boat o’erlaid with pearl,
And a little child to guide!”
And sure enough, a boat it was,
And worked with an oar;
But such a boat as ’twas, no man
Had ever seen before.
Within in it sate a little child,
The fairest e’er was seen;
His robes were like the amethyst,
His mantle of sea-green.
No covering wore he on his head,
And the hair that on it grew
Showered down in thick and wavy locks
Of the sunniest golden hue.
The rudest man on board our ship
Blest God that sight to see;
For me I could do nought but weep,
Such power had it on me.
There sat he in his pretty boat,
Like an angel from the sky,
Regarding us in our great ship,
With wonder in his eye.
The little oar slid from his hand;
His sweet lips were apart;
Within my soul I felt his joy;
His wonder in my heart.
And as we tokened him to come,
His little boat he neared,
And smiled at all our friendly words,
Nor seemed the least afeared.
“Come hither a-board!” the captain said!
And without fear of ill,
He sprang into the lordly ship,
With frank and free good will.
He was no son of the merman;
No syren full of guile;
But a creature like the cherubim,
From some unknown-of isle.
And strange to tell, his pleasant speech
Was English, every word;
And yet such English, sweet and pure,
As his I never heard.
There were three, he said, who dwelt with him
Within a tamarind-grove;
His parents and his sister young,--
A family of love.
His father, he said, had made his boat
From out a large sea-shell;
“And what a wondrous tale,” said he,
“I shall this evening tell!”
His robes, he said, his mother had wove
From roots of an Indian-tree;
And he laughed at the clothes the seamen wore,
With the merriest mockery.
When the little child had stayed with us,
May-be an hour or so,
He smiled farewell to all on board,
And said that he would go.
“For I must be back again,” said he,
“For me they all will wait;
I must be back again,” quoth he,
“Or ever the day be late!”
“He shall not go!” the captain said;
“Haul up his boat and oar!
The pretty boy shall sail with us
To the famous English shore!
“Thou shalt with me, my pretty boy;
I’ll find thee a new mother;--
I’ve children three at home, and thou
To them shalt be a brother!”
“Nay, nay, I shall go back!” he said;
“For thee I do not know;--
I must be back again,” he cried,
“Before the sun be low!”
Then sprang unto the vessel’s side,
And made as he would go.
The captain was a strong, stern man;
None liked him overwell;
And to a seaman standing near,
Said he, with voice and look austere,
“Haul up yon cockle-shell!
And you, my boy, content you,
In this good ship to dwell!”
As one who gladly would believe
Some awful threat a joke,
So heard the child, with half a smile,
The words the captain spoke.
But when he saw them seize his boat,
And put his oar away,
The smile was gone, and o’er his face
Quick passed a pale dismay.
And then a passion seized his frame,
As if he were possessed;
He stamped his little feet in rage,
And smote upon his breast,
’Twas a wicked deed as e’er was done--
I longed to set him free;
And the impotence of his great grief
Was a grievous sight to me.
At length, when rage had spent itself
His lofty heart gave way,
And, falling on his pretty knees,
At the captain’s feet he lay.
“Oh take me back again!” he cried,
“Let me not tarry here,
And I’ll give thee sea-apples,
And honey rich and clear;
“And fetch thee heavy pearl-stones
From deep sea-caves below;
And red tree-gold and coral-tree,
If thou wilt let me go!
“Or if I must abide with thee,--
In thy great ship to dwell,
Let me but just go back again,
To bid them all farewell!”
And at the word “farewell” he wept,
As if his heart would break;
The very memory of his tears
Sore sad my heart doth make.
The captain’s self was almost moved
To hear his woful cry;
And there was not within the ship
One man whose eyes were dry.
When the captain saw the seamen’s grief,
An angry man was he,
And shut his heart against the child,
For our great sympathy.
Down from the deck he took him
To his cabin all alone:
We saw him not for many a day,
But only heard his moan.
PART II.
It was a wicked deed, and Heaven
All wickedness doth hate;
And vengeance on the oppressor,
It cometh soon or late,--
As you will see. There something was,
Even from the very night
Whereon the captain stole the child,
On board that was not right.
From out the cabin evermore,
Where they were all alone,
We heard, oh piteous sounds to hear,
A low and quiet moan;
And now and then cries sad enough
To move a heart of stone.
The captain had a conscious look,
Like one who doeth wrong,
And yet who striveth all the time
Against a conscience strong.
The seamen did not work at all
With a good will or a free;
And the ship, as she were sullen too,
Went slowly over the sea,
’Twas then the captain from below
Sent down in haste for me.
I found him lying on his bed,
Oppressed with fever-pain;
And by his death-struck face, I saw
That he would not rise again,--
That he, so lately hale and strong,
Would never rise again.
“I have done wickedly,” said he,
“And Christ doth me condemn;--
I have children three on land,” groaned he,
“And woe will come to them!
“I have been weighed, and wanting found;
I’ve done an evil deed!--
I pray thee, mate, ’tis not too late,
Take back this child with speed!
“I have children three,” again groaned he,
“And I pray that this be done!--
Thou wilt have order of the ship
When I am dead and gone:--
I pray thee do the thing I ask,
That mercy may be won!”
I vowed to do the thing he asked,
Upon the Testament;
And true enough, that very day
To his account he went.
I took the little child away,
And set him on my knee,
In the free fresh air upon the deck,
But he spoke no word to me.
I feared at first that all his grief
Had robbed him of his speech,
And that I ne’er by word or look,
His sunken soul could reach.
At length he woke from that dead woe,
Like one that long hath slept,
And cast his arms about my neck,
And long and freely wept,
I clasped him close unto my breast,
Yet knew not what to say,
To wile him from the misery
That on his spirit lay.
At length I did bethink me
Of Jesus Christ; and spake
To that poor lamb of all the woe
He suffered for our sake.
“For me and thee, dear child,” I said,
“He suffered, and be sure
He will not lay a pang on thee
Without he give the cure!”
Like as the heavy clouds of night
Pass from the coming day,
So cleared the sullen weight of woe
From his dear soul away.
Oh happy hours of converse sweet;--
The Christian’s hope he knew,
And with an eager heart he gained
That knowledge sweet and new.
And ever by my side he kept,
Loving, and meek, and still:
But never more to him returned
His bold and wayward will:--
He had been tried and purified
From every taint of ill.
PART III.
The eve whereon the captain died
I turned the ship about,
And said unto the seamen good,
“We’ll find the island out.”
So back unto the place we came,
Where we the child had found;
And two full days with anxious watch,
We sailed it all around.
And on the third, at break of day,
A far-off peak was seen;
And then the low-lands rose to view,
All woody, rich, and green.
Down on his knees the child he fell,
When the mountains came in view,
And tears ran streaming from his eyes,--
For his own isle he knew.
And, with a wildly-piercing tone,
He cried, “Oh mother dear,
Weep not,--I come, my mother!”
Long, long ere she could hear.
And soon we saw a mountain-top
Whereon a beacon burned;
Then as the good ship neared the land,
An answer was returned.
“Oh give to me my boat!” he cried,
“And give to me mine oar!”
Just then we saw another boat
Pushed from the island-shore.
A carved boat of sandal-wood,
Its sail a silken mat,
All richly wrought in rainbow-dyes,
And three within her sat.
Down from the ship into the sea
The little boy he sprung;
And the mother gave a scream of joy,
With which the island rung.
Like some sea-creature beautiful
He swam the ocean-tide,
And ere we wondered at his skill
He clomb the shallop’s side.
Next moment in his mother’s arms
He lay, O sweet embrace!
Looking from her dear bosom up
Into her loving face.
The happiest and the sweetest sight
That e’er mine eyes will see,
Was the coming back of this poor child
Unto his family!
--Now wot ye of his parentage?
Sometime I’ll tell you it;
Of meaner matter many a time
Has many a book been writ.
’Twould make a pleasant history
Of joy scarce touched by woe,
Of innocence and love; but now
This only must you know.
His mother was of English birth,
Well-born, and young, and fair;
In the wreck of an East-Indiaman
She had been saved there.
His father was the island’s chief,
Goodly as man can be;
Adam, methinks, in Paradise
Was such a one as he.
’Tis not for my weak speech to tell
The joy so sweet and good,
Of these kind, simple islanders,
Nor all their gratitude.
Whate’er the island held they gave;
Delicious fruits and vines,
Rich-tinted shells from out the sea,
And ore from out their mines.
But I might not stay; and that same day
Again we turned about,
And, with the wind that changed then
Went from the harbour out.
--’Tis joy to do an upright deed;
’Tis joy to do a kind;
And the best rewards of virtuous deeds
Is the peace of one’s own mind.
But a blessing great went with the ship,
And with the frieght she bore;
The pearl-shells turned to great account,
So did the island’s ore;--
But I someway lost my reckoning,
Nor found the island more.
And how the child became a man,
Or what to him befel,
As I never trod the island more;
Is not for me to tell.
EASTER HYMNS.
HYMN I.
THE TWO MARYS.
Oh dark day of sorrow,
Amazement and pain;
When the promise was blighted
The given was ta’en!
When the master no longer
A refuge should prove;
And evil was stronger
Than mercy and love!
Oh dark day of sorrow,
Abasement and dread,
When the Master beloved
Was one with the dead!
We sate in our anguish
Afar off to see,
For we surely believed not
This sorrow could be!
But the trust of our spirits
Was all overthrown;
And we wept, in our anguish,
Astonished, alone!
At even they laid him
With aloes and myrrh,
In fine linen wound, in
A new sepulchre.
There, there will we seek him:
Will wash him with care;
Anoint him with spices:
And mourn for him there.
Oh strangest of sorrow!
Oh vision of fear!
New grief is around us--
The Lord is not here!
HYMN II.
THE ANGEL.
Women, why shrink ye
With wonder and dread?--
Seek not the living
Where slumbers the dead!
Weep not, nor tremble;
And be not dismayed;
The Lord hath arisen!
See where he was laid!
The grave-clothes, behold them;
The spices; the bier;
The napkin that bound him;
But he is not here!
Death could not hold him;
The grave is a prison
That keeps not the living;
The Christ has arisen!
HYMN III.
THE LORD JESUS.
Why are ye troubled?
Why weep ye and grieve?
What the prophets have written
Why slowly believe?
’Tis I, be not doubtful!
Why ponder ye so?
Behold in my body
The marks of my woe!
The willing hath suffered;
The chosen been slain;
The end is accomplished!
Behold me again!
Death has been conquered--
The grave has been riven--
For sin a remission
Hath freely been given!
Fearless in spirit,
Yet meek as the dove,
Go preach to the nations
This gospel of love.
For the might of the mighty
Shall o’er you be cast;
And I will be with you,
My friends, to the last.
I go to the Father,
But I will prepare
Your mansions of glory,
And welcome you there.
There life never-ending;
There bliss that endures;
There love never changing,
My friends, shall be yours!
But the hour is accomplished!
My children, we sever--
But be ye not troubled,
I am with you forever!
HYMN IV.
THE ELEVEN.
The Lord is ascending!--
Rich welcomes to give him:
See, angels descending!--
The heavens receive him!
See, angels, archangels
Bend down to adore!--
The Lord hath ascended,
We see him no more!
The Master is taken;
The friend hath departed;
Yet we are not forsaken,
Nor desolate-hearted!
The Master is taken;
The holy, the kind;
But the joy of his presence,
Remaineth behind!
Our hearts burned within us
To hear but the word
Which he spake, ere our spirits
Acknowledged the Lord!
The Lord hath ascended!
Our hope is secure,
We trusted not lightly;--
The promise is sure;
The Lord hath ascended;
And we his true-hearted,
Go forth with rejoicing,
Though he hath departed!
THE TWO ESTATES.
The children of the rich old man no carking care they know,
Like lilies in the sunshine how beautiful they grow!
And well may they be beautiful; in raiment of the best,
In velvet, gold, and ermine, their little forms are drest.
With a hat and jaunty feather set lightly on their head,
And golden hair, like angels’ locks, over their shoulders spread.
And well may they be beautiful; they toil not, neither spin,
Nor dig, nor delve, nor do they ought their daily bread to win.
They eat from gold and silver all luxuries wealth can buy;
They sleep on beds of softest down, in chambers rich and high.
They dwell in lordly houses, with gardens round about,
And servants to attend them if they go in or out.
They have music for the hearing, and pictures for the eye,
And exquisite and costly things each sense to gratify.
No wonder they are beautiful! and if they chanceto die,
Among dead lords and ladies, in the chancel vault they lie.
With marble tablets on the wall inscribed, that all may know,
The children of the rich man are mouldering below.
* * * * *
The children of the poor man, around the humble doors
They throng of city alleys and solitary moors.
In hot and noisy factories they turn the ceaseless wheel,
And eat with feeble appetite their coarse and joyless meal.
They rise up in the morning, ne’er dreaming of delight;
And weary, spent, and heart-sore, they go to bed at night.
They have no brave apparel, with golden clasp and gem;
So their clothes keep out the weather they’re good enough for them.
Their hands are broad and horny; they hunger, and are cold;
They learn what toil and sorrow mean ere they are five years old.
--The poor man’s child must step aside if the rich man’s child go by;
And scarcely aught may minister to his little vanity.
And of what could he be vain?--his most beautiful array
Is what the rich man’s children have worn and cast away.
The finely spun, the many-hued, the new, are not for him,
He must clothe himself, with thankfulness, in garments soiled and
dim.
He sees the children of the rich in chariots gay go by,
And “what a heavenly life is their’s,” he sayeth with a sigh.
Then straightway to his work he goeth, for feeble though he be,
His daily toil must still be done to help the family.
Thus live the poor man’s children; and if they chance to die,
In plain, uncostly coffins, ’mong common graves they lie;
Nor monument nor head-stone their humble names declare:--
But thou, O God, wilt not forget the poor man’s children there!
LIFE’S MATINS.
At that sweet hour of even,
When nightingales awake,
Low bending o’er her first-born son,
An anxious mother spake.
“Thou child of prayer and blessing,
Would that my soul could know,
What the unending future holds
For thee of joy or woe.
“Thy life, will it be gladness,
A sunny path of flowers;--
Or strift, with sorrow dark as death,
Through weary, wintry hours?
“Oh child of love and blessing,
Young blossom of life’s tree--
My spirit trembles but to think
What time may make of thee!
“Yet of the unveiled future
Would knowledge might be given!”
Then voices of the unseen ones
Made answer back from heaven.
FIRST VOICE.
“Tears he must shed unnumbered;
And he must strive with care,
As strives in war the armed men:
And human woe must bear.
“Must learn that joy is mockery;
That man doth mask his heart;
Must prove the trusted faithless;
And see the loved depart!
“Must feel himself alone, alone;
Must weep when none can see;
Then lock his grief, like treasure up,
For lack of sympathy.
“Must prove all human knowledge
A burden, a deceit;
And many a flattering friendship find
A dark and hollow cheat.
“Well may’st thou weep, fond mother;--
For what can life bequeath,
But tears and sighs unnumbered,
But watching, change, and death!”
SECOND VOICE.
“Rejoice, rejoice, fond mother,
Thou hast given birth,
To this immortal being,
To this sweet child of earth!
“The pearl within the ocean,
The gold within the mine,
Have not a thousandth part the worth
Of this fair child of thine!
“Oh fond and anxious mother,
Look up with joyful eyes,
For a boundless wealth of love and power
In that young spirit lies!
“Love to enfold all natures
In one benign embrace;
Power to diffuse a blessing wide
O’er all the human race!
“Bless God both night and morning;
Be thine a joyful heart;
For the child of mortal parents hath
With the Eternal part.
“The stars shall dim their brightness;
And as a parched scroll
The earth shall fade, but ne’er shall fade
The undying human soul!
“Oh then rejoice fond mother,
That thou hast given birth
To this immortal being,
To this fair child of earth?”
A LIFE’S SORROW.
AN OLD MAN’S NARRATIVE.
My life hath had its curse; and I will tell
To you its dark and troubled history.
Brethren you are; oh then as brethren dwell,
Linked soul to soul in blessed unity;
Like the rejoicing branches of a tree,
All braving storm, all sharing sunny weather,
All putting on their leaves, and withering all together.
I had a brother. As a spring of joy
Was he unto the gladness of my youth;
And in our guileless confidence, each boy,
Vowed a sweet vow of everlasting truth,
All sympathetic love, all generous ruth;
Alas! that years the noble heart should tame,
And the boy’s virtue put the man to shame!
I was the elder; and as years passed on
Men paid invidious homage to the heir;
And pride, which was the sin of angels, won
Our human hearts; their guilt I will not spare;
If I was proud, the boy began to wear
A lip of scorn, and paid me back my pride,
With arrowy wit that wounded and defied.
Still he was dear to me, and I would gaze
With yearning heart upon him as he went
Past me in silent pride, and inly praised
His godlike form, and the fair lineament
Of his fine countenance, as eloquent
As if it breathed forth music; and his voice
Oh how its tones could soften and rejoice!
Strange was it, that a brother, thus my pride,
Grew to my friendship so estranged and cold;
Strange was it, that kind spirits erst allied
By kindred fellowship, so proved of old,
Were sundered and to separate interests sold!
I know not how it was! but pride was strong
In either breast, and did the other wrong.
There was another cause--we fiercely strove
In an ambitious race;--but worse than all
We met, two rival combatants in love;
My brother was the victor, and my fall,
Maddening my jealous pride, turned love to gall,
There was no lingering kindness more. We parted,
Each on his separate way, the severed-hearted.
For years we met not: met not till we stood,
Silent and moody, by our father’s bed,
Each with his hatred seemingly subdued
Whilst in the presence of that reverend head:
Surely our steadfast rancour might have fled
When that good father joined our hands and smiled,
And died believing we were reconciled!
And so we might have been; but there were those
Who found advantage in our longer hate;
Who stepped between our hearts and kept us foes,
And taught that hatred was inviolate:--
Fools to be duped by such! But ah, too late
True knowledge and repentance come; and back
I look in woe upon life’s blighted track!
We were the victims of the arts we scorned;
We were like clay within the potter’s hand:
And so again we parted. He adorned
The courtly world: his wit and manners bland
The hearts of men and women could command.
I too ran folly’s round, till tired of pleasure,
I sought repose in tranquil, rural leisure.
Ere long he left his native land, and went
Into the East with pomp and power girt round.
And so years past: the morn of life was spent,
And manhood’s noon advanced with splendour crowned;
They said ’mid kingly luxury without bound,
He dwelt in joy; and that his blessing ever
Flowed like that land’s unmeasured, bounteous river.
And the world worshipped him, for he was great--
Great in the council, greater in the field,
And I too had my blessings, for I sate
Amid my little ones: the fount unsealed
Of my heart’s wronged affections seemed to yield
A tenfold current: and my babes, like light
Unto the captive’s gaze, rejoiced my sight.
I dwelt within my home an altered man;
Again all tenderness and love was sweet,
’Twas as if fresh existence had began,
Since pleasant welcomes were sent forth to greet
My coming, and the sound of little feet
Was on my floor, and bright and loving eyes
Beamed on me without feigning a disguise.
As the chill snows of winter melt away
Before the genial spring, so from my heart
Passed hatred and revenge; and I could pray
For pardon, pardoning all; my soul was blessed
With answered love, and hopes whereon to rest
My joy in years to come; I asked no more,
The cup of that rich blessedness ran o’er.
Alas! even then the brightness of my life
Again grew dim; my fount of joy was dried;
My soul was doomed to bear a heavier strife
Than it had borne!--my children at my side
In their meek, loving beauty, drooped and died--
First they, and then their mother! Did I weep?
No, tears are not for griefs intense and deep!
Ah me! those weary days, those painful nights,
When voices from the dead were in mine ear,
And I had visions of my lost delights,
And saw the lovely and the loving near,
Then woke and knew my home so dim and drear!
What marvel if I prayed that I might die,
In my soul’s great, unchastened misery!
I had known sorrow, and remorse, and shame,
But never knew I misery till that time;
And in my soul sprang up the torturing blame,
That they had died for my unpardoned crime!
Then madness followed; and my manhood’s prime
Passed like a dark and hideous dream away,
Without a memory left of night or day.
I dwelt within my childhood’s home, and yet
I wist not of each dear familiar place;
My soul was in a gloomy darkness set,
Engulphed in deadness for a season’s space.
At length light beamed; a ray of heavenly grace
Upon my bowed and darkened spirit lay,
Healing its wounds and giving power to pray.
I rose a sorrowing man, and yet renewed;
Resigned, although abashed to the dust;
I felt that God was righteous, true, and good,
And though severe in awful judgment, just;
Therefore in him I put undoubting trust,
And walked once more among my fellow-men,
Yet in their vain joys mingling not again.
My home was still a solitude; none sought
Nor found in me companion; yet I pined
For something which might win my weary thought
From its deep anguish; some strong, generous mind,
Round which my lorn affections might be twined:
Some truthful heart on which mine own might lean,
And still from life some scattered comfort glean.
The dead, alas! I sorrowed for the dead,
Until well-nigh my madness had returned;
Till memory of them grew a thing of dread,
And therefore towards a living friend I yearned,
My brother! then my soul unto thee turned;
Then pined I for thy spirit’s buoyant play,
Like the chained captive for the light of day!
The kindness of his youth came back to me;
I saw his form in visions of the night;
I seemed to hear his footsteps light and free
Upon my floors; the memoried delight
Of his rich voice came back with sweeter might!
Perchance ’twas madness--so I often thought,
For with insatiate zeal in me it wrought.
“I will arise,” I cried, like him of yore,
“The conscience-stricken prodigal, and lay
Myself, as in the dust, his face before,
And, ‘I have sinned, my brother!’ I will say--
‘Forgive, forgive!’ The clouds shall pass away,
And I will banquet on his love; and rest
My weary soul on his sustaining breast!”
I gathered up my strength; I asked of none
Council or aid; I crossed the desert sea;
The purpose of my soul, to all unknown,
Was yet supporting energy to me.
I was like one from cruel bonds set free,
Who walks exulting on, yet telleth not
The all-sufficing gladness of his lot.
Through the great cities of the East I passed
Into the kingdom where he reigned supreme;
I came unto a gorgeous palace, vast
As the creation of a poet’s dream:--
My strength gave way, how little did I seem!
I felt like Joseph’s brethren, mean and base,
I turned aside and dared not meet his face.
Hard by there was a grove of cypress trees;
A place, as if for mourning spirits made;
Thither I sped, my burdened heart to ease,
And weep unseen within the secret shade,--
A mighty woe that cypress grove displayed!
Oh let me weep! you will not say that tears
Wrung by that sorrow can be stanched by years.
There was a tomb; a tomb as of a king;
A gorgeous palace of the unconscious dead.
My heart died in me, like the failing wing
Of the struck bird, as on that wall I read
My brother’s name! Feeling and memory fled;
The flood-gates of my misery gave way,
And senseless on the marble floor I lay.
I lay for hours; and when my sense returned
The day was o’er; no moon was in the sky,
But the thick-strewn, eternal planets burned
In their celestial beauty steadfastly;--
It seemed each star was as a heavenly eye
Looking upon my sorrow;--thus I deemed,
And sate within the tomb till morning beamed.
--For this I crossed the sea; in those far wilds,
Through perils numberless, for this I went!
What followed next I tell not; as a child’s
Again my soul was feeble; too much spent
To suffer as of old, or to lament,
I came back to the scenes where life began,
By griefs, not years, a bowed and aged man.
I murmur not; but with submissive will
Resign to woe the evening of my day;
On the great morrow love will have its fill;
God will forgive our poor repentant clay,
Nor thrust us from his paradise away!
But brethren, be ye warned! Oh do not sever
Your kindred hearts, which should be linked For ever!
THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW.
My old friend, he was a good old friend,
And I thought, like a fool, his face to mend;
I got another; but ah! to my cost.
I found him unlike the one I had lost!
I and my friend, we were bred together:--
He had a smile like the summer weather;
A kind warm heart; and a hand as free:--
My friend, he was all the world to me!
I could sit with him and crack many a joke,
And talk of old times and the village folk;
He had been with us at the Christmas time;
He knew every tree we used to climb;
And where we played; and what befell,
My dear old friend remembered well.
It did me good but to see his face;
And I’ve put another friend in his place!
I wonder how such a thing could be,
For my old friend would not have slighted me!
Oh my fine new friend, he is smooth and bland,
With a jewelled ring or two on his hand;
He visits my lord and my lady fair;
He hums the last new opera air.
He takes not the children on his knee;
My faithful hound reproacheth me,
For he snarls when my new friend draweth near,
But my good old friend to the brute was dear!
I wonder how I such a thing could do,
As change the old friend for the new!
My rare old friend, he read the plays,
That were written in Master Shakspeare’s days;
He found in them wit and moral good:--
My new friend thinks them coarse and rude:--
And many a pleasant song he sung,
Because they were made when we were young;
He was not too grand, not he, to know
The merry old songs made long ago.
He writ his name on the window-pane;--
It was cracked by my new friend’s riding-cane!
My good old friend, “he tirled at the pin,”
He opened the door and entered in;
We all were glad to see his face
As he took at the fire his ’customed place,
And the little children, loud in glee,
They welcomed him as they welcomed me.
He knew our griefs, our joys he shared;
There cannot be friend with him compared;
We had tried him long, had found him true!
Why changed I the old friend for the new?
My new friend cometh in lordly state;
He peals a startling ring at the gate;
There’s hurry and pomp, there’s pride and din,
And my new friend bravely entereth in.
I bring out the noblest wines for cheer,
I make him a feast that costeth dear;
But he knows not what in my heart lies deep;--
He may laugh with me, but never shall weep,
For there is no bond between us twain;
And I sigh for my dear old friend again;
And thus, too late, I bitterly rue
That I changed the old friend for the new!
MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.
A STORY OF THE OLDEN TIME.
PART I.
“Arise, my maiden, Mabel,”
The mother said, “arise,
For the golden sun of Midsummer
Is shining in the skies.
“Arise, my little maiden,
For thou must speed away,
To wait upon thy grandmother
This livelong summer day.
“And thou must carry with thee
This wheaten cake so fine;
This new-made pat of butter;
This little flask of wine!
“And tell the dear old body,
This day I cannot come,
For the good man went out yester-morn,
And he is not come home.
“And more than this, poor Amy
Upon my knee doth lie;
I fear me, with this fever-pain
That little child will die!
“And thou can’st help thy grandmother;
The table thou can’st spread;
Can’st feed the little dog and bird,
And thou can’st make her bed.
“And thou can’st fetch the water,
From the lady-well hard by;
And thou can’st gather from the wood
The fagots brown and dry.
“Can’st go down to the lonesome glen,
To milk the mother-ewe;
This is the work, my Mabel,
That thou wilt have to do.
“But listen now, my Mabel,
This is Midsummer-day,
When all the fairy people
From elf-land come away.
“And when thou art in lonesome glen,
Keep by the running burn,
And do not pluck the strawberry flower,
Nor break the lady-fern.
“But think not of the fairy folk,
Lest mischief should befall;
Think only of poor Amy,
And how thou lov’st us all.
“Yet keep good heart, my Mabel,
If thou the fairies see,
And give them kindly answer
If they should speak to thee.
“And when into the fir-wood
Thou go’st for fagots brown,
Do not, like idle children,
Go wandering up and down.
“But, fill thy little apron,
My child, with earnest speed;
And that thou break no living bough
Within the wood, take heed.
“For they are spiteful brownies
Who in the wood abide,
So be thou careful of this thing,
Lest evil should betide.
“But think not, little Mabel,
Whilst thou art in the wood,
Of dwarfish, wilful brownies,
But of the Father good.
“And when thou goest to the spring,
To fetch the water thence,
Do not disturb the little stream,
Lest this should give offence.
“For the queen of all the fairies
She loves that water bright;
I’ve seen her drinking there myself
On many a summer night.
“But she’s a gracious lady,
And her thou need’st not fear;
Only disturb thou not the stream,
Nor spill the water clear!”
“Now all this I will heed, mother,
Will no word disobey,
And wait upon the grandmother
This livelong summer day!”
PART II.
Away tripped little Mabel,
With the wheaten cake so fine;
With the new-made pat of butter,
And the little flask of wine.
And long before the sun was hot,
And morning mists had cleared,
Beside the good old grandmother
The willing child appeared.
And all her mother’s message
She told with right good-will,
How that the father was away,
And the little child was ill.
And then she swept the hearth up clean,
And then the table spread;
And next she fed the dog and bird;
And then she made the bed.
“And go now,” said the grandmother,
“Ten paces down the dell,
And bring in water for the day;
Thou know’st the lady-well!”
The first time that good Mabel went,
Nothing at all saw she,
Except a bird--a sky-blue bird--
That sate upon a tree.
The next time that good Mabel went,
There sate a lady bright
Beside the well,--a lady small,
All clothed in green and white.
A curtsey low made Mabel,
And then she stooped to fill
Her pitcher at the sparkling spring,
But no drop did she spill.
“Thou art a handy maiden,”
The fairy lady said;
“Thou hast not spilled a drop, nor yet
The fair spring troubled!
“And for this thing which thou hast done,
Yet may’st not understand,
I give to thee a better gift
Than houses or than land.
“Thou shalt do well, whate’er thou dost,
As thou hast done this day;
Shalt have the will and power to please,
And shalt be loved alway!”
Thus having said, she passed from sight,
And nought could Mabel see,
But the little bird, the sky-blue bird,
Upon the leafy tree.
--“And now go,” said the grandmother,
“And fetch in fagots dry;
All in the neigbouring fir-wood,
Beneath the trees they lie.”
Away went kind, good Mabel,
Into the fir-wood near,
Where all the ground was dry and brown,
And the grass grew thin and sere.
She did not wander up and down,
Nor yet a live branch pull,
But steadily, of the fallen boughs
She picked her apron full.
And when the wild-wood brownies
Came sliding to her mind,
She drove them thence, as she was told,
With home-thoughts sweet and kind.
But all that while the brownies
Within the fir-wood still,
They watched her how she picked the wood,
And strove to do no ill.
“And oh, but she is small and neat,”
Said one, “’twere shame to spite
A creature so demure and meek,
A creature harmless quite!”
“Look only,” said another,
“At her little gown of blue;
At the kerchief pinned about her head,
And at her little shoe!”
“Oh, but she is a comely child,”
Said a third, “and we will lay
A good-luck-penny in her path,
A boon for her this day,--
Seeing she broke no living wood;
No live thing did affray,”
With that the smallest penny,
Of the finest silver ore,
Upon the dry and slippery path,
Lay Mabel’s feet before.
With joy she picked the penny up,
The fairy penny good;
And with her fagots dry and brown
Went wondering from the wood.
“Now she has that,” said the brownies,
“Let flax be ever so dear,
Will buy her clothes of the very best
For many and many a year!”
--“And go, now,” said the grandmother,
“Since falling is the dew,
Go down unto the lonesome glen,
And milk the mother-ewe!”
All down into the lonesome glen,
Through copses thick and wild;
Through moist, rank grass, by trickling streams,
Went on the willing child,
And when she came to lonesome glen,
She kept beside the burn,
And neither plucked the strawberry-flower,
Nor broke the lady-fern.
And while she milked the mother-ewe
Within the lonesome glen,
She wished that little Amy
Were strong and well again.
And soon as she had thought this thought,
She heard a coming sound,
As if a thousand fairy-folk
Were gathering all around.
And then she heard a little voice,
Shrill as the midge’s wing,
That spake aloud, “a human child
Is here--yet mark this thing!
“The lady-fern is all unbroke,
The strawberry-flower unta’en!
What shall be done for her, who still
From mischief can refrain?”
“Give her a fairy-cake!” said one,
“Grant her a wish!” said three;
“The latest wish that she hath wished,”
Said all, “whate’er it be!”
--Kind Mabel heard the words they spake,
And from the lonesome glen,
Unto the good old grandmother
Went gladly back again.
Thus happened it to Mabel
On that midsummer-day,
And these three fairy-blessings
She took with her away.
--’Tis good to make all duty sweet,
To be alert and kind:
’Tis good, like little Mabel,
To have a willing mind!
BIRDS AND FLOWERS
AND OTHER
COUNTRY THINGS.
THE STORMY PETEREL.
O stormy, stormy, Peterel,
Come rest thee, bird, awhile;
There is no storm, believe me,
Anigh this summer isle.
Come, rest thy waving pinions;
Alight thee down by me;
And tell me somewhat of the lore
Thou learnest on the sea!
Dost hear beneath the ocean
The gathering tempest form?
See’st thou afar the little cloud
That grows into the storm?
How is it in the billowy depths--
Doth sea-weed heave and swell?
And is a sound of coming woe
Rung from each caverned shell?
Dost watch the stormy sunset
In tempests of the west;
And see the old moon riding slow
With the new moon on her breast?
Dost mark the billows heaving
Before the coming gale;
And scream for joy of every sound
That turns the seaman pale?
Are gusty tempests mirth to thee?
Lov’st thou the lightning’s flash;
The booming of the mountain waves--
The thunder’s deafening crash?
O stormy, stormy Peterel,
Thou art a bird of woe!
Yet would I thou could’st tell me half
Of the misery thou dost know!
There was a ship went down last night,--
A good ship and a fair;
A costly freight within her lay,
And many a soul was there!
The night-black storm was over her,
And ’neath the caverned wave:
In all her strength she perished,
Nor skill of man could save.
The cry of her great agony
Went upward to the sky;
She perished in her strength and pride,
Nor human aid was nigh.
But thou, O stormy Peterel,
Went’st screaming o’er the foam;--
Are there no tidings from that ship
Which thou canst carry home?
Yes! He who raised the tempest up,
Sustained each drooping one;
And God was present in the storm,
Though human aid was none!
THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN.
Ah yes, the poor man’s garden!
It is great joy to me,
This little, precious piece of ground
Before his door to see!
The rich man has his gardeners,--
His gardeners young and old;
He never takes a spade in hand,
Nor worketh in the mould.
It is not with the poor man so,--
Wealth, servants, he has none;
And all the work that’s done for him
Must by himself be done.
All day upon some weary task
He toileth with good will;
And back he comes, at set of sun,
His garden-plot to till.
The rich man in his garden walks,
And ’neath his garden trees;
Wrapped in a dream of other things,
He seems to take his ease.
One moment he beholds his flowers,
The next they are forgot:
He eateth of his rarest fruits
As though he ate them not.
It is not with the poor man so:--
He knows each inch of ground,
And every single plant and flower
That grows within its bound.
He knows where grow his wall-flowers,
And when they will be out;
His moss-rose, and convolulus
That twines his pales about.
He knows his red sweet-williams;
And the stocks that cost him dear,--
That well-set row of crimson stocks,
For he bought the seed last year.
And though unto the rich man
The cost of flowers is nought,
A sixpence to a poor man
Is toil, and care, and thought.
And here is his potatoe-bed,
All well-grown, strong, and green;
How could a rich man’s heart leap up
At anything so mean!
But he, the poor man, sees his crop,
And a thankful man is he,
For he thinks all through the winter
How rich his board will be.
And how his merry little ones
Beside the fire will stand,
Each with a large potatoe
In a round and rosy hand.
The rich man has his wall-fruits,
And his delicious vines;
His fruit for every season!
His melons and his pines.
The poor man has his gooseberries;
His currants white and red;
His apple and his damson tree,
And a little strawberry-bed.
A happy man he thinks himself,
A man that’s passing well,--
To have some fruit for the children,
And some besides to sell.
Around the rich man’s trellissed bower
Gay, costly creepers run;
The poor man has his scarlet-beans
To screen him from the sun.
And there before the little bench,
O’ershadowed by the bower,
Grow southern-wood and lemon-thyme,
Sweet-pea and gilliflower;
And pinks and clove-carnations,
Rich-scented side by side;
And at each end a holly-hock,
With an edge of London-pride.
And here comes the old grandmother,
When her day’s work is done;
And here they bring the sickly babe
To cheer it in the sun.
And here, on Sabbath-mornings,
The good man comes to get
His Sunday nosegay, moss-rose bud,
White pink, and mignonette.
And here, on Sabbath-evenings,
Until the stars are out,
With a little one in either hand,
He walketh all about.
For though his garden-plot is small,
Him doth it satisfy;
For there’s no inch of all his ground
That does not fill his eye.
It is not with the rich man thus;
For though his grounds are wide,
He looks beyond, and yet beyond,
With soul unsatisfied.
Yes! in the poor man’s garden grow
Far more than herbs and flowers;--
Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind,
And joy for weary hours.
THE OAK-TREE.
Sing for the Oak-Tree,
The monarch of the wood;
Sing for the Oak-Tree,
That groweth green and good;
That groweth broad and branching
Within the forest shade;
That groweth now, and yet shall grow
When we are lowly laid!
The Oak-Tree was an acorn once,
And fell upon the earth;
And sun and showers nourished it,
And gave the Oak-Tree birth.
The little sprouting Oak-Tree!
Two leaves it had at first,
Till sun and showers had nourished it,
Then out the branches burst.
The little sapling Oak-Tree!
Its root was like a thread,
Till the kindly earth had nourished it,
Then out it freely spread:
On this side and on that side
It grappled with the ground;
And in the ancient, rifted rock
Its firmest footing found.
The winds came, and the rain fell;
The gusty tempest blew;
All, all were friends to the Oak-Tree,
And stronger yet it grew.
The boy that saw the acorn fall,
He feeble grew and grey;
But the Oak was still a thriving tree,
And strengthened every day!
Four centuries grows the Oak-Tree
Nor doth its verdue fail;
Its heart is like the iron-wood,
Its bark like plated mail.
Now, cut us down the Oak-Tree,
The monarch of the wood;
And of its timbers stout and strong
We’ll build a vessel good!
The Oak-Tree of the forest
Both east and west shall fly;
And the blessings of a thousand lands
Upon our ship shall lie!
For she shall not be a man-of-war,
Nor a pirate shall she be:--
But a noble, Christian merchant-ship
To sail upon the sea.
Then sing for the Oak-Tree,
The monarch of the wood;
Sing for the Oak-Tree,
That groweth green and good;
That groweth broad and branching
Within the forest shade;
That groweth now, and yet shall grow,
When we are lowly laid!
THE CAROLINA PARROT.
Parrots, with all their cleverness, are not capable of keeping up a
dialogue; otherwise we might suppose something like the following to be
in character with their humour and experience.
POLL’S MISTRESS.
I’ve heard of imp, I’ve heard of sprite;
Of fays and fairies of the night;
Of that renowned fiend Hobgoblin,
Running, racing, jumping, hobbling;
Of Puck, brimful of fun; also
Of roguish Robin Goodfellow.
I’ve seen a hearth where, as is told,
Came Hobthrush in the days of old,
To make the butter, mend the linen,
And keep the housewife’s wheel a-spinning.
I’ve heard of pigmies, pixies, lares,
Shoirim, gemedim, and fairies:--
And, Parrot, on my honest word,
I hardly think thou art a bird;--
Thou art so pixy, quaint and queer;
Thou art not canny, Poll, I fear!
Look at that impish leer of thine!
List to thy scream, thy shout, thy whine,
And none will doubt but thou must be
A creature of the faery.
Or tell me, Poll, art thou not kin
To Jack o’ lanthern? Come, begin!
Answer me, Poll, was’t ’mong the fairies
Thou learnt thy many strange vagaries?
Speak, pretty Poll!
POLL.
Well, I don’t care if I tell you all.
You’ve got some company, I see; a short gentleman and a tall;
Many ladies, too, altogether two or three dozen,
I should not wonder if they are some of you uncles and cousins!
Pray am I not a very fine bird,
Green, and yellow, and scarlet?--
Upon my word!
That man has a coat on like our Captain!
CAPTAIN.
Poll, how do you do, my dear?
You look well; it’s fine living here!
POLL.
Ha, Captain, how do _you_ do?--Captain, your health, I say;
Captain, I’ll have the pleasure of drinking your health to-day!
ha! ha! ha!
I’m very glad to see you!--You remember, perhaps,
That wood in Carolina, the guns and all the traps;--
To be sure you do!--Ladies, I’m a Carolina bird,--
Some come from the East Indies, from the Cape too, I have heard;
But I’m of Carolina--to the Big-bone lick I’ve been,--
Now in that country there _is_ something to be seen!
Our Captain knows _that_! Ay, Captain, I say,
Do you remember crossing the Cedar Swamp one particular day,
When I got out of your pocket and flew away?
Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! How it makes me laugh!
You’d a pretty chase after me!--ha! ha! a pretty chase!
And I sat in the hickory trees, laughing in your face!
Ha! ha! ha! how I did laugh.
What cypress-berries, cockel-burs, and beach-nuts grew there!
You many look all this country over, and find none anywhere.
And what fun it was--me, and a thousand beside,
To fly in the merry sunshine through those forests wide,
And build our nests--Oh, what nests we had?--
Did you ever see one of our nests--Captain? Eh, my lad?
CAPTAIN.
I’ve heard of nests of cinnamon,
With the great Phœnix set thereon;
And swallows’ nests, so rich and sweet
Of which the Chinese people eat;
But of _your_ nests I never heard,
What kind are they, I pray thee, bird?
PARROT.
Nests! ha! ha! ha! what sort of nests should they be?
You may fancy if you please, but you’ll never know from me!
I never blab, not I! What sort of nest is built?
Ha! ha! ha! with sheets and blankets and a fine Marseilles quilt!
ha! ha! ha!
Put it down in your little book,--a four-post bed, I say,
With damask moreen hangings, and made every day! ha! ha! ha!
Oh, how it makes me laugh! ha! ha! ha!
I shall split my sides with laughing some of these days! ha! ha! ha!
Captain.
Come, now, you silly prate-a-pace
Tell us about the Big-bone place,
Where our acquaintance first began;
And of those swamps, untrode by man,
Where you came, impudent and merry,
For cockle-burr and hackle-berry,
PARROT.
Of the Big-bone lick, did you say?--Ay, we used to go there,
A Parrot’s very fond of salt! I really declare
I’ve seen ten thousand of us there altogether,--
A beautiful sight it was, in fine summer weather,
Like a grand velvet carpet, of orange, green and yellow,
Covering the ground! Ah, Captain! my good fellow,
I had reason to rue the day you came there with your gun!
I would laugh if I could, but to me it was no fun--heigh-ho!
No fun at all, Captain, heigh-ho!
CAPTAIN.
Nay, Poll, cheer up, you’re better here
Than at the Big-bone lick, my dear!
PARROT.
Captain, how you talk! we Parrots love each other--
There you shot dozens of us,--my father and my mother,--
I shall not forget it in a hurry,--what wailing and crying,--
What flying round and round there was! What comforting the dying!
You, yourself, laid down your gun,--overcome by the sight,
And said you would not shoot again, at least that night!
Heigh-ho! I am just ready to cry! And I think I shall cry before I
have done!
(_She cries like a child._)
There, now, I am better! but my throat is quite hot;
Can’t I have a glass of water?--(_She coughs._) Bless me, what a
cold I’ve got!
Do, shut that window, Jenny, or we shall all die of cold;
And mend the fire, can’t you, as you already have been told!
And let’s have a cup of tea, for I’m just tired to death.
What a shocking cold it is! and I’m so short of breath!--(_She
coughs again._) (_She speaks in another voice._)
Tea’s ready, if you please. Ready is it? With the water in the pot?
Yes, ma’am: Well, then, I’ll go and have my tea, while the muffin’s
hot!
_Exit_ POLL.
MORNING THOUGHTS.
The summer sun is shining
Upon a world so bright!
The dew upon each grassy blade;
The golden light, the depth of shade,
All seem as they were only made
To minister delight.
From giant trees, strong branched,
And all their veined leaves;
From little birds that madly sing;
From insects fluttering on the wing;
Ay, from the very meanest thing
My spirit joy receives.
I think of angel voices
When the birds’ songs I hear;
Of that celestial city, bright
With jacinth, gold, and chrysolite,
When, with its blazing pomp of light,
The morning doth appear!
I think of that great River
That from the Throne flows free;
Of weary pilgrims on its brink,
Who, thirsting, have come down to drink;
Of that unfailing Stream I think,
When earthly streams I see!
I think of pain and dying,
As that which is but nought,
When glorious morning, warm and bright,
With all its voices of delight,
From the chill darkness of the night,
Like a new life, is brought.
I think of human sorrow
But as of clouds that brood
Upon the bosom of the day,
And the next moment pass away;
And with a trusting heart I say
Thank God, _all things are good_!
HARVEST-FIELD FLOWERS.
Come down into the harvest-fields
This autumn morn with me;
For in the pleasant autumn-fields
There’s much to hear and see;
On yellow slopes of waving corn
The autumn sun shines clearly;
And ’t is joy to walk, on days like this,
Among the bearded barley.
Within the sunny harvest-fields
We’ll gather flowers enow;
The poppy red, the marigold,
The bugles brightly blue;
We’ll gather the white convolvulus
That opes in the morning early;
With a cluster of nuts, an ear of wheat,
And an ear of the bearded barley.
Bright over the golden fields of corn
Doth shine the autumn sky;
So let’s be merry while we may,
For time goes hurrying by.
They took down the sickle from the wall
When morning dew shone pearly;
And the mower whets the ringing scythe
To cut the bearded barley.
Come then into the harvest-fields;
The robin sings his song;
The corn stands yellow on the hills,
And autumn stays not long.
They’ll carry the sheaves of corn away;
They carried to-day so early,
Along the lanes, with a rustling sound,
Their loads of the bearded barley.
SUMMER WOODS.
Come ye into the summer-woods;
There entereth no annoy;
All greenly wave the chesnut leaves,
And the earth is full of joy.
I cannot tell you half the sights
Of beauty you may see,
The bursts of golden sunshine,
And many a shady tree.
There, lightly swung, in bowery glades,
The honey-suckles twine;
There blooms the rose-red campion,
And the dark-blue columbine.
There grows the four-leaved plant “true love,”
In some dusk woodland spot;
There grows the enchanter’s night-shade,
And the wood forget-me-not.
And many a merry bird is there,
Unscared by lawless men;
The blue-winged jay, the wood-pecker,
And the golden-crested wren.
Come down and ye shall see them all,
The timid and the bold;
For their sweet life of pleasantness,
It is not to be told.
And far within that summer-wood,
Among the leaves so green,
There flows a little gurgling brook,
The brightest e’er was seen.
There comes the little gentle birds,
Without a fear of ill;
Down to the murmuring water’s edge,
And freely drink their fill!
And dash about and splash about,
The merry little things:
And look askance with bright black eyes,
And flirt their dripping wings.
I’ve seen the freakish squirrel drop
Down from their leafy tree,
The little squirrels with the old,--
Great joy it was to me!
And down unto the running brook;
I’ve seen them nimbly go;
And the bright water seemed to speak
A welcome kind and low.
The nodding plants they bowed their heads,
As if, in heartsome cheer,
They spake unto those little things,
“Tis merry living here!”
Oh, how my heart ran o’er with joy!
I saw that all was good,
And how we might glean up delight
All round us, if we would!
And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there,
Beneath the old wood-shade,
And all day long has work to do,
Nor is, of aught, afraid.
The green shoots grow above their heads,
And roots so fresh and fine,
Beneath their feet, nor is there strife
’Mong them for _mine and thine_.
There is enough for every one,
And they lovingly agree;
We might learn a lesson, all of us,
Beneath the green-wood tree!
THE CUCKOO.
“Pee! pee! pee!” says the merry Pee-Bird;
And as soon as the children hear it,
“The Cuckoo’s a-coming,” they say, “for I heard,
Up in his tree the merry Pee-Bird,
And he’ll come in three days, or near it!”
The days go on, one, two, three;
And the little bird singeth “pee! pee! pee!”
Then on the morrow, ’tis very true,
They hear the note of the old Cuckoo;
Up in the elm-tree, through the day,
Just as in gone years, shouting away;
“Cuckoo,” the Cuckoo doth cry,
And the little boys mock him as they go by.
The wood-pecker laughs to hear the strain,
And says “the old fellow is come back again;
He sitteth again on the very same tree,
And he talks of himself again!--he! he! he!”
The stock-doves together begin to coo
When they hear the voice of the old cuckoo;
“Ho! ho!” say they, “he did not find
Those far-away countries quite to his mind,
So he’s come again to see what he can do
With sucking small birds’ eggs, coo-coo!”
The black-bird, and throstle, and loud missel-cock,
They sing altogether, the Cuckoo to mock;
“What want we with him? let him stay over sea!”
Sings the bold, piping reed-sparrow, “want him? not we!”
“Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo shouts still,
“I care not for you, let you rave as you will!”
“Cuckoo!” the cuckoo doth cry,
And the little boys mock him as they go by.
“Hark! hark!” sings the chiff-chaff, “hark! hark!” says the lark,
And the white-throats and buntings all twitter “hark! hark!”
The wren and the hedge-sparrow hear it anon,
And “hark! hark!” in a moment shouts every one.
“Hark! hark!--that’s the Cuckoo there, shouting amain!
Bless our lives! why that egg-sucker’s come back again!”
“Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo shouts still,
“I shall taste of your eggs, let you rave as you will!”
“Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo doth cry,
And the little boys mock him as they go by.
The water-hens hear it, the rail and the smew,
And they say,--“Why on land there’s a pretty to-do!
Sure the Cuckoo’s come back, what else can be the matter?
The pyes and the jays are all making a clatter!”
“Hark! hark!” says the woodcock, “I hear him myself,
Shouting up in the elm-tree, the comical elf!”
“Hark! hark!” cries the widgeon, “and I hear him too,
Shouting loudly as ever, that self-same Cuckoo!”
“Well, well,” says the wild duck, “what is it to us;
I’ve no spite ’gainst the Cuckoo; why make such a fuss?
Let him shout as he listeth--he comes over sea--
And his French may be French, ’t is no matter to me;
I have no spite against him, my soul’s not so narrow,
I leave all such whims to the tomtit and sparrow!”
“Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo shouts still,
“You may all hold your peace, I shall do as I will!”
“Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo doth cry,
And the little boys mock him as they go by.
THE USE OF FLOWERS.
God might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,
The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,
Without a flower at all.
We might have had enough, enough
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine and toil,
And yet have had no flowers.
The ore within the mountain mine
Requireth none to grow;
Nor doth it need the lotus-flower
To make the river flow.
The clouds might give abundant rain;
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drunk them all.
Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow-light,
All fashioned with supremest grace
Upspringing day and night:--
Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains high,
And in the silent wilderness
Where no man passes by?
Our outward life requires them not--
Then wherefore had they birth?--
To minister delight to man,
To beautify the earth;
To comfort man--to whisper hope,
Whene’er his faith is dim,
For who so careth for the flowers
Will much more care for him!
SUNSHINE.
I love the sunshine everywhere,--
In wood and field and glen;
I love it in the busy haunts
Of town-imprisoned men.
I love it when it streameth in
The humble cottage door,
And casts the chequered casement shade
Upon the red-brick floor.
I love it where the children lie
Deep in the clovery grass,
To watch among the twining roots
The gold-green beetles pass.
I love it on the breezy sea,
To glance on sail and oar,
While the great waves, like molten glass,
Come leaping to the shore.
I love it on the mountain-tops,
Where lies the thawless snow,
And half a kingdom, bathed in light,
Lies stretching out below.
And when it shines in forest-glades,
Hidden, and green, and cool,
Through mossy boughs and veined leaves
How is it beautiful!
How beautiful on little stream,
When sun and shade at play,
Make silvery meshes, while the brook
Goes singing on its way.