Such as the two preceding ones had brought.
Rain, that in tropic climes means life and joy
To man and beast as to the thirsty soil
And though the sky hung like a sable pall
Over the fair oasis, nestling calm
Beneath the trusted shelter of the hills,
And o'er the broad lake-outlet of the floods,
What cause had they to fear? 'Twas often thus,
And the long wished-for rains would bring forth joy
So reasoned they who, peaceful, viewed unmoved
Th' outpouring of that sullen ocean cloud,
When suddenly, they who had calmly felt
So safe one little span of time before,
Discovered in dismay the swollen floods
Meant danger--that the safety of their homes.
Was menaced, walls were tottering, waters rose,
Sapping foundations, threatening precious life.
Security was lost in maddening fear,
And, panic-stricken in disordered haste
And direst plight, they quit their homes, and fly
To seek a refuge from the merciless,
Relentless flood. On, on, they wildly rush,
No matter where, so they preserve the lives
Of those they dearly, passionately love.
Some o'er fierce rolling streams are helped by men
In mercy sent to render priceless aid,
And happy they, the rescued, who escape,
For scarcely had they timely refuge found,
Than a huge limb of the great mountain fell,
Sweeping the fair hill-side of house and land,
And burying dozens of their fellow men
In one uncompromising, living tomb!
Brave men with tender hearts and stalwart arms,
Regardless of their lives flew quickly there.
Seeking to save their fellows; but, alas!
The task is useless, they are past all aid;
The cold earth sepulchres their mortal frames--
Still, hope's star-beacon lures the toilers on,
And with stout hearts and mercy sinewed arms,
They, toiling, dig, if haply they may save
But one poor soul from out the piteous heap.
But as they worked, their honest hearts elate
With love-inspiring toil, Oh, sad to tell!
Another mass, far larger than the last,
Fell from the dark flood-loosened mountain side,
Burying those noble men beneath the deep
Dank heap, like those they fondly hoped to save.
O noble band! thy Christ-like heroism
Shall be enshrined in deathless memories
Outliving time; for rolling ages love
To chronicle the history of brave deeds,
That spur by their example other minds
To acts of heroism such as thine!
Oh! fearful was that avalanche of earth,
That in its fury, e'en with lightning speed,
Swept to eternity such precious freight!
Strong men in the proud glory of life's prime,
Women in joyful trustfulness of love
With little children in full bloom of life;
All in the twinkling of an eye cut down,
In that rude harvest of the tyrant Death!
Now the late lovely valley, Naini Tal
Stands as a witness of the frailty
Of human strength 'gainst the o'erwhelming might
Of forces, which the All Mighty only guides;
Proving, that great as oftimes is man's force,
It is as nothing, when the elements
Proclaim Him monarch of all power and might,
In language for the world to comprehend.
* * * * *
TO OUR POLAR EXPLORERS.
Now, welcome home, ye valiant band,
By science lured to roam,
Thrice welcome to your native land,
To Britain's hearth and home;
For ye have conquered many a foe,
And vanquished many a fear,
Since in your country's name ye sailed
So bravely forth last year.
Then many a fervent "Good speed ye"
Was wafted from the land,
That blent with blessings from the ships,
For those left on the strand.
Hope streaming through each hot tear formed
Rainbows of promise sweet,
To comfort each lone sundered heart,
Till blest again to meet.
But eighteen months have passed away
Since those farewells were breathed,
And ye've accomplished what was wished
Without a sword unsheathed.
And with her royal chaplets light
Of honour and renown,
Your brows of manly fortitude
Britain delights to crown.
Ye've had the courage, nerve, and skill,
To do, and bravely dare,
That which none other save yourselves
Have had the joy to share.
In penetrating furthest yet,
Into that region lone,
Where grim uncompromising ice
Girdles the Polar Zone.
"The sea of ancient ice," henceforth
Inscribed on the world's chart,
Though never of that world to be
A sympathetic part;
Since mighty floating fortresses,
With adamantine towers,
Form everlasting barriers grim,
That mock man's feebler powers.
Heroic Nares! Commander bold
Of the well-ordered band,
Accept with thy intrepid crews,
Thanks from thy native land,
For having with determined zeal,
Reached a much longed-for goal,
And solved the mystery that veiled
The regions of the Pole.
Thus proving inacessible
The ice-ribbed polar sea,
Ye've earned your laurels valiantly,
Still it is well that we
Join ye in rendering fervent thanks,
To the Supreme above,
For safe return in joyous health,
To country, home and love.
* * * * *
TO THE INCONSTANT.
Oh! what a change since last we met, when thou wert all my own,
And love dictated every word, and sweetened every tone.
Cold and repelling was the gaze that rested on the one
Whose heart's devotion, true as steel, thy treachery had won.
Who could have thought that vows exchanged before the God of heaven,
And pledged so solemnly, could be so soon, so rudely riven?
But, false one, I fling back to thee thy hollow, withering gaze,
And spurn thee in the bitterest tones my scorn-strung voice can raise.
* * * * *
THANKSGIVING.
Arise, ye valiant warrior hosts, arise!
Now, in the flush of victory, pierce the skies
With grateful outbursts of exultant praise.
Such as victorious hosts alone can raise,
To the great God of nations, Lord of lords,
Who in your pride of conquests sheathes your swords,
And claims your rapturous homage from afar,
For all the brilliant exploits of the war.
Let the majestic paeans heavenward sent,
Be with united voice of Britain blent;
Like measured thunders the grand anthem swell,
A nation's fervent gratitude to tell.
And yet another strain of prayer outpour
For the lamented victims of the war.
And for our Queen, who now delights to crown
Her brave commanders with deserved renown.
God bless these mighty men of mind and power,
Who led the well-trained hosts in war's dread hour,
Crushing rebellion, bidding rapine cease;
Then, with heroic valour, courting peace.
And as each soul is heavenward winged to raise
To the Creator this grand psalm of praise,
Forget not the crest-fallen hosts, but bear
Their country's troubles to the throne of prayer.
Sons are we all of the same Father wise.
Who rules in sovereign pomp the earth and skies,
Who bids all live in brotherhood divine,
Without distinction of race, creed or clime.
God speed the day when cruel wars shall cease,
And all the wrestling earth shall be at peace,
When liberty's proud flag shall be unfurled,
And justice, not the sword, shall rule the world.
* * * * *
"PEACE, WITH HONOUR."
"Peace with honour," glorious, joy-lit words!
Britons, lay down your arms, re-sheath your swords,
For the red demon War lies foiled and chained,
And Britain's prestige is anew proclaimed.
With re-united Europe, grateful raise
To Heaven glad paeans of exultant praise;
For see, crest-fallen strife, abashed, retreats,
As Berlin's congress her design defeats.
While Justice, Peace and Hope effulgent stand,
Aiding the Council of the patriot band.
Grand conclave of the wise, 'twas well ye bade
Such Heaven-born guests lend to your council aid,
Well for the good and welfare of the world
That ye your Heaven-blest flag of peace unfurled!
Great Emperor Peacemaker! well hast, thou done,
To link to thy long list of victories won,
This bloodless one, where all alike contend,
With cultured courtesy, as friend with friend,
To help the fallen, bid rude passions cease,
Through moral suasion, and re-throne blest peace.
And thou, Disraeli, pillar of the State,
With the proud flush of triumph now elate,
Well hast thou earned thy laurels, nobly won
Thy Queen's and country's verdict of "well done,"
For with far-seeing mind, unflinching skill,
Rare tact and talent, calm, consummate skill,
Thou hast, with thy brave colleagues, fought our fight,
And made stern right triumphant over might.
Since to the foremost and most honoured place
A subject could aspire to, or could grace,
Thou hast ascended by the nation's will,
Let "Peace with Honour" be thy motto still.
Thus shall our civilizing mission be
To future ages a reality,
That where the flag of Britain is unfurled,
Peace and good-will may flow to all the world,
Till throughout every nation wars shall cease,
And honour reign triumphantly with peace.
* * * * *
THE NEW YEAR.
The long day of the year is nearly done,
The atoms through its sand-glass almost run,
Another bridge is well-nigh swung--by Time
O'er the grand current of life's course sublime.
For see! through floods of eastern glory high
The morn's fair chariot swoops athwart the sky,
And from its circling rose-lit atmosphere
Steps, beaming with young hope, the infant year!
Knowing no bygones, he points gaily on
To battles to be waged and victories won,
Struggles with self, o'ercomings that will crown
The combatants with honour and renown.
Battles which make the men of mark on earth.
Men who feel culture of all God's gifts worth,
A thorough abnegation of self-will,
To fit them life's work rightly to fulfil.
Then let each with the glad New Year begin
To act so they may fadeless victories win,
Since heaven's choice gifts and deathless wreaths of fame
Wait for the good, and great, their joys to claim.
* * * * *
HOME.
Home! magic name of sweetest sound,
That thrills us like a spell;
That consecrates the humblest cot
Where loved ones kindly dwell.
How much that simple name recalls
Of happy childhood's days,
When the old homestead was illumed
By love's inspiring rays.
Visions of beauty unsurpassed,
Are conjured by that word
That thrills a Briton's heart where'er
The English tongue is heard.
And when in exile wandering,
On fairer, brighter plains;
How the melodious name of home
Our best affection claims.
The roof-tree may be stricken down,
And loved ones be no more;
But the sweet memories of our home
Live on for evermore.
Wealth may attract and pleasure lure
When far away we roam;
But ah! how joyful we return
To the pure shrine of home.
There we find sweet repose and peace,
There too our holiest love;
And there we gain a foretaste pure
Of coming joys above.
Then "Home, sweet home," shall be our song
On earth, and when on high
'Twill still be home, dear, happy home,
In the glad "by-and-by."
* * * * *
IT IS BUT A FADED ROSEBUD.
It is but a lone faded rosebud
That a dearly loved one gave to me,
In years now long past but remembered
And shrined for the years yet to be.
It opens the floodgates of memory,
Discoursing of dear days gone by,
Dead and buried except to rememb'rance
Which never can slumber or die.
For hearts that have once truly mingled,
In sympathy, love and esteem,
Can never be really sundered
Though oceans and seas roll between.
And still I will cherish my rosebud,
Though it never may bloom to a flower,
As a symbol of love that was strangled
In life's saddest yet happiest hour.
* * * * *
CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLE.
(_Erected on the Thames Embankment, 1878_).
Thou reverend relic from a far-off clime,
Of ancient days, triumphant over Time.
Thou ocean traveller, brought with peril o'er,
To rise again on London's busy shore.
Superb exponent of Egyptian art,
What wondrous secrets load thy granite heart
Since thou wert fashioned from the ribs of earth
To show the great sun's golden glory forth!
Thou with six noble compeers hast surveyed
The birth and death of empires undismayed.
Some of them saw at On the guiding light
Shed o'er the Holy Family in their flight.
The oldest still ennobles Goshen's brow,
Almost the sole surviving relic now
Of her foundation, and upon whose sod,
When years had rolled their courses, Jesus trod.
And one in Turkey, yet one more in Rome,
Captives and aliens from their childhood's home,
Tower in lone majesty, recording still
The grandest era of Egyptian skill.
A fifth in Alexandria calmly rears
Its stately form, and o'er it kindly peers
A noble landmark, like an angel guide
To wanderers o'er Egypt's sand plains wide.
Ask of the ages where the sixth has gone,
For naught of that stone mountain now is known.
Thus perish all things, save the spirit free,
Inheritor of immortality!
Past ages fondly raised to Ra and Tum
(Whose morn and evening glory robed the sun),
These sacred fanes, to grace the sun shrine high,
Full in the golden splendour of the sky.
Where now is Heliopolis? ah, where
Her sun-shrine, raised in classic beauty rare?
Crumbled, and lost in rainless Egypt's dust,
Save what these columns guard in sacred trust.
And shall we fondly consecrate and raise
Vast monuments to sing of mortal praise,
And then presume to criticise and scorn
Fanes raised the sun-god's temple to adorn?
Ah no, but let us rather consecrate
Anew this worship-sign of ancient date,
Than join in scoff by sneering cynic thrown
On faith and on religion not his own.
Upon the generous donor's aged brow
Let Britain place her graceful chaplet now,
Since unto him is due that she doth hold
This precious relic of the faith of old.
And let us not forget what thanks are due
To skilful Dixon and his gallant crew,
And as is just, be honour also paid.
To useful Dmetri for his timely aid.
Then plant the precious fane on Britain's shore.
In solemn tribute of the faith of yore,
That coming ages may revere the sod
That shrines this tribute to the living God.
* * * * *
A VOICE FROM ST. GEORGE'S HALL, LIVERPOOL.
Inhabitants of Liverpool,
List to the urgent call,
Which summons you in crowds to-day,
Within St. George's Hall.
There earnest Women are convened,
In purpose strong to seek,
Through your kind help and influence,
To aid the Faint and Weak.
The Convalescent Hospital
Stands burdened with a debt,
Which we resolve (if you permit)
Shall now be promptly met.
To this intent, a Grand Bazaar
Is held by us to-day;
And fifteen hundred pounds the sum
We fondly hope to pay.
The cause is good; then quickly prove
Your gratitude for health,
By giving with a willing heart
Of your abundant wealth.
Or if not quite disposed to give,
Then freely buy, I pray,
Of the rich stores of wondrous art
Displayed for you to-day.
Work marvellously wrought, and rare
As beautiful you'll find;
With good plain, homely garments, too,
Of varied form and kind.
And lovely flowers, in sweet perfume,
Breathing delight and love;
Discoursing, in mute eloquence,
Of fadeless ones above.
Groups, too, of artificial flowers,
To serve when others die;
Like photos of dear absent friends,
Delighting heart and eye.
Presents there are for Boys and Girls,
And darling Pets at home,
And souvenir for Grandmamma,
If too infirm to come.
And, mingling with the festive scene,
Is music's witching voice,
Swelling, in harmony divine,
Man's spirit to rejoice.
Beneath the master hand of "Best"
The organ springs to life,
Like some roused monster in his lair,
Goaded to deadly strife.
Attuned to Angel sweetness, then,
And tremblings of delight,
It fills the dreamy marble Hall
With visions pure and bright.
Then merchant Princes, Tradesmen, too,
Dry business leave awhile;
And with your dear ones by your side,
With us an hour beguile.
* * * * *
TO THE MUSEUM COMMITTEE.
O ye in power, thus placed to minister
To every pressing local, social claim,
Of those who gave you this authority,
Trusting you to act wisely in their name,
See that the precious heirloom of our race,
For which our fathers suffered, toiled and bled,
Our glorious Constitution, Britain's pride,
Be to the people's rights in justice wed.
Withhold not from them what in trust ye guard,
For calm enjoyment on the day of rest,
By opening parks, museums, libraries,
That their closed treasures be enjoyed with zest.
Why should our city's priceless treasures not
Be freely open on the day of rest,
That the inspiring thoughts of noble minds
Be to the people thus divinely blest?
And if the masses do not agitate,
For free admission to these works of art,
This fact adds reason more why cultured men,
Should lead them in these joys to share a part.
This day was made for man, not he for it,
And should he to him of all days the best,
For moral, physical and mental life,
Since calm exertion may be actual rest.
Surely the study of the Father's laws,
And survey of His wondrous works and power,
Seen through all nature's grand and wondrous realm,
Is fit enployment for a Sunday hour;
Think ye the public house a fitter place,
In which to spend that blessed afternoon?
I fear that many of you must do so,
Or you would grant what has been claimed right soon.
Sweet object lessons from the King of Kings
Are found in animal and insect life,
And birds and fishes, beauteous flowers and trees,
Are with such lessons eloquently rife;
So are the gracious, light-dispensing heavens,
Grand ocean's depths and mountain heights sublime,
Day's regent King, night's lovely gentle Queen,
Each one discoursing of the Power Divine.
I've lived in Paris and in wonder seen,
A mighty host of people wend their way
In thousands, to the lovely sylvan park
Of Versailles, to spend part of that blest day,
In families of husband, children, wife,
With basket of refreshments, simple, pure,
Which, seated on some verdant bank, they shared,
In peaceful happiness, serene and sure.
I've watched them closely, willing to detect,
In those past days of prejudice and pride,
Some flaw of conduct, wantonness, excess,
Which I could criticise, rebuke or chide,
But I was staggered not to find save one
Excess of drunkenness in that vast throng,
And that one was a foreigner, which proved
That all my foregone censure had been wrong.
And further careful observation proved
Tha wisdom of thus opening freely all
Art treasures, which refine and cultivate,
Whilst giving joy alike to great and small,
For families, who, parted all the week,
On this one day could mingle happily,
And bodily, as well as mental health,
Be thus promoted most agreeably.
The crowd passed pleasantly and peacefully
Through the rich treasures in the palace spread,
And to his credit, be it here remarked,
The priest full oft these happy parties led;
They passed the forenoon of the day at church
In prayer and praise to the great Lord of all,
And now in calm enjoyment praised _Him_ here,
Who hears when and where'er his children call.
Then ye who rule this city, pause I pray,
Give to this subject your attention best,
And make the Sunday to the poor as rich,
A day of liberty, a day of rest.
Let each be free to exercise his choice;
For to keep Britain really great and free,
We should not fetter consciences, or yet
Deprive its people of true liberty.
* * * * *
ONLY A FEW LINKS WANTING.
Only a few links wanting,
Earth's toilers oft exclaim,
Only a few charmed linklets,
To make life's perfect chain;
Philosophers and statesmen,
Poets and courtiers gay,
And cunning craftsmen, at life's forge
Echo the same each day.
The students of life's mysteries
Toil hard, with stern resolve,
The secrets of the universe
To penetrate and solve;
For most minds have some purpose,
Some goal they fain would gain,
Which they believe the linklet
Wanting in life's grand chain.
The warrior risks dear life-blood,
Others toil hard for fame;
The Sage works on through midnight
To earn an honoured name.
The Lover pleads untiring,
At the beloved one's feet,
Each seeking the missed linklet
That may life's chain complete.
Some seek the link in pleasure,
In rioting and sin.
Others, in forced retirement
Of self, in cloisters dim.
Some make the world's applauses
Their sole reward and aim,
Some torture gold to fashion
The missed links of life's chain.
Strive on, ye band of workers,
In faith and courage strong,
Knowledge by labour entereth,
Through perseverance long;
No prize is half so precious
As that obtained through pain,
No means like self-denial,
For perfecting life's chain.
Ever a something wanting,
Ever, just one link more;
Such is the hope-lit watchword
Of pilgrims to heaven's shore,
Nor till on that shore landed,
Will missed links of life's chain
Be found, and firmly welded,
To sunder ne'er again.
* * * * *
A PAINFUL HISTORY.
Three youths in the heyday of life's hopeful spring,
On a bright April morn gaily hied,
With three little skiffs, each one made by himself,
To skim o'er the silvery tide.
In the joy that awaits on all well-performed work,
Engaged in by youth, child, or man,
Whilst employing the powers which to him God has given,
And labouring as well as he can,
They pushed from the shore, their young spirits elate.
In a trance of enjoyment and pride;
For were they not reaping the cherished reward
Which to labour is never denied?
Far happier than kings, as light-hearted as birds
Who warbled spring carols on high,
Each guided his skiff o'er the freshening wave,
'Neath a cloudless, sun-glorified sky.
They had chatted together while making their boats,
Half in serious mood, half in fun,
Of parting their hair in the middle to aid
Fair balance in the risk they might run.
And thus, in increasing and joyful delight,
They paddled a full hour and more,
And were gaily returning triumphantly, when,
Within about ten yards from shore,
Young Ithill, the eldest, a youth of sixteen,
His seat unaccountably lost,
And out of the frail skiff, the promising boy,
In a twinkling was ruthlessly tost.
His nearest companion, young Whittaker, sprang,
His canoe prompt assistance to lend,
But the noble young Ithill refused to lay hold,
For fear of endangering his friend.
Young Girling was some distance off, but at once
To the rescue most gallantly sprang,
As meantime the cry of "a boy drowning," loud
Through the air supplicatingly rang.
And the mother of Girling, who heard that wild cry,
Flew like lightning across to the strand,
Plunged fearlessly into the tide, where her son
Was struggling with stout heart and hand
To reach his poor friend, and the brave mother sought
To encourage his efforts to save,
While she, who, like him, could not swim, struggled hard,
Kept afloat by her clothes on the wave.
But vain were their efforts, the telegraph boy
Had sunk 'neath the pitiless wave,
And his poor lifeless body, so late full of life,
Now lies in its calm ocean grave.
In response to shrill cries for assistance, some men
Put off in a boat, all too late!
Instead of at once plunging in to the boy,
Thus heartlessly left to his fate,
'Tis said one of three or four beings called men,
Calmly standing close by on the land,
Threw stones to direct where the poor boy had sunk,
In reply to the woman's demand.
I've been told, but 'tis almost too hard to believe,
That one of these beings could swim,
But was too great a coward and poltroon to risk
The endangering of life or of limb.
But enough of such sickening allusions as these;
Those who might have saved life, lost what none
Who never ennoble their lives by good deeds,
Could imagine of happiness won
By hearts braced with courage, regardless of self,
Such as John Girling's mother displayed,
Who, like a true hero, sublimely risked life
In those efforts, alas! vainly made.
Is there not on this isle some society formed
To reward such brave deeds as this one?
For surely humanity could not withhold
Recompense for such gratitude won!
Let us hope that this sad, painful history may lead
Every one to determine to try,
The fine art of swimming to master forthwith,
Ere the now opening season pass by.
For doubtless the poor boy might yet have been spared,
Had he known how to swim or to float,
As very few strokes might have brought him to shore,
When he slipped from his slight fragile boat.
'Tis sweet to record the good conduct and life
Of this well-beloved, motherless boy,
In the hope that it may to his absent sire's heart
Convey some consolation and joy.
* * * * *
SELF DENIAL.
Teacher sublime, great, grand and free!
My spirit loves and honours thee,
Who taught that all religion ran,
In love to God, and love to man.
Grand, comprehensive standard this,
To lead mankind to peace and bliss,
Inspiring them, when well unfurled,
To link in brotherhood the world.
Could any sect or doctrine claim
A higher, nobler, holier aim?
And should not all religion tend,
To this all-glorious god-like end?
The greatest teacher ever known,
This simple rule of life has shown
Should be the standard for all time,
Of all the sons of every clime.
If then Christ's soul-inspiring plan,
Makes love to God and love to man,
Embrace all duties, and insure
Virtue and happiness most pure.
Why vex the world with differing creeds,
Which meet not universal needs,
Which sore perplex and lead the mind
To separate, not link mankind?
For would not self-denial spring
From such rich soil, and blessings bring,
Which would provoke each one to be
His brother's helper ceaselessly?
If each love God with heart and mind,
And treat as brethren all mankind,
All other virtues must perforce,
Outflow from such inspiring source.
Such life divine inspired within,
Would form stern barriers to all sin,
And be the motive power to lead,
To all that man could wish or need.
Blest reason, long dethroned, might then
Become the guide of erring men,
Blind superstition meet its doom,
Within an unregretted tomb.