Enriched their life, that earth to them resumed,Full oft, amidst its shadows and its clouds,A radiance as of primal paradise.Twice had the sun’s benign prolific rayEnrobed the earth with harvest, since the hourWhen bridal peals made all the village glad,And gave a mistress to the vacant Hall,To dwell there in her beauty, when againThe old bells uttered forth as rich a strainOf heart-arousing melody. A SonWas born to carry down that ancient lineTo future generations, and all heartsRejoiced in sympathy with that glad hopeWhich swelled each parent’s breast. The passing yearsGave now a daughter, and anon a son,Till six fair children filled that home with gleeAnd childhood’s happy laughter. Each grew upFrom innocent sweet infancy to daysOf blossoming youth. The elders now have reachedLife’s prime maturity, and one alone,Fair Edith, ranking fourth in age, hath beenTranslated to the heavens. One spring hath passedOn its gay flowery path, since earth received,When twenty summers had adorned her brow,Her mortal vestments, and the spirit fledTo the bright regions of immortal life.The first-born bears his father’s honoured name;Matilda, Alfred, Eva, and Lucrece,Mark out the rest, and each one duly sharesIn nature’s gift of beauty. Mind and formAre of the highest, and amidst them allGreat likeness and great difference prevails,Giving a oneness with variety,Like forest trees of diverse branch and leaf,Or sweet flowers intermixed in form and hue.Oh! what a change, beneficent and fairSome thirty years have wrought! The vacant hearth,Deserted by its owner, lone and drear,Is now illumined by the happy looksOf many radiant faces. Stillness deep,And mournful as the charnel, brooding there,Is now exchanged for music far more sweetThan harp or viol; voices breathing forthAffections purest tones, rich words of joy,And sprightly laughter from the gladsome heart!How rich the happiness Sir Arthur feels,And how enhanced, when with the dreary pastContrasted. His unfolding lot in lifeSeems like a plant, whose form in winter monthsLies buried deep in earth, but in the springPuts forth green shoots, expands its swelling buds,And through the summer multiplies fair flowersAll beautiful in sunshine. Grateful thoughtsAnd holy aspirations, crowd his breastAnd give a blessedness, a joy, a peaceNot often known on earth. As every childWas ushered into life, his heart enlargedWith love’s divine affections. His delightAnd steady aim was to prepare each mindFor usefulness in life, for well he knewIt was the shortest path to happiness:To mark each talent and each facultyIn its first opening, and to bring it forthBy fitting cultivation; to supplyOf intellectual food the purest, bestAnd most ennobling; to rear into strengthEach moral purpose, and direct the willTo loftiest objects; and above the restTo elevate the heart by cheerful hopesAnd prospects sweet of immortality,Till fervent love, and reverent pietyGlowed in each breast; such was the constant modeOf teaching he pursued, and such he taughtBy precept and example, till the loreSank deeply on each heart, and every childIn its own individuality, gave birthTo noble fruitage, that repaid this care.By such tuition it was sought to mouldTheir minds to power and strength: but to refineAnd add due elegance, the finer artsOf music, painting, poetry, and songWere called in aid; and to unbend awhileAnd give free recreation, every tasteHad due scope granted—some were left to rearFair flowers to beauty; some sought far and wideThings strange and curious, to store them upFor full inspection; others tried at willThe powers of elements, mechanic force,Or laws of nature, by experimentRenewed and oft repeated. Every hourHad thus its full employment, every heartSome worthy object, and the day fled byOn cheerful wing, for every mind was gay,Filled with delight by pure and useful thoughts.All evil is perversion of the goodThrough wrong direction, or by foul excess!How gaily skips the lambkin in the fieldMid sunshine and bright daises. How the fawnBounds light and gladsome o’er the grassy slopeExulting in existence. Insects wingTheir wondrous measures, music-timed, amidstThe golden twilight. Health and vigour flowFrom this activity. Then needs not man,Whose strength is fretted by the cares of mindAs well as toils of body, to renewHis wearied spirits by the livening joysAwaiting on the dance? Whene’er prolongedTo midnight hours, immodestly pursued,Or borne to weariness, a thing thus goodTransmutes itself to evil. But not soWas it perverted at the Hall. SometimesWhen weariness of mind forbad the strainAttending mental efforts, music’s soundsDistinct and marked, would summon to the danceAmid the social circle, or at timesOf friendly meeting it would oft affordSweet interchange of pleasure, intermixedWith cheerful converse, modulated songOr sound of instrumental harmonies.The power of competition oft unfoldsA latent genius into richer growthOr more energic action. To bring forthEach talent to full strength, Sir Arthur sought,Amid his household, to stir loving strifeAnd friendly rivalry, by calling allTo execute some task of art or skillIn one department.—Now to picture fairSome view from nature, or by fancy’s aidCreate a scene of beauty. Now to striveOn their respective instruments, to giveThe richest utterance to the magic notesOf some inspired musician; and anonTo choose a song, each one to private taste,And then to execute with utmost skill,And see who won, by free consent of all,The palm of willing praise. Thus each was broughtTo shew some excellence, by right their own,And feel that they contributed a shareTo mutual joy and benefit. ’Tis thusMankind are aided by each others skillAnd nations linked by wants in turn supplied.Of all the arts that elevate mankind,Refine their feelings, and exalt their thoughtsFrom gross and base conceptions, PoesyMust reign pre-eminent. It is the nextTo inspiration, and almost divine.From human nature’s inmost depths it springs,And blends the will and intellect, till bothGive forth their life with strange intensity,And seek to live incarnated in wordsThrough many generations. To the termsOf daily life and common intercourse,It gives new strength, and o’er their rudeness breathesRich music and soft beauty. When the soulIs sublimated by poetic thoughtAnd raptured feeling, no unnumbered wordsCan give fit utterance, but it seeks by songTo tell the harmonies that reign within,And visions bright reveal. The poet’s pageIs as a casket, wherein he has hidThe treasures of his heart. The talisman,The magic key which can alone unlockSuch sacred jewels, is a mind attunedResponsive to his own. Where this is not,His book becomes a blank, and sordid breastsCan find no beauty there. How happy theyWhose finer spirits can with joy perceiveThe luscious sweetness of the poet’s song,Partake the grandeur of like noble thought,And feel entranced with him. The gains of gold,The pomp of life, the pride of circumstance,Can ne’er convey such pleasure to the heartOr give a bliss so pure. To her high bardsThe world owes much, and more than oft is thought.’Tis not alone that they have lit the firesOf sacred poesy in other breasts,And taught young bards to touch the lyric stringsTo sweet, though meaner music; but the mightOf their high thoughts hath kindled in the soulsOf statesmen, warriors, sage philosophers,And all earth’s greatest emulative thoughtAnd nobleness of heart. Whene’er the worldNeglects sweet poesy, and dis-esteemsThe songs of bards, her holier life burns dimAnd flickers in the temple, and the voiceOf prophets may send forth the cry of woe!Oft when the spirit hath been deeply triedBy grief or love, or disappointment stern,A healing balsam hath the poet’s skillSent forth to soothe such smarting wounds of soulAnd still their fearful throbbing. MelodiesOf mournful music, breathing from the heartA vital sympathy, have given strengthAnd healed a kindred sorrow; till at lastThe unstrung chords within the shattered breastHave been retuned, and every note restoredCould sound a richer music than before!Thus was it with Sir Arthur; and the laysOf ancient bards were blended with his lifeAnd wrought into his being. On their songsHis heart was nourished in his hour of woeTill strengthened into joy. With reverence deepHe now beheld them, and their subtle powerTo give delight, and elevate the soulBy ministries of pleasure. Now he soughtTo wake in others, a like sense and tasteTo relish their chaste beauties. From its birthHe strove to open in each child the springOf freshly flowing poesy. The book,For his chief teaching, was the glorious scenesOf ever-verdant nature; sunset skies;Soft floating clouds; umbrageous forest shades;Bright stars or flowers; the splendour of the noon,The gloom of storms; the gorgeous pall of night,Were each a lesson, that with double power,Taught Piety and Poetry. Fair twinsAnd loving sisters are they! sent to raiseMankind to higher purity of thoughtAnd holier purposes. With cheerful smilesAnd love reciprocal, they, hand in hand,Oft journey on together, noting wellThe true and beautiful in all around.Whilst Poesy points out the fair and brightThe pure and lovely, Piety will liftHer hand aloft to indicate the SourceWhence such sweet visions spring; then both rejoiceWith kindred raptures, and with keener zestSeek fresh occasions for exalted praise.With hearts thus moulded from their early yearsAnd tutored into song, each one hath gainedSome small perfection in the gentle artOf linking thought with verse. This Christmas eve—A season dedicate to showing forthTheir loving strife by works of utmost skill—To grace the festival, each one must bring,By former compact, an original poemWrought out in solitude, from private thoughtAnd inward feeling, so as best to shewThe individual heart. By privilegeOf ancient friendship, from our boyish days,And love as that of brotherhood, I’ve comeTo join the circle by Sir Arthur’s fire,Partake his hospitality, and shareThe social converse round this happy hearth.Oh Christmas, what a host of sacred thoughtsCome thronging at thy name! The mind is filledWith holy visions of our human lovesExalted and refined. The charitiesOf daily life, of kindred and of home,Glow warmer ’neath thy sway. With hasty flightThe mind runs backward to more ancient timesAnd simpler manners, when the pomps of lifeHad wrought not such division, but the heartOf man met that of man, and all rejoicedAs in one brotherhood, at higher hopesAnd brighter prospects, given to the earthBy Him who made it. Round the blazing fireEach family assembled, must’ring allTheir nearest kindred; whilst with social loveAnd hospitable cheer, mid dance and songAnd mirth and minstrelsey, the hours fled byWith joy and brightness, leaving on the heartA glow more warm than autumn sunshine throwsOn corn-clad uplands. Plenty filled the barns,And teeming stores gave birth to grateful thoughtsAnd heavenly musings; whilst sweet carols sungTook up the burden of the angels’ songOf “peace on earth, good will to man,” and madeA holy joy pervade the sportive glee.To grace the season, at this ancient Hall,The feast is held, in the most antique room,And largest it contains. With wainscotingOf polished oak, and carvings rich and quaintThe walls are clad. Along the ceiling runStrong oaken beams that oft each other cross,Dividing all into compartments square,With pendents hanging down, adorned with goldAnd flower-like wreathings. Pannels here and thereAre filled with pictures, where some classic piece,Or ancient love tale, gives to modern eyesThe thoughts and feelings in the heart of old.The noble hearth spreads wide, and glorious flamesRoar up the chimney, as if wild with joyAnd laughing at the bitter frost without.Amid their light the yule-log huge burns red,Diffusing round a warmth that seems to reachThe very heart and make it happier. BoughsOf laurel, fitted to entwine the browsOf heroes, mingled with all evergreensThe season yields, in gay and rich festoons,Or proud bouquets, adorn the walls around.The holly, with its grey-green crumpled leavesAnd berries bright as rubies, shoots red gleamsLike sunset through a forest. Mistletoe,The choice of Druids, with its slimy ballsAnd mystic branchings, fills the pensive mindWith memories wild and weird. All things are hereTo link thought to the past; all emblems fullOf rich memento, giving to the heartSweet impulses, the while the village bellsPeal their glad music with the same deep notesThat struck the ear long centuries ago.The group assembled owned the mystic powerOf these associations. Ancient rites,Time-honoured customs, and the cheerful soundsAll sacred to the season, gave delightThat brightened in the countenance. Not oneBut felt the mind o’erflowing with rich thoughts,And stirred with deeper feelings. But on earthPure joy can never reign, whilst death can partThe loved and the beloved. And as aroundThat smiling family the Father glanced,And saw one vacant chair, a tear bedimmedHis eye for his lost daughter. On the browOf her fond Mother, resignation satIn peaceful calm, that gave a purer toneTo every word and look. The lively bandOf sisters and of brothers, though the heartIn youthful freshness hath a buoyant spring,Amid their songs and merry laughter, shewedTheir spirits dwelt on Edith. Converse sweetAnd mutual interchange of sprightly thoughtPassed on the hours—such hours as leave the mindMore full of love and charity, and gleamWith starry radiance o’er our path of lifeWhen viewed in retrospection. IntervalsOf song or music would beguile the timeAnd make the moments sweeter. Verses framedBy some skilled poet breathing truth and life,Where raised to loftier power by the voiceIn melody’s deep tones, transmuting themTo heart-enchaining songs. Sweet instruments,Diverse in sort, combined their varied notesIn dulcet harmonies, and made a streamOf music as delightful to the ear,As to the eye a gorgeous bank of flowers,Where richly mingled every size and height,And hue and tint, combine their lovely formsTo make the fancy, at the splendid scene,Straight dream on paradise. The evening’s feastIn rich abundance shewed the liberal handOf hospitality. Rare viands, meats,With varied wines and drinks, o’erspread the board;But chiefly those which custom, ancient rightAnd use ancestral, have with willing heartDevoted to the season. Flowing thought,The play of merriment, the flash of wit,Enriched the banquet, whilst o’er all there reignedThe sway of Temperance. She, with cheerful smile,Gave each enough, the while a graver lookForbad excess, and by this healthful ruleIncreased the gladness of the social meal.The dearest friends and closest kindred formedAlone this meeting; such as would delightTo hear the strains of poetry brought forthBy Members of that household, and not deem,With chill austerity, and critic scorn,Their bringing forth an effort at display.Cheered by the pure repast, and seeking nowSome other source of pleasure, all the guestsWith one consent proceeded to demandThe promised boon—for boon in truth ’twas deemed,And held on promise too, since last they metTo celebrate this season. In the courseOf varied conversation on the artOf poesy, the skill required to makeWords run in music, subjects fit to frameA song of beauty, desultory talkOn power of language, criticism just,And kindred subjects; it was then proposed,Half jest, half earnest, that Sir Arthur should,With each one of his family, presentA poem as portion of the Christmas feastWhen next they met. With merry laugh from allThe challenge was accepted, and the schemeOf reading then laid down: Sir Arthur firstShould bring forth his production; then the sonsAnd daughters, each in order of their years,Should offer theirs; and to conclude the scene,The Mother chose, with modest diffidence,To rank the last. Now seated round the hearthIn one vast circle, with the sparkling eyeOf expectation, and the eager glanceOf curiosity, the group are rangedTo have the plan fulfilled. The ruddy glowOf blazing faggots gives the cheek of youthRedoubled beauty. As the firelight smilesThroughout th’ illumined room, its lustre fallsOn looks more cheerful still. The lively warmthThat fills the sprightly air, now clear by frost,Diffuses gladness, and a cheerful senseOf home-born pleasures—purest of the earth!Delighted with the scene, as one he lovedAnd prized beyond all price, Sir Arthur broughtWithout delay, his manuscript, and readIn tones that shewed the utterance of his heart,To auditors attentive, what he’d named—
Enriched their life, that earth to them resumed,Full oft, amidst its shadows and its clouds,A radiance as of primal paradise.Twice had the sun’s benign prolific rayEnrobed the earth with harvest, since the hourWhen bridal peals made all the village glad,And gave a mistress to the vacant Hall,To dwell there in her beauty, when againThe old bells uttered forth as rich a strainOf heart-arousing melody. A SonWas born to carry down that ancient lineTo future generations, and all heartsRejoiced in sympathy with that glad hopeWhich swelled each parent’s breast. The passing yearsGave now a daughter, and anon a son,Till six fair children filled that home with gleeAnd childhood’s happy laughter. Each grew upFrom innocent sweet infancy to daysOf blossoming youth. The elders now have reachedLife’s prime maturity, and one alone,Fair Edith, ranking fourth in age, hath beenTranslated to the heavens. One spring hath passedOn its gay flowery path, since earth received,When twenty summers had adorned her brow,Her mortal vestments, and the spirit fledTo the bright regions of immortal life.The first-born bears his father’s honoured name;Matilda, Alfred, Eva, and Lucrece,Mark out the rest, and each one duly sharesIn nature’s gift of beauty. Mind and formAre of the highest, and amidst them allGreat likeness and great difference prevails,Giving a oneness with variety,Like forest trees of diverse branch and leaf,Or sweet flowers intermixed in form and hue.Oh! what a change, beneficent and fairSome thirty years have wrought! The vacant hearth,Deserted by its owner, lone and drear,Is now illumined by the happy looksOf many radiant faces. Stillness deep,And mournful as the charnel, brooding there,Is now exchanged for music far more sweetThan harp or viol; voices breathing forthAffections purest tones, rich words of joy,And sprightly laughter from the gladsome heart!How rich the happiness Sir Arthur feels,And how enhanced, when with the dreary pastContrasted. His unfolding lot in lifeSeems like a plant, whose form in winter monthsLies buried deep in earth, but in the springPuts forth green shoots, expands its swelling buds,And through the summer multiplies fair flowersAll beautiful in sunshine. Grateful thoughtsAnd holy aspirations, crowd his breastAnd give a blessedness, a joy, a peaceNot often known on earth. As every childWas ushered into life, his heart enlargedWith love’s divine affections. His delightAnd steady aim was to prepare each mindFor usefulness in life, for well he knewIt was the shortest path to happiness:To mark each talent and each facultyIn its first opening, and to bring it forthBy fitting cultivation; to supplyOf intellectual food the purest, bestAnd most ennobling; to rear into strengthEach moral purpose, and direct the willTo loftiest objects; and above the restTo elevate the heart by cheerful hopesAnd prospects sweet of immortality,Till fervent love, and reverent pietyGlowed in each breast; such was the constant modeOf teaching he pursued, and such he taughtBy precept and example, till the loreSank deeply on each heart, and every childIn its own individuality, gave birthTo noble fruitage, that repaid this care.By such tuition it was sought to mouldTheir minds to power and strength: but to refineAnd add due elegance, the finer artsOf music, painting, poetry, and songWere called in aid; and to unbend awhileAnd give free recreation, every tasteHad due scope granted—some were left to rearFair flowers to beauty; some sought far and wideThings strange and curious, to store them upFor full inspection; others tried at willThe powers of elements, mechanic force,Or laws of nature, by experimentRenewed and oft repeated. Every hourHad thus its full employment, every heartSome worthy object, and the day fled byOn cheerful wing, for every mind was gay,Filled with delight by pure and useful thoughts.All evil is perversion of the goodThrough wrong direction, or by foul excess!How gaily skips the lambkin in the fieldMid sunshine and bright daises. How the fawnBounds light and gladsome o’er the grassy slopeExulting in existence. Insects wingTheir wondrous measures, music-timed, amidstThe golden twilight. Health and vigour flowFrom this activity. Then needs not man,Whose strength is fretted by the cares of mindAs well as toils of body, to renewHis wearied spirits by the livening joysAwaiting on the dance? Whene’er prolongedTo midnight hours, immodestly pursued,Or borne to weariness, a thing thus goodTransmutes itself to evil. But not soWas it perverted at the Hall. SometimesWhen weariness of mind forbad the strainAttending mental efforts, music’s soundsDistinct and marked, would summon to the danceAmid the social circle, or at timesOf friendly meeting it would oft affordSweet interchange of pleasure, intermixedWith cheerful converse, modulated songOr sound of instrumental harmonies.The power of competition oft unfoldsA latent genius into richer growthOr more energic action. To bring forthEach talent to full strength, Sir Arthur sought,Amid his household, to stir loving strifeAnd friendly rivalry, by calling allTo execute some task of art or skillIn one department.—Now to picture fairSome view from nature, or by fancy’s aidCreate a scene of beauty. Now to striveOn their respective instruments, to giveThe richest utterance to the magic notesOf some inspired musician; and anonTo choose a song, each one to private taste,And then to execute with utmost skill,And see who won, by free consent of all,The palm of willing praise. Thus each was broughtTo shew some excellence, by right their own,And feel that they contributed a shareTo mutual joy and benefit. ’Tis thusMankind are aided by each others skillAnd nations linked by wants in turn supplied.Of all the arts that elevate mankind,Refine their feelings, and exalt their thoughtsFrom gross and base conceptions, PoesyMust reign pre-eminent. It is the nextTo inspiration, and almost divine.From human nature’s inmost depths it springs,And blends the will and intellect, till bothGive forth their life with strange intensity,And seek to live incarnated in wordsThrough many generations. To the termsOf daily life and common intercourse,It gives new strength, and o’er their rudeness breathesRich music and soft beauty. When the soulIs sublimated by poetic thoughtAnd raptured feeling, no unnumbered wordsCan give fit utterance, but it seeks by songTo tell the harmonies that reign within,And visions bright reveal. The poet’s pageIs as a casket, wherein he has hidThe treasures of his heart. The talisman,The magic key which can alone unlockSuch sacred jewels, is a mind attunedResponsive to his own. Where this is not,His book becomes a blank, and sordid breastsCan find no beauty there. How happy theyWhose finer spirits can with joy perceiveThe luscious sweetness of the poet’s song,Partake the grandeur of like noble thought,And feel entranced with him. The gains of gold,The pomp of life, the pride of circumstance,Can ne’er convey such pleasure to the heartOr give a bliss so pure. To her high bardsThe world owes much, and more than oft is thought.’Tis not alone that they have lit the firesOf sacred poesy in other breasts,And taught young bards to touch the lyric stringsTo sweet, though meaner music; but the mightOf their high thoughts hath kindled in the soulsOf statesmen, warriors, sage philosophers,And all earth’s greatest emulative thoughtAnd nobleness of heart. Whene’er the worldNeglects sweet poesy, and dis-esteemsThe songs of bards, her holier life burns dimAnd flickers in the temple, and the voiceOf prophets may send forth the cry of woe!Oft when the spirit hath been deeply triedBy grief or love, or disappointment stern,A healing balsam hath the poet’s skillSent forth to soothe such smarting wounds of soulAnd still their fearful throbbing. MelodiesOf mournful music, breathing from the heartA vital sympathy, have given strengthAnd healed a kindred sorrow; till at lastThe unstrung chords within the shattered breastHave been retuned, and every note restoredCould sound a richer music than before!Thus was it with Sir Arthur; and the laysOf ancient bards were blended with his lifeAnd wrought into his being. On their songsHis heart was nourished in his hour of woeTill strengthened into joy. With reverence deepHe now beheld them, and their subtle powerTo give delight, and elevate the soulBy ministries of pleasure. Now he soughtTo wake in others, a like sense and tasteTo relish their chaste beauties. From its birthHe strove to open in each child the springOf freshly flowing poesy. The book,For his chief teaching, was the glorious scenesOf ever-verdant nature; sunset skies;Soft floating clouds; umbrageous forest shades;Bright stars or flowers; the splendour of the noon,The gloom of storms; the gorgeous pall of night,Were each a lesson, that with double power,Taught Piety and Poetry. Fair twinsAnd loving sisters are they! sent to raiseMankind to higher purity of thoughtAnd holier purposes. With cheerful smilesAnd love reciprocal, they, hand in hand,Oft journey on together, noting wellThe true and beautiful in all around.Whilst Poesy points out the fair and brightThe pure and lovely, Piety will liftHer hand aloft to indicate the SourceWhence such sweet visions spring; then both rejoiceWith kindred raptures, and with keener zestSeek fresh occasions for exalted praise.With hearts thus moulded from their early yearsAnd tutored into song, each one hath gainedSome small perfection in the gentle artOf linking thought with verse. This Christmas eve—A season dedicate to showing forthTheir loving strife by works of utmost skill—To grace the festival, each one must bring,By former compact, an original poemWrought out in solitude, from private thoughtAnd inward feeling, so as best to shewThe individual heart. By privilegeOf ancient friendship, from our boyish days,And love as that of brotherhood, I’ve comeTo join the circle by Sir Arthur’s fire,Partake his hospitality, and shareThe social converse round this happy hearth.Oh Christmas, what a host of sacred thoughtsCome thronging at thy name! The mind is filledWith holy visions of our human lovesExalted and refined. The charitiesOf daily life, of kindred and of home,Glow warmer ’neath thy sway. With hasty flightThe mind runs backward to more ancient timesAnd simpler manners, when the pomps of lifeHad wrought not such division, but the heartOf man met that of man, and all rejoicedAs in one brotherhood, at higher hopesAnd brighter prospects, given to the earthBy Him who made it. Round the blazing fireEach family assembled, must’ring allTheir nearest kindred; whilst with social loveAnd hospitable cheer, mid dance and songAnd mirth and minstrelsey, the hours fled byWith joy and brightness, leaving on the heartA glow more warm than autumn sunshine throwsOn corn-clad uplands. Plenty filled the barns,And teeming stores gave birth to grateful thoughtsAnd heavenly musings; whilst sweet carols sungTook up the burden of the angels’ songOf “peace on earth, good will to man,” and madeA holy joy pervade the sportive glee.To grace the season, at this ancient Hall,The feast is held, in the most antique room,And largest it contains. With wainscotingOf polished oak, and carvings rich and quaintThe walls are clad. Along the ceiling runStrong oaken beams that oft each other cross,Dividing all into compartments square,With pendents hanging down, adorned with goldAnd flower-like wreathings. Pannels here and thereAre filled with pictures, where some classic piece,Or ancient love tale, gives to modern eyesThe thoughts and feelings in the heart of old.The noble hearth spreads wide, and glorious flamesRoar up the chimney, as if wild with joyAnd laughing at the bitter frost without.Amid their light the yule-log huge burns red,Diffusing round a warmth that seems to reachThe very heart and make it happier. BoughsOf laurel, fitted to entwine the browsOf heroes, mingled with all evergreensThe season yields, in gay and rich festoons,Or proud bouquets, adorn the walls around.The holly, with its grey-green crumpled leavesAnd berries bright as rubies, shoots red gleamsLike sunset through a forest. Mistletoe,The choice of Druids, with its slimy ballsAnd mystic branchings, fills the pensive mindWith memories wild and weird. All things are hereTo link thought to the past; all emblems fullOf rich memento, giving to the heartSweet impulses, the while the village bellsPeal their glad music with the same deep notesThat struck the ear long centuries ago.The group assembled owned the mystic powerOf these associations. Ancient rites,Time-honoured customs, and the cheerful soundsAll sacred to the season, gave delightThat brightened in the countenance. Not oneBut felt the mind o’erflowing with rich thoughts,And stirred with deeper feelings. But on earthPure joy can never reign, whilst death can partThe loved and the beloved. And as aroundThat smiling family the Father glanced,And saw one vacant chair, a tear bedimmedHis eye for his lost daughter. On the browOf her fond Mother, resignation satIn peaceful calm, that gave a purer toneTo every word and look. The lively bandOf sisters and of brothers, though the heartIn youthful freshness hath a buoyant spring,Amid their songs and merry laughter, shewedTheir spirits dwelt on Edith. Converse sweetAnd mutual interchange of sprightly thoughtPassed on the hours—such hours as leave the mindMore full of love and charity, and gleamWith starry radiance o’er our path of lifeWhen viewed in retrospection. IntervalsOf song or music would beguile the timeAnd make the moments sweeter. Verses framedBy some skilled poet breathing truth and life,Where raised to loftier power by the voiceIn melody’s deep tones, transmuting themTo heart-enchaining songs. Sweet instruments,Diverse in sort, combined their varied notesIn dulcet harmonies, and made a streamOf music as delightful to the ear,As to the eye a gorgeous bank of flowers,Where richly mingled every size and height,And hue and tint, combine their lovely formsTo make the fancy, at the splendid scene,Straight dream on paradise. The evening’s feastIn rich abundance shewed the liberal handOf hospitality. Rare viands, meats,With varied wines and drinks, o’erspread the board;But chiefly those which custom, ancient rightAnd use ancestral, have with willing heartDevoted to the season. Flowing thought,The play of merriment, the flash of wit,Enriched the banquet, whilst o’er all there reignedThe sway of Temperance. She, with cheerful smile,Gave each enough, the while a graver lookForbad excess, and by this healthful ruleIncreased the gladness of the social meal.The dearest friends and closest kindred formedAlone this meeting; such as would delightTo hear the strains of poetry brought forthBy Members of that household, and not deem,With chill austerity, and critic scorn,Their bringing forth an effort at display.Cheered by the pure repast, and seeking nowSome other source of pleasure, all the guestsWith one consent proceeded to demandThe promised boon—for boon in truth ’twas deemed,And held on promise too, since last they metTo celebrate this season. In the courseOf varied conversation on the artOf poesy, the skill required to makeWords run in music, subjects fit to frameA song of beauty, desultory talkOn power of language, criticism just,And kindred subjects; it was then proposed,Half jest, half earnest, that Sir Arthur should,With each one of his family, presentA poem as portion of the Christmas feastWhen next they met. With merry laugh from allThe challenge was accepted, and the schemeOf reading then laid down: Sir Arthur firstShould bring forth his production; then the sonsAnd daughters, each in order of their years,Should offer theirs; and to conclude the scene,The Mother chose, with modest diffidence,To rank the last. Now seated round the hearthIn one vast circle, with the sparkling eyeOf expectation, and the eager glanceOf curiosity, the group are rangedTo have the plan fulfilled. The ruddy glowOf blazing faggots gives the cheek of youthRedoubled beauty. As the firelight smilesThroughout th’ illumined room, its lustre fallsOn looks more cheerful still. The lively warmthThat fills the sprightly air, now clear by frost,Diffuses gladness, and a cheerful senseOf home-born pleasures—purest of the earth!Delighted with the scene, as one he lovedAnd prized beyond all price, Sir Arthur broughtWithout delay, his manuscript, and readIn tones that shewed the utterance of his heart,To auditors attentive, what he’d named—
Enriched their life, that earth to them resumed,Full oft, amidst its shadows and its clouds,A radiance as of primal paradise.Twice had the sun’s benign prolific rayEnrobed the earth with harvest, since the hourWhen bridal peals made all the village glad,And gave a mistress to the vacant Hall,To dwell there in her beauty, when againThe old bells uttered forth as rich a strainOf heart-arousing melody. A SonWas born to carry down that ancient lineTo future generations, and all heartsRejoiced in sympathy with that glad hopeWhich swelled each parent’s breast. The passing yearsGave now a daughter, and anon a son,Till six fair children filled that home with gleeAnd childhood’s happy laughter. Each grew upFrom innocent sweet infancy to daysOf blossoming youth. The elders now have reachedLife’s prime maturity, and one alone,Fair Edith, ranking fourth in age, hath beenTranslated to the heavens. One spring hath passedOn its gay flowery path, since earth received,When twenty summers had adorned her brow,Her mortal vestments, and the spirit fledTo the bright regions of immortal life.The first-born bears his father’s honoured name;Matilda, Alfred, Eva, and Lucrece,Mark out the rest, and each one duly sharesIn nature’s gift of beauty. Mind and formAre of the highest, and amidst them allGreat likeness and great difference prevails,Giving a oneness with variety,Like forest trees of diverse branch and leaf,Or sweet flowers intermixed in form and hue.Oh! what a change, beneficent and fairSome thirty years have wrought! The vacant hearth,Deserted by its owner, lone and drear,Is now illumined by the happy looksOf many radiant faces. Stillness deep,And mournful as the charnel, brooding there,Is now exchanged for music far more sweetThan harp or viol; voices breathing forthAffections purest tones, rich words of joy,And sprightly laughter from the gladsome heart!How rich the happiness Sir Arthur feels,And how enhanced, when with the dreary pastContrasted. His unfolding lot in lifeSeems like a plant, whose form in winter monthsLies buried deep in earth, but in the springPuts forth green shoots, expands its swelling buds,And through the summer multiplies fair flowersAll beautiful in sunshine. Grateful thoughtsAnd holy aspirations, crowd his breastAnd give a blessedness, a joy, a peaceNot often known on earth. As every childWas ushered into life, his heart enlargedWith love’s divine affections. His delightAnd steady aim was to prepare each mindFor usefulness in life, for well he knewIt was the shortest path to happiness:To mark each talent and each facultyIn its first opening, and to bring it forthBy fitting cultivation; to supplyOf intellectual food the purest, bestAnd most ennobling; to rear into strengthEach moral purpose, and direct the willTo loftiest objects; and above the restTo elevate the heart by cheerful hopesAnd prospects sweet of immortality,Till fervent love, and reverent pietyGlowed in each breast; such was the constant modeOf teaching he pursued, and such he taughtBy precept and example, till the loreSank deeply on each heart, and every childIn its own individuality, gave birthTo noble fruitage, that repaid this care.By such tuition it was sought to mouldTheir minds to power and strength: but to refineAnd add due elegance, the finer artsOf music, painting, poetry, and songWere called in aid; and to unbend awhileAnd give free recreation, every tasteHad due scope granted—some were left to rearFair flowers to beauty; some sought far and wideThings strange and curious, to store them upFor full inspection; others tried at willThe powers of elements, mechanic force,Or laws of nature, by experimentRenewed and oft repeated. Every hourHad thus its full employment, every heartSome worthy object, and the day fled byOn cheerful wing, for every mind was gay,Filled with delight by pure and useful thoughts.All evil is perversion of the goodThrough wrong direction, or by foul excess!How gaily skips the lambkin in the fieldMid sunshine and bright daises. How the fawnBounds light and gladsome o’er the grassy slopeExulting in existence. Insects wingTheir wondrous measures, music-timed, amidstThe golden twilight. Health and vigour flowFrom this activity. Then needs not man,Whose strength is fretted by the cares of mindAs well as toils of body, to renewHis wearied spirits by the livening joysAwaiting on the dance? Whene’er prolongedTo midnight hours, immodestly pursued,Or borne to weariness, a thing thus goodTransmutes itself to evil. But not soWas it perverted at the Hall. SometimesWhen weariness of mind forbad the strainAttending mental efforts, music’s soundsDistinct and marked, would summon to the danceAmid the social circle, or at timesOf friendly meeting it would oft affordSweet interchange of pleasure, intermixedWith cheerful converse, modulated songOr sound of instrumental harmonies.The power of competition oft unfoldsA latent genius into richer growthOr more energic action. To bring forthEach talent to full strength, Sir Arthur sought,Amid his household, to stir loving strifeAnd friendly rivalry, by calling allTo execute some task of art or skillIn one department.—Now to picture fairSome view from nature, or by fancy’s aidCreate a scene of beauty. Now to striveOn their respective instruments, to giveThe richest utterance to the magic notesOf some inspired musician; and anonTo choose a song, each one to private taste,And then to execute with utmost skill,And see who won, by free consent of all,The palm of willing praise. Thus each was broughtTo shew some excellence, by right their own,And feel that they contributed a shareTo mutual joy and benefit. ’Tis thusMankind are aided by each others skillAnd nations linked by wants in turn supplied.Of all the arts that elevate mankind,Refine their feelings, and exalt their thoughtsFrom gross and base conceptions, PoesyMust reign pre-eminent. It is the nextTo inspiration, and almost divine.From human nature’s inmost depths it springs,And blends the will and intellect, till bothGive forth their life with strange intensity,And seek to live incarnated in wordsThrough many generations. To the termsOf daily life and common intercourse,It gives new strength, and o’er their rudeness breathesRich music and soft beauty. When the soulIs sublimated by poetic thoughtAnd raptured feeling, no unnumbered wordsCan give fit utterance, but it seeks by songTo tell the harmonies that reign within,And visions bright reveal. The poet’s pageIs as a casket, wherein he has hidThe treasures of his heart. The talisman,The magic key which can alone unlockSuch sacred jewels, is a mind attunedResponsive to his own. Where this is not,His book becomes a blank, and sordid breastsCan find no beauty there. How happy theyWhose finer spirits can with joy perceiveThe luscious sweetness of the poet’s song,Partake the grandeur of like noble thought,And feel entranced with him. The gains of gold,The pomp of life, the pride of circumstance,Can ne’er convey such pleasure to the heartOr give a bliss so pure. To her high bardsThe world owes much, and more than oft is thought.’Tis not alone that they have lit the firesOf sacred poesy in other breasts,And taught young bards to touch the lyric stringsTo sweet, though meaner music; but the mightOf their high thoughts hath kindled in the soulsOf statesmen, warriors, sage philosophers,And all earth’s greatest emulative thoughtAnd nobleness of heart. Whene’er the worldNeglects sweet poesy, and dis-esteemsThe songs of bards, her holier life burns dimAnd flickers in the temple, and the voiceOf prophets may send forth the cry of woe!Oft when the spirit hath been deeply triedBy grief or love, or disappointment stern,A healing balsam hath the poet’s skillSent forth to soothe such smarting wounds of soulAnd still their fearful throbbing. MelodiesOf mournful music, breathing from the heartA vital sympathy, have given strengthAnd healed a kindred sorrow; till at lastThe unstrung chords within the shattered breastHave been retuned, and every note restoredCould sound a richer music than before!Thus was it with Sir Arthur; and the laysOf ancient bards were blended with his lifeAnd wrought into his being. On their songsHis heart was nourished in his hour of woeTill strengthened into joy. With reverence deepHe now beheld them, and their subtle powerTo give delight, and elevate the soulBy ministries of pleasure. Now he soughtTo wake in others, a like sense and tasteTo relish their chaste beauties. From its birthHe strove to open in each child the springOf freshly flowing poesy. The book,For his chief teaching, was the glorious scenesOf ever-verdant nature; sunset skies;Soft floating clouds; umbrageous forest shades;Bright stars or flowers; the splendour of the noon,The gloom of storms; the gorgeous pall of night,Were each a lesson, that with double power,Taught Piety and Poetry. Fair twinsAnd loving sisters are they! sent to raiseMankind to higher purity of thoughtAnd holier purposes. With cheerful smilesAnd love reciprocal, they, hand in hand,Oft journey on together, noting wellThe true and beautiful in all around.Whilst Poesy points out the fair and brightThe pure and lovely, Piety will liftHer hand aloft to indicate the SourceWhence such sweet visions spring; then both rejoiceWith kindred raptures, and with keener zestSeek fresh occasions for exalted praise.With hearts thus moulded from their early yearsAnd tutored into song, each one hath gainedSome small perfection in the gentle artOf linking thought with verse. This Christmas eve—A season dedicate to showing forthTheir loving strife by works of utmost skill—To grace the festival, each one must bring,By former compact, an original poemWrought out in solitude, from private thoughtAnd inward feeling, so as best to shewThe individual heart. By privilegeOf ancient friendship, from our boyish days,And love as that of brotherhood, I’ve comeTo join the circle by Sir Arthur’s fire,Partake his hospitality, and shareThe social converse round this happy hearth.Oh Christmas, what a host of sacred thoughtsCome thronging at thy name! The mind is filledWith holy visions of our human lovesExalted and refined. The charitiesOf daily life, of kindred and of home,Glow warmer ’neath thy sway. With hasty flightThe mind runs backward to more ancient timesAnd simpler manners, when the pomps of lifeHad wrought not such division, but the heartOf man met that of man, and all rejoicedAs in one brotherhood, at higher hopesAnd brighter prospects, given to the earthBy Him who made it. Round the blazing fireEach family assembled, must’ring allTheir nearest kindred; whilst with social loveAnd hospitable cheer, mid dance and songAnd mirth and minstrelsey, the hours fled byWith joy and brightness, leaving on the heartA glow more warm than autumn sunshine throwsOn corn-clad uplands. Plenty filled the barns,And teeming stores gave birth to grateful thoughtsAnd heavenly musings; whilst sweet carols sungTook up the burden of the angels’ songOf “peace on earth, good will to man,” and madeA holy joy pervade the sportive glee.To grace the season, at this ancient Hall,The feast is held, in the most antique room,And largest it contains. With wainscotingOf polished oak, and carvings rich and quaintThe walls are clad. Along the ceiling runStrong oaken beams that oft each other cross,Dividing all into compartments square,With pendents hanging down, adorned with goldAnd flower-like wreathings. Pannels here and thereAre filled with pictures, where some classic piece,Or ancient love tale, gives to modern eyesThe thoughts and feelings in the heart of old.The noble hearth spreads wide, and glorious flamesRoar up the chimney, as if wild with joyAnd laughing at the bitter frost without.Amid their light the yule-log huge burns red,Diffusing round a warmth that seems to reachThe very heart and make it happier. BoughsOf laurel, fitted to entwine the browsOf heroes, mingled with all evergreensThe season yields, in gay and rich festoons,Or proud bouquets, adorn the walls around.The holly, with its grey-green crumpled leavesAnd berries bright as rubies, shoots red gleamsLike sunset through a forest. Mistletoe,The choice of Druids, with its slimy ballsAnd mystic branchings, fills the pensive mindWith memories wild and weird. All things are hereTo link thought to the past; all emblems fullOf rich memento, giving to the heartSweet impulses, the while the village bellsPeal their glad music with the same deep notesThat struck the ear long centuries ago.The group assembled owned the mystic powerOf these associations. Ancient rites,Time-honoured customs, and the cheerful soundsAll sacred to the season, gave delightThat brightened in the countenance. Not oneBut felt the mind o’erflowing with rich thoughts,And stirred with deeper feelings. But on earthPure joy can never reign, whilst death can partThe loved and the beloved. And as aroundThat smiling family the Father glanced,And saw one vacant chair, a tear bedimmedHis eye for his lost daughter. On the browOf her fond Mother, resignation satIn peaceful calm, that gave a purer toneTo every word and look. The lively bandOf sisters and of brothers, though the heartIn youthful freshness hath a buoyant spring,Amid their songs and merry laughter, shewedTheir spirits dwelt on Edith. Converse sweetAnd mutual interchange of sprightly thoughtPassed on the hours—such hours as leave the mindMore full of love and charity, and gleamWith starry radiance o’er our path of lifeWhen viewed in retrospection. IntervalsOf song or music would beguile the timeAnd make the moments sweeter. Verses framedBy some skilled poet breathing truth and life,Where raised to loftier power by the voiceIn melody’s deep tones, transmuting themTo heart-enchaining songs. Sweet instruments,Diverse in sort, combined their varied notesIn dulcet harmonies, and made a streamOf music as delightful to the ear,As to the eye a gorgeous bank of flowers,Where richly mingled every size and height,And hue and tint, combine their lovely formsTo make the fancy, at the splendid scene,Straight dream on paradise. The evening’s feastIn rich abundance shewed the liberal handOf hospitality. Rare viands, meats,With varied wines and drinks, o’erspread the board;But chiefly those which custom, ancient rightAnd use ancestral, have with willing heartDevoted to the season. Flowing thought,The play of merriment, the flash of wit,Enriched the banquet, whilst o’er all there reignedThe sway of Temperance. She, with cheerful smile,Gave each enough, the while a graver lookForbad excess, and by this healthful ruleIncreased the gladness of the social meal.The dearest friends and closest kindred formedAlone this meeting; such as would delightTo hear the strains of poetry brought forthBy Members of that household, and not deem,With chill austerity, and critic scorn,Their bringing forth an effort at display.Cheered by the pure repast, and seeking nowSome other source of pleasure, all the guestsWith one consent proceeded to demandThe promised boon—for boon in truth ’twas deemed,And held on promise too, since last they metTo celebrate this season. In the courseOf varied conversation on the artOf poesy, the skill required to makeWords run in music, subjects fit to frameA song of beauty, desultory talkOn power of language, criticism just,And kindred subjects; it was then proposed,Half jest, half earnest, that Sir Arthur should,With each one of his family, presentA poem as portion of the Christmas feastWhen next they met. With merry laugh from allThe challenge was accepted, and the schemeOf reading then laid down: Sir Arthur firstShould bring forth his production; then the sonsAnd daughters, each in order of their years,Should offer theirs; and to conclude the scene,The Mother chose, with modest diffidence,To rank the last. Now seated round the hearthIn one vast circle, with the sparkling eyeOf expectation, and the eager glanceOf curiosity, the group are rangedTo have the plan fulfilled. The ruddy glowOf blazing faggots gives the cheek of youthRedoubled beauty. As the firelight smilesThroughout th’ illumined room, its lustre fallsOn looks more cheerful still. The lively warmthThat fills the sprightly air, now clear by frost,Diffuses gladness, and a cheerful senseOf home-born pleasures—purest of the earth!Delighted with the scene, as one he lovedAnd prized beyond all price, Sir Arthur broughtWithout delay, his manuscript, and readIn tones that shewed the utterance of his heart,To auditors attentive, what he’d named—
Enriched their life, that earth to them resumed,
Full oft, amidst its shadows and its clouds,
A radiance as of primal paradise.
Twice had the sun’s benign prolific ray
Enrobed the earth with harvest, since the hour
When bridal peals made all the village glad,
And gave a mistress to the vacant Hall,
To dwell there in her beauty, when again
The old bells uttered forth as rich a strain
Of heart-arousing melody. A Son
Was born to carry down that ancient line
To future generations, and all hearts
Rejoiced in sympathy with that glad hope
Which swelled each parent’s breast. The passing years
Gave now a daughter, and anon a son,
Till six fair children filled that home with glee
And childhood’s happy laughter. Each grew up
From innocent sweet infancy to days
Of blossoming youth. The elders now have reached
Life’s prime maturity, and one alone,
Fair Edith, ranking fourth in age, hath been
Translated to the heavens. One spring hath passed
On its gay flowery path, since earth received,
When twenty summers had adorned her brow,
Her mortal vestments, and the spirit fled
To the bright regions of immortal life.
The first-born bears his father’s honoured name;
Matilda, Alfred, Eva, and Lucrece,
Mark out the rest, and each one duly shares
In nature’s gift of beauty. Mind and form
Are of the highest, and amidst them all
Great likeness and great difference prevails,
Giving a oneness with variety,
Like forest trees of diverse branch and leaf,
Or sweet flowers intermixed in form and hue.
Oh! what a change, beneficent and fair
Some thirty years have wrought! The vacant hearth,
Deserted by its owner, lone and drear,
Is now illumined by the happy looks
Of many radiant faces. Stillness deep,
And mournful as the charnel, brooding there,
Is now exchanged for music far more sweet
Than harp or viol; voices breathing forth
Affections purest tones, rich words of joy,
And sprightly laughter from the gladsome heart!
How rich the happiness Sir Arthur feels,
And how enhanced, when with the dreary past
Contrasted. His unfolding lot in life
Seems like a plant, whose form in winter months
Lies buried deep in earth, but in the spring
Puts forth green shoots, expands its swelling buds,
And through the summer multiplies fair flowers
All beautiful in sunshine. Grateful thoughts
And holy aspirations, crowd his breast
And give a blessedness, a joy, a peace
Not often known on earth. As every child
Was ushered into life, his heart enlarged
With love’s divine affections. His delight
And steady aim was to prepare each mind
For usefulness in life, for well he knew
It was the shortest path to happiness:
To mark each talent and each faculty
In its first opening, and to bring it forth
By fitting cultivation; to supply
Of intellectual food the purest, best
And most ennobling; to rear into strength
Each moral purpose, and direct the will
To loftiest objects; and above the rest
To elevate the heart by cheerful hopes
And prospects sweet of immortality,
Till fervent love, and reverent piety
Glowed in each breast; such was the constant mode
Of teaching he pursued, and such he taught
By precept and example, till the lore
Sank deeply on each heart, and every child
In its own individuality, gave birth
To noble fruitage, that repaid this care.
By such tuition it was sought to mould
Their minds to power and strength: but to refine
And add due elegance, the finer arts
Of music, painting, poetry, and song
Were called in aid; and to unbend awhile
And give free recreation, every taste
Had due scope granted—some were left to rear
Fair flowers to beauty; some sought far and wide
Things strange and curious, to store them up
For full inspection; others tried at will
The powers of elements, mechanic force,
Or laws of nature, by experiment
Renewed and oft repeated. Every hour
Had thus its full employment, every heart
Some worthy object, and the day fled by
On cheerful wing, for every mind was gay,
Filled with delight by pure and useful thoughts.
All evil is perversion of the good
Through wrong direction, or by foul excess!
How gaily skips the lambkin in the field
Mid sunshine and bright daises. How the fawn
Bounds light and gladsome o’er the grassy slope
Exulting in existence. Insects wing
Their wondrous measures, music-timed, amidst
The golden twilight. Health and vigour flow
From this activity. Then needs not man,
Whose strength is fretted by the cares of mind
As well as toils of body, to renew
His wearied spirits by the livening joys
Awaiting on the dance? Whene’er prolonged
To midnight hours, immodestly pursued,
Or borne to weariness, a thing thus good
Transmutes itself to evil. But not so
Was it perverted at the Hall. Sometimes
When weariness of mind forbad the strain
Attending mental efforts, music’s sounds
Distinct and marked, would summon to the dance
Amid the social circle, or at times
Of friendly meeting it would oft afford
Sweet interchange of pleasure, intermixed
With cheerful converse, modulated song
Or sound of instrumental harmonies.
The power of competition oft unfolds
A latent genius into richer growth
Or more energic action. To bring forth
Each talent to full strength, Sir Arthur sought,
Amid his household, to stir loving strife
And friendly rivalry, by calling all
To execute some task of art or skill
In one department.—Now to picture fair
Some view from nature, or by fancy’s aid
Create a scene of beauty. Now to strive
On their respective instruments, to give
The richest utterance to the magic notes
Of some inspired musician; and anon
To choose a song, each one to private taste,
And then to execute with utmost skill,
And see who won, by free consent of all,
The palm of willing praise. Thus each was brought
To shew some excellence, by right their own,
And feel that they contributed a share
To mutual joy and benefit. ’Tis thus
Mankind are aided by each others skill
And nations linked by wants in turn supplied.
Of all the arts that elevate mankind,
Refine their feelings, and exalt their thoughts
From gross and base conceptions, Poesy
Must reign pre-eminent. It is the next
To inspiration, and almost divine.
From human nature’s inmost depths it springs,
And blends the will and intellect, till both
Give forth their life with strange intensity,
And seek to live incarnated in words
Through many generations. To the terms
Of daily life and common intercourse,
It gives new strength, and o’er their rudeness breathes
Rich music and soft beauty. When the soul
Is sublimated by poetic thought
And raptured feeling, no unnumbered words
Can give fit utterance, but it seeks by song
To tell the harmonies that reign within,
And visions bright reveal. The poet’s page
Is as a casket, wherein he has hid
The treasures of his heart. The talisman,
The magic key which can alone unlock
Such sacred jewels, is a mind attuned
Responsive to his own. Where this is not,
His book becomes a blank, and sordid breasts
Can find no beauty there. How happy they
Whose finer spirits can with joy perceive
The luscious sweetness of the poet’s song,
Partake the grandeur of like noble thought,
And feel entranced with him. The gains of gold,
The pomp of life, the pride of circumstance,
Can ne’er convey such pleasure to the heart
Or give a bliss so pure. To her high bards
The world owes much, and more than oft is thought.
’Tis not alone that they have lit the fires
Of sacred poesy in other breasts,
And taught young bards to touch the lyric strings
To sweet, though meaner music; but the might
Of their high thoughts hath kindled in the souls
Of statesmen, warriors, sage philosophers,
And all earth’s greatest emulative thought
And nobleness of heart. Whene’er the world
Neglects sweet poesy, and dis-esteems
The songs of bards, her holier life burns dim
And flickers in the temple, and the voice
Of prophets may send forth the cry of woe!
Oft when the spirit hath been deeply tried
By grief or love, or disappointment stern,
A healing balsam hath the poet’s skill
Sent forth to soothe such smarting wounds of soul
And still their fearful throbbing. Melodies
Of mournful music, breathing from the heart
A vital sympathy, have given strength
And healed a kindred sorrow; till at last
The unstrung chords within the shattered breast
Have been retuned, and every note restored
Could sound a richer music than before!
Thus was it with Sir Arthur; and the lays
Of ancient bards were blended with his life
And wrought into his being. On their songs
His heart was nourished in his hour of woe
Till strengthened into joy. With reverence deep
He now beheld them, and their subtle power
To give delight, and elevate the soul
By ministries of pleasure. Now he sought
To wake in others, a like sense and taste
To relish their chaste beauties. From its birth
He strove to open in each child the spring
Of freshly flowing poesy. The book,
For his chief teaching, was the glorious scenes
Of ever-verdant nature; sunset skies;
Soft floating clouds; umbrageous forest shades;
Bright stars or flowers; the splendour of the noon,
The gloom of storms; the gorgeous pall of night,
Were each a lesson, that with double power,
Taught Piety and Poetry. Fair twins
And loving sisters are they! sent to raise
Mankind to higher purity of thought
And holier purposes. With cheerful smiles
And love reciprocal, they, hand in hand,
Oft journey on together, noting well
The true and beautiful in all around.
Whilst Poesy points out the fair and bright
The pure and lovely, Piety will lift
Her hand aloft to indicate the Source
Whence such sweet visions spring; then both rejoice
With kindred raptures, and with keener zest
Seek fresh occasions for exalted praise.
With hearts thus moulded from their early years
And tutored into song, each one hath gained
Some small perfection in the gentle art
Of linking thought with verse. This Christmas eve—
A season dedicate to showing forth
Their loving strife by works of utmost skill—
To grace the festival, each one must bring,
By former compact, an original poem
Wrought out in solitude, from private thought
And inward feeling, so as best to shew
The individual heart. By privilege
Of ancient friendship, from our boyish days,
And love as that of brotherhood, I’ve come
To join the circle by Sir Arthur’s fire,
Partake his hospitality, and share
The social converse round this happy hearth.
Oh Christmas, what a host of sacred thoughts
Come thronging at thy name! The mind is filled
With holy visions of our human loves
Exalted and refined. The charities
Of daily life, of kindred and of home,
Glow warmer ’neath thy sway. With hasty flight
The mind runs backward to more ancient times
And simpler manners, when the pomps of life
Had wrought not such division, but the heart
Of man met that of man, and all rejoiced
As in one brotherhood, at higher hopes
And brighter prospects, given to the earth
By Him who made it. Round the blazing fire
Each family assembled, must’ring all
Their nearest kindred; whilst with social love
And hospitable cheer, mid dance and song
And mirth and minstrelsey, the hours fled by
With joy and brightness, leaving on the heart
A glow more warm than autumn sunshine throws
On corn-clad uplands. Plenty filled the barns,
And teeming stores gave birth to grateful thoughts
And heavenly musings; whilst sweet carols sung
Took up the burden of the angels’ song
Of “peace on earth, good will to man,” and made
A holy joy pervade the sportive glee.
To grace the season, at this ancient Hall,
The feast is held, in the most antique room,
And largest it contains. With wainscoting
Of polished oak, and carvings rich and quaint
The walls are clad. Along the ceiling run
Strong oaken beams that oft each other cross,
Dividing all into compartments square,
With pendents hanging down, adorned with gold
And flower-like wreathings. Pannels here and there
Are filled with pictures, where some classic piece,
Or ancient love tale, gives to modern eyes
The thoughts and feelings in the heart of old.
The noble hearth spreads wide, and glorious flames
Roar up the chimney, as if wild with joy
And laughing at the bitter frost without.
Amid their light the yule-log huge burns red,
Diffusing round a warmth that seems to reach
The very heart and make it happier. Boughs
Of laurel, fitted to entwine the brows
Of heroes, mingled with all evergreens
The season yields, in gay and rich festoons,
Or proud bouquets, adorn the walls around.
The holly, with its grey-green crumpled leaves
And berries bright as rubies, shoots red gleams
Like sunset through a forest. Mistletoe,
The choice of Druids, with its slimy balls
And mystic branchings, fills the pensive mind
With memories wild and weird. All things are here
To link thought to the past; all emblems full
Of rich memento, giving to the heart
Sweet impulses, the while the village bells
Peal their glad music with the same deep notes
That struck the ear long centuries ago.
The group assembled owned the mystic power
Of these associations. Ancient rites,
Time-honoured customs, and the cheerful sounds
All sacred to the season, gave delight
That brightened in the countenance. Not one
But felt the mind o’erflowing with rich thoughts,
And stirred with deeper feelings. But on earth
Pure joy can never reign, whilst death can part
The loved and the beloved. And as around
That smiling family the Father glanced,
And saw one vacant chair, a tear bedimmed
His eye for his lost daughter. On the brow
Of her fond Mother, resignation sat
In peaceful calm, that gave a purer tone
To every word and look. The lively band
Of sisters and of brothers, though the heart
In youthful freshness hath a buoyant spring,
Amid their songs and merry laughter, shewed
Their spirits dwelt on Edith. Converse sweet
And mutual interchange of sprightly thought
Passed on the hours—such hours as leave the mind
More full of love and charity, and gleam
With starry radiance o’er our path of life
When viewed in retrospection. Intervals
Of song or music would beguile the time
And make the moments sweeter. Verses framed
By some skilled poet breathing truth and life,
Where raised to loftier power by the voice
In melody’s deep tones, transmuting them
To heart-enchaining songs. Sweet instruments,
Diverse in sort, combined their varied notes
In dulcet harmonies, and made a stream
Of music as delightful to the ear,
As to the eye a gorgeous bank of flowers,
Where richly mingled every size and height,
And hue and tint, combine their lovely forms
To make the fancy, at the splendid scene,
Straight dream on paradise. The evening’s feast
In rich abundance shewed the liberal hand
Of hospitality. Rare viands, meats,
With varied wines and drinks, o’erspread the board;
But chiefly those which custom, ancient right
And use ancestral, have with willing heart
Devoted to the season. Flowing thought,
The play of merriment, the flash of wit,
Enriched the banquet, whilst o’er all there reigned
The sway of Temperance. She, with cheerful smile,
Gave each enough, the while a graver look
Forbad excess, and by this healthful rule
Increased the gladness of the social meal.
The dearest friends and closest kindred formed
Alone this meeting; such as would delight
To hear the strains of poetry brought forth
By Members of that household, and not deem,
With chill austerity, and critic scorn,
Their bringing forth an effort at display.
Cheered by the pure repast, and seeking now
Some other source of pleasure, all the guests
With one consent proceeded to demand
The promised boon—for boon in truth ’twas deemed,
And held on promise too, since last they met
To celebrate this season. In the course
Of varied conversation on the art
Of poesy, the skill required to make
Words run in music, subjects fit to frame
A song of beauty, desultory talk
On power of language, criticism just,
And kindred subjects; it was then proposed,
Half jest, half earnest, that Sir Arthur should,
With each one of his family, present
A poem as portion of the Christmas feast
When next they met. With merry laugh from all
The challenge was accepted, and the scheme
Of reading then laid down: Sir Arthur first
Should bring forth his production; then the sons
And daughters, each in order of their years,
Should offer theirs; and to conclude the scene,
The Mother chose, with modest diffidence,
To rank the last. Now seated round the hearth
In one vast circle, with the sparkling eye
Of expectation, and the eager glance
Of curiosity, the group are ranged
To have the plan fulfilled. The ruddy glow
Of blazing faggots gives the cheek of youth
Redoubled beauty. As the firelight smiles
Throughout th’ illumined room, its lustre falls
On looks more cheerful still. The lively warmth
That fills the sprightly air, now clear by frost,
Diffuses gladness, and a cheerful sense
Of home-born pleasures—purest of the earth!
Delighted with the scene, as one he loved
And prized beyond all price, Sir Arthur brought
Without delay, his manuscript, and read
In tones that shewed the utterance of his heart,
To auditors attentive, what he’d named—