The morn was gloomy, and the russet earthGave to the eye a landscape drear and dim;The clouds, low hung, seemed resting on the hillsFraught with unusual weight, and cast aroundDeep shades of blackness o’er each swelling peak,By leafless woodlands clad; along the valesThe farmsteads glimmered, and the fields around—Some grey with stubble, some with scanty grassPinched yellow by the cold, and some dark brown,Where recent ploughshares had turned up the soil,—A varied scene presented to the eye,But sombre all, and sad. Not that the earthHath aught of sadness, but at all times givesSome beauty to the mind, e’en when the smileOf sunshine and fertility least glowsOn her rich countenance, for then she speaksIn tones prophetic to the heart, and tellsOf secret strength preparing to bring forthThe gifts and bounties of another year.The hollow wind moaned wildly through the trees,And waved their solemn branches to and froIn endless motion. Scarce a single leaf,Scarlet or golden, olive or red-brown,Adorned the forest, save where gloomy firsStretched their red arms, or melancholy pinesReared their tall pyramids of foliage black,Filling the dusky scene with deeper shade,And adding darkness to the clouds of heaven.The naked branches of the hedgerow elmsLashed wildly round, and threatened to cast forthThe jetty masses of the old rook nestsLodged midst their topmost twigs. The withered leavesCoursed swiftly o’er the ground, and danced aboutIn strange fantastic coils, and eddies wildLike whirlpools in a river. Heaven and earthForetel a coming storm, that soon will clotheThe naked landscape in a robe of white,Until it shines more beautiful and pureThan fleecy cloudlets o’er the sun-bright sky.How calm and peaceful, e’en amidst the gloom,The simple village looks! With aspect south,From a hill-side of mild declivity,It gazes sweetly o’er the meads below,Through which a winding river, o’er mossed stones,Makes pleasing murmurs. All the cottage roofsAre clad with rustic thatch, and round their doorsIn summer time, the climbing plants creep up,And make sweet scented bowers. A garden-plot,For use and beauty, is assigned to each,Which industry’s firm hand, by pleasing toil,Arrays in loveliness so rich and bright,It seems a nook from paradise. But nowIn tidy order they await the springTo make them bloom again. Amongst the treesThat rise in stately tiers above the roofs,Along the hill-side steep o’er steep, the smokeIn light blue wreaths, from every chimney curlsWith ample convolution, giving noteOf snug warm hearths, and comfortable homesWhere winter is not feared. The lattice-panesShine clear and bright, and to each flitting rayGive keen reflections, whilst their cheerful glanceBespeaks the reign of cleanliness. O’er allThere broods an air of quiet and contentOf peace, of plenty in that lowly sphereWhere heart meets heart in pure simplicityUnchecked by station, and unchilled by wealth.Oh that the earth of such calm homes were full!And such fair villages adorned the plainsIn countless numbers, where the labouring poorMight live respected, and respect themselves!Who is a hero,—he who daily fightsThe fearful hosts of poverty and wantWith industry’s strong sword, and wins the spoils,The honourable spoils of raiment, food,And kindly shelter to make glad all heartsAround his hearth. No stately cenotaphOf costly stones is to his honour reared,But yet he owns a richer monument,Built up of kindly thoughts within each mind,That justly thinks, and loves the really great,The honest and the true. How much of good,One being can perform, whose heart delightsTo see all prosperous round! And here dwells oneWho scatters blessings with a liberal hand,Directed wisely by a mind discreet,That seeks the greatest good. He strives to giveEmployment to each hand, and due rewardTo each that labours. With new thought to swellThe poor man’s stock of knowledge, that his workMay yield a richer harvest; to instilInstruction varied on his craving mind,That it may be matured, to bear the flowersOf pure and simple pleasure; and the fruitsOf profit and utility. To sow,To plant, to prune; to plan, frame, rear, and build;To watch the seasons, to enrich the soils,And do unnumbered things to multiplyThe simple comforts of their quiet homesHave each been taught. And still a higher loreHas thereunto been added; that which tellsOf man’s immortal destiny, and seeksTo elevate his thought to higher goodThan earth contains, and holier principlesThan this world’s maxims; that the heart may loveIn just equality each fellow-man,And bow with holy reverence and joyBefore the throne of Light; and thus becomeMore pure and happy, and a citizenOf higher worlds whilst sojourning on earth.And who is he who wisely ministersTo all the wants of poor humanity,Each in its kind, and strives to scatter roundThroughout his sphere the purest happinessThat earth can own? Sir Arthur, at the Hall!To him belong the fertile acres round,To him the village; but he holds them notIn pomp and pride and narrow selfishness,But as a man amongst his fellowmen,Knowing and feeling that his hand hath powerTo curse or bless, and with determined heartHe chooses blessing. With an eye that beams,As with parental love, he looks on all,The young, the old, and with a kindly voiceSpeaks words of warm encouragement; or givesThe needed counsel, or the calm rebuke.His words are ever welcome; e’en the churlWho meets reproof, does so in quietness,Straight thinks thereon, and turns him to amend.All look upon him with respectful loveAnd firm devotion. Never hero boldOf ancient feudal times, who led alongHis faithful vassals to the battle field,To crown them with renown, and win proud fame,Was e’er encompassed with such fervent heartsAnd such dependent zeal. He leads them onTo purer triumphs, conquests more benign;They overcome not to spread round them tearsAnd misery and death. The wars they wageAre with the stubborn soil; the wreaths they winAre fruits and flowers. The triumphs they attain,Are over ignorance, and want and sin,Which bring their meed of pleasure and of peace.The old Age had its heroes, and the newMust have its heroes also. Men of thought,Of knowledge and of skill, whose ample mindsAre armories of wisdom to supplyThe need of lesser minds, and lead them onAll strong and mighty to the coming warOf truth with falsehood. Times have greatly changed;And errors and traditions growing dimFlicker like fleeting mists. Their power is gone,And hearts are yearning for the morning beamsOf pure, unsullied truth! When will ariseThe mighty Prophet, radiant with lightTo lighten nations; to lift up mankindFrom petty sects and systems, groveling thoughts,Vain dreams, false policies, and bring them forthTo bask serenely in truth’s cheerful lightUnited into one? Man’s heart hath hope,By prophecy upheld, and though he longHath tarried for it, nigh two thousand years,Yet now the dawning seems to streak the east,All things are stirring, slumberers awake,And watchers peer into the rising day!Thus much in passing! Ere we enter inThat antique Hall, more fully to attainA knowledge of its owner, all whose actsAre works of goodness, and whose pure life breathesThe spirit of rich charity: We’ll traceA ready path across yon meadow-field,To where, in solitude and calm repose,The village church rears up its ancient spireAbove surrounding trees. Its antique wallsAre softly tinted by the hand of timeWith varied hues, all chastened and subdued,But exquisitly beautiful. Each arch,Each massive column, and each window quaint,Compels to thoughts of long-passed, hoary daysAnd human ancestry. Oh where are theyWho reared that tower, and they whose voices wokeThe first deep echo from those sacred wallsBy sounds of holy minstrelsey? And theyOf generations, each succeeding each,Through the long current of a thousand years,Down to the last whose bones were hither brought,And o’er whose grave of brown and roughened soilThe grass hath not yet crept? “They sleep in dust,”“They slumber in the ground”—’tis thus we speak,And by such speaking we in thought foregoThe glorious truths of immortality;The birth-right of the soul! What sleeps in dust?What brought we here to slumber deep in earth?The living spirit or the soulless clay?That thing of thought, that seeing, hearing mind,That living active being first had fled,And left its husk rejected. This aloneWas hid in earth, to veil it from the sightEre severed by corruption, part from part,And scattered widely to the winds of heaven,Or cast abroad through earth. Then let not thoughtStop chained below, or buried in the grave,But bearing upwards, as with eagle flight,Behold earth’s habitants assembled all,Contemporaneous in the spirit-world,The great, the grand receptacle of life,Where all live unto God, for he is GodNot of the dead but living. Each one thereIs gathered to his fathers, not of flesh,But of the spirit. Like is linked with like,The pure with pure; the evil, filthy, vile,Are with their fellows. As the tree has fallenSo it lies. Oh contemplation great,Sublime and aweful; yet enriched by hope,Where faith is strong in God’s Redemptive love,And knows his Providence, from evil bringsA birth of good. The sorrows, pains, and caresOf outward life, oft deeply work withinTo purify the spirit, and exaltTo holier thought and feeling. Let none thenPass judgement on his fellow, but in love,And fitting charity. The inward lifeNo human eye can read; or what that lifeMay yet bring forth. Then let us judge ourselves,And looking round on things that make us mourn,Console our spirits with the glorious truthChrist hath not died in vain! Though in the graveThe spirit lies not, and the form of clayIs soon dispersed amid the elements,Yet in the church-yard, or the place of tombs,Fraught with mementos of the ancient past,Our thought is strengthened, and the links re-boundThat join us to the dead. We there reviveOld loves, and sweet affections, purified,Refined, and softened; and go forth to lifeMore calm in spirit, and with brighter hopes.The threatened storm advances—snowy flakesFall thin and waving to the half-froze ground,Then slowly melt. They soon in quick descentMust seek the earth, and whirling densely downShut out the landscape, and array the sceneIn gorgeous raiment of unsullied white.But ’ere this chances ’twill be well to seekThe hospitable shelter of the Hall,And gain a certain welcome. Christmas-tide,So full of joy and open-hearted love,Finds there a liberal reign. But do not thinkA few more steps will bring us to some seatOf wealth and stately grandeur, whose high lord,Just scatters round his superfluityAnd blesses as by chance. No marble walls,No colonnades, no proud magnificence,Have now to greet us, but an antique home,Not spacious, but of ample size for all,The needs and elegance of cultured life.Far down yon avenue of noble limes,That spread their leafless branches broad and free,You may behold it. Pointed gables riseAnd straight tall chimneys rear themselves aloftIn strange variety, and by their formsBespeak a mansion that for centuriesHas held a worthy hearth. Though winter broods,The park around looks beautiful, and shewsThe strictest neatness, and incessant care;For many hands here labour, not aloneTo please the owner, and delight the sight,But that they each by honest work may gainAn independent home, and eat thereinThat sweetest of all bread—the justly earned!And though Sir Arthur has a taste refined,A sense most delicate, a mind aliveTo every beauty, native or of art,It is not merely to regale this tasteThat such pure elegance and order reign,But rather that his feeling heart therebyMay spread a due prosperity aroundThrough every grade, and thus he strives to giveUnfailing work to all within his sphere.Before the mansion a broad terrace spreads,By steps ascended, and quaint balustradesWith pillars, globes and urns, engird it well.And in the centre, most grotesque of formAll richly carved, a massive sundial standsTo mark the hours. Most ancient horologeThat gives a tongue to nature, and compelsThe mighty sun to measure out the time!Below the terrace, on a velvet lawn,There stands a fountain, where a cherub boy,Carved in white marble, beautiful as life,Holds proudly high a waterlilly’s bell,Whence springs a copious shower of silver rainTo drop in music, mid the pool below,And fill the air with murmurs. Here and there,In open spaces, or mid spreading trees,Pure statues stand, or elevated bustsOf men renowned, whose mighty deeds or songsHave blessed mankind. Nor is there wanting hereSome sweet embodiments of Grecian thoughtAnd ancient fable. The bright water-nymph,Pure as the fount; or that enamoured youth,Who gazed for ever in the crystal wellEntranced by his own beauty. Clumps of trees,Some in the hollows, some upon the knolls,Give rich variety; and through the dellA winding river sweeps, now polished brightLike some fair mirror, and anon in foamAs beautiful as snow, from dashing downA rocky shelf, or gushing o’er mossed stonesWith playful freakishness. Thick woods encloseThe outskirts of the park, with frequent breaks,Through which the sight, well pleased, may wander farO’er distant lands, and view the soft blue hills.The quaint stone carvings, round the massive porch,Along the gables, cornices and sills,Have lost their sharpness, softly moulded down,But not defaced, and time-tints cover allWith pleasing richness. O’er the once bright brickGrey hues are dappled, and give harmonyThat blends the building with the ancient oaks,Planes, beeches, chesnuts, whose outstretching armsGive shelter and protection. Entering inThe lofty vestibule, the eye perceivesA mixed array of ancient armour, swords,Pikes, shields, and banners, antlered heads of stags,Brave hunting horns, with arrows, bows, and spears,And other relics marking the careerOf different ages—freeborn forest life—The reign of chivalry—bold sporting days—Down to the quiet of the present timeOf peace and fireside comfort. Many rooms,To link the present with the past, unchangedRetain their ancient fashion, some are framedTo modern elegance in style and form.Ancestral thoughts! they fall upon the mindLike twilight shadows, or the first fresh dewsThat cool the earth! As some soft pensive strainOf mournful music, heard at sombre eve,Recalling early joys, so they recallDim visions of the vanished. Who can paceAn oaken old apartment, dim with years,And not re-people it again by thoughtAnd bring the past before him? Youthful forms,Arrayed in early beauty, mid the joysOf feast and dance and song, who soon becameThemselves the parents of a race as bright,And passing onwards to life’s calm decline,In honourable age, with aspect mild,Sat hoary-headed by the hearth to watchTheir children’s children act again the sportsThat once were their delight. The voices heardIn olden times, within such walls, no moreWill echo softly there, but virtues brightMay be re-copied, or revive againAs fresh plants spring from seed. The great, the goodMight thus become immortal on the earthBeyond their immortality of fame,And live a second deathless life enshrinedIn thoughts and deeds of men. It is the pride,The true, the noble pride of ancestry,When man, on his forefathers looking, strivesTheir virtues to re-build within his soul,And make their goodness his. Thus would he bearTheir shield with honour, and their heraldryBy undisputed right be justly his.Such is the aim of some, and here dwells oneWhom honour thus engirds. The portraits hungUpon his walls, Sir Arthur views with pride,But ’tis a pride whose inmost life is formedOf deep humility. Such words are weakTo truly tell its nature! Joy he feelsThat such men were before him; deep desireTo copy out their merits, and adaptTheir sterling virtues to the present age;And linked with this a sense of feebleness,Of unattained perfection, chastens downAll exultation, and to gentlenessSubdues his mind. Where’er he comes, his eyeIs bright with pleasure, and pure joy to greetEach he esteems a friend. His silver hairTwines thinly round his brow, whose high expanseReveals keen intellect; upon his cheekThe hue of healthy age; and that calm smile—If such it may be called—which ever playsLike autumn sunshine on the countenance,Where pure benevolence and holy hopesPossess the heart. It seems a thing of heaven,And hath on earth no antitype but whenSome lovely infant, in life’s early bloom,And calm sweet innocence, in slumber lies,And smiles amidst its sleep. Yet firmness too,And dauntless energy, possess his soulWith mighty perseverance. Naught can turnHis steady purpose when assured of right,Or warp him to the wrong. Yet soft and blandHis manner, and the utterance of his thoughtTo those who differ. No harsh words destroyThe harmony of truth, or proud looks marIts beauty to the hearer. Like to oneWho, mid spring sunshine, sows prolific seed,He gently scatters round improving thoughts,And leaves the soil to raise them into lifeAccording to its nature. Thus he winsThe love of all, and the unfeigned esteem;For those whose maxims are opposed to hisRespect his firm opinion; held they seeIn deep sincerity; with deference dueAnd fit regard to independent thought,And moral freedom in all other minds.’Tis not alone amid the villagersThis influence beneficent hath wroughtWith elevating power. We might speakOf public life, and more extensive spheresOf thought and action, did the time permitAnd were occasion fitting. But as nowFor some few happy days we dwell amidstThe circle round his hearth; and at this timeOf social joy, and glad festivity,’Twere better far to give a picture bright,—Were but my pencil equal to the task—Of that calm happiness, that tranquil joy,That interchange of mental pure delight
The morn was gloomy, and the russet earthGave to the eye a landscape drear and dim;The clouds, low hung, seemed resting on the hillsFraught with unusual weight, and cast aroundDeep shades of blackness o’er each swelling peak,By leafless woodlands clad; along the valesThe farmsteads glimmered, and the fields around—Some grey with stubble, some with scanty grassPinched yellow by the cold, and some dark brown,Where recent ploughshares had turned up the soil,—A varied scene presented to the eye,But sombre all, and sad. Not that the earthHath aught of sadness, but at all times givesSome beauty to the mind, e’en when the smileOf sunshine and fertility least glowsOn her rich countenance, for then she speaksIn tones prophetic to the heart, and tellsOf secret strength preparing to bring forthThe gifts and bounties of another year.The hollow wind moaned wildly through the trees,And waved their solemn branches to and froIn endless motion. Scarce a single leaf,Scarlet or golden, olive or red-brown,Adorned the forest, save where gloomy firsStretched their red arms, or melancholy pinesReared their tall pyramids of foliage black,Filling the dusky scene with deeper shade,And adding darkness to the clouds of heaven.The naked branches of the hedgerow elmsLashed wildly round, and threatened to cast forthThe jetty masses of the old rook nestsLodged midst their topmost twigs. The withered leavesCoursed swiftly o’er the ground, and danced aboutIn strange fantastic coils, and eddies wildLike whirlpools in a river. Heaven and earthForetel a coming storm, that soon will clotheThe naked landscape in a robe of white,Until it shines more beautiful and pureThan fleecy cloudlets o’er the sun-bright sky.How calm and peaceful, e’en amidst the gloom,The simple village looks! With aspect south,From a hill-side of mild declivity,It gazes sweetly o’er the meads below,Through which a winding river, o’er mossed stones,Makes pleasing murmurs. All the cottage roofsAre clad with rustic thatch, and round their doorsIn summer time, the climbing plants creep up,And make sweet scented bowers. A garden-plot,For use and beauty, is assigned to each,Which industry’s firm hand, by pleasing toil,Arrays in loveliness so rich and bright,It seems a nook from paradise. But nowIn tidy order they await the springTo make them bloom again. Amongst the treesThat rise in stately tiers above the roofs,Along the hill-side steep o’er steep, the smokeIn light blue wreaths, from every chimney curlsWith ample convolution, giving noteOf snug warm hearths, and comfortable homesWhere winter is not feared. The lattice-panesShine clear and bright, and to each flitting rayGive keen reflections, whilst their cheerful glanceBespeaks the reign of cleanliness. O’er allThere broods an air of quiet and contentOf peace, of plenty in that lowly sphereWhere heart meets heart in pure simplicityUnchecked by station, and unchilled by wealth.Oh that the earth of such calm homes were full!And such fair villages adorned the plainsIn countless numbers, where the labouring poorMight live respected, and respect themselves!Who is a hero,—he who daily fightsThe fearful hosts of poverty and wantWith industry’s strong sword, and wins the spoils,The honourable spoils of raiment, food,And kindly shelter to make glad all heartsAround his hearth. No stately cenotaphOf costly stones is to his honour reared,But yet he owns a richer monument,Built up of kindly thoughts within each mind,That justly thinks, and loves the really great,The honest and the true. How much of good,One being can perform, whose heart delightsTo see all prosperous round! And here dwells oneWho scatters blessings with a liberal hand,Directed wisely by a mind discreet,That seeks the greatest good. He strives to giveEmployment to each hand, and due rewardTo each that labours. With new thought to swellThe poor man’s stock of knowledge, that his workMay yield a richer harvest; to instilInstruction varied on his craving mind,That it may be matured, to bear the flowersOf pure and simple pleasure; and the fruitsOf profit and utility. To sow,To plant, to prune; to plan, frame, rear, and build;To watch the seasons, to enrich the soils,And do unnumbered things to multiplyThe simple comforts of their quiet homesHave each been taught. And still a higher loreHas thereunto been added; that which tellsOf man’s immortal destiny, and seeksTo elevate his thought to higher goodThan earth contains, and holier principlesThan this world’s maxims; that the heart may loveIn just equality each fellow-man,And bow with holy reverence and joyBefore the throne of Light; and thus becomeMore pure and happy, and a citizenOf higher worlds whilst sojourning on earth.And who is he who wisely ministersTo all the wants of poor humanity,Each in its kind, and strives to scatter roundThroughout his sphere the purest happinessThat earth can own? Sir Arthur, at the Hall!To him belong the fertile acres round,To him the village; but he holds them notIn pomp and pride and narrow selfishness,But as a man amongst his fellowmen,Knowing and feeling that his hand hath powerTo curse or bless, and with determined heartHe chooses blessing. With an eye that beams,As with parental love, he looks on all,The young, the old, and with a kindly voiceSpeaks words of warm encouragement; or givesThe needed counsel, or the calm rebuke.His words are ever welcome; e’en the churlWho meets reproof, does so in quietness,Straight thinks thereon, and turns him to amend.All look upon him with respectful loveAnd firm devotion. Never hero boldOf ancient feudal times, who led alongHis faithful vassals to the battle field,To crown them with renown, and win proud fame,Was e’er encompassed with such fervent heartsAnd such dependent zeal. He leads them onTo purer triumphs, conquests more benign;They overcome not to spread round them tearsAnd misery and death. The wars they wageAre with the stubborn soil; the wreaths they winAre fruits and flowers. The triumphs they attain,Are over ignorance, and want and sin,Which bring their meed of pleasure and of peace.The old Age had its heroes, and the newMust have its heroes also. Men of thought,Of knowledge and of skill, whose ample mindsAre armories of wisdom to supplyThe need of lesser minds, and lead them onAll strong and mighty to the coming warOf truth with falsehood. Times have greatly changed;And errors and traditions growing dimFlicker like fleeting mists. Their power is gone,And hearts are yearning for the morning beamsOf pure, unsullied truth! When will ariseThe mighty Prophet, radiant with lightTo lighten nations; to lift up mankindFrom petty sects and systems, groveling thoughts,Vain dreams, false policies, and bring them forthTo bask serenely in truth’s cheerful lightUnited into one? Man’s heart hath hope,By prophecy upheld, and though he longHath tarried for it, nigh two thousand years,Yet now the dawning seems to streak the east,All things are stirring, slumberers awake,And watchers peer into the rising day!Thus much in passing! Ere we enter inThat antique Hall, more fully to attainA knowledge of its owner, all whose actsAre works of goodness, and whose pure life breathesThe spirit of rich charity: We’ll traceA ready path across yon meadow-field,To where, in solitude and calm repose,The village church rears up its ancient spireAbove surrounding trees. Its antique wallsAre softly tinted by the hand of timeWith varied hues, all chastened and subdued,But exquisitly beautiful. Each arch,Each massive column, and each window quaint,Compels to thoughts of long-passed, hoary daysAnd human ancestry. Oh where are theyWho reared that tower, and they whose voices wokeThe first deep echo from those sacred wallsBy sounds of holy minstrelsey? And theyOf generations, each succeeding each,Through the long current of a thousand years,Down to the last whose bones were hither brought,And o’er whose grave of brown and roughened soilThe grass hath not yet crept? “They sleep in dust,”“They slumber in the ground”—’tis thus we speak,And by such speaking we in thought foregoThe glorious truths of immortality;The birth-right of the soul! What sleeps in dust?What brought we here to slumber deep in earth?The living spirit or the soulless clay?That thing of thought, that seeing, hearing mind,That living active being first had fled,And left its husk rejected. This aloneWas hid in earth, to veil it from the sightEre severed by corruption, part from part,And scattered widely to the winds of heaven,Or cast abroad through earth. Then let not thoughtStop chained below, or buried in the grave,But bearing upwards, as with eagle flight,Behold earth’s habitants assembled all,Contemporaneous in the spirit-world,The great, the grand receptacle of life,Where all live unto God, for he is GodNot of the dead but living. Each one thereIs gathered to his fathers, not of flesh,But of the spirit. Like is linked with like,The pure with pure; the evil, filthy, vile,Are with their fellows. As the tree has fallenSo it lies. Oh contemplation great,Sublime and aweful; yet enriched by hope,Where faith is strong in God’s Redemptive love,And knows his Providence, from evil bringsA birth of good. The sorrows, pains, and caresOf outward life, oft deeply work withinTo purify the spirit, and exaltTo holier thought and feeling. Let none thenPass judgement on his fellow, but in love,And fitting charity. The inward lifeNo human eye can read; or what that lifeMay yet bring forth. Then let us judge ourselves,And looking round on things that make us mourn,Console our spirits with the glorious truthChrist hath not died in vain! Though in the graveThe spirit lies not, and the form of clayIs soon dispersed amid the elements,Yet in the church-yard, or the place of tombs,Fraught with mementos of the ancient past,Our thought is strengthened, and the links re-boundThat join us to the dead. We there reviveOld loves, and sweet affections, purified,Refined, and softened; and go forth to lifeMore calm in spirit, and with brighter hopes.The threatened storm advances—snowy flakesFall thin and waving to the half-froze ground,Then slowly melt. They soon in quick descentMust seek the earth, and whirling densely downShut out the landscape, and array the sceneIn gorgeous raiment of unsullied white.But ’ere this chances ’twill be well to seekThe hospitable shelter of the Hall,And gain a certain welcome. Christmas-tide,So full of joy and open-hearted love,Finds there a liberal reign. But do not thinkA few more steps will bring us to some seatOf wealth and stately grandeur, whose high lord,Just scatters round his superfluityAnd blesses as by chance. No marble walls,No colonnades, no proud magnificence,Have now to greet us, but an antique home,Not spacious, but of ample size for all,The needs and elegance of cultured life.Far down yon avenue of noble limes,That spread their leafless branches broad and free,You may behold it. Pointed gables riseAnd straight tall chimneys rear themselves aloftIn strange variety, and by their formsBespeak a mansion that for centuriesHas held a worthy hearth. Though winter broods,The park around looks beautiful, and shewsThe strictest neatness, and incessant care;For many hands here labour, not aloneTo please the owner, and delight the sight,But that they each by honest work may gainAn independent home, and eat thereinThat sweetest of all bread—the justly earned!And though Sir Arthur has a taste refined,A sense most delicate, a mind aliveTo every beauty, native or of art,It is not merely to regale this tasteThat such pure elegance and order reign,But rather that his feeling heart therebyMay spread a due prosperity aroundThrough every grade, and thus he strives to giveUnfailing work to all within his sphere.Before the mansion a broad terrace spreads,By steps ascended, and quaint balustradesWith pillars, globes and urns, engird it well.And in the centre, most grotesque of formAll richly carved, a massive sundial standsTo mark the hours. Most ancient horologeThat gives a tongue to nature, and compelsThe mighty sun to measure out the time!Below the terrace, on a velvet lawn,There stands a fountain, where a cherub boy,Carved in white marble, beautiful as life,Holds proudly high a waterlilly’s bell,Whence springs a copious shower of silver rainTo drop in music, mid the pool below,And fill the air with murmurs. Here and there,In open spaces, or mid spreading trees,Pure statues stand, or elevated bustsOf men renowned, whose mighty deeds or songsHave blessed mankind. Nor is there wanting hereSome sweet embodiments of Grecian thoughtAnd ancient fable. The bright water-nymph,Pure as the fount; or that enamoured youth,Who gazed for ever in the crystal wellEntranced by his own beauty. Clumps of trees,Some in the hollows, some upon the knolls,Give rich variety; and through the dellA winding river sweeps, now polished brightLike some fair mirror, and anon in foamAs beautiful as snow, from dashing downA rocky shelf, or gushing o’er mossed stonesWith playful freakishness. Thick woods encloseThe outskirts of the park, with frequent breaks,Through which the sight, well pleased, may wander farO’er distant lands, and view the soft blue hills.The quaint stone carvings, round the massive porch,Along the gables, cornices and sills,Have lost their sharpness, softly moulded down,But not defaced, and time-tints cover allWith pleasing richness. O’er the once bright brickGrey hues are dappled, and give harmonyThat blends the building with the ancient oaks,Planes, beeches, chesnuts, whose outstretching armsGive shelter and protection. Entering inThe lofty vestibule, the eye perceivesA mixed array of ancient armour, swords,Pikes, shields, and banners, antlered heads of stags,Brave hunting horns, with arrows, bows, and spears,And other relics marking the careerOf different ages—freeborn forest life—The reign of chivalry—bold sporting days—Down to the quiet of the present timeOf peace and fireside comfort. Many rooms,To link the present with the past, unchangedRetain their ancient fashion, some are framedTo modern elegance in style and form.Ancestral thoughts! they fall upon the mindLike twilight shadows, or the first fresh dewsThat cool the earth! As some soft pensive strainOf mournful music, heard at sombre eve,Recalling early joys, so they recallDim visions of the vanished. Who can paceAn oaken old apartment, dim with years,And not re-people it again by thoughtAnd bring the past before him? Youthful forms,Arrayed in early beauty, mid the joysOf feast and dance and song, who soon becameThemselves the parents of a race as bright,And passing onwards to life’s calm decline,In honourable age, with aspect mild,Sat hoary-headed by the hearth to watchTheir children’s children act again the sportsThat once were their delight. The voices heardIn olden times, within such walls, no moreWill echo softly there, but virtues brightMay be re-copied, or revive againAs fresh plants spring from seed. The great, the goodMight thus become immortal on the earthBeyond their immortality of fame,And live a second deathless life enshrinedIn thoughts and deeds of men. It is the pride,The true, the noble pride of ancestry,When man, on his forefathers looking, strivesTheir virtues to re-build within his soul,And make their goodness his. Thus would he bearTheir shield with honour, and their heraldryBy undisputed right be justly his.Such is the aim of some, and here dwells oneWhom honour thus engirds. The portraits hungUpon his walls, Sir Arthur views with pride,But ’tis a pride whose inmost life is formedOf deep humility. Such words are weakTo truly tell its nature! Joy he feelsThat such men were before him; deep desireTo copy out their merits, and adaptTheir sterling virtues to the present age;And linked with this a sense of feebleness,Of unattained perfection, chastens downAll exultation, and to gentlenessSubdues his mind. Where’er he comes, his eyeIs bright with pleasure, and pure joy to greetEach he esteems a friend. His silver hairTwines thinly round his brow, whose high expanseReveals keen intellect; upon his cheekThe hue of healthy age; and that calm smile—If such it may be called—which ever playsLike autumn sunshine on the countenance,Where pure benevolence and holy hopesPossess the heart. It seems a thing of heaven,And hath on earth no antitype but whenSome lovely infant, in life’s early bloom,And calm sweet innocence, in slumber lies,And smiles amidst its sleep. Yet firmness too,And dauntless energy, possess his soulWith mighty perseverance. Naught can turnHis steady purpose when assured of right,Or warp him to the wrong. Yet soft and blandHis manner, and the utterance of his thoughtTo those who differ. No harsh words destroyThe harmony of truth, or proud looks marIts beauty to the hearer. Like to oneWho, mid spring sunshine, sows prolific seed,He gently scatters round improving thoughts,And leaves the soil to raise them into lifeAccording to its nature. Thus he winsThe love of all, and the unfeigned esteem;For those whose maxims are opposed to hisRespect his firm opinion; held they seeIn deep sincerity; with deference dueAnd fit regard to independent thought,And moral freedom in all other minds.’Tis not alone amid the villagersThis influence beneficent hath wroughtWith elevating power. We might speakOf public life, and more extensive spheresOf thought and action, did the time permitAnd were occasion fitting. But as nowFor some few happy days we dwell amidstThe circle round his hearth; and at this timeOf social joy, and glad festivity,’Twere better far to give a picture bright,—Were but my pencil equal to the task—Of that calm happiness, that tranquil joy,That interchange of mental pure delight
The morn was gloomy, and the russet earthGave to the eye a landscape drear and dim;The clouds, low hung, seemed resting on the hillsFraught with unusual weight, and cast aroundDeep shades of blackness o’er each swelling peak,By leafless woodlands clad; along the valesThe farmsteads glimmered, and the fields around—Some grey with stubble, some with scanty grassPinched yellow by the cold, and some dark brown,Where recent ploughshares had turned up the soil,—A varied scene presented to the eye,But sombre all, and sad. Not that the earthHath aught of sadness, but at all times givesSome beauty to the mind, e’en when the smileOf sunshine and fertility least glowsOn her rich countenance, for then she speaksIn tones prophetic to the heart, and tellsOf secret strength preparing to bring forthThe gifts and bounties of another year.The hollow wind moaned wildly through the trees,And waved their solemn branches to and froIn endless motion. Scarce a single leaf,Scarlet or golden, olive or red-brown,Adorned the forest, save where gloomy firsStretched their red arms, or melancholy pinesReared their tall pyramids of foliage black,Filling the dusky scene with deeper shade,And adding darkness to the clouds of heaven.The naked branches of the hedgerow elmsLashed wildly round, and threatened to cast forthThe jetty masses of the old rook nestsLodged midst their topmost twigs. The withered leavesCoursed swiftly o’er the ground, and danced aboutIn strange fantastic coils, and eddies wildLike whirlpools in a river. Heaven and earthForetel a coming storm, that soon will clotheThe naked landscape in a robe of white,Until it shines more beautiful and pureThan fleecy cloudlets o’er the sun-bright sky.How calm and peaceful, e’en amidst the gloom,The simple village looks! With aspect south,From a hill-side of mild declivity,It gazes sweetly o’er the meads below,Through which a winding river, o’er mossed stones,Makes pleasing murmurs. All the cottage roofsAre clad with rustic thatch, and round their doorsIn summer time, the climbing plants creep up,And make sweet scented bowers. A garden-plot,For use and beauty, is assigned to each,Which industry’s firm hand, by pleasing toil,Arrays in loveliness so rich and bright,It seems a nook from paradise. But nowIn tidy order they await the springTo make them bloom again. Amongst the treesThat rise in stately tiers above the roofs,Along the hill-side steep o’er steep, the smokeIn light blue wreaths, from every chimney curlsWith ample convolution, giving noteOf snug warm hearths, and comfortable homesWhere winter is not feared. The lattice-panesShine clear and bright, and to each flitting rayGive keen reflections, whilst their cheerful glanceBespeaks the reign of cleanliness. O’er allThere broods an air of quiet and contentOf peace, of plenty in that lowly sphereWhere heart meets heart in pure simplicityUnchecked by station, and unchilled by wealth.Oh that the earth of such calm homes were full!And such fair villages adorned the plainsIn countless numbers, where the labouring poorMight live respected, and respect themselves!Who is a hero,—he who daily fightsThe fearful hosts of poverty and wantWith industry’s strong sword, and wins the spoils,The honourable spoils of raiment, food,And kindly shelter to make glad all heartsAround his hearth. No stately cenotaphOf costly stones is to his honour reared,But yet he owns a richer monument,Built up of kindly thoughts within each mind,That justly thinks, and loves the really great,The honest and the true. How much of good,One being can perform, whose heart delightsTo see all prosperous round! And here dwells oneWho scatters blessings with a liberal hand,Directed wisely by a mind discreet,That seeks the greatest good. He strives to giveEmployment to each hand, and due rewardTo each that labours. With new thought to swellThe poor man’s stock of knowledge, that his workMay yield a richer harvest; to instilInstruction varied on his craving mind,That it may be matured, to bear the flowersOf pure and simple pleasure; and the fruitsOf profit and utility. To sow,To plant, to prune; to plan, frame, rear, and build;To watch the seasons, to enrich the soils,And do unnumbered things to multiplyThe simple comforts of their quiet homesHave each been taught. And still a higher loreHas thereunto been added; that which tellsOf man’s immortal destiny, and seeksTo elevate his thought to higher goodThan earth contains, and holier principlesThan this world’s maxims; that the heart may loveIn just equality each fellow-man,And bow with holy reverence and joyBefore the throne of Light; and thus becomeMore pure and happy, and a citizenOf higher worlds whilst sojourning on earth.And who is he who wisely ministersTo all the wants of poor humanity,Each in its kind, and strives to scatter roundThroughout his sphere the purest happinessThat earth can own? Sir Arthur, at the Hall!To him belong the fertile acres round,To him the village; but he holds them notIn pomp and pride and narrow selfishness,But as a man amongst his fellowmen,Knowing and feeling that his hand hath powerTo curse or bless, and with determined heartHe chooses blessing. With an eye that beams,As with parental love, he looks on all,The young, the old, and with a kindly voiceSpeaks words of warm encouragement; or givesThe needed counsel, or the calm rebuke.His words are ever welcome; e’en the churlWho meets reproof, does so in quietness,Straight thinks thereon, and turns him to amend.All look upon him with respectful loveAnd firm devotion. Never hero boldOf ancient feudal times, who led alongHis faithful vassals to the battle field,To crown them with renown, and win proud fame,Was e’er encompassed with such fervent heartsAnd such dependent zeal. He leads them onTo purer triumphs, conquests more benign;They overcome not to spread round them tearsAnd misery and death. The wars they wageAre with the stubborn soil; the wreaths they winAre fruits and flowers. The triumphs they attain,Are over ignorance, and want and sin,Which bring their meed of pleasure and of peace.The old Age had its heroes, and the newMust have its heroes also. Men of thought,Of knowledge and of skill, whose ample mindsAre armories of wisdom to supplyThe need of lesser minds, and lead them onAll strong and mighty to the coming warOf truth with falsehood. Times have greatly changed;And errors and traditions growing dimFlicker like fleeting mists. Their power is gone,And hearts are yearning for the morning beamsOf pure, unsullied truth! When will ariseThe mighty Prophet, radiant with lightTo lighten nations; to lift up mankindFrom petty sects and systems, groveling thoughts,Vain dreams, false policies, and bring them forthTo bask serenely in truth’s cheerful lightUnited into one? Man’s heart hath hope,By prophecy upheld, and though he longHath tarried for it, nigh two thousand years,Yet now the dawning seems to streak the east,All things are stirring, slumberers awake,And watchers peer into the rising day!Thus much in passing! Ere we enter inThat antique Hall, more fully to attainA knowledge of its owner, all whose actsAre works of goodness, and whose pure life breathesThe spirit of rich charity: We’ll traceA ready path across yon meadow-field,To where, in solitude and calm repose,The village church rears up its ancient spireAbove surrounding trees. Its antique wallsAre softly tinted by the hand of timeWith varied hues, all chastened and subdued,But exquisitly beautiful. Each arch,Each massive column, and each window quaint,Compels to thoughts of long-passed, hoary daysAnd human ancestry. Oh where are theyWho reared that tower, and they whose voices wokeThe first deep echo from those sacred wallsBy sounds of holy minstrelsey? And theyOf generations, each succeeding each,Through the long current of a thousand years,Down to the last whose bones were hither brought,And o’er whose grave of brown and roughened soilThe grass hath not yet crept? “They sleep in dust,”“They slumber in the ground”—’tis thus we speak,And by such speaking we in thought foregoThe glorious truths of immortality;The birth-right of the soul! What sleeps in dust?What brought we here to slumber deep in earth?The living spirit or the soulless clay?That thing of thought, that seeing, hearing mind,That living active being first had fled,And left its husk rejected. This aloneWas hid in earth, to veil it from the sightEre severed by corruption, part from part,And scattered widely to the winds of heaven,Or cast abroad through earth. Then let not thoughtStop chained below, or buried in the grave,But bearing upwards, as with eagle flight,Behold earth’s habitants assembled all,Contemporaneous in the spirit-world,The great, the grand receptacle of life,Where all live unto God, for he is GodNot of the dead but living. Each one thereIs gathered to his fathers, not of flesh,But of the spirit. Like is linked with like,The pure with pure; the evil, filthy, vile,Are with their fellows. As the tree has fallenSo it lies. Oh contemplation great,Sublime and aweful; yet enriched by hope,Where faith is strong in God’s Redemptive love,And knows his Providence, from evil bringsA birth of good. The sorrows, pains, and caresOf outward life, oft deeply work withinTo purify the spirit, and exaltTo holier thought and feeling. Let none thenPass judgement on his fellow, but in love,And fitting charity. The inward lifeNo human eye can read; or what that lifeMay yet bring forth. Then let us judge ourselves,And looking round on things that make us mourn,Console our spirits with the glorious truthChrist hath not died in vain! Though in the graveThe spirit lies not, and the form of clayIs soon dispersed amid the elements,Yet in the church-yard, or the place of tombs,Fraught with mementos of the ancient past,Our thought is strengthened, and the links re-boundThat join us to the dead. We there reviveOld loves, and sweet affections, purified,Refined, and softened; and go forth to lifeMore calm in spirit, and with brighter hopes.The threatened storm advances—snowy flakesFall thin and waving to the half-froze ground,Then slowly melt. They soon in quick descentMust seek the earth, and whirling densely downShut out the landscape, and array the sceneIn gorgeous raiment of unsullied white.But ’ere this chances ’twill be well to seekThe hospitable shelter of the Hall,And gain a certain welcome. Christmas-tide,So full of joy and open-hearted love,Finds there a liberal reign. But do not thinkA few more steps will bring us to some seatOf wealth and stately grandeur, whose high lord,Just scatters round his superfluityAnd blesses as by chance. No marble walls,No colonnades, no proud magnificence,Have now to greet us, but an antique home,Not spacious, but of ample size for all,The needs and elegance of cultured life.Far down yon avenue of noble limes,That spread their leafless branches broad and free,You may behold it. Pointed gables riseAnd straight tall chimneys rear themselves aloftIn strange variety, and by their formsBespeak a mansion that for centuriesHas held a worthy hearth. Though winter broods,The park around looks beautiful, and shewsThe strictest neatness, and incessant care;For many hands here labour, not aloneTo please the owner, and delight the sight,But that they each by honest work may gainAn independent home, and eat thereinThat sweetest of all bread—the justly earned!And though Sir Arthur has a taste refined,A sense most delicate, a mind aliveTo every beauty, native or of art,It is not merely to regale this tasteThat such pure elegance and order reign,But rather that his feeling heart therebyMay spread a due prosperity aroundThrough every grade, and thus he strives to giveUnfailing work to all within his sphere.Before the mansion a broad terrace spreads,By steps ascended, and quaint balustradesWith pillars, globes and urns, engird it well.And in the centre, most grotesque of formAll richly carved, a massive sundial standsTo mark the hours. Most ancient horologeThat gives a tongue to nature, and compelsThe mighty sun to measure out the time!Below the terrace, on a velvet lawn,There stands a fountain, where a cherub boy,Carved in white marble, beautiful as life,Holds proudly high a waterlilly’s bell,Whence springs a copious shower of silver rainTo drop in music, mid the pool below,And fill the air with murmurs. Here and there,In open spaces, or mid spreading trees,Pure statues stand, or elevated bustsOf men renowned, whose mighty deeds or songsHave blessed mankind. Nor is there wanting hereSome sweet embodiments of Grecian thoughtAnd ancient fable. The bright water-nymph,Pure as the fount; or that enamoured youth,Who gazed for ever in the crystal wellEntranced by his own beauty. Clumps of trees,Some in the hollows, some upon the knolls,Give rich variety; and through the dellA winding river sweeps, now polished brightLike some fair mirror, and anon in foamAs beautiful as snow, from dashing downA rocky shelf, or gushing o’er mossed stonesWith playful freakishness. Thick woods encloseThe outskirts of the park, with frequent breaks,Through which the sight, well pleased, may wander farO’er distant lands, and view the soft blue hills.The quaint stone carvings, round the massive porch,Along the gables, cornices and sills,Have lost their sharpness, softly moulded down,But not defaced, and time-tints cover allWith pleasing richness. O’er the once bright brickGrey hues are dappled, and give harmonyThat blends the building with the ancient oaks,Planes, beeches, chesnuts, whose outstretching armsGive shelter and protection. Entering inThe lofty vestibule, the eye perceivesA mixed array of ancient armour, swords,Pikes, shields, and banners, antlered heads of stags,Brave hunting horns, with arrows, bows, and spears,And other relics marking the careerOf different ages—freeborn forest life—The reign of chivalry—bold sporting days—Down to the quiet of the present timeOf peace and fireside comfort. Many rooms,To link the present with the past, unchangedRetain their ancient fashion, some are framedTo modern elegance in style and form.Ancestral thoughts! they fall upon the mindLike twilight shadows, or the first fresh dewsThat cool the earth! As some soft pensive strainOf mournful music, heard at sombre eve,Recalling early joys, so they recallDim visions of the vanished. Who can paceAn oaken old apartment, dim with years,And not re-people it again by thoughtAnd bring the past before him? Youthful forms,Arrayed in early beauty, mid the joysOf feast and dance and song, who soon becameThemselves the parents of a race as bright,And passing onwards to life’s calm decline,In honourable age, with aspect mild,Sat hoary-headed by the hearth to watchTheir children’s children act again the sportsThat once were their delight. The voices heardIn olden times, within such walls, no moreWill echo softly there, but virtues brightMay be re-copied, or revive againAs fresh plants spring from seed. The great, the goodMight thus become immortal on the earthBeyond their immortality of fame,And live a second deathless life enshrinedIn thoughts and deeds of men. It is the pride,The true, the noble pride of ancestry,When man, on his forefathers looking, strivesTheir virtues to re-build within his soul,And make their goodness his. Thus would he bearTheir shield with honour, and their heraldryBy undisputed right be justly his.Such is the aim of some, and here dwells oneWhom honour thus engirds. The portraits hungUpon his walls, Sir Arthur views with pride,But ’tis a pride whose inmost life is formedOf deep humility. Such words are weakTo truly tell its nature! Joy he feelsThat such men were before him; deep desireTo copy out their merits, and adaptTheir sterling virtues to the present age;And linked with this a sense of feebleness,Of unattained perfection, chastens downAll exultation, and to gentlenessSubdues his mind. Where’er he comes, his eyeIs bright with pleasure, and pure joy to greetEach he esteems a friend. His silver hairTwines thinly round his brow, whose high expanseReveals keen intellect; upon his cheekThe hue of healthy age; and that calm smile—If such it may be called—which ever playsLike autumn sunshine on the countenance,Where pure benevolence and holy hopesPossess the heart. It seems a thing of heaven,And hath on earth no antitype but whenSome lovely infant, in life’s early bloom,And calm sweet innocence, in slumber lies,And smiles amidst its sleep. Yet firmness too,And dauntless energy, possess his soulWith mighty perseverance. Naught can turnHis steady purpose when assured of right,Or warp him to the wrong. Yet soft and blandHis manner, and the utterance of his thoughtTo those who differ. No harsh words destroyThe harmony of truth, or proud looks marIts beauty to the hearer. Like to oneWho, mid spring sunshine, sows prolific seed,He gently scatters round improving thoughts,And leaves the soil to raise them into lifeAccording to its nature. Thus he winsThe love of all, and the unfeigned esteem;For those whose maxims are opposed to hisRespect his firm opinion; held they seeIn deep sincerity; with deference dueAnd fit regard to independent thought,And moral freedom in all other minds.’Tis not alone amid the villagersThis influence beneficent hath wroughtWith elevating power. We might speakOf public life, and more extensive spheresOf thought and action, did the time permitAnd were occasion fitting. But as nowFor some few happy days we dwell amidstThe circle round his hearth; and at this timeOf social joy, and glad festivity,’Twere better far to give a picture bright,—Were but my pencil equal to the task—Of that calm happiness, that tranquil joy,That interchange of mental pure delight
The morn was gloomy, and the russet earth
Gave to the eye a landscape drear and dim;
The clouds, low hung, seemed resting on the hills
Fraught with unusual weight, and cast around
Deep shades of blackness o’er each swelling peak,
By leafless woodlands clad; along the vales
The farmsteads glimmered, and the fields around—
Some grey with stubble, some with scanty grass
Pinched yellow by the cold, and some dark brown,
Where recent ploughshares had turned up the soil,—
A varied scene presented to the eye,
But sombre all, and sad. Not that the earth
Hath aught of sadness, but at all times gives
Some beauty to the mind, e’en when the smile
Of sunshine and fertility least glows
On her rich countenance, for then she speaks
In tones prophetic to the heart, and tells
Of secret strength preparing to bring forth
The gifts and bounties of another year.
The hollow wind moaned wildly through the trees,
And waved their solemn branches to and fro
In endless motion. Scarce a single leaf,
Scarlet or golden, olive or red-brown,
Adorned the forest, save where gloomy firs
Stretched their red arms, or melancholy pines
Reared their tall pyramids of foliage black,
Filling the dusky scene with deeper shade,
And adding darkness to the clouds of heaven.
The naked branches of the hedgerow elms
Lashed wildly round, and threatened to cast forth
The jetty masses of the old rook nests
Lodged midst their topmost twigs. The withered leaves
Coursed swiftly o’er the ground, and danced about
In strange fantastic coils, and eddies wild
Like whirlpools in a river. Heaven and earth
Foretel a coming storm, that soon will clothe
The naked landscape in a robe of white,
Until it shines more beautiful and pure
Than fleecy cloudlets o’er the sun-bright sky.
How calm and peaceful, e’en amidst the gloom,
The simple village looks! With aspect south,
From a hill-side of mild declivity,
It gazes sweetly o’er the meads below,
Through which a winding river, o’er mossed stones,
Makes pleasing murmurs. All the cottage roofs
Are clad with rustic thatch, and round their doors
In summer time, the climbing plants creep up,
And make sweet scented bowers. A garden-plot,
For use and beauty, is assigned to each,
Which industry’s firm hand, by pleasing toil,
Arrays in loveliness so rich and bright,
It seems a nook from paradise. But now
In tidy order they await the spring
To make them bloom again. Amongst the trees
That rise in stately tiers above the roofs,
Along the hill-side steep o’er steep, the smoke
In light blue wreaths, from every chimney curls
With ample convolution, giving note
Of snug warm hearths, and comfortable homes
Where winter is not feared. The lattice-panes
Shine clear and bright, and to each flitting ray
Give keen reflections, whilst their cheerful glance
Bespeaks the reign of cleanliness. O’er all
There broods an air of quiet and content
Of peace, of plenty in that lowly sphere
Where heart meets heart in pure simplicity
Unchecked by station, and unchilled by wealth.
Oh that the earth of such calm homes were full!
And such fair villages adorned the plains
In countless numbers, where the labouring poor
Might live respected, and respect themselves!
Who is a hero,—he who daily fights
The fearful hosts of poverty and want
With industry’s strong sword, and wins the spoils,
The honourable spoils of raiment, food,
And kindly shelter to make glad all hearts
Around his hearth. No stately cenotaph
Of costly stones is to his honour reared,
But yet he owns a richer monument,
Built up of kindly thoughts within each mind,
That justly thinks, and loves the really great,
The honest and the true. How much of good,
One being can perform, whose heart delights
To see all prosperous round! And here dwells one
Who scatters blessings with a liberal hand,
Directed wisely by a mind discreet,
That seeks the greatest good. He strives to give
Employment to each hand, and due reward
To each that labours. With new thought to swell
The poor man’s stock of knowledge, that his work
May yield a richer harvest; to instil
Instruction varied on his craving mind,
That it may be matured, to bear the flowers
Of pure and simple pleasure; and the fruits
Of profit and utility. To sow,
To plant, to prune; to plan, frame, rear, and build;
To watch the seasons, to enrich the soils,
And do unnumbered things to multiply
The simple comforts of their quiet homes
Have each been taught. And still a higher lore
Has thereunto been added; that which tells
Of man’s immortal destiny, and seeks
To elevate his thought to higher good
Than earth contains, and holier principles
Than this world’s maxims; that the heart may love
In just equality each fellow-man,
And bow with holy reverence and joy
Before the throne of Light; and thus become
More pure and happy, and a citizen
Of higher worlds whilst sojourning on earth.
And who is he who wisely ministers
To all the wants of poor humanity,
Each in its kind, and strives to scatter round
Throughout his sphere the purest happiness
That earth can own? Sir Arthur, at the Hall!
To him belong the fertile acres round,
To him the village; but he holds them not
In pomp and pride and narrow selfishness,
But as a man amongst his fellowmen,
Knowing and feeling that his hand hath power
To curse or bless, and with determined heart
He chooses blessing. With an eye that beams,
As with parental love, he looks on all,
The young, the old, and with a kindly voice
Speaks words of warm encouragement; or gives
The needed counsel, or the calm rebuke.
His words are ever welcome; e’en the churl
Who meets reproof, does so in quietness,
Straight thinks thereon, and turns him to amend.
All look upon him with respectful love
And firm devotion. Never hero bold
Of ancient feudal times, who led along
His faithful vassals to the battle field,
To crown them with renown, and win proud fame,
Was e’er encompassed with such fervent hearts
And such dependent zeal. He leads them on
To purer triumphs, conquests more benign;
They overcome not to spread round them tears
And misery and death. The wars they wage
Are with the stubborn soil; the wreaths they win
Are fruits and flowers. The triumphs they attain,
Are over ignorance, and want and sin,
Which bring their meed of pleasure and of peace.
The old Age had its heroes, and the new
Must have its heroes also. Men of thought,
Of knowledge and of skill, whose ample minds
Are armories of wisdom to supply
The need of lesser minds, and lead them on
All strong and mighty to the coming war
Of truth with falsehood. Times have greatly changed;
And errors and traditions growing dim
Flicker like fleeting mists. Their power is gone,
And hearts are yearning for the morning beams
Of pure, unsullied truth! When will arise
The mighty Prophet, radiant with light
To lighten nations; to lift up mankind
From petty sects and systems, groveling thoughts,
Vain dreams, false policies, and bring them forth
To bask serenely in truth’s cheerful light
United into one? Man’s heart hath hope,
By prophecy upheld, and though he long
Hath tarried for it, nigh two thousand years,
Yet now the dawning seems to streak the east,
All things are stirring, slumberers awake,
And watchers peer into the rising day!
Thus much in passing! Ere we enter in
That antique Hall, more fully to attain
A knowledge of its owner, all whose acts
Are works of goodness, and whose pure life breathes
The spirit of rich charity: We’ll trace
A ready path across yon meadow-field,
To where, in solitude and calm repose,
The village church rears up its ancient spire
Above surrounding trees. Its antique walls
Are softly tinted by the hand of time
With varied hues, all chastened and subdued,
But exquisitly beautiful. Each arch,
Each massive column, and each window quaint,
Compels to thoughts of long-passed, hoary days
And human ancestry. Oh where are they
Who reared that tower, and they whose voices woke
The first deep echo from those sacred walls
By sounds of holy minstrelsey? And they
Of generations, each succeeding each,
Through the long current of a thousand years,
Down to the last whose bones were hither brought,
And o’er whose grave of brown and roughened soil
The grass hath not yet crept? “They sleep in dust,”
“They slumber in the ground”—’tis thus we speak,
And by such speaking we in thought forego
The glorious truths of immortality;
The birth-right of the soul! What sleeps in dust?
What brought we here to slumber deep in earth?
The living spirit or the soulless clay?
That thing of thought, that seeing, hearing mind,
That living active being first had fled,
And left its husk rejected. This alone
Was hid in earth, to veil it from the sight
Ere severed by corruption, part from part,
And scattered widely to the winds of heaven,
Or cast abroad through earth. Then let not thought
Stop chained below, or buried in the grave,
But bearing upwards, as with eagle flight,
Behold earth’s habitants assembled all,
Contemporaneous in the spirit-world,
The great, the grand receptacle of life,
Where all live unto God, for he is God
Not of the dead but living. Each one there
Is gathered to his fathers, not of flesh,
But of the spirit. Like is linked with like,
The pure with pure; the evil, filthy, vile,
Are with their fellows. As the tree has fallen
So it lies. Oh contemplation great,
Sublime and aweful; yet enriched by hope,
Where faith is strong in God’s Redemptive love,
And knows his Providence, from evil brings
A birth of good. The sorrows, pains, and cares
Of outward life, oft deeply work within
To purify the spirit, and exalt
To holier thought and feeling. Let none then
Pass judgement on his fellow, but in love,
And fitting charity. The inward life
No human eye can read; or what that life
May yet bring forth. Then let us judge ourselves,
And looking round on things that make us mourn,
Console our spirits with the glorious truth
Christ hath not died in vain! Though in the grave
The spirit lies not, and the form of clay
Is soon dispersed amid the elements,
Yet in the church-yard, or the place of tombs,
Fraught with mementos of the ancient past,
Our thought is strengthened, and the links re-bound
That join us to the dead. We there revive
Old loves, and sweet affections, purified,
Refined, and softened; and go forth to life
More calm in spirit, and with brighter hopes.
The threatened storm advances—snowy flakes
Fall thin and waving to the half-froze ground,
Then slowly melt. They soon in quick descent
Must seek the earth, and whirling densely down
Shut out the landscape, and array the scene
In gorgeous raiment of unsullied white.
But ’ere this chances ’twill be well to seek
The hospitable shelter of the Hall,
And gain a certain welcome. Christmas-tide,
So full of joy and open-hearted love,
Finds there a liberal reign. But do not think
A few more steps will bring us to some seat
Of wealth and stately grandeur, whose high lord,
Just scatters round his superfluity
And blesses as by chance. No marble walls,
No colonnades, no proud magnificence,
Have now to greet us, but an antique home,
Not spacious, but of ample size for all,
The needs and elegance of cultured life.
Far down yon avenue of noble limes,
That spread their leafless branches broad and free,
You may behold it. Pointed gables rise
And straight tall chimneys rear themselves aloft
In strange variety, and by their forms
Bespeak a mansion that for centuries
Has held a worthy hearth. Though winter broods,
The park around looks beautiful, and shews
The strictest neatness, and incessant care;
For many hands here labour, not alone
To please the owner, and delight the sight,
But that they each by honest work may gain
An independent home, and eat therein
That sweetest of all bread—the justly earned!
And though Sir Arthur has a taste refined,
A sense most delicate, a mind alive
To every beauty, native or of art,
It is not merely to regale this taste
That such pure elegance and order reign,
But rather that his feeling heart thereby
May spread a due prosperity around
Through every grade, and thus he strives to give
Unfailing work to all within his sphere.
Before the mansion a broad terrace spreads,
By steps ascended, and quaint balustrades
With pillars, globes and urns, engird it well.
And in the centre, most grotesque of form
All richly carved, a massive sundial stands
To mark the hours. Most ancient horologe
That gives a tongue to nature, and compels
The mighty sun to measure out the time!
Below the terrace, on a velvet lawn,
There stands a fountain, where a cherub boy,
Carved in white marble, beautiful as life,
Holds proudly high a waterlilly’s bell,
Whence springs a copious shower of silver rain
To drop in music, mid the pool below,
And fill the air with murmurs. Here and there,
In open spaces, or mid spreading trees,
Pure statues stand, or elevated busts
Of men renowned, whose mighty deeds or songs
Have blessed mankind. Nor is there wanting here
Some sweet embodiments of Grecian thought
And ancient fable. The bright water-nymph,
Pure as the fount; or that enamoured youth,
Who gazed for ever in the crystal well
Entranced by his own beauty. Clumps of trees,
Some in the hollows, some upon the knolls,
Give rich variety; and through the dell
A winding river sweeps, now polished bright
Like some fair mirror, and anon in foam
As beautiful as snow, from dashing down
A rocky shelf, or gushing o’er mossed stones
With playful freakishness. Thick woods enclose
The outskirts of the park, with frequent breaks,
Through which the sight, well pleased, may wander far
O’er distant lands, and view the soft blue hills.
The quaint stone carvings, round the massive porch,
Along the gables, cornices and sills,
Have lost their sharpness, softly moulded down,
But not defaced, and time-tints cover all
With pleasing richness. O’er the once bright brick
Grey hues are dappled, and give harmony
That blends the building with the ancient oaks,
Planes, beeches, chesnuts, whose outstretching arms
Give shelter and protection. Entering in
The lofty vestibule, the eye perceives
A mixed array of ancient armour, swords,
Pikes, shields, and banners, antlered heads of stags,
Brave hunting horns, with arrows, bows, and spears,
And other relics marking the career
Of different ages—freeborn forest life—
The reign of chivalry—bold sporting days—
Down to the quiet of the present time
Of peace and fireside comfort. Many rooms,
To link the present with the past, unchanged
Retain their ancient fashion, some are framed
To modern elegance in style and form.
Ancestral thoughts! they fall upon the mind
Like twilight shadows, or the first fresh dews
That cool the earth! As some soft pensive strain
Of mournful music, heard at sombre eve,
Recalling early joys, so they recall
Dim visions of the vanished. Who can pace
An oaken old apartment, dim with years,
And not re-people it again by thought
And bring the past before him? Youthful forms,
Arrayed in early beauty, mid the joys
Of feast and dance and song, who soon became
Themselves the parents of a race as bright,
And passing onwards to life’s calm decline,
In honourable age, with aspect mild,
Sat hoary-headed by the hearth to watch
Their children’s children act again the sports
That once were their delight. The voices heard
In olden times, within such walls, no more
Will echo softly there, but virtues bright
May be re-copied, or revive again
As fresh plants spring from seed. The great, the good
Might thus become immortal on the earth
Beyond their immortality of fame,
And live a second deathless life enshrined
In thoughts and deeds of men. It is the pride,
The true, the noble pride of ancestry,
When man, on his forefathers looking, strives
Their virtues to re-build within his soul,
And make their goodness his. Thus would he bear
Their shield with honour, and their heraldry
By undisputed right be justly his.
Such is the aim of some, and here dwells one
Whom honour thus engirds. The portraits hung
Upon his walls, Sir Arthur views with pride,
But ’tis a pride whose inmost life is formed
Of deep humility. Such words are weak
To truly tell its nature! Joy he feels
That such men were before him; deep desire
To copy out their merits, and adapt
Their sterling virtues to the present age;
And linked with this a sense of feebleness,
Of unattained perfection, chastens down
All exultation, and to gentleness
Subdues his mind. Where’er he comes, his eye
Is bright with pleasure, and pure joy to greet
Each he esteems a friend. His silver hair
Twines thinly round his brow, whose high expanse
Reveals keen intellect; upon his cheek
The hue of healthy age; and that calm smile—
If such it may be called—which ever plays
Like autumn sunshine on the countenance,
Where pure benevolence and holy hopes
Possess the heart. It seems a thing of heaven,
And hath on earth no antitype but when
Some lovely infant, in life’s early bloom,
And calm sweet innocence, in slumber lies,
And smiles amidst its sleep. Yet firmness too,
And dauntless energy, possess his soul
With mighty perseverance. Naught can turn
His steady purpose when assured of right,
Or warp him to the wrong. Yet soft and bland
His manner, and the utterance of his thought
To those who differ. No harsh words destroy
The harmony of truth, or proud looks mar
Its beauty to the hearer. Like to one
Who, mid spring sunshine, sows prolific seed,
He gently scatters round improving thoughts,
And leaves the soil to raise them into life
According to its nature. Thus he wins
The love of all, and the unfeigned esteem;
For those whose maxims are opposed to his
Respect his firm opinion; held they see
In deep sincerity; with deference due
And fit regard to independent thought,
And moral freedom in all other minds.
’Tis not alone amid the villagers
This influence beneficent hath wrought
With elevating power. We might speak
Of public life, and more extensive spheres
Of thought and action, did the time permit
And were occasion fitting. But as now
For some few happy days we dwell amidst
The circle round his hearth; and at this time
Of social joy, and glad festivity,
’Twere better far to give a picture bright,—
Were but my pencil equal to the task—
Of that calm happiness, that tranquil joy,
That interchange of mental pure delight