When they carried away my darlingTo a kingdom beyond the sky,I knew what the angels intended,So I stifled the tear and the sigh,But I prayed she might send me a messageOf love from the realms of the blest,As to me a whole life of repiningWas the cost of her Heaven of rest.
Yes: I prayed she might send me a message;One word from her mansion of bliss;One ray from her features angelic:From her sweet lips the saintliest kiss;And I question the wind, as it wandersAs though from the regions above,But it whispers in sadness, and brings meFrom the absent no message of love.
At night I grow weary with watchingThe stars, as I sadly surmiseWhich of all those bright jewels resplendentBorrow light from my lost one's eyes:Then I sleep—and a vision approaches;And again all my own she would seem:But on waking my Love has departed,And my heart aches to find it a dream.
Oh, I prayed she might send me a message;But nought the sweet missive will bring:The breath of the morning, the sunlight,The carol of birds on the wing,Come to gladden my heart with their gladness;But joyless and tuneless each seems;And the only sad joy that is left meIs to live with my dearest in dreams.
"MEWN COF ANWYL." (a)
The above words, wrought in imperishable flowers, were placed on the coffin of the late Mr. John Johnes, of Dolaucothy, at the time of his interment at Cayo, by his youngest daughter, to whom the following elegiac stanzas are respectfully inscribed.
"Mewn cof anwyl."So sings the lorn and lonely nightingale,Sighing in sombre thicket all day long,Weaving its throbbing heartstrings into songFor absent mate, with sorrowing unavail.And every warble seems to say—"Alone!"While every pause brings musical reply:Sad Philomel! Each sweet responsive sighIs but the dreamy echo of its own.
"Mewn cof anwyl."So sings the West wind through the darkling eve,In spirit-wanderings up and down the wold,Each mournful sorrow at its heart untold,Sighing in secret—as the angels grieve,"Bring back my love!" sobs the bereaved wind;And sleeping flow'rets waken at the sound,Shedding their dewy tears upon the ground:"She seeks," they whisper, "who shall never find!"
"Mewn cof anwyl."So sings all night the never-resting sea;And stars look down with tender, loving eyes;The air is filled with saddening memoriesOf what was once—but ne'er again may be."Here lie the lost!" the ocean seems to moan;"I yearn to clasp them to my throbbing heart"In fond embrace: The lost—myself a part!So near—so near—and yet I mourn alone!"
"Mewn cof anwyl."As roses, crusht and dead, in silence leaveTheir precious heritage of perfume rare,So the good name our dear departed bearReflects in cheering light on those who grieve;And memory, brooding o'er the love thus left,In tender fancy crowns the dream with tears,Till, as the hue that on bright rain appears,Peace comes to comfort lonely hearts bereft.
(a) In loving memory.
'Tis not with rude, irreverent feet,I tread where sacred sorrows lie;But gently raise, in accents meet,My voice in earnest sympathy:In sympathy with one bereaved,Who mourns a loss which all deplore:Whose grief by Hope is unrelieved—For tears bring back the Past no more.
'Tis not in words the wound to healWhich tenderest ties, when broken, make;'Tis not in language to concealThe griefs which snapped affection's wakeBut sorrows, stinging though they be,In sympathy some sweetness find,Which may assuage, though slenderly,The grief that clouds a manly mind.
The blameless life of her whose grave I strewWith flow'rs of thought deep gathered from the heartOf heavenliest things was formed the greater part:No sentiment but love her bosom knew.
Her influence, like the sunlight from on high,That flames with splendour every opening flower,Stole o'er us silently: yet O, the power!Charming our household world resplendently.
And little hearts tow'rds that sweet influence yearned;And little voices loved to lisp her name;For when, to them, the world was dark, she came,Love-bright, and so their lives in beauty burned.
In beauty burned with pure and happy glow;Their joys were her's. In thought I see her now,Love prompted, sitting with a dreamy brow,Planning the pleasures she might never know.
Her's was the hand that wreathed so daintilyWith flow'rs each fissure Circumstance had formed,And, by its touch, like snows by sunsets warmed,Each rigid thought was softened rosily.
Her's was the heart, by noblest impulse moved,That beat with earnest fondness all divine;That filled life's cup of joy with rarest wine,For those who proudly felt they were beloved.
But soft! God's edict 'twas, that, from above,Laden with anguish, came with cruel blow.'Twas Heaven's gain: the grief those only knowWho lost her just as they had learnt to love.
Ah, me: the cost to be to Heaven akin:The harvest ripens round the Eternal gate:The pure in soul and saintliest-hearted wait:The Reaper comes and plucks the nearest in.
Ah, me: the cost life's fairest flower to be:Petal and spray all elegance and grace:Each blossom beauteous as an angel's face;And yet, alas! the first to drop and die.
Ah, me: the cost life's tenderest chords to wake,With sweet enchantment breaking up the air;To know each tone will call forth many a tear:Each tender touch a heart or spirit-ache.
Ah, me: the cost for human hearts to claimWhere God before His perfect seal had set,Like mortals straying into Heaven unlet,We perish gazing on celestial flame.
'Twas a short decade that thou and IWalked hand-in-hand through the world together;When the cruel clouds obscured our sky,And bitter and bleak was life's daily weather.But a brave little heart was thine—and so,Though it might have been lighter had fortune willed it,It battled, in boundless faith I know,And just as the sunshine 'gan to growThe hand of Death reached forth—and chilled it.
The blow was unkind; but Heaven knows best:I felt that my loss was to thee a blessing;For I knew, when I laid thee down to rest,I was giving an angel to angels' caressing:Thy love to my heart was ever dear,With thy gentle voice and thy brave endeavour;Though briefly we wandered together here,Two souls were cemented with smile and tear,That, one on earth, will be one for ever.
She came in beauty like the sun,And flusht with hope each heart and eye,As roses redden into lifeWhen Summer passes by.
And like the sun she calmly set,With love's own golden glory crown'd,In light whose rays for evermoreIn mem'ry will abound.
In silent grief the blow we'll bear:Though gone, with us she'll still abide.Her name a shape of love will wear,In viewless influence by our side.
A LEGEND OF THE GODS. (a)
Ah! hapless nymph! Doomed for a time to bearThe badge which none but fickle lives should wear.How oft the envious tongue creates the dartThat cleaves the saintly soul and breaks the heart:How oft the hasty ear full credence givesTo words in which no grain of truth survives:Were Juno just, her heart would now delightTurning thy dappled wings to waxen white,Where jealous Venus and her envious trainBy falsehood fixed an undeservëd stain.
(a) Astery, one of the most beautiful of Venus's nymphs, and, as Spenser says,
"Excelling all the crewIn courteous usage and unstained hue,"
Is said to have been instructed "on a day" by her mistress to go forth with her companions gathering flowers with which to adorn her forehead. She did so, and being more industrious than the rest, gathered more flowers than any of them. On being praised by Venus, her companions, being envious of her, told the goddess that Astery had been assisted by Cupid, Venus's son, in culling the blossoms. For this supposed offence she was immediately turned by Venus into a butterfly, and her wings, which before were white, were stained with the colours of all the flowers she had gathered, "for memory of her pretended crime, though crime none were."—Spenser's "Muiopotmos", 1576.
1864.
'Twere wise, O Queen, to let thy features shineUpon thy faithful people once again;As Summer comes to light the paths of men,So would thy presence round our hearts entwine.
It is not meet our Queen of Queens should stayLifelong and tearful in the sombre glade,Whither, to hide the wound which Heaven made,She shrank, as shrinks the stricken deer away.
We do not ask thy heart to let us inWith all the freeness of an early day:Nor hope to bear thy greatest grief away,As though, with thee, that grief had never been.
But, as the silent chancel leaves the sunTo shine through mellowing windows on the floor,So would we enter thy great heart once more,Subdued, in reverence of the sainted one.
We wept with thee when throbbed the passing-bell,And felt thy great affliction from afar:We mourned that such a grief thy life should mar,And loved thee more for loving him so well.
One pearly thought surrounds that sombre time;One golden hope enframes the past regret:We thank our Father thou art with us yet,The more majestic for thy grief sublime.
There is a little history attached to the following lines. Twenty years ago, my friend, Mr. Arthur J. Morris, at that time an accountant at the Llwydcoed Ironworks, Aberdare, and subsequently manager at the Plymouth Ironworks, Merthyr Tydfil, but now deceased, asked me to write a song in praise of Wales. I did so, and wrote and sent him the words of "Beautiful Wales," a Welsh translation of which was made and forwarded to me by Mr. Daniel Morgan (Daniel ap Gwilym), of Aberaman, Aberdare. A short time afterwards I received a request from Mr. R. Andrews, of Manchester (whom I never saw and do not know) for permission to set the words to music, which permission I gave, and the song (English version) was published by Robert Cocks and Co., London. It has long since been out of print. I found, on receiving some copies of the music, that the tune was merely an adaptation of a well-known dance tune, and some years ago I wrote to Mr. Brinley Richards on the subject, who regretted that the words had not been wedded to more suitable music. The matter, however, was lost sight of by myself, and I was under the impression that the song had been forgotten. To my surprise it suddenly cropped up as a great favourite of the Sunday schools, and I have myself heard it sung at school anniversaries to various tunes. It would seem, therefore, that after playing the vagrant for goodness knows how long, it became a reformed character, was taken in hand by school children, and by them adopted as a pet and made a favourite of.
I know a land whose sunny shoreThe sea's wild waves embrace,Whose heart is full of mystic loreThat flashes from its face;A land where cloud-kissed mountains are,And green and flowery vales,Where Poesy lingers like a star:That land is sunny Wales.
Wales, the wild—the beautiful,The beautiful—the free;My heart and hand are thine, O landOf magic minstrelsy.
And in this mystic land of mineWhat dainty maids there be,Whose faces shine with love divine,Like sunlight on the sea.The boasted fair of other climesThat live in songs and talesWill never be more fair to meThan those of sunny Wales.
Wales, the wild—the beautiful,The beautiful—the free;My heart and hand are thine, O landOf magic minstrelsy.
Mi wn am wlad, a'i garw draethGofleidir gan y don,Sy'n orlawn o gyfrinawl ddysg'R hwn draetha'i gwyneb llon:Gwlad yw lle mae mynyddoedd ban,A glynoedd gwyrdd eu lliw;Lle'r erys awenyddiaeth glaer:Hoff Walia heulawg yw.
Gwalia wyllt, wyt decaf wlad;Wyt decaf wlad—wlad rydd!Dy eiddo i gyd wyf fi, O dudY swynawl gerdd ddiludd.
Ac yn y wlad gyfrinawl hon,Ceir merched uchel fri,Sydd a'u gwynebau'n t'w'nu felGoleuni haul uwch lli.Prydferthwch ffrostiawl gwledydd pell,Sy'n byw yn ngerddi'r byd,Nis byddant byth brydferthach imNa rhai fy heulawg dud.
Gwalia wyllt, wyt decaf wlad;Wyt decaf wlad—wlad rydd!Dy eiddo i gyd wyf fi, O dudY swynawl gerdd ddiludd.
My bardic friend "Caradawc," of Abergavenny, sent me the followingEnglyn, with a request that I would write an English translation:
Iaith anwyl y Brythoniaid;—Iaith gywrain—Iaith gara fy Enaid;Iaith gry, iaith bery heb baid,Gorenwog Iaith Gwroniaid.
To which was written and forwarded the following reply;
A language to love—when our tongues in love speak it;A language to hate—when 'tis spoken by fools;A language to live—when the pure in life seek it,A language to die—when the lying tongue rules;A blessing—when blessings lead men to enjoy it;A curse—when for cursing 'tis used as a rod;The language of Satan—when devils employ it;When angels indite it—the language of God.
An ostrich o'er the desert wide,With upturned beak and jaunty stride,In stately, self-sufficient pride,One day was gently roaming.When—dreadful sound to ostrich ears,To ostrich mind the worst of fears—Our desert champion thinks he hearsThe dreaded hunter coming.Ill-fated bird! He might have fled:Those legs of his would soon have spedThat flossy tail—that lofty head—Far, far away from danger.But—fatal error of his race—In sandy bank he hid his face,And thought by this to evade the chaseOf the ostrich-bagging ranger.So he who, like the ostrich vain,Is ign'rant, and would so remain,Of what folks do, it's very plainIn folly's road he's walking.For if in sand you hide your headJust to escape that which you dread,And, seeing not, say danger's fled:'Tis worse than childish talking.
Answer to a Poem which appeared in a daily paper, with the above title, signed "Mary" (Llandovery.)
Gentle Mary! Do you knowWhat it is you crave?Listen! As the flowers growO'er the dismal grave,So, when sweetest sings the birdThou would'st like to be,When in twilight's hour is heardThe magic melody,Harshly comes the cruel thornAgainst the songster's breast,And melting music thus is bornOf pain and sad unrest (a)So if like Philomel thou'dst sing,And happiness impart,Thy breast must bear the cruel stingThat haunts the songster's heart.
(a) There is a poetic legend, which says that when the Nightingale sings the sweetest, it presses its breast against a thorn.
Written on hearing that J. D. Llewelyn, Esq., of Penllergare, had refused a public Testimonial, the offer of which was evoked by his unbounded charity and unostentatious acts of philanthropy, which recognition it was desired to inaugurate in the shape of a statue of himself, placed in front of the Swansea hospital—an institution which owes so much to his munificent liberality.
MARCH 6th, 1876.
Friend of the poor, for whom thy ceaseless thoughtIs as the sun, that warms the earthy clodInto a flush of blossom beauty-fraught,Waking in hearts by poverty distraughtGlimpses in life of Heaven and of God.
And as the sun sends forth his golden beamsIn silence, all unweeting of their worth,So from thy life in silent beauty streamsThat Heaven-born charity which never seemsTo know itself—and blushes at its birth.
No sculptor's art thy goodness need proclaim:The knowledge lives in hearts that feel its power—A love more lasting than a marbled fame:Brooding in silence o'er thy cherished name,As light is worshipped by the voiceless flower.
O'er the Present proudly stridingLike Colossus o'er the wave,And a beacon-light high holding,While the tempests loudly rave:Laying bare in truthful teachingTreach'rous breakers round the bay,That the good old barque of EnglandMay in safety sail away:Though the tongue of fiercest FactionIn its Folly may deride,Still he stands in lofty learningLike a giant o'er the tide,While the murmuring wavelets passingFar beneath his kingly hand,Looking upward, blindly babbleWhere they cannot understand.
When his country's proudest sceptreHe was called upon to sway,Ruled he with a noble purposeThat will never pass away:So, the Future, of his strivingWith its trumpet-tongue shall tell:How he battled for the Bible;How he loved old England well:How his nature, though not faultless(Human nature may not be),Bore the never-dying impressOf life's truest chivalry,How they wrote upon the marble,Where he lay beneath the sod:"Faithfully he served his country,""Truthfully he served his God."
Down in the dark—in the blinding dark;Away from the sunshine bright above:Away from the gaze of those they love,They are lying stony and stark.
Down in the dark—deep down in the dark,With the terror of death in each sightless eye,Which tells how hard 'tis to burn and dieDown—down in the poisonous dark.
Up in the light—in the broad noon-light—Poor hearts are breaking: hot tears are shed,As, tenderly shrouding each cinder-like head,It is hid from the aching sight.
Up in the light—in the soft gas-lightOf the draperied room, in luxurious guise;In our comfort forgetting who plods and pliesFar down in eternal night.
Up in the light—further up in the light;In the pure clear light of a Queenly crown,A widowed monarch is looking downTow'rds the dark, with compassion bedight.
Up in the light—further up in the light—From the dazzling light of a Maker's throne—The angel of Pity came down to zoneHuman hearts through that dreadful night.
"Don't bolt the door, John," said the Dame,Who sat esconced in oaken chair,The good man paused, and back he came,Silent, and with a troubled air.
"To night 'tis just a year agoSince Daisy left," the mother sighed."Don't blame the child, I loved her so;But better had our darling died."
The father spake not. Glistening brightA tear stole down the mother's cheek."A year to-night! A year to-night!I sometimes think my heart will break."
'Tis Christmas-eve, and in that cotThe good old couple grieve and yearnFor one, though absent, ne'er forgot:"Don't bolt the door, she may return."
"She may return." The midnight chimeWith mystic music fills the air,And bears the news, "'Tis Christmas time,"In sobbing wavelets everywhere.
Our village pride was Daisy May;A fairy being, all too goodFor earthly thought—as bright as day—Just blooming into womanhood.
The low, sweet music of her voice,Was like the sound of rippling rills;It bade the listening heart rejoice,And won as with enchanting spells.
Her eyes, like violets dipt in dew,The soul enthralled with tender glance,That gave to things a brighter hue,And fringed our lives with new romance.
And from her forehead, white as pearl,There hung a cloud of golden hair,Whose lustre threw around the girlA halo such as angels wear.
"Ah, me!" sighed many a village swain,"Her love what bliss 'twould be to winHe whom the beauteous prize shall gainWill open Heaven and enter in."
And as she passed with girlish graceShe met the glance of every eye,Till blushes fluttered o'er her faceLike roses when the sun goes by.
But while in virgin life she walkt;While sunlight round her footsteps played,Abroad unbridled Passion stalked:She loved, and, trusting, was betrayed.
And in the city, 'mongst the gay,Far, far from friends who mourned her fate,She flung Love's precious pearls away,And woke, but woke, alas, too late.
She woke to find herself alone,Save baby sleeping at her breast:In that vast city all unknown,Unloved, unpitied, and unblest.
Unloved by one who swore to love;Unpitied by the cruel crowd;Unblest by all save Him above,To whom she prayed in grief aloud.
In fitful dreams she saw, and oft,That humble cottage by the burn;And heard a voice, so sweet and soft:"Don't bolt the door, she may return."
"She may return." Delicious dream."Then mother loves me still," she sighed.Ah! little knew she of the streamOf tears that mother shed and dried.
Of weary watches in the night;Of aching heart throughout the day;Of darkened hours that once were bright,Made glad by her now far away.
And when, in unforgiving mood,The father urged his tenets stern,How oft that mother tearful stood:"Don't bolt the door, she may return."
'Tis Christmas Eve: the midnight chimeWith mystic music fills the air,And bears the news, "'Tis Christmas time,"In sobbing wavelets everywhere.
Without, the weird wind whistles by;Clothed is the ground with drifting snow;Within, the yule logs, piled on high,Their cheery warmth and comfort throw.
And in that cottage by the moor,Where father, mother, mourning dwell.The fire is bright, where hearts are soreThe chime to them a mournful knell.
"What's that?" the mother faintly said:"Methought I heard a weary sigh."The father sadly shook his head:"Tis but the wind that wanders by."
Again the Dame, with drowsy start—"It is no dream—I heard a groan."Oh, the misgivings of her heart!"'Tis but the music's murmuring moan."
They little thought, while thus they sighed,That at their threshold, fainting, layThe child for whom they would have died,For whom they prayed both night and day.
'Twas bitter chill! The snowy fallCame drifting slowly through the air,And gently clothed with ghostly pallThe wasted form that slumbered there.
And all the live-long night she slept,While breaking hearts within grew sore;While father, mother, mourned and wept,She lay in silence at the door.
Till, in the morning, all aglow,The sun, in looking o'er the hill,Like sculptured marble in the snow,Saw Daisy, stony, stark, and still.
Then tenderly, in coffined state,The hapless girl they grave-ward bore,And, as they mourned her cruel fate,Her tomb with flowers scattered o'er.
Leaving the broken-hearted childTo sleep in peace beneath the sod,And he who first her heart beguiledTo cope with conscience and his God.
The Purse I send to you, my friend,Is empty, but if wishes warmCould fill it, 'twould be brimming o'erWith handfuls of the golden charm.The only wealth I have to giveAre words which may be worth a thought.Be sure, as you would prosperous live,While earning sixpence spend a groat:Your purse will then grow slowly full,A friend in need you'll always find,And comforts, which can only flowFrom plenty and a peaceful mind.
'Twas a white water-lily I saw that day,With its leaves looking up to the sky,And baring its breast to the sportive playOf the wavelets dancing by.And O for the music the streamlet made,As it floated in ripples along;Round the beautiful blossom it eddied and playedWith a voice full of silvery song.
So all through the Summer the lily laughed,And with glances of loving and lightDrank in fresher beauty with each dainty draughtOf the water so playful and bright."And is it for ever," the floweret sighed,"That thy vows of affection will last?""For ever and ever!" the streamlet replied,And, embracing her, hurried past.
The Summer days vanished—the Winter came:Ah! where could the lily be?The sun still warmed with its golden flame;But the streamlet had gone to the sea.And the blossom that once, with its bosom of white,Like a star from the heavens shone,Lay frozen and dead. Ah, sorrowful plight!It had died in the dark alone.
Christmas is coming with merry laugh,With a merry laugh and a joyful shout,And the tidings are flung with an iron tongueFrom a thousand steeples pealing out;Hang up the holly—the mistletoe hang;Bedeck every nook round the old fireside;Make bright every hearth—let the joy-bells clangWith a warm-hearted welcome to Christmas-tide.
Christmas is coming! But some will seeBy the old fireside a vacant place;And a vision will flit through the festive gleeOf an absent—a never-returning face;And a voice that was music itself last yearWill be mournfully missed in the even-song;And children will speak, with a gathering tear,Of the virtues which now to the dead belong.
Christmas is coming! Look back o'er the past:Is there nought to forgive? Is there nought to forget?Have we seized all the chances of life that were placedIn our path: or in this have we nought to regret?Have we fought on life's battle-ground manfully—true,While success, like a butterfly, flew from our reach?Have we pressed in pursuit of the prize as it flew?Has the Past, in its dying, no lesson to teach?
Christmas is coming! But who shall sayThat at Christmas-time they again may meet?For graves lie thick in the crowded way;And we elbow Death in the open streetLet Folly embitter the festival hourWith a tongue that would injure—a heart that would hate!True wisdom is blest with a nobler dower:In another year it may be too late.
Christmas is coming! The wealthy will sitIn purple, fine linen, and sumptuous state;'Twere well in their plenty they should not forgetThe poor that stand meek at the outer gate.For who can foreshadow the changes of life?See! yesterday's King is an outcast to-day;Success comes in time to the strong in the strife;And Fortune's a game at which paupers can play.
Christmas is coming? The trader will quailOver ledgers unsquared—and accounts overdue:And his pen fain would tell all the sorrowful taleWhich his heart, full of fear, has not courage to do!Had he all that is owing, how happy his heart;How buoyant his footstep—how joyous his face;But his debtors from gold as their life's blood will part;And their hoard lies untouched o'er a brother's disgrace.
But Christmas is coming with merry laugh,Amid pain, amid pleasure, with joyful shout,And the tidings are flung with an iron tongueFrom a thousand steeples pealing out.Hang up the holly—the mistletoe hang;Bedeck every nook round the old fireside:Let us bury our care: let the joy-bells clangWith a warm-hearted welcome to Christmas-tide.
The mist that rises from the river,Evermore—evermore,Tells how hearts are born to severAs of yore—as of yore.But the silvery mist returnethSparkling dew and blessed rain;So the loving heart, though distant,Comes again—comes again.
The stars that shine in brightness o'er usIn the sky—in the sky,Speak of loved ones gone before usBorn to die—born to die,Who, in days of earthly sadness,O'er us watch with tender love,As the starlight falls around usFrom above—from above.
The rose that gives, before it leaves us,Fragrance rare—fragrance rare,Links of love in absence weaves usSweet to wear—sweet to wear;So true hearts in love unitedBound by pure affection's chain,Though in life or death divided,Meet again—meet again.
'Twas in my Spring of palmy gladnessFirst I met thee, Ivy wife;Then my brow, untouched by sadness,Bloomed with regal-foliaged life;Proud my arms hung forth in blessingO'er thy trustful spirit dear,And my heart, 'neath thy caressing,Wore a Spring-dress all the year!Time wings on: my strength is fleeing,And my leafy beauties too;Still thou clings't around my being,Changeless—ever true.
Churlish Autumn hath uncrowned me,Still I feel thy fond embrace;Winter sad throws gloom around me:Sweet! thou smil'st up in my face;Spring arrives with flowery treasures,Summer skips by, sun-caressed;Yet thou, envying not their pleasures,Bloom'st upon my rugged breast.Time wings on: my strength is fleeing,And my leafy beauties too;Still thou cling'st around my being,Changeless—ever true.
Though my limbs grow old and weary,Trembling in the wintry air;And my life be dark and dreary—Still I feel that thou art near;Stripped of all my blossoms golden,'Reft of stalwart forest pride—Sere and sallow, leafless, olden;Yet remain'st thou by my side.Time wings on: my strength is fleeing,And my leafy beauties too;Life-long cling'st thou round my being,Changeless—ever true.
"O changeful woman! Constant man!"Has been the theme for buried ages.But here's the truth: say "No" who can—Ye bards, philosophers, and sages:Men buy their Hats all kinds of shapes;Our own Welshwomen change their's never;'Tis with their Hats as with their loves—Where fancy rests the heart approves,And, loving once, they love for ever!
She sat and she gazed in the fire:In the fire with a dreamy look:And she seemed as though she could never tireOf reading the fiery book.
She saw, midst the embers bright,A figure both manly and fair,Blue eyes that shone with a loving light:And showers of nut-brown hair.
She saw her own image standBy that form on a sunny day:One kiss of the lip: one grasp of the hand:And her heart was borne away.
She saw, through the flickering flame,A bier in a darkened room:And a coffin that bore her idol's nameWas hurried away to the tomb.
She saw, from a distant strand,A missive sent over the main:The letter was writ by a stranger's hand:And she sighed for her lover in vain.
So she sat and she gazed in the fire:In the fire, with a dreamy look:And she seemed as though she could never tireOf reading the fiery book.
On a New Year's Eve, by a belfry old,With a sea of solemn graves around,While the grim grey tower of the village churchKept silent ward o'er each grassy mound,With a cloak of ivy about it grown,Fringed round, like fur, with a snowy fray;On a New Year's Eve I watched aloneThe life of the last year ebbing away.
Anon there came from the belfry outA strange wild sound as of pleasure and pain;For the birth of the new a jubilant shout:For the death of the old a sad refrain.And the voice went throbbingly through the air,Went sobbing and sighing, with laughter blent;All the echoes awakening everywhere;A guest that was welcomed wherever, it went.
I thought, as the sound of each babbling bellCame gushing away from the belfry old,That stories such as the dying tellWere up in that belfry being told:As the words men mutter in life's last fearSeem to shrink from Eternity back to Time,So it seemed to me that each echo clearCame back from the grave with a lesson sublime.
"Yet another year!" it seemed to say;Gone one more year in the battle of life;With its yearnings in gloom for the coming day,Its pantings for peace 'mid the daily strife;Clay lips that kissed but a year agoWith the fervent warmth of life and love;Dear eyes that gladdened bright homes belowIn one short year with the stars above.
Gone one more year, with its masses that prayedFor the daily bread that so seldom came;With its lives whom sinning could never degrade,Till the canker of want brought guilt and shame.Gone one more year, with its noble soulsWho raised up the weary in hours of need;With its crowds that started for wished-for goals,And drooped by the way, broken-hearted indeed.
Gone one more year, with its wearisome woes;Its pleasures hoped for—never seen:Its swallow-winged friends: its fair-faced foes:Its sorrow which happiness might have been:Its cant and its cunning: its craft and crime:Its loves and its hates: its hopes and fears:Its lives that, reaching tow'rds heights sublime,Fell short of the mark in a sea of tears.
Gone one more year, to tell all the restHow wise the old world had gotten of late:How fools still flourish, by wealth caressed:How the noble of mind meet a pauper's fate;How the infidel heart, accursed, defiesAll hopes of Heaven—all fears of hell:How the saintly preach from the book of lies,And scoff at the truths which Saviours tell.
How the pious who poison the poor man's foodIn shoddy and shop grow golden and grand:How the rent-roll harbours the stolen rood—The emblazoned escutcheon the bloody hand:How women and men to the altar hie,And swear to the promise they rarely keep;How Vice, a shameless and living lie,Gets honours which Virtue never can reap.
Gone one more year: there is no return.Press onward, still onward, for weal or woe.Beat heart: throb brain: hot eyelids burn:Man's troubles and trials who cares to know?Birth, marriage, and death: death, marriage, and birth,Are the treadmill steps of this wheel of strife;Cloak, draught, and a crust—then a hole in the earth:And the struggle for these is the story of life.
So sang the bells in the belfry old,Or so it seemed to me they sang;And the year died out as the moments rolled,Still o'er its bier the joy-bells rang:'Twas mourning an instant, merriment then,And the ghastly shroud where the old year lay—How like is the humour of bells and men—Became swaddling-clothes for the New Year's Day.
Beautiful Barbara—Barbara bright,As bright and as fresh as the dainty dawn,What is it disturbeth her bosom white,As the breeze into billows kisseth the corn?
Beautiful Barbara—silent and shy,Shy as the dove, as the dove as fond,What a dreaminess lives in her hazel eye,As she looketh away through the valley beyond.
Through the valley beyond, where the daisies blush,Where the woodbines bloom and the rivulets run;Through the valley beyond, where, in evening's hush,Beautiful Barbara's heart was won.
And the maiden Barbara, fair and forlorn,The grass-green meadow looketh along;The morrow was fixed for her wedding morn,And she vieweth in vision the bridal throng.
She looketh, and weepeth, and looketh in vain:Her heart was trustful; his heart was untrue;And beautiful Barbara mingleth amainHer tears with the daisies and the dew.
And the harvest moon sat silent and pale,Silent and pale o'er the far-off hill:And the sun in the morning flushing the valeSaw beautiful Barbara stark and still.
Stark and still, with a forehead of white,Round which the dew-drop coronal shone;And the sunbeams came with their laughing light,But beautiful Barbara sleepeth on.
'Twas a trying path for her dainty feet,For such dainty feet as her's to tread.So her trampled heart 'gainst its bars had beat,Till it bravely broke and heavenward fled.
Out in Babylon yonder,By the gas-lights' dull red glare,In a stifling room—a living tomb,With never a breath of air,A slender girl is sitting;At her feet a silken cloud,Which music makes, while her young heart aches,As she stitches the rustling shroud.And this is the song the glistening silkSings, out in the work-room yonder:
"Quick! quick! quick!"My lady is waiting to roam."If you wish to die, the needle ply;"You can die when you reach your home."
And while the gas-lights flicker and playThe life of the sempstress ebbs awayIn the West End work-room yonder.
Out in Babylon yonder,In the blaze of the ball-room gay,My lady sits; while round her flitsA skeleton slender and grey.And the ghastly spectre standethBy the side of my lady fairSo mournfully bland, and with bony handIt plays with her costume rare.And this is the song the ghostly guestSings, out in the ball-room yonder:
"Look! look! look!"Sit ye scornful and proud."Your boddice a hearse; every stitch a curse;"Your skirt a silken shroud."
For while the gas-lights flickered in playThe life of the sempstress ebbed awayIn the West End work-room yonder.
In the cause of EducationLet us raise the standard high,And in tones of exultation"Upward—onward!" be the cry.Let us rear this Fane of Learning—Beauteous Temple of the Mind;Where true hearts, for knowledge yearning,May the priceless jewel find.
In the cause of EducationLet the glorious altar stand,As a bulwark of the nation,As a blessing in the land.Let an unsectarian fabricGrow in grandeur from the sod,As a crown upon our manhood,As a monument to God.
In the cause of EducationLet the wealth which Wisdom ownsBe out-scattered open-handedTo uprear this Throne of Thrones:And, like bread upon the waters,Hearts that give from store of goldWill, in never-dying blessings,Richly reap a thousand-fold.
In the cause of Education,In the search for simple Truth,In the proud ConfederationWhich ennobles striving youth,Let each heart's best pulses quicken,Patriotic souls up-leap,Till, mind-freighted, sails the fabricLike an ark upon the deep.
In silence blooms the Summer rose,With damask cheek and odorous breath,And ne'er a ruddy leaf that blowsWhispers of canker or of death:But sweetly smiles the lovely flowerAll through the sunshine warm and gay,And tells not of the canker-dowerThat eats its inmost heart away.
In gladness rolls the river brightDown through the meadow grassy-green,With ripples full of laughing lightThat wake with joy the sunny scene.From morn till morn, with cheery tread,The stream walks on with ne'er a sigh,Nor tells of pebbles hard and deadThat deep below the surface lie.
It is Christmas Eve, and the dance is o'er:"Good night—good night all round!"And the red light streams through the open door,Like a sprite on the snowy ground.And faces peer down the glowing dellFrom the cottage warm and bright,To see the last of the village belleWho stands in the pale moonlight.And waving her hand with a last farewell,Is lost from their yearning sight.But not alone is that maiden fairOf the pearl-white face and the golden hair.
"Thou knowest I love thee, Blanche," he said,Who walked by the maiden's side,And her cheeks flushed up with a sweeter redWhen he asked her to be his bride.Though humble, their love was pure as light—As pure as the snow they trod;And the peal from the belfry woke the nightLike a voice from the Throne of God:Or plaudits of angels glad with delightAt their Maker's approving nod.Through a manly bosom it sent a thrill,For it came with the bells did the girl's "I will."
The sobbing winds of winterLingered sadly round the door,Then ran in mystic meaningsThrough the dark across the moor;The window panes were streamingWith the tears which heaven wept,And a mother sat a-dreamingO'er an infant as it slept:Its little hands were folded;And its little eyes of blueWere clothed in alabasterWith the azure peeping through:Its face, so still and star-like,Was as white as maiden snow:And it breathed in faintest ripples,As the wavelets come and go.
The morn in golden beautyThrough the lattice gaily peept,But muffled was the windowOf the room where darling slept:The mother's heart was breakingInto tears like Summer cloud,For a starry face was circledWith a little lily shroud;And a soul from sunny featuresLike a beam of light had fled:Before her, like a snowdrop,Her miracle lay dead!Ah! 'Twas cruel thus to chasten,Though her loss was darling's gain:And her heart would rifle HeavenCould she clasp her babe again.
Autumn's sun was brightly blazingLike a suit of golden mail;Flocks along the mead were grazing;Lambkins frollicked through the vale.Brooklets gossipped o'er their beauty;Leaves came down in whisp'ring showers;And the vine-trees, lush and fruity,Climbed and clung in am'rous bowers:
Beauty—gladness—Floated round me everywhere;Still in sadnessBuilt I castles in the air—In the soft and dreamy air.
Far above me, like a spirit,Rose an alp in proud array,And my heart so yearned to near itAs I in the valley lay.Ah, thought I, yon summit seemethLike a throne, so pure and bright;Lo! how grandly-great it gleameth,Crown'd with everlasting light!
Then I startedFrom the valley calm and fair,Hopeful-hearted,Tow'rds the castle in the air—High up in the dreamy air.
Many a tortuous path and windingRid my soul embattle through;Many a thorn of bitter findingChoked my way with perils new:Upward still, footsore and bleeding,On with lonesome heart I pressed;And I heard the chimes recedingIn the vale so calm and blest.
Still I wanderedUp the pathway rough and drear,Till I ponderedBy the castle in the air—Like a spirit in the air.
I had reached the lofty glory;I had gained the alpine peak;Lowly lay the world before me—Yet my heart was like to break!Where I stood 'twas cold and dreary—-Crown'd with white and glistening snow:"Ah," I sighed, with heart a-weary—"Distance lent the golden glow!"
Thus Fame everWoos men from earth's valleys fair,Oft to shiverNear life's castles in the air—In the far-off wintry air.
I had a silver chalice onceOf exquisite design,In shape 'twas like the human heartThis little vase of mine.I plucked a rose and placed the flow'rWithin the shiny cup,And drank the incense hour by hourThe rosebud offered up.And as it opened leaf by leafIts beauties spreading wide,I saw no blossom such as mineIn all the world beside.
The sunlight came, but came in vain,And day succeeded day,But leaf by leaf my rosebud drooped,Until it passed away.And thus in life we look for loveFrom other loves apart—A gift from Heavenly hand above—And plant it near the heart;But Death comes forth with chilly touch;The blossom droops and dies;And breaking hearts are filled aloneWith fragrant memories.
I sat upon the shingly BeachOne sunny Summer-day,A-listening to the mystic speechOf a million waves at play.And as I watched the flowing floodI saw a little child,Who near a mimic fabric stoodOf shells his hands had piled.And as he turned to go away,He said, with look of sorrow:"Build up I cannot more to-day—"I'll come again to-morrow!"
The morrow came—he thither hied—Looked for his castle gay;But while he'd slept the cruel tideHad washt it all away.And thus in life we gaily buildShell castles in the air;Our hopes the fairy fabrics gildWith colours bright and rare:But the dark flood of human strifeRolls onward while we sleep,And o'er the wrecks, where waves ran rife,We waken but to weep.
Scarce nineteen Summers had breathed their bloom,Had breathed their bloom on her dainty cheek,When they bore her away to the voiceless tombWith hearts so full they were like to break.And down in the churchyard old and green,In the churchyard green where the yew-tree waves,A dark little mound of earth is seen—One billow more to the sea of graves.
Dear heart! How sad, in the gorgeous light,In the gorgeous light of a purple dawn,With life so hopeful of pure delight,Away from the world to be rudely torn!To be rudely torn in the tender hour,In the tender hour when her heart was young;While the virgin dew on the opening flowerWith a trembling joy like a jewel hung.
Ere the budding soul, so sweetly shy,Had opened its core to the coming kissOf an earthly love that was born to dieEre it filled her heart with its hallowed bliss.So down in the churchyard old and green,In the churchyard green where the yew-tree waves,A dark little mound of earth is seen—One billow more to the sea of graves.
Scarce nineteen Summers had breathed their bloom,Had breathed their bloom on her dainty cheek,And they bore her away to the voiceless tombWith hearts so full they were like to break:With hearts so full even this beliefDispelled not a tear from their aching eyes—Though they saw their beloved through clouds of griefAn angel beyond in the golden skies.
Hearest thou that peal a-tellingNight-noon stories to the Sky;Hark! each wave of sound comes wellingLike a scolded angel's cry;And the voice the belfry flingethSobbing from its brazen breast,Like a god in trouble singeth,Waking half the world from rest;Now it wails in murmuring sadness,As a child at words unkind;Now it comes with merry gladness,Floating weirdly on the wind.Ah! 'tis sad;—-yet sprightly-hearted;Song of Birth and gloomy Bier;Death-dirge for the Days departed;Carol for the coming Year.Is it that the voice reminds theeOf the wasted moments past?Saith it that the New Year finds theeWhere it left thee last?
Doth the merry music taunt thee,How the Palace love had rearedMocks with echoes now, that haunt theeWhere thou dream'dst they would have cheered?Moan the bells with thee in sorrowO'er a little mound of green,Rising up from graveyard furrowBleakly blank upon the scene?Doth the tender language, stealingO'er the soul with soothing swell,Waken thoughts from sweet concealing:Joyous tale for chimes to tell;Reviving dainty hours of gladness,Fresh as daisies in the spring,As birds in summer, void of sadness,Songs, heart-buried, wake and sing?Doth the sea of music bear theeBack again upon the Past,To show thee that the New Year finds theeHappier than the last?
Doth it tell of plans laid glowingOn the anvil of thy heart;Times thou'st raised thy hand for throwingIn life's battle many a dart?How each plan unstricken lingeredTill the mouldful heat was gone?How each dart was faintly fingered,Resting in the end unthrown;Of the Faith thou pawn'dst for Fancies—Substance for a fadeful beam?Doth it taunt with bartered chances—Sterling strength for drowsy dream?Doth it brand thee apathetic?Twit with lost days many a one?Doth it chant in words emphatic"Gone for aye; for ever gone?"Is it that the voice reminds theeOf the wasted moments past?Saith it that the New Year finds thee.Wiser than the last?
'Tis not so!—and still, as ever,Time's a jewel in its loss;But, possessed in plenty, neverHeld as ought but worthless dross.Like lost truant-boys we lingerWhimpering in Life's mazy wood,Heedless of the silent fingerEver pointing for our good;Each, in plodding darkness groping,Clothes his day in dreamy night,'Stead of boldly climbing, hoping,Up the steeps towards the light,Where, as metal plucks the lightningFlashing from the lofty sky,Sturdy purpose, ever heightening,Grasps an Immortality.Let not future peals remind thee,Then, of wasted moments passed;Let not future New Years find theeWhere each left thee last.