Behold yon truant schoolboy, cap in hand,Bound o'er the gilded mead with frantic whoop,And to each butterfly give ready chase;Till one more gaudy than the flutt'ring restStarts up before his gaze. Then darts he forthTo clutch the prize, which ever and anonLingers on shiny flow'r till nearly caught,Then flickers off with tantalizing flirt.The youth with hopeful heart keeps up the chase,And so intent upon the game, that heSees not the yawning slough beneath his feet,Until he finds himself o'er head and earsIn dreary plight. And so it is through life:From youth to age man dreams of happiness:Grasps every gilded bubble that upsoars,Fondly believing each to be the prizeHis fancy pictured. Still the wished-for joyIs far beyond his reach as e'er it was;Yet, buoyed with hope, he sees, or thinks he sees,The coming future bearing in its armsThe smiling Beauty that he pants to grasp.With palpitating heart and trembling handHe reaches forth to pluck the prize—when lo!The treach'rous earth expanding at his feet,He finds in place of happiness—a grave.
GIVING A LITTLE INFORMATION AS TO THE MUSIC OF THE GODS. (a)
Said Aurora to Aeolus, as they sat o'er their bohea,Surrounded by Zephyruses—exactly three times three—"Olus, dear, a new piano is the thing of things we want."I regret to say Aeolus raised his eyes and said "We dont!"So unlike his mournful manner, when his sweet sad harp he plays;And he heav'd a sigh regretful as he thought of other days—As he thought of early moments, ere Aurora's heart was won—Ere beefsteak was fifteen pence a-pound, and coals five crowns a-ton;Ere nine little West-winds murmured round his table every meal,And the tones of a piano nought but sweetness could reveal,As his own Aurora played it in the home of her mamma,Ere his own Aurora, blushing, had referred him to papa.All these feelings moved Aeolus, but to climax in "We dont!"As he heard "A new piano is the thing of things we want."It was settled—who could help it? For Aurora, like the restOf winning little women, knew that kisses pleased the best;It was settled—who could help it? So, the local paper brought,The quick eye of Aurora these glad words of comfort caught (b)"Dear Aeolus," said Aurora, "this is quite the thing for me;""All is just as it all should be—it's alady'sproperty:"P'rhaps her husband 's short of money;p'rhaps the rent they want to pay;"P'rhaps—" but cutting short my story, the piano came next day.Yes—the walnut casewas"beautiful" for beeswax made it so;And the keyboardwasby Collard—"Collard's registered," you know.It is true, itwasfull compass; but the "richness" wasn't much;And a feature felt in vain for was the "repetition touch."Yes—itwasa "trichord cottage," and "but little used" had been;And the wood, like those who bought it, all inside was very green.It was worth a score of guineas—e'en if really worth a score:And the "lady" who was "leaving" ere she left sold three or four,Piping hot from minor makers, though all Collard's make-believe;And at each recurring victim laughed a laugh within her sleeve.Of course no breach of morals to the seller I impugn,Although it cost five pounds a-year to keep the thing in tune.I rather blame the buyers two for napping being caught:And that's the way "Aeolus dear" a new piano bought.
(a) The foregoing lines were written several years ago, and published at the time, with the view of exposing a fraud too frequently practised upon people in search of so-called "bargains." Aeolus and Aurora are no imaginary characters.
(b) A lady removing from —————, is desirous of selling her Piano. A full rich tone, 7 octaves, in beautiful walnut case, trichord cottage, repetition touch, registered keyboard, by Collard, but little used. 27 guineas will be accepted, worth 60.—Apply to, &c.
Should'st thou find in thy travels a maid that is free,And content to love nought in the wide world but thee;With a face that is gentle—be 't dark or be 't fair;And a brow that ne'er ceases good-temper to wear;With a soul like a rosebud that's not yet unfurled—All strange to the tricks and the ways of the world;And a mind that would blush at its fanciful roam,Should it dream there are spheres more delightful than home,With a love that would love thee alone for thy sakeIn bonds which adversity never could break.Should'st thou find such a treasure—then unlock thy heart,And place the bright gem in its innermost part;Watch over it tenderly—love it with pride;And gratefully crown it thy heaven-sent bride.
"O, let me slumber—let me sleep!"The fair-haired boy in whispers sighed;Then sank upon the snowy steep,While friendly hearts to rouse him tried."O, let me sleep!" and as he spakeHis weary spirit sought its rest,And slept, no more again to wake,Save haply there—among the blest.Sleep—sleep—sleeping:He sleeps beneath the starry dome;And far away his mother, weeping,Waits his coming home.
We raised him gently from the snow,And bore him in our arms away.The sweet white face is smiling now—Made whiter by the moon's pale ray.And when the sun in beauty roseWe laid him in the silent tomb,Where mountains with eternal snowsHigh up tow'rds Heaven grandly loom.Sleep—sleep—sleeping:He sleeps beneath the starry dome;And far away his mother, weeping,Waits his coming home. (a)
(a) The late Artemus Ward, in his "American Drolleries," tells a pathetic story of a boy, a German, who died from the severity of the weather, while travelling, in company with others, in the vicinity of the Rocky Mountains. He was the only child of a widowed mother. The intense cold induced drowsiness; and while being forced along by his companions with the view of counteracting the effects of the frost, his continued cry, uttered with soul-stirring plaintiveness, was: "Let me sleep—let me sleep." Unable to save him, his companions permitted him to lie down and "fall asleep in the snow"—a sleep from which he never woke.
A Dewdrop and a VioletWere wedded on an April day;The Dewdrop kisst his pretty pet,Then by the Sun was called away.The drooping flow'r bewailed her choice;"My love will never come again!"But from the clouds came answering voice:"I come, my darling, with the rain!"
The Violet had jealous fears,And told her sorrow to the Rose:"Say—is he faithful?" O those tears!The blossom whispered—"Goodness knows!"The recreant dewdrop came at last,And eased his love of all her pain:With kisses sweet her sorrows passed,And life anew came with the rain.
'Tis sad indeed to chant a dirge of gloom—To weave the cypress for a youthful brow:To moan a requiem o'er an early tomb,And sing in sorrow as I'm singing now.While men raise mausoleums to die brave—With flimsy flatt'ries gilded tombs besmear—We need no banner o'er our Brother's graveTo tell what wealth of worth lies buried there.
Gone! and the word re-echoes with a soundMournful as muffled bells upon the wind;Sad in its influence on all around—Telling of griefs that still remain behind.A thousand hearts may throb with tender swell—Though every soul in deepest sorrow grieves,How much he was beloved they only tell;But who shall gauge the yawning breach he leaves?
Dark is the social world in which he moved—Lending his aid unmindful of the cost.Stilled is the heart the sternest 'mongst us loved;Dim is the lustrous jewel we have lost.For souls like his, so tender and so great,Are pearls that stud the earth like stars the sky:Above—the password at celestial gate;Below—the germ of immortality.
Gone! Just as life was breaking, full of hope—Clothed in the gorgeous beauty of its morn;Free in Ambition's ever-widening scope,A pictured prospect exquisitely drawn.As void of self as angels are of sin,What sweet anticipations stirred his brain:What heights for others would he strive to win;What little for himself he'd seek to gain.
But while the world was bathed in golden light;While beauty breathed from every opening flower;While streamlets danced along with gay delight;While mellow music filled each songful bower;With heart-warm friends whose love ran brimming o'erFor him who, full of life, stood with them then;In such an hour Death led him from the shore;And gone the worth we ne'er may know again.
She left a mournful void upon our hearts;Within her home she left a vacant place:But, as the setting sun at eve impartsA holy twilight calm to nature's face,So, chastened, bend we o'er the early tombOf one who to us all was very dear,Whose cherished memory, like a fragrant bloom,Will live embalmed in recollection's tear.
To love unbeloved—O how painful the bliss!By such passion our heart-strings we sever:Like raindrops in rivers, which die with a kiss,We are lost in life's waters for ever.
I wonder if thy Tyrant knowsThat every peck she gives totheeBrings down a perfect show'r of blowsOn my companions and on me.Martyrs vicarious are we all:Too great a coward thou to ruleThy wife, or let thy vengeance fallOnher—and so thou flog'st the school.
Like the Moon that is waning, thou movest along—Silent, pensive, and pale—through thy sorrow's dark Night;For thou draw'st from the rays of our bright Sun of SongThe white coldness that lives where reflected 's the light.
And the stars which in fancy around thee I see,As in bright golden fire they eternally shine,Seem to cast from their splendour a lustre on thee,As of light from thy husband's effusions divine.
In the flush of his fame were thy virtues unseen,By his blinding effulgence of genius hid:Could he now see thy face, with its sorrow serene,Much might he unsay—undo much that he did,
For I see in that face all the sorrows he told—All the sadness he meant in his marvellous lore;And the shadows of Memory, silent and old,Seem to come with the light from Eternity's shore.
And I feel, though the world said his spirit and thineWere as wide as the sun and the moon are apart,That the beams of his love o'er thy bosom still shine—That the thought of his passion still nurtures thy heart.
My sweet one, thou art starting nowIn life's heart-saddening race,With Innocence upon thy browAnd Beauty in thy face;A tiny star among the hostThat fleck the arc of life;A tiny barque on ocean tossed,To brave its billowy strife.May Virtue reign supremely o'erAnd round thy footsteps cling;While Faith and Hope for evermoreCelestial numbers sing.O may thy life be one glad dreamOf bright unclouded joy;Thy love one pure and sunny themeOf bliss without alloy.Should Fate or Fortune's dazzling raysLead thee to other climes,Then, darling, let this meet thy gaze,And think of me sometimes.
A speaker of the suasive school,Who more resembled knave than fool,His prospects gauged once on a time,And sought how he might upward climb.The scheme Political had failed;The star of Piety had paled;The Convert Drunkard would not tell—His friends the cheat had learnt to smell.All things our changeful friend had tried—Had spouted far and shouted wide.When all at once—ah! happy thought:The Temp'rance cause in tow was brought.And with it, up and down the land,Our hero roamed with lofty hand,Consigning to a dreadful place,Whose name this fable must not grace,All men—the one who touched a drop,With him who knew not when to stop.Arriving in a town one day,He on his string began to play;And mounted on a brandy caskWith noisy speech went through his task.The barrel on whose head he stoodAt length gave vent in warmth of blood:"Ungracious varlet—stay thy hand:"What! run down those on whom you stand?"Then, utterance-choked, he tumbled o'er,Casting the speaker on the floor.And as he rolled along the street—"Let me consistent teachers meet!"He said—"or give me none at allTo teach me how to stand or fall!"Thus seekers after Truth declaim'Gainst teachers—teachers but in name—Who live by what they deprecate,And love the thing they seem to hate—Who like the speaker raised on highOn barrel-top, 'gainst barrels cry:Who, though of others Temp'rance ask,Are slaves themselves to th' brandy flask.
When the cannon's loud rattleTold tales of the battle,And the nations turned pale at the rout;When the clarion rang madly,And maidens wept sadly,And swords leapt with fire-flashes out;One frail girl of beautyShrank not from her duty,But raised her sweet voice 'bove the roar;Her bright smiles of kindnessPlayed o'er the dark blindness:'Twas Florence, the Maid of the War.
When thousands, down-falling,For help were out-calling—Neglected, on straw-pallet cast—A fair form drew near themTo aid and to cheer them;Her shadow they kissed as it passed, (a)When they droopt in their sadness,Or raved in their madness,She left her glad home from afarTo heal up their sorrows,And tell of bright morrows;'Twas Florence, the Maid of the War.
(a) So impressed were some of the wounded soldiers in the hospital at the kindness and gentle treatment received at the hands of Miss Nightingale, that, unable otherwise to testify their gratitude, they kissed her shadow as it fell upon the pillow of the pallets, on which they lay. One poor fellow is said to have done this with his latest breath.
If I could place my thoughts upon thy heartAs on this virgin page I now indite,What words unspoken would I not impartWhich only on my own I dare to write?
But one short hourShe came and tripped it o'er the rugged earth,Like a light sunbeam o'er the troubled wave;Then shrank in silence to her little grave,A rose-bud bitten at its opening birth.
The hand of deathHad ta'en before her one who loved her wellWith all the fondness of a Mother's heart,Whose darling's soul was made of Heav'n a partE're sank the echoes of her own death-knell.
And so she died:Before her mind scarce knew the way to live.But sorrowing tears 'twere useless now to shed:Our hopes must bloom, or mingle with the dead,As Heav'n alone deems fit to take or give!
Oh, blessed Love! that clothes with laughing flowersLife's martyr-crown of thorns, and raises upThe heart to hold communion with its God,'Tis thine, this day, with golden clasp, to bindThe volume of a life, where sterling worthAnd beauty go to make the story up.A maiden, one, who, when on tiptoe, seesHer history running through a line of Kings:In fame how excellent; in life how pure;As though the virtues of her ancestryHad found new utterance in her virtuous self.As rain-drops, trickling through the hills of Time,Commingling gather, till, in sparkling life,They come, a streamlet, happy in the sun,To gladden all with beauty, so the gemsThat thickly fleck an old ancestral nameFrom time how distant, centre in the soulOf her who comes this day with loving smileTo crown a husband with such wealth of worthAs 'tis her own to give. Thrice happy pair!May cloudlets never dim the arc of lightThat should engirdle all their lives, and makeTheir home a paradise. If such should come,May they be transient as a summer cloudThat mars but for a moment, yet to makeThe sky more beautiful. May truest LoveBe with them ever, garnishing their livesWith bliss perpetual, and lighting upTheir footsteps o'er the earth, as when, of old,God's angels walked with men. So shall they liveA life which loving hearts alone may know.
He pupils taught to brave the galeSecure on life's tempestuous sea;Then, pupil he of Death, set sailTo navigate Eternity.
The students taught by him—returnIn safety to their friends ashore;But tutor Death, so cold and stern,Brings back his pupils—never-more.
Blame not the world:But blame its law that makes it crime akinTo be of lowly birth—to lack the goldWhereby to coat the mask to cheat the worldOf sterling merit. See yon beauteous flyBreaking its plumage 'gainst the glassy pane,Till spent and weary, yearning tow'rds the sun.E'en so the lowly-born but large of soulSee not, but feel, the chilling barrierSet up by Pride to mar their sky-ward flightTo liberty and life.
See, when the simple moth doth blindly rushTo reach the flame, its life oft pays the debtOf folly. Yet 'tis nobler thus to dieMidst all the brightness of a waking life,Than from the world ooze out through darkened waysBy beggarly instalments—none to feelThy life but thine own poor ignoble self:And none to tell the moment of thy deathSave those who profit by it.
Ne'er seek, by artful guise of words, to taintThe truth with falsehood's hue. Poor, trembling Truth!Trust in her would be boundless, if our tonguesUttered the coin as fashioned in the heart.And then poor Heart would have no need to sendHer champion blushes to the cheeks to tellThe world how basely she had been traduced.
O love sublime!How thy sweet influence agitates the soul,Voicing its hidden chords, as breathing windsWake the rude harp to thrilling melody.All things must pass away; but love shall liveFor ever. 'Tis th' immortal soul of life.Scathless and beauteous midst th' incongruous massOf desolated hearts and stricken souls,And spirits faintful 'neath a world of woe,And dusky millions in the mine of life;And all the rank corruption of the earth—Its weeds, its thorns, its sadness-breeding hate;Its selfishness, its swallow-pinioned friends;Its rottenness of core and lack of truth:When all have changed, save Nature and itself,This Heaven-sent flow'r of Eden—peerless love—Shall blossom in Evangel purity,And sanctify a host to people Heaven.
Friction with sorrow rubs perception keen;And dear-bought knowledge makes us prophets all.
What! Is the graveyard sod less fresh and green—The daisies there less like the meadow flow'r—Because pollution slumbers at their roots?Judge not thou, then, by what appears to be,But what exacting Conscience tells thee is.
As fair a soul as ever came from God,And one more gentle never walkt the earthIn mortal guise. Of sweet external, too:Fresh as the wakening morn with violet breath;And every action, look, thought, word, and trace,Were strung to tuneful melody. Her lifeWas music's echo—stealing o'er the soulLike dying strains, soft and retiringly.In childish grace to womanhood she grew,And like the virgin lily stood and smiled—Flinging around the fragrance of herselfUnweeting of the blessings that she brought.
All human actions are ordained of God,And for the common good: yet men see notThe strings that keep earth's puppets on the move;But whine and whimper—wondering at the waysBy which unlook'd-for ends are brought about:As blind imprisoned birds bruise out their livesAgainst the cruel bars they cannot see.
Experience tells the world it were as madTo link the Present with the sluggish Past,As wed the ways of winsome, wanton youth,To lean and laggard age. I pitied her:Made her the mistress of my countless wealth—Loving with doting and uxorious love.And the ripe graces of her radiant mindShone out resplendent. But my withered lifeWoke to her love with sere and sickly hope;As some departed June, won with the sighsOf waning Winter, turns and spends a dayFor very pity with the lonely eld,Who greets her sunny visit with a glanceOf cold inanity, and strives to smile.O had I known this little hour of timeWhen life was young—or knew it not at all!Then my heart's buoyance, at such love as her's,Had blossom'd brightly—as the merry MaySkips from the golden South with balmy breath,Breathing upon the dark and thorn-clad fields,Till fragrant buds peep out like love-lit eyes,And hedges redden as she walks along.As these—her love and mine. Butnow—alas!
O that the wretchedness entailed by sinMight form the prelude—not the after-piece.How few there are would brave the hurricane:How few the crimes mankind would have to count.
My heart is dark again.My tree of life but yestermorn was flushtWith golden fruit: to-day it creaks in pain,And wintry winds moan through its leafless boughs.Time, some hours younger, saw me clasp the skyOf hope with radiant brow: the plodding churlMay see me now go stumbling in the dark,And blindly groping for the hand of DeathTo lead me hence. O life! O world! O woman!
Mother. Clarence, my darling boy,The world to which thou yearn'st is grey with crime;And glittering Vice will bask before thy face,As serpents lie in sedgy, o'ergrown grass,In glossy beauty, whilst Life's potent glanceWill thrall thy soul as with a spirit-spell:But hold thy heart, a chalice for the GoodAnd Beautiful to crush, with pearly hands,The mellow draught which purifies the thought,And lights the soul. Thirst after knowledge, child.Thy face shall shine, then, brightly as a king's,As did the prophets' in the olden timeWhen holding converse with the living God.As rain-drops falling from the sky aboveUpon the mountain-peak remain not there,But hasten down to voice the simple rill,So knowledge, born of God, should be attainedBy peasant as by peer—by king or slave.Have faith—large faith. Some of life's mightiest greatHave peered out, like the moon from frowning hills,Then ventured forth, and walkt their splendour'd nightIn pale, cold majesty; while some have dashtOn sun-steeds through the ocean of the world,As comets plough the shoreless sea of stars,Blinding old Earth with wreaths of splendid foamAnd sparkling sprays: others have strode the worldLike a Colossus, and the glory-lightThat streamed up from the far, far end of time,Hath smote their lofty brows, and glinted downUpon the world they shadowed: some have livedAnd cleft their times with such a whistling swoopThat plodding minds seemed reeling 'tother way—Men who had suffering-purified their soulsTo angel rarity, that they might scan,Like old Elijah, e'en the throne of God,And live.
Clarence. Thy voice doth marshal on my soulTo battle, and to dream of noble things.Thy golden words I'll graft upon my heartLike blossoms wedded to the granite rock.But, Mother, weep not! Why should April tearsCome with the sunshine of thy voice?
Mother. Bless thee,God bless thee, Clarence! May thy sorrows beLight and evanescent as vapoury wreathsThat fleck the Summer blue. My dreams shall wingTheir way to thee, as moonbeams pierce the night.And I will send my soul up in a cloudOf thought to Heav'n, wreathed with a Mother's prayer,For thee. Farewell—and be thou blest.
What a sweet atmosphere of melodyAnd coolness falls upon the troubled heart,Like oil upon the wave. Dance on—dance on—Ye couriers of the sun—full-throated choir;And sky-ward fling your sobbing psalmody—A sunrise offering to the coming day.On—on: still higher! Still rolls the torrent down,Bearing the soul up in a cloud of sprays,The world seems deluged with a golden shower:Myriads of larks trill out their morning psalm,As though the stars were changed to silver bellsTimbrelling forth their sweet melodious burstsIn joyous welcome of the maiden Morn.
Man's faith in woman's loveIs all the darken'd earth can boast of Heaven.That faith destroyed—farewell to happiness,And joy, and worldly hope, and all that goesTo deify mankind.
She was a simple cottage-girl,But lovely as a poet's richest thoughtOf woman's beauty—and as false as fair.I've writhed beneath the witchery of her voiceAs cornfields palpitate beneath the breeze—Have sued with praying hands—lavished my lifeUpon her image, as the bright stars pourTheir trembling splendours on the cold-heart lake—Wounded my manliness upon the rockOf her too fatal beauty, like a stormThat twines with sobbing fondness round the neckOf some sky-kissing hill, bursts in his love,Then slowly droops and flows about her feetA puling streamlet,—whilst a gilded cloudIs toying with the brow of his Beloved!'Twas gold that sear'd the love-bud of her heart;To bitter ashes turned my life's sweet fruit;And sent my soul adrift upon the worldA wandering, worthless wreck.
To be possess'd of passion's ecstasyOutswelling from the heart; the teeming brainAfire with glowing light; as when the sunCatches the tall tree-tops with Summer warmth,And draws the trembling sap with impulse sweetThrough every fibre up to th' glory-crown;To feel the breath of some rare influenceOf subtle life suck at the throbbing soulAs though into infinity to kissThe yielding passion subtle as itself;To see the hand of God in everything;To hear His voice in every sound that comes;To long, and long, with passionate desire,To speak the language which the dream divineIncessantly implies; to live and moveIn Fancy's heav'n—yet know that earth still holdsThe fancy captive: these the daily deathOf many minds that wrestle all in vain'Gainst that which Heav'n in cruel kindness sendsTo teach mankind humility. Ah, me!The pow'r to feel the touch of ParadiseAnd to enjoy it not—as hungering menHave died ere now, gazing upon the foodBy heartless gaolers placed beyond their reach.
The modern BabylonSleeps like a serpent coil'd up at my feet.London—huge model of the great round earth,The teeming birthplace and the mausoleumOf millions; where dark graves and drawing-roomsGaze from each other into each; where flow'rsOf blushing life droop in the grasp of ViceLike blossoms in the fingers of a corpse;Where cank'rous gold sways, millions with a nodTo abject slavery, buying men upAs toys for knaves to play with in the gameOf life; where Truth is kicked from foot to foot,Till in bewilderment she cries aloudAnd swears to save her life she is a lie;Where Love and Hate, in masquerading guise,Pell-mell dance on; chameleon Charity,In all its varying phases, crawls along—Now shrinking up dark courts in russet tint,And then, in bold and gaudy colours dresstWhich publish trumpet-tongued its whereabouts,It takes a garish stand before the worldAnd calls itself an angel. Thus for aye—For ever, rolls the dark and turbid streamIn feverish unrest.
When Beauty smiles upon thee—have a care.Kingdoms ere this have hinged upon a kissFrom woman's lips: and smiles have won a crown.Glances from bright eyes of a gentle maid,Whose cheeks would redden at a mouse's glance,Have hearts befool'd that in their noble strengthHad shaken Kingdoms down. Have thou a care.
My sorrowing heart is like the blasted oakThat claspt the dazzling lightning to its breast,Yielding its life up to the burning kiss.Springs came along and fondled all in vain,And Summers toy'd with warm and am'rous breath;But nought in life could e'er again restoreThe greening foliage of its early days.Man never loves but once—then 'tis a castFor life or death. If death—alas the day!If life—'twere perfect Paradise.
And friends fell from me—all, save God, and oneBeside—and she my mother—gentle, true.As the bleak wind sweeps o'er the trembling limbsOf some fair tree denuded of its dress,How oft is seen, upon the topmost spray,One lonely leaf, which braves the passing stormOf Winter, and when gladsome Spring arrives,And blossoms bloom in beauty all around,It bends its brow and silent falls away.So droopt that friend, who, through the livelong dayOf icy cold that chill'd my inmost life,Sat like a bird upon the outside branch,And sweetly sang me songs of coming Spring.
'Tis everywhere! The babe that sees with painThe look of feign'd displeasure on the faceOf doting mother; and the mother whoLays down the babe to rest—no more to wake;The youth and maiden fair who tempt the streamOf love that never brings them to the goalTheir fancy pictured; hearts that droop and break:Upon life's thorny way; old age that seesLong-hoped for peace among the silent deadAnd deems it life to die. The shadow fallsAthwart the sunny hopes of every heart,And shadowy most when gentle arms extendFor love's embrace, and find it not—as nightIs darkest near the dawn. Brighter the flameOf light celestial 'twixt which and our heartsThe blessed Cross doth stand, sharper the shadeThat falls upon our lives, as greatest gainsInvolve the pains of great adventurings;Or, nearer Death, nearer eternal Life.
If colliers were curates, and curates were colliers,I wonder what price the best coal would be then;Whether meat would be dearer, or Heaven be nearer,Or truth be less earnestly preached among men.
I know that the incomes of curates are slender;But curates get luxuries colliers ne'er see,Which they don't have to pay for, nor work night and day for,In mines dark and slushy on back and bent knee.
Keep pulpits for curates—but pay them good stipends:Keep mines for the colliers—but pay colliers well:O, the Pit—no detraction—brings Pulpit reaction,For pulpits would sicken if collieries fell.
Then go, sneering cynic—write nonsense and fictionOn champagne and velvet, on satin and sin;Though the joke may be able, 'tis false as a fable,And shows what a fog Fleet-street sometimes gets in.
Being a reply to "M. C. D.," who advertised in a Swansea Newspaper for a wife, 1856.
Deputed by some lady friends,Who think, with me, when ought offends,'Tis best to have it out at once,Not nurse your wrath like moping dunce,I venture forth—(now don't be hard,And sneer, "Dear me, a female bard!"I'm not the only Bard that's seenInditing verse in crinoline. (a)I say—deputed by a fewYoung ladies: 'tis no matter who:I come—(of vict'ry little chance)—With "M. C. D." to break a lance;To intimate our great surpriseTo hear ourselves called—merchandise,To be obtained—(there's no disguisingThe fact)—obtained by advertising!Obtained for better or for worse,Just like a pony, pig, or horse.And now, Sir, Mister "M. C. D.,"Pray, tell us, whomso'er you be,D'ye think a lady's heart you'll gainBy such a process? O how vain!
(a) These monstrosities—I mean theballoons, not the bards—are now out of date—thank goodness!
With us, we hold in blank disgraceThe man who fears to show his face.A tim'rous heart we all despise:But we adore the flashing eyes,The manly form—the lofty hand;The soul created to command.Love comes to us, no bidden guest,For him who loves and rules us best.The rosy god lights not his taperFor him who, in a trading paper,Behind a printed notice screens,And fears to tell us what he means.Why don't he to the busy martsCome forth and seige our tender hearts?'Tis wrong to buy pigs in a poke:To wed so—what a silly joke!In promenade, church, or bazaar,At proper moments, there we are,To be secured by manly hearts,And, when secured, to do our partsTo temper life with him we love,And woman's fondest instincts prove;To yield submission to his will,And, faulty though, to love him still.Then "M. C. D." I pray refrain:By means like these no wife you'll gain:If you've no manlier mode to try,We'll single live, and single die.
A Wit, reduced in means, in Market-placeHawk'd buns all hot. A chum, with sorrowing face,Came up—condoled: the Wit exclaimed "Have done!"Your sympathy be bothered—BUY A BUN!"
Once on a time a grimy sweepWas creeping down the street,When Quartern Loaf, the biker's boy,Below he chanced to meet:"Sweep!" sneered the baker: and the sweepGave Puff a sooty flout;But Puff-crumb did not deal in soot,So turned his face about;Nor did he care to soundly drubThe imp of dirty flues:"Go change your clothes!" said he, "and then"I'll thrash you when you choose!"It will not do for me to fight"With such a sooty elf;"My jacket's white, 'twould soon be black"By tussling with yourself!"
Some pulpit preachers think so very deepThat drowsy listeners find themselves asleep;But the deep-thoughted law which —— teachesMakes "wide awake" all those to whomhepreaches.
When Nature saw she'd made a perfect manShe broke the mould and threw away the pieces,Which being found by Satan, he beganAnd stuck the bits together—hence the creases,The twists, the crooked botches, that we find—Sad counterfeits of Nature's perfect moulding;Hearts wrongly placed—a topsy-turvy mind—Things that deserve the scorn of all beholding.It needs no oracle in Delphic shadeTo name the model from whichthouwert made.
If wealth of words men wealth of wisdom call'd,And measured Genius by the way she bawled,Then —— would be the head of all the crew,The King of Genius and of Wisdom too.
In childhood spoilt: a misery at school;In wooing, what you might expect—a fool.In small things honest, and in great a knave;At home a tyrant, and abroad a slave.
Paupers grown rich forget what once they've been,Though, born a pig the snout is always seen.
Aye—hesitate! "Soldiers who stop to thinkAre lost." So said a soldier (a) ere he died:Lost, then, art thou—thus shivering on the brink.Death was thy father's cure for humbled pride!
(a) Wellington.
Mick Malone on the tramp, weary, dusty, and warm,Thought a pint of good ale wouldn't do him much harm;But before he indulged—just for Conscience's sake—He thought he'd the views of Authority take.So poising his stick on the ground—so they say,He resolved on the beer if it fell the beer way;If it went the contrary direction—why thenHe'd his coppers retain, and trudge onward again.The shillalegh, not thirsty, went wrong way for Mick,Who again and again tried the Test of the Stick,Till, worn out with refusing, the sprig tumbled right:"Bring a pint!" sang out Pat, which he drank with delight;And smacking his lips as he finished his beer,Cried—"Success, Mick, me boy! always persevere!"
I think I ought to mention here, that the "Ode on the Death of a very Intimate Friend" (page 199), was written in 1853, before I came to reside in Wales. About three or four years after this—I forget the date—a prize was offered at an Eisteddfod held at Neath, by Mr. James Kenway, the then Mayor, for the best monody on the death of Mr. Edward Evans. I competed for the prize, and obtained it. The model of the Ode was taken by me in writing the Monody, the general conditions of the two events being somewhat similar, and much of the same language is used in both poems. I may add, as a matter that may be interesting to some, that the Neath Eisteddfod prize was the first for which I competed, and the first I obtained. The adjudicator was the late Mr. J. Roberts (Iuan Wyllt), whose death, as I write these lines, is being recorded in the newspapers. In adjudicating upon the poem, Mr. Roberts said: "In this production we have the traces of a muse of a superior order. The language is chaste and poetic, the versification is clear and melodious, and the mournfully pathetic strain that pervades the whole elegy harmonises well with the sorrowful character of the subject. As regards both matter and manner, the writer has excelled by many degrees all the other competitors, and his elegy is fully deserving the offered prize." It is not too much to say, that to the encouragement contained in the foregoing remarks of Iuan Wyllt was due the spirit of emulation which led me subsequently to compete at the various Elsteddfodau in the Principality with so much success.