Penitent! Penniless!Where can she go?Her poor heart is achingWith many a woe.Repentant—though sinning:Remorseful and sad,She weeps in the moonlightWhile others are glad.Shrink not away from her,Stained though she be:She once, as the purest,Was sinless and free:And penitence bringethA shroud for her shame:Hide it forgetfully;Pity—nor blame.
Penniless! Penitent!Gone every hope:Warm lights are gleamingFrom basement to cope.Plenty surroundeth her:Starving and stark,Lonely she pleadethOut in the dark.The cold moon above her,The black stream below,No friendly voice near her:Where can she go?Turned every face from herClosed every door:Plash in the moonlight!She pleadeth no more.
Though toilers for gold stain their souls in a strifeThat enslaves them to Avarice grim,Though Tyranny's hand fills the wine cup of lifeWith gall, surging over the brim;Though Might in dark hatefulness reigns for a time,And Right by Wrong's frownings be met;Love lives—a guest-angel from heaven's far clime,And walks with humanity yet.
And still the world, Balaam-like, blind as the night,Sees not the fair seraph stand byThat beckons it onward to Morning and Light,Lark-like, from the sod to the sky;Love, slighted, smiles on, as the Thorn-crown'd of old,Sun-featured and Godlike in might,Its magic touch changing life's dross into gold,Earth's darkness to Paradise bright.
As gems on Death's fingers flash up from the tombAnd rays o'er its loneliness shed;As flowerets in early Spring tremblingly bloomEre Winter's cold ice-breath has fled;So Love, rainbow-like, smiles through sadness and tears,Bridging up from the earth to the sky;The grave 'neath its glance a bright blossom-robe wears,As the Night smiles when Morn dances by.
The rich mellow sunshine that kisses the earth,The flow'rs that laugh up from the sod,The song-birds that psalm out their jubilant mirthHeart-rapt in the presence of God,The sweet purling brooklet, with voice soft and low,The sea-shouts, like peals from above,The sky-kissing mountains, the valleys below,All tell us to live and to love.
Two trees once grew beside a running brook:An Alder, one, of unassuming mien:His mate, a Poplar, who, with lofty look,Wore, with a rustling flirt, his robe of green.With pompous front the Poplar mounted high,And curried converse with each swelling breeze;While Alder seemed content to live and dieA lowly shrub among surrounding trees.
And many a little ragged urchin cameAnd plucked the juicy berries from the boughOf teeming Alder, trading with the same,Thus earning oft an honest meal, I trow:But stuck-up Poplar glanced with pride supremeAt such low doings—such plebeian ties—Cocked up his nose, and thought—oh! fatal dream!—To grow, and grow, until he reached the skies.
Each Autumn Alder brought forth berries bright,And freely gave to all who chose to take:Each Summer, Poplar added to his height,And wore his robe with loftier, prouder shake,One day the woodman, axe on shoulder, came,And laid our soaring Poplar 'mongst the dead,Stripped off his robe, and sent him—O the shame!—To prop the gable of a donkey shed.
Whoe'er, like Alder, strives to aidThe lowly where he can,Shall win respect from every soulThat bears the stamp of man:But he who, Poplar-like, o'er-ridesPoor mortals as they pass,Will well be used if used to propA stable for an ass.
"Never saw I the righteous forsaken,"Once sang the good Psalmist of old;"Nor his seed for a crust humbly begging."How oft has the story been told!But the story would ne'er have been written,Had the writer but lived in our day,When thousands with hunger are smitten—No matter how plead they or pray.
They may say there's a lining of silverTo the darkest—the dreariest cloud:That garniture, white fringe, and flowers,Grace the black pall, the coffin, and shroud.But the lining at best is but vapour;Silk and lacquer to nothingness fadeAfter hearts in their sorrow have brokenO'er the wrecks which Adversity made.
They may say that the box of PandoraHolds reward in the bottom at lastFor those who strive on in the searching.And forget the fierce blows of the Past.But late comes the voice of approval,And worthless the cup and the crust,When, in striving, by Death overtaken,We lie lone and low in the dust.
They may say that right-living and thinkingWill keep the grim wolf from the door;But how many Saints are there sinkingWhose crime is to live and be poor!Let the knave promulgate the deception,And dress the world's wounds with such salve;It is false—while rank Villainy prospers,And Virtue 's permitted to starve.
They may say—but mankind is a fictionThat puzzles the wisest to read;And life is a vast contradiction—A fable—a folly indeed.He happy in heart is who carethNo jot for mankind or its ways,To defy the world's frown he who dareth,Unconscious of blame or of praise.
1877.
Like a Sea with its source in the distance belost,That upholds on its breast and contains in its heartCountless treasures and gems of which none know the cost—All the brightest achievements of Science and Art:
So the proud race of Somerset flows down the Past,With its Statesmen and Warriors—kinsmen of Kings:With its learning and culture—its heritage vast—And its virtues which inborn Nobility brings.
In the Wars of the Roses three Somersets gaveUp their lives for their Monarch in danger's dark hour,And the rain of their hearts'-blood that watered each graveBrought a still brighter flush to their Destiny's flow'r.
And when men the fair features of Liberty smearedWith the stain of Licentiousness through the dark Past,'Twas a Somerset England's proud Standard uprearedO'er the stronghold of Raglan—and bled to the last:
A stronghold whose name once a Warrior boreWho with courage undaunted chivalrously ledThe brave soldiers of England through carnage and gore;Where a Czar bade defiance—a Somerset bled.
Long the foremost in loyalty, forum, and field;Where the sword wins renown or where politics grace:Always first to be doing—the latest to yield:All these are the virtues, the pride of thy race.
In the face of thy life like a mirror we seeAll the lives of true Englishmen shaped as thine own,For the tastes and pursuits which form nature in theeAre the food from whose sustenance Britons have grown.
When Philanthropy leads, in its fights for the Poor,No sincerer heart follows more keenly than thine;For there's nought else in life hath more pow'r to allure,Where the soul takes delight in the mission divine.
All the ages the wild storms of Faction have raved,Though alluring the paths in which traitors have trod,Not a moment hast thou or thine ancestors waivedIn your love for Old England, its Throne, and its God.
In early Morning, tall and gaunt,Our shadows reach across the street;Like giant sprites they seem to hauntThe things we meet.
But at noon-tide more dwarfed they fallAround about each sun-crown'd thing;Yet lengthen out, and grow more tall,Towards evening.
And thus Dependence among menIs largely seen in Childhood's stage;At Mid-life hides; but comes againWith hoary age.
Two Sparrows, prisoned in a room,Kept, every now and then,Dashing against the window-panes,Which threw them back again:And many a time, with trembling heart,They flew towards the light,But something which they could not seeStill stopped them in their flight:
A-tired they hopped about the floor,And watched the sunshine gay,And each one asked within himself"Why ca'nt I get away?"Another try: another dash,As though with heart and soul;And one, by chance, the barrier broke,And bounded through the hole.
His comrade heard the merry chirpHe gave till out of sight,Then, fluttering round, to free himselfHe tried with all his might.But at that moment Puss came in,And on him cast an eye,Then took the trembler in her clawsAnd taught him how to die.
How oft in life, though never meant,Men gain their point by Accident,Or Chance—that foe to 'stablished rules;The guiding-star of knaves and fools.
A maiden sat musingly down by the sideOf Life's river that flowed at her feet,And she watcht the dark stream 'neath the willows glideIn its voiceless and stately retreat.'Twas a solemn tide—Deep, dark, and wide,And fringed with a sedgy fray:In the morning—at night—Through darkness and light,It floated—floated away.
The maid was light-hearted, with features as fairAs the sunbeams that played o'er her face,And her bosom was garnisht with flowerets rareThat gave to it many a grace:And she playfully sung,As she plucked and flungEach blossom as bright as the dayFrom her breast to the streamThat like a drear dreamWent floating—floating away.
The sun in its brightness illumined the sky;The lark loudly carolled aloft;The breezes swept onward with many a sigh,And kissed with caresses soft.Still, still the fair maidBy the dark river strayed,And flung forth in thoughtless playEach bud from her breastIn wilful unrest,And laught as it floated away.
Up the tall pine trees clomb the shadows of eveTo welcome the coming night;And the recreant bird in the twilight was heardWending nest-ward in plaintive plight;When, too long delay'd,In haste rose the maidHeart-tired of her flirting play.And she saw the last gleamOf her flow'rs down the streamFloating—floating away.
The blossoms so chaste that had made her more fairWith their sweetness, their perfume, and light,Were gone—and her bosom, now cheerless and bare,Grew cold in the dewy night.Thus they who, in youth,Mistake flirting for truth,And fritter their love but in play,Will behold, like the maid,All their brightest charms fade,And floating for ever away.
A sweet geranium once, in pride of place'Mongst rare exotics in a Palace lived;With watchful care from tender hands it thrived,Standing in lofty sphere with odorous grace.
The smiling Sun, each morning making call,Such tender looks and such sweet kisses gave,That in a little time, true as I live,He to the tender flow'r was all in all.
But true love's course, 'tis said, ne'er smooth did run:The pretty flower was sent, now here, now there,Until at length she found more humble sphere,Far, far removed from kisses of the sun.
Here, with dejected look, she pined anew,Placed in the lattice of a lowly cot,In pent-up alley, fever-fraught and hot,And wore from day to day a sicklier hue.
No blessed sunlight flusht her dainty cheek,No cooling breeze refreshed her pallid brow,Droopful she stood—methinks I see her now,Nursing the grief of which she might not speak.
A blinding wall shut out her darling sun,Tow'rds which, with prayerful arm, she hourly reachedIn mute appeal; and lovingly beseeched,As 'twere, to gaze upon the worshipped one.
No soul e'er panted its dear love to seeWith dreams more tender than the dying plant—Hoping and yearning, with a hungering want,Sun-ward in all her heart's idolatry.
But Ah! the fickle sun, from flow'r to flow'r,In lusty love did revel all the day,Nor thought of her, now dying far away,Whom he had kissed through many a rosy hour.
In dead of night, when great hearts die, the stormSwept down the barrier that blocked out the light,And in the morn, refreshing, pure, and bright,The sun came leaping in, so soft and warm.
But sunshine came too late. The blossom brave,While yearning for dear light and warmth, had died.As men will sometimes die waiting the tideThat flows at length to eddy round—a grave.
"Ring down the Curtain" were the last dying words of a young and beautiful American actress, who died of consumption when in the zenith of her popularity.
Ring down the curtain;So ends the play!Night-time is coming;Past is the day.Sang I in sadnessAdorned with a smile;Pourtraying gladnessAnd dying the while!How my brow burneth—With fever oppressed:How my heart yearnethFor silence and rest.Soothe me to slumber:Why should ye sigh?Ring down the curtain;'Tis pleasant to die!
Ring down the curtain:Critics depart!The end of your blaming—A wearisome heart:Fame which your praise brought—A Summer-day cloud:Fruit of my toiling—A coffin and shroud!Light though, and fitful,The dreams of my life,My soul like a vesselFrom ocean of strifeCalmly and peacefulTo her haven doth fly:Ring down the curtain—'Tis pleasant to die!
A telegraph post by the roadside stoodIn a village humble and fair,And he raised his head, did this column of wood,As high as he could in the air:"Oh, Oh!" quoth he, as along the wireThe news from the wide world throughHurried backwards and forwards in words of fire,Breathing promises fair, or threatenings dire,Never heeding the post as they flew.
"Oh, Oh!" quoth he: "That I should stand here"And bear on my shoulders high"Such an upstart lot, who no manners have got"To passme, who upraises them, by!"I'll stand it no longer,"—and thinking, no doubt,To bring down the wires in his fall,He stumbled: but no! for above and belowThe other posts stood—the wires wouldn't let go:And our post couldn't tumble at all.
And there he hung like a helpless thing,Till his place by another was ta'en;And the foolish post with dry sticks a hostOn the firewood stack was lain."You ignorant dolt!" said a Raven wiseWho sat on the wall bright in feather—"You must have been blind. When to tumble inclined"You should with your neighbouring posts have combinedAnd have all stood or fallen together."
Units, as units, are helpless thingsIn the soul-stirring struggles of life;But Success is the laurel which Unity bringsTo crown the true heart in the strife.
I saw the sunbeams dancing o'er the oceanOne Summer-time. Bright was each laughing wave;I felt a thrill to see their sweet emotion,Each happy in the kiss the other gave:But Winter came with all its storm and sadness,And every wave that kissed and smiled beforeBid long farewell to dreams of sunny gladnessAnd broke its heart upon the stony shore.
So like the Summer crown'd with many a blessingShe dawn'd upon this lonely heart of mine:And life grew lovely with her sweet caressingAs blooms the thorn claspt by the bright woodbine:But now, Alas! in churchyard bleak she's lying,And dearest joys are gone to come no more:Like yonder wave, for absent sunbeam sighing,My heart with grief is breaking on life's shore.
The fair Knights of old, with trappings of gold,And falchions that gleamed by their side,Went forth to the fight with hearts gay and lightTo war 'gainst Oppression and Pride:And though long since dead, it must not be saidThat the proud reign of Chivalry 's o'er—There are many as bold as the brave Knights of oldTo be found in the Rifle Corps.Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps;May they ever be ready to standIn defence of the Right, and be willing to fightFor the Queen and their native land.
Old England intends with the world to be friends,While Honour with Peace is combined;But the moment her foe lifts his hand for a blow,All friendship she flings to the wind.Should an enemy dare e'en as much as prepareTo bring War's alarms to our shore,He will find every coast bristling o'er with a hostOf the brave-hearted Rifle Corps.Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps;May they ever be ready to standIn defence of the Right, and be willing to fightFor the Queen and their native land.
Let the wine goblet brim with red wine to the rim—Let Beauty look on all the while,As with eyes that approve in the language of loveShe crowns the proud toast with a smile:May each Rifle be seen round the Throne and the QueenShould danger e'er threaten our shore:And with many a shout let the echo ring out—Three cheers for the Rifle Corps!Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps;May they ever be ready to standIn defence of the Right, and be willing to fightFor the Queen and their native land.
O if in life you'd friends obtain,Be careful how you choose them;For real friends are hard to gain,And trifling things may lose them.Hold out your hand to every palmThat reaches forth to greet you;But keep your heart for those aloneWho with pure friendship meet you.Then if in life a friend you'd find,Be careful how you choose one;True friends are scarce among mankind:A trifling thing may lose one.
A friend your heart may now relieve,And one day want relieving;So if from others you'd receiveNe'er shrink from wisely giving.Be grateful when you find a friend—The heart that's thankless—spurn it;Let conscience guide you to the end—Take friendship and return it.Then if in life a friend you'd find,Be careful how you choose one;True friends are scarce among mankind:A trifling thing may lose one.
When days grow cold the swallow flies,Till sunshine bright returneth;When life grows dark false friendship dies:True friendship brighter burneth.An angel fair, twin-born of Love,It lights life's pathway for us;And like the stars that shine above,At night beams brighter o'er us.Then if in life a friend you'd find,Be careful how you choose one;True friends are scarce among mankind:A trifling thing may lose one.
There's a place in this world, free from trouble and strife,Which the wise try their hardest to find,Where the heart that encounters the sharp thorns of lifeWill meet nought that's harsh or unkind;Where each tries his best to make joy for the rest—In sunshine or shadow the same;Where all who assemble in Friendship's behestAre Brothers in heart and in name.Let brotherly love continue—Let the flag of the Craft be unfurled;We 'll join hand-in-handWhile united we stand:'Tis the way to get on in the world.
There's a pleasure in life go wherever we may,'Tis one of all pleasures the best—To meet as we travel by night or by dayOne friend that's more true than the rest.Whose heart beats responsive to Friendship and Love,In Faith, Hope, and Charity's call;Who, blind to our follies, is slow to reprove,And friendly whate'er may befal.Let brotherly love continue—Let the flag of the Craft be unfurled;We 'll join hand-in-handWhile united we stand:'Tis the way to get on in the world.
Then let us, my brothers, through life's busy scene,Should sadness or sorrow appear,Be true to our promise, as others have been,And strive the dark pathway to cheer.Our stay is but short in this valley below;On all sides we troubles may scan;Let us help one another wherever we go,And make them as light as we can.Let brotherly love continue—Let the flag of the Craft be unfurled;We 'll join hand-in-handWhile united we stand:'Tis the way to get on in the world.
Let the proud Russian boast of his granite-bound coast,And his armies that challenge the world;Let him stand in his might against Freedom and Right,With his flag of Oppression unfurled:Old England and France hand-in-hand will advanceIn the wide path of Progress and Glory,That will win them a name on the bright scroll of Fame,Everlasting in song and in story.Old England and France, then, for ever;Brave France and Old England for ever;And while the world stands may the glorious Twin-landsBe united in friendship together.
Both by land and by sea this land of the free—Britannia, the Queen of the wave,Proudly stands side by-side, and in Friendship allied,With France, the gallant and the brave:Whilst the stern Tyrant raves at his nobles and slaves,Old England and France frown defiance,And both bravely press on till the goal shall be won—Then Hurrah! for the glorious alliance!Old England and France, then, for ever;Brave France and Old England for ever;And while the world stands may the glorious Twin-landsBe united in friendship together.
How oft, in life's rough battle, we,Struck down by hard adversity,In saddest hour of trial seeNo friend with helping hand.Then in despair beneath the waveWe sink, with none to help or save.When if we 'd been both bold and braveWe might have reached the land.Should things go wrong this is the plan;Forget the past as best you can,Then turn your sleeves up like a manAnd pull against the stream.
Yes, pull against the stream, my friends;That lane is long which never ends;That bow ne'er made which never bendsTo shoot its arrow home.If twenty times you miss your aim,Or ten times twenty lose the game,Keep up your spirits all the same—Your turn is sure to come.Should things go wrong this is the plan;Forget the past as best you can,Then turn your sleeves up like a manAnd pull against the stream.
In love or pleasure, work or play,Men cannot always win the day,For mixed among life's prizes gayWhat hosts of blanks are found.Though skies to-day be overcast—Though bitter blows the wintry blast—The Summer days will come at lastWith hope and sunshine crown'd.Should things go wrong this is the plan;Forget the past as best you can,Then turn your sleeves up like a man,And pull against the stream.
The ship through the sunshine sails over the sea,From many a distant clime comes she,Freighted with treasure, see how she fliesCheerily over the foam.Hearts are all happy, cheeks are all bright,The long-absent land appears in sight;Little they dream that the beautiful prizeWill be wrecked in sight of home!
The storm breaks above them, the thunders roll,The ship gets aground on the hidden shoal,And the turbulent waters dash over the barque,And cries from the doomed ship come.Till nothing is left the tale to tell,But the angry roar of the surging swell;So the grand old vessel goes down in the dark—Wrecked in sight of home.
And thus as we wander through life's rugged way,Fighting its battles as best we may,Seeking in fancy a far-distant spotTo rest when we've ceased to roam:And just as the haven of comfort appears,Our hopes are all turned into sadness and tears,We droop near the threshold—ne'er enter the cot—Wrecked in sight of home.
I could not love thee more, if life dependedOn one more link being fixed to Affection's chain;Nor cease to love thee—save my passion endedWith life; for love and life were blanks if twain!I could not love thee less; the flame, full-staturedLeaps from the soul, and knows no infancy;But like the sun—majestic, golden-featured,Soars like a heav'n of beauty from life's sea.I would not love thee for thy radiant tresses,Rich budding mouth, and eyes twin-born of Light.No: Charms less fadeful thy dear heart possesses—Gems that will flash through life's noontide and night.But simple words fall short of what I'll prove:Accept them but as lispings of my love.
1855.
Dance on! ye vaulting joy-bells, shoutIn spirit-gladdening notes,Whilst mimic thunders bellow outFrom cannons' brazen throats:"Tyrant! awake ye, tremblingly;The advent has begun:Hark! to the mighty jubilant cry—"Sebastopol is won!"Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands,Shout, patriots, everyone!A burst of joy let rend the sky:Sebastopol is won!
No dream of brilliant conquest 'twas,Nor selfish hope of gain,That sent the blood mad-rushing throughAnd through each Briton's vein;No! such was not the spell that nervedOld England for the fight,Her war cry with her brother braves'Was "Freedom, God, and Right!"Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands,Shout, patriots, everyone!A burst of joy let rend the sky:Sebastopol is won!
Shame! shame! upon the craven soulsOf those who trembling stood,And would not—dare not—lend a handTo stay this feast of blood!Whose cringing spirits lowly bowedBefore the despot-glanceOf him whose star now pales beforeBrave England! Mighty France!Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands,Shout, patriots, everyone!A burst of joy let rend the sky;Sebastopol is won!
Tho' hoary grows the mother-landHer enemies may learnThat 'neath her smile so queenly-grandThere lives a purpose stern!Then Britons chant exulting paeans,Long pent-up joy release;From yonder flaming pile upsoarsThe Morning Sun of Peace! (a)Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands,Shout, patriots, everyone!A burst of joy let rend the sky:Sebastopol is won!
(a) I am sorry to find that the aspiration here embodied has been falsified. War is now raging (1877), and from precisely the same causes as those which led to the Crimean war, nearly a quarter of a century ago.
I've often thought, as through the world I've travelled to and fro,How many folks about me—above me and below—Might make this life more happy, if old as well as youngWould bear in mind the maxim which bids them hold their tongue.Hold your tongue—hold your tongue—you'll ne'er be thought a dunce:Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once:Hold your tongue—for quiet folks are oft reputed wise:Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.
How oft we find that words unkind unhappy lives will make;That loving hearts through idle words will bleed and sometimes break;What mischief have we scattered all our bosom friends among,Which might have been avoided had we only held our tongue.Hold your tongue—hold your tongue: you'll ne'er be thought a dunce:Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once:Hold your tongue—for quiet folks are oft reputed wise:Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.
The kindly deeds men do in life their own reward will bring;But where they come with trumpet-words, their sweetness bears a sting:The silent giver 's most beloved right-thinking folks among;So when you do a kindly thing, be sure you hold your tongue.Hold your tongue—hold your tongue: you'll ne'er be thought a dunce:Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once:Hold your tongue—for quiet folks are oft reputed wise:Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.
Yes: hold your tongue, except in life when days of sorrow come;Then speak to raise a drooping heart, or cheer a darksome home.If none of these—let silence be the burden of your song:He holds his own, nor hurts his friend, who learns to hold his tongue.Hold your tongue—hold your tongue; you'll ne'er be thought a dunce:Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once:Hold your tongue—for quiet folks are oft reputed wise:Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.
Ah! Well can I remember:"She'll come no more," they said.Her last sweet words, they told me,Were blessings on my head.Ah! Well can I rememberWhat sadness all things woreIn childhood, when they told me"She'll come—she'll come no more!"Awake or asleep,Sweet prize above all other;Close to my heart I'll keepThe likeness of my mother.
Ah! Well can I remember,Those eyes were filled with tears—The face that smiled upon meSeemed sad with many fears:"Who'll care for thee, my sweet one?""Who'll love thee now?" she cried:Then from her arms they bore me—'Twas then, they said, she died.Awake or asleep,Sweet prize above all other:Close to my heart I'll keepThe likeness of my mother.
What though, through cloud and sunshine,Bright thoughts around me cling:Though friends in kindness greet me,No mother's love they bring.I see her form before me;I see the sad, sweet smile;And yet my heart is lonely,So lonely, all the while.Awake or asleep,Sweet prize above all other:Close to my heart I'll keepThe likeness of my mother.
A tear-drop glistened on her cheek,Then died upon the sand.With aching heart, as though 'twould break,She waved her trembling hand.And as the vessel cleft the foamAnd fled the rocky shore,She sought alone her cottage homeAnd murmur'd "Never more!"
He ne'er returned. She droopt for himWith all her girlish love;And oft her thoughts would lightly skimThe sea, like Noah's dove.But every wave that danced alongLike silver to the shoreBrought back the burden of her song,And murmur'd "Never more!"
If the great heart of Lifetime in unison beatsWith Eternity's throb through Infinity's space,Then our thoughts of thy goodness, which love oft repeats,May vibrate in thy bosom, though lost be thy face.
Thy life was a martyrdom: noble the partOf self-abnegation thou playd'st for the Poor;Whose gratitude fixes thy name in each heart,Where in Memory's shrine 'twill for ever endure.
An oak tree falling on the mead,By woodman's stroke laid low,Saw, as a handle to the axeWhich wrought the fatal blow,A bough that once upon his breastDrew nurture from his heart,And as a tender, helpless shoot,Grew of his life a part."Woe! woe!" he sighed, as on the earthHe drew expiring breath:"That what I nurtured at its birth"Should rend my heart in death!"
A very young Vine in a garden grew,And she longed for a lover—as maidens do;And many a dear little tendril threwAbout her in innocent spirit.For she yearned to climb upward—who is it that don't?Only givemana chance, and then see if he wont:To rise in the world, though some fail to own 't,Is a weakness we all inherit.
So this very young Vine, with excusable taste,And knowing such things for her good were placed,Looked all round the garden with glances chasteFor a something her faith to pin to.The fair little wisher had thoughts of her own,Nor cared for the pleasure of climbing alone;To perhaps the same feeling most ladies are prone,But that question we'll not now go into.
The first thing that came in her youthful wayWas a gold-featured Sunflower—gaudy and gay—Who dressed himself up in resplendent array,And gazed on the sun as an equal."Look! look!" quoth the Vine: "He's a lover of mine:"And see how the gold round his face doth shine!"So at once she began round the stem to twine;But mark what befel in the sequel.
One morning, soon after, a hurricane rose:And as most people know, when the storm-god blows,The hollow of heart is the thing that goesTo the ground—and the wind sweeps past it.So the arrogant Sunflower, lofty in pride,And hollow from root to branch beside,Soon tumbled before the stormy tide,And lay where the wind had cast it.
It was well for the Vine that her tendrils' holdWas a clasp that a moment served to unfold;So she turned from the thing that she thought was goldWith a heart for the warning grateful:And that which had dazzled her youthful eyes—Which filled her young bosom with sweet surprise—The flow'r which she took for a golden prize—Became all to her that was hateful.
"If thou be surety for thy friend, thou art snared with the words ofthy mouth,"—PROVERBS vi.v.1, 2.
Think well, my son, before you lendYour name as bond for any friend;Or, when the day of reckoning comes,Come broken hearts and blighted homes.Think well, my son, before you giveYour trusty word, that knaves may live:Be not for such the stepping-stone,But strive to earn and keep thine own.
"A wise son maketh a glad father; but a foolish son is the heavinessof his mother."—PROVERBS x,v.1.
Be wise, my son, as o'er the earthThou walk'st in search of wealth or fame;Return her love who gave thee birth—His, who thy youthful guide became.That mother's heart must cease to beat;That father's voice must cease to guide;Oh! then what recollections sweetWill cheer thy life's dark eventide.
"Hope deferred maketh the heart sick; The desire accomplished issweet to the soul.—PROVERBS xiii,v.12, 19.
I am watching—I am waiting;And my heart droops sad and low.No glad message brings me comfortAs the moments come and go.While the flowers bask in sunshine;While birds sing on every tree;I am weary—weary, waiting—For a message, love, from thee.
"A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband."—PROVERBS xii,v.4.
As is the lustre to the lily;As is the fragrance to the rose;As is the perfume to the violetIn sweet humility that grows.As is the glad warmth of the sunshineWhene'er the earth is dark and cold;So, to the loving heart that wears it,Is Virtue's purest crown of gold.
"Even in laughter the heart is sorrowful, and the end of that mirthis heaviness."—PROVERBS xiv,v.13.
What though kind friends that gather round meSeek to make my heart rejoice?I miss the face I love so dearly—Miss the music of thy voice;And though I smile, as if in gladness,Tis but the phantom of a smile;My heart, in sorrowing and sadness,Mourns thy absence all the while.
As the sun looks down on the ice-bound riverMelting the stream that is frozen o'er,So gladness to hearts that the long years severComes with old Christmas as of yore.For the hearth glows bright in the yule-log's light,And we look for the face that is far away:'Twill come with the morn—with the wakening dawn,And our hearts will be happy on Christmas Day.
The holly-branch laughs with its berries bright,As we hang it up high in the air;The mistletoe shakes with subdued delightThe leaves that its branches wear;The ivy smiles out from its place on the wall;And the fire-light gives welcome cheer;We have dreamt they are coming—and, one and all,Are wondering "Will they be here?"
Christmas bells are ringing—ringing,Ringing out the olden chime;Choristers are singing—singing,Singing carols, keeping time;And my heart is waiting—waiting,Waiting for the day so near;For my Love is coming—coming,Coming with the glad New Year.
As flowerets turn towards the sun,As streams run to the sea,So yearns my heart for Christmas-timeThat brings my love to me!
Like threads of golden sunshineBy angels' fingers wove,Sweet as the scented woodbine,Are the tresses of my love.The winds that whisper softlyI'd give my life to be,That I might kiss those tresses bright,And die in ecstasy.
Those threads of golden sunshineLike bonds my heart enchain,And when in dreams I wanderThey win me back again.They throw a gleam of gloryO'er the pathway where I go,As when of old, in splendour bright,Heav'n's angels walkt below.
Hope on for the best; where's the use of repining:Droop not by the way, for there's work to be done;Great ends are attained, not by fretting and whining—By patience and labour the goal must be won.Fear not the world's frown: though it spurn the down-falling,'Twill shrink from a lamb if in lion-skin dresst;Whate'er be thy trouble—however enthralling—Press onward, despair not, and hope for the best.
If sorrow o'ertake thee—then be not faint-hearted;Life ne'er was ordained to be shadeless and bright;One morn from the other by night-time is parted;The sun always shines though we see not the light;Misfortunes in life, like the nettle, prove harmless,If grappled stout-hearted and fearlessly presst;Rich sweets, without bitters, soon cloy and grow charmless,Then press on, despair not, and hope for the best.
The silent night is coming on,The day is gone and past;The willows waving to and froTheir mournful shadows cast.I'm thinking o'er the happy yearsWe wandered side by side,And Oh, my heart is filled with tears,I've lost my darling bride.Softly sighs the evening breeze,And soothes my bosom sore,While angel voices seem to sing:"Not lost, but gone before."
I think of her whose gentle voiceMy drooping spirit cheered;In fancy see her eyes grow bright,When prosp'rous days appeared.And as—like vessels that from stormsTo quiet havens glide—We neared the haven of our hopes,I lost my darling bride.Softly sighs the evening breeze,And soothes my bosom sore,While angel voices seem to sing:"Not lost, but gone before."
"For the charitable heart is as a flowing river: it moveth meekly and in silence, and scattereth abroad its blessings to beautify the world."
Ever the silent river flowsAdown the mead in speechless eloquence,More telling than the language of the tongue;Its heart reflecting Heaven's own radianceIn unmarred beauty as it glides along.
Ever the silent river flows:And in its depths, of untold wealth the source,What sleeping myst'ries, hidden and serene,Lie in their latent, undevelopt force;Yet on it moves as though it ne'er had been.
Ever the silent river flows:No shadowy nook escapes its placid glance;Tow'rds cavern dark with velvet step it steals;And passing on as though in dreamful trance,The story of its mission unreveals.
Ever the silent river flows:It clothes the meadows with a fleecy mist;Softens earth's arid heart with gentle rain,Till by the warm and sunny Morning kisstNature looks upward—fresh and bright again.
Ever the silent river flows:And weeping willows, reaching prayerfullyAs though in adoration, droop to greetThe dreamy river as it passes by;And throw their leafy blessings at its feet.
Ever the silent river flows:All Nature tells the story of its worth:A daily miracle—morn, noon, and nightSoftly beneficent: of joy the birth:A voiceless messenger of hope and light.
Ever the silent river flows:And so, in gentle meekness and sweet stealth,Out from the life of him whose loss we mournThere flowed of Charity a boundless wealth,To cheer the Poor by griefs and sorrows torn.
Ever the silent river flows:For ever and for ever flowing on:So runs the river of his goodness rare,A noble heritage from sire to son;With grateful hearts abounding everywhere.
The strokes of the hammer ring out day and night,And the huge wheels whirl and they spin:The sky is on fire with the forge's light—Oh, Oh! for the roar and the din.The sparks fly aloft like a starry cloud,And the voices of workmen ringWith a cheery refrain both happy and loud,And this is the song they sing:Bless thee, my master—bless thee;Prosperity always be thine.May plenty in store ever garnish thy door,And each day bring its blessings divine.
The cottage that stands by the mountain sideIs bright with the cheerful fire,And the house-wife gazes with honest prideOn the faces of husband and sire,Who, fresh from the forge, with their brawny handsThe food that they eat have won,And this is the wish that each breast expandsEre the bountiful meal is begun:Bless thee, my master—bless thee;Prosperity always be thine.May plenty in store ever garnish thy door,And each day bring its blessings divine.
'Tis dark in that cottage: and sorrow is there;For sickness brings troubles amain;The sigh from affliction is heard on the air,And sad sounds the mournful refrain.But, sun-like in winter, a friend in their needPours the light over lattice and floor:And these are the words that emblazon the deedFrom the heart that with love brimmeth o'er:Bless thee, my master—bless thee;Prosperity always be thine.May plenty in store ever garnish thy door,And each day bring its blessings divine.
A hand that is princely: the heart of a king:All kindness and goodness combined;A name that will long, with the virtues we sing,Deep—deep in our hearts be enshrined.And may the strong bond of affection like thisBe the pledge of good faith to the end;For sad will the day be should ever we missFrom our midst such a true-hearted friend.Bless thee—a thousand hearts bless thee:Prosperity always be thine.May plenty in store ever garnish thy door,And each day bring its blessings divine.
In a sweet little glen,Far from footsteps of men,Once a bright-featured Brooklet was born,It could boast of its birthFrom a hole in the earthWell protected by bramble and thorn.For a time 'twas content,Nor on wandering bent,Till the raindrops fell plenteous and free,And disturbed the sweet restOf the rivulet's breast,By whispering tales of the sea.
What the rain had to tellMade the rivulet swell,And grow large and more large by degrees,Till it broke with a boundFrom the hole in the ground,And was lost in a forest of trees.But it found its way out,And meandered aboutO'er the meadow, the lowland, and lea,Till it came, full of pride,With a thousand beside,And emptied itself in the sea.
But alas for the stream!And alas for its dreamOf ambition! such dreamings were o'er,When it found to its costAs a stream it was lostThe moment it leapt from the shore.So like rivulets—men,Humbly born in life's glen,Proudly dream as the lowlands they lave,That they're each one a sea,Whilst they're only—ah, me!Of life's ocean at best but a wave.
A dear little name I placed under my pillowOn St. Valentine's eve, just to work out a charm,For 'twas said if I dreamed of the maiden who owned it,I should wed her as certain as sunshine is warm:And lo! in my sleep, a sweet vision came o'er me:A fair-featured maiden—and beauteous as fair—In attitude graceful stood smiling before me,With eyes dark and lustrous, and brown flowing hair:Her hand I took hold of, and gently endeavouredThe rosiest of rose-coloured lips to impress;I whispered her name—and the vision departed:The name that I whispered was—No: you must guess!
A dark form lingers on the lea,In the moon-lit night—In the cold white light,Beneath the shade of an old oak tree,Like a dusky sprite,Or ghost newly spedFrom the voiceless dead;And the flowers droop round it weeping,While the sad moon streamsHer white-wan beamsO'er the world as it lieth sleeping.And ere the mornA wail forlornWill arise from a lost one weeping.
A soft step leaves the cottage doorIn the moon-lit night,Like a leaflet's flight;A pure heart leaps, full of rich love-lore,Tow'rds the dusky spriteThat stands like a shadeFrom the voiceless dead,And the flowers droop round them weeping,While the sad moon streamsHer white-wan beamsO'er the world as it lieth sleeping;And ere the mornA wail forlornWill arise from a lost one weeping.
Little Lily she was fair—O how fair no tongue can tell!Life was bright beyond compareFilled with love and Lilybell.
Little Lily came the dayBoth our hearts were lorn and lone.Oh! what bliss it was to say"Lilybell is all our own!"
Little Lily stay'd and smiledOn us for a year or so,Then they came and took the childUpward where the angels go.
Little Lily left a mark—Mark of light where e'r she trod:Left her footprints in the dark,Just to guide us up to God.
Upward, then, we look alway:Pray and shed the silent tear;Hoping soon will come the dayWe shall join our darling there.
Gone! Like a ray, that came and kissed some flow'rs,Charming their loneliness with many a hue;But cheering only, as such marvels do,A few short hours.
Gone! Like a dew-drop-jewel of the mist,That lives the briefest moment in the morn;Sparkling in purity upon a thorn;Then heaven-ward kisst.
Gone! Like a Summer-wind, that woke a thrillIn every leaf it fondled as it fled,Then left each leaflet drooping low its headMournful and still.
Gone! Like a swelling wail at Autumn time,That went with such sad cadences away,'Twas thought a God from Heav'n had come astrayWeeping sublime.
Gone! Like a dream of beauty in the night,That came to tell a fair and welcome tale,Then left the wakening dreamer to bewailThe dead delight.