CHAPTER VIII

The Vicar of Morwenstow as a Poet—His Epigrams—“The Carol of the Pruss”—“Down with the Church”—“The Quest of the Sangreal”—Editions of his Poems—Ballads—“The Song of the Western Men”—“The Cornish Mother’s Lament”—“A Thought”—Churchyards.

Whenthe vicar of Morwenstow liked, he could fire off a pungent epigram. Many of these productions exist; but, as most of them apply to persons or events with whom or with which the general reader has no acquaintance, it is not necessary to quote them. Some also are too keenly sharpened to bear publication.

The Hon. Newton Fellowes[35]canvassed for North Devon, at the time when the surplice controversy was at its height, and went before the electors as the champion of Protestantism, and “no washing of the parson’s shirt.”

On the hustings he declared with great vehemence that he “would never, never, never allow himself to be priest-ridden.” Mr. Hawker heard him, and, tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote on it:—

Thou ridden ne’er shalt be, by prophet or by priest:Balaam is dead, and none but he would choose thee for his beast!

Thou ridden ne’er shalt be, by prophet or by priest:

Balaam is dead, and none but he would choose thee for his beast!

And he slipped the paper into the hand of the excited but not eloquent speaker.

He had a singular facility for writing off an epigram on the spur of the moment. In the midst of conversation he would pause, his hand go to the pencil that dangled from his button-hole, and on a scrap of paper, the fly-leaf of a book, or a margin of newspaper, a happy, brilliant epigram was written on some topic started in the course of conversation, and composed almost without his pausing in his talk.

Many of his sayings were epigrammatical. On an extremely self-conceited man leaving the room one day, after he had caused some amusement by his self-assertion, Mr. Hawker said: “Conceit is the compensation afforded by benignant Nature for mental deficiency.”

His “Carol of the Pruss,” 1st Jan., 1871, is bitter:—

Hurrah for the boom of the thundering gun!Hurrah for the words they say!“Here’s a merry Christmas for every one,And a happy New Year’s Day.”Thus saith the king to the echoing ball:“With the blessing of God we will slay them all!”“Up!” saith the king, “load, fire and slay!”’Tis a kindly signal given:However happy on earth be they,They’ll be happier in heaven.Tell them, as soon as their souls are freeThey’ll sing like birds on a Christmas-tree.Down with them all! If they rise again,They will munch our beef and bread:War there must be with the living men;There’ll be peace when all are dead!This earth shall be our wide, wide home:Our foes shall have the world to come.Starve, starve them all, till through the skinYou may count each hungry bone!Tap, tap their veins, till the blood runs thin,And their sinful flesh is gone!While life is strong in the German sky,What matters it who besides may die?No sigh so sweet as the cannon’s breath,No music like to the gun!There’s a merry Christmas to war and death,And a happy New Year to none.Thus saith the king to the echoing ball:“With the blessing of God we will slay them all!”

Hurrah for the boom of the thundering gun!

Hurrah for the words they say!

“Here’s a merry Christmas for every one,

And a happy New Year’s Day.”

Thus saith the king to the echoing ball:

“With the blessing of God we will slay them all!”

“Up!” saith the king, “load, fire and slay!”’Tis a kindly signal given:However happy on earth be they,They’ll be happier in heaven.Tell them, as soon as their souls are freeThey’ll sing like birds on a Christmas-tree.

“Up!” saith the king, “load, fire and slay!”

’Tis a kindly signal given:

However happy on earth be they,

They’ll be happier in heaven.

Tell them, as soon as their souls are free

They’ll sing like birds on a Christmas-tree.

Down with them all! If they rise again,They will munch our beef and bread:War there must be with the living men;There’ll be peace when all are dead!This earth shall be our wide, wide home:Our foes shall have the world to come.

Down with them all! If they rise again,

They will munch our beef and bread:

War there must be with the living men;

There’ll be peace when all are dead!

This earth shall be our wide, wide home:

Our foes shall have the world to come.

Starve, starve them all, till through the skinYou may count each hungry bone!Tap, tap their veins, till the blood runs thin,And their sinful flesh is gone!While life is strong in the German sky,What matters it who besides may die?

Starve, starve them all, till through the skin

You may count each hungry bone!

Tap, tap their veins, till the blood runs thin,

And their sinful flesh is gone!

While life is strong in the German sky,

What matters it who besides may die?

No sigh so sweet as the cannon’s breath,No music like to the gun!There’s a merry Christmas to war and death,And a happy New Year to none.Thus saith the king to the echoing ball:“With the blessing of God we will slay them all!”

No sigh so sweet as the cannon’s breath,

No music like to the gun!

There’s a merry Christmas to war and death,

And a happy New Year to none.

Thus saith the king to the echoing ball:

“With the blessing of God we will slay them all!”

Sir R. Vyvyan and Sir C. Lemon were standing for East Cornwall in the Conservative and Church interest. The opposition party was that of the Dissenters; and their cry was “Down with the Church!” Thereupon Mr. Hawker wrote the lines:—

Shall the grey tower in ruin bow?Must the babe die with nameless brow?Or common hands in mockery flingThe unblessed waters of the spring?No! while the Cornish voice can ringThe Vyvyan cry, “Our Church and King!”Shall the grey tower in ruin standWhen the heart thrills within the hand,And beauty’s lip to youth hath givenThe vow on earth that links for heaven?Shall no glad peal from church-tower greyCheer the young maiden’s homeward way?No! while the Cornish voice can ring,And Vyvyan cry, “Our Church and King!”Shall the grey tower in ruins spread?And must the furrow hold the deadWithout the toll of passing knell,Without the stolèd priest to tellOf Christ the first-fruits of the dead,To wake our brother from his bed?[36]No! while the Cornish voice can ring,And Vyvyan cry, “Our Church and King!”

Shall the grey tower in ruin bow?

Must the babe die with nameless brow?

Or common hands in mockery fling

The unblessed waters of the spring?

No! while the Cornish voice can ring

The Vyvyan cry, “Our Church and King!”

Shall the grey tower in ruin standWhen the heart thrills within the hand,And beauty’s lip to youth hath givenThe vow on earth that links for heaven?Shall no glad peal from church-tower greyCheer the young maiden’s homeward way?No! while the Cornish voice can ring,And Vyvyan cry, “Our Church and King!”

Shall the grey tower in ruin stand

When the heart thrills within the hand,

And beauty’s lip to youth hath given

The vow on earth that links for heaven?

Shall no glad peal from church-tower grey

Cheer the young maiden’s homeward way?

No! while the Cornish voice can ring,

And Vyvyan cry, “Our Church and King!”

Shall the grey tower in ruins spread?And must the furrow hold the deadWithout the toll of passing knell,Without the stolèd priest to tellOf Christ the first-fruits of the dead,To wake our brother from his bed?[36]No! while the Cornish voice can ring,And Vyvyan cry, “Our Church and King!”

Shall the grey tower in ruins spread?

And must the furrow hold the dead

Without the toll of passing knell,

Without the stolèd priest to tell

Of Christ the first-fruits of the dead,

To wake our brother from his bed?[36]

No! while the Cornish voice can ring,

And Vyvyan cry, “Our Church and King!”

When the Irish Church was disestablished, the vicar was highly incensed, and at the election of 1873 voted for the Conservative candidate instead of holding fast in his allegiance to the Liberal. But when the Public Worship Bill was taken up by Mr. Disraeli, and carried through Parliament by the Conservative government, his faith in the Tory prime minister failed as wholly as it had in the leader of the Liberal party; and he wrote the following bitter epigram on the two prime ministers:—

An English boy was born, a Jew, and thenOn the eighth day received the name of Ben.Another boy was born, baptised, but stillIn common parlance called the People’s Will!Both lived impenitent, and so they died;And between both the Church was crucified.Which bore the brand, I pray thee, tell me true—The wavering Christian, or the doubtful Jew?

An English boy was born, a Jew, and then

On the eighth day received the name of Ben.

Another boy was born, baptised, but still

In common parlance called the People’s Will!

Both lived impenitent, and so they died;

And between both the Church was crucified.

Which bore the brand, I pray thee, tell me true—

The wavering Christian, or the doubtful Jew?

There is another epigram attributed to him, but whether rightly or not I am not in a position to state:—

Doctor Hopwood,[*] the vicar of Calstock,[*] is dead;But,De mortuis nil nisi bonum, is said.Let this maxim be strictly regarded, and thenDoctor Hopwood will never be heard of again!

Doctor Hopwood,[*] the vicar of Calstock,[*] is dead;

But,De mortuis nil nisi bonum, is said.

Let this maxim be strictly regarded, and then

Doctor Hopwood will never be heard of again!

The following pretty lines were addressed to a child, the daughter of an attached friend, who was budding into beautiful womanhood. It was written in 1864.

The eyes that melt, the eyes that burn,The lips that make a lover yearn,—These flashed on my bewildered sightLike meteors of the northern night.Then said I, in my wild amaze,“What stars be they that greet my gaze?”Where shall my shivering rudder turn?To eyes that melt, or eyes that burn?Ah! safer far the darkling seaThan where such perilous signals be;To rock and storm and whirlwind turnFrom eyes that melt, and eyes that burn.

The eyes that melt, the eyes that burn,The lips that make a lover yearn,—These flashed on my bewildered sightLike meteors of the northern night.

The eyes that melt, the eyes that burn,

The lips that make a lover yearn,—

These flashed on my bewildered sight

Like meteors of the northern night.

Then said I, in my wild amaze,“What stars be they that greet my gaze?”Where shall my shivering rudder turn?To eyes that melt, or eyes that burn?

Then said I, in my wild amaze,

“What stars be they that greet my gaze?”

Where shall my shivering rudder turn?

To eyes that melt, or eyes that burn?

Ah! safer far the darkling seaThan where such perilous signals be;To rock and storm and whirlwind turnFrom eyes that melt, and eyes that burn.

Ah! safer far the darkling sea

Than where such perilous signals be;

To rock and storm and whirlwind turn

From eyes that melt, and eyes that burn.

A lady was very pressing that he should write something in her album—she thought his poems so charming, his ballads so delicious, his epigrams so delightful, etc. Mr. Hawker was impatient at this poor flattery, and, taking up her album, wrote in it:—

Mr. Hawker was a poet of no mean order. His “Quest of the Sangreal,” which is his most ambitious composition, is a poem of great power, and contains passages of rare beauty. It is unfortunate that he should have traversed the same ground as the Poet Laureate. The “Holy Grail” of the latter has eclipsed the “Quest” of the vicar of Morwenstow. But, if the two poems be regarded without previous knowledge of the name of their composers, I am not sure that some judges would not prefer the masterpiece of the Cornish poet to a piece in which Lord Tennyson scarcely rises to his true level. In his “Quest of the Sangreal” alone does the vicar of Morwenstow show his real power. His ballads are charming; but a ballad is never, and can never be, a poem of a high order; it is essentially a popular piece of verse, without any depth of thought; pleasing by its swing and spirit, but not otherwise a work of art or genius. Mr. Hawker was too fond of the ballad. His first successes had been won in that line, and he adhered to it till late. A few sonnets rise to the level of sonnets, also never a very exalted one. His “Legend of St. Cecily” and “St. Thekla,” somewhat larger poems, are pleasing; but there is nothing in them which gives token of there lying in the breast of the Cornish vicar a deep vein of the purest poetical ore. That was revealed only by the publication of “The Quest of the Sangreal,” which rose above the smaller fry of ballads and sonnets as an eagle above the songsters of the grove.

And yet this poem, belonging to the first order, as I am disposed to regard it, is disappointing—there is not enough of it. The poem is charged with ideas, crowded with conceptions full of beauty; but it is a torso, not a complete statue.

The subject of the poem is the Sangreal[37], the true blood of Christ, gathered by Joseph of Arimathea in a golden goblet from the side of the Saviour as He hung on the cross. This precious treasure he conveyed to Britain, and settled with it at Avalon, or Glastonbury.

There it remained till

Evil days came on,And evil men: the garbage of their sinTainted this land, and all things holy fled.The Sangreal was not. On a summer eveThe silence of the sky brake up in sound;The tree of Joseph glowed with ruddy light;A harmless fire curved like a molten vaseAround the bush——

Evil days came on,

And evil men: the garbage of their sin

Tainted this land, and all things holy fled.

The Sangreal was not. On a summer eve

The silence of the sky brake up in sound;

The tree of Joseph glowed with ruddy light;

A harmless fire curved like a molten vase

Around the bush——

and all was gone.

After the lapse of centuries King Arthur sends his knights in quest of the miraculous vessel. There is a long account given by Arthur of its history, then of the drawing of the lots by his knights to decide the directions in which they are to ride in quest of it, then of the knights departing, and a description of the blazon and mottoes on their shields; and then—after some 400 lines has led us to the beginning of the Quest, and we expect the adventures of Sir Percival, Sir Tristan, Sir Launcelot and Sir Galahad—it all ends in a vision unrolled before the eyes of King Arthur, of the fate of Britain, in about eighty lines.

We are disappointed; for Sir Thomas Malory’s “Morte d’Arthur” supplies abundant material for a long and glorious poem on the achievements of the four knights.

The Poet Laureate’s “Holy Grail” did not appear till 1870, or we might suppose that the Cornish poet shrank from treading on the same ground. When we turn over Sir Thomas Malory’s pages, it is with a feeling of bitter regret that we have not his story glorified by Mr. Hawker’s poetry. The finding of the Grail by Sir Galahad, his coronation as King of Sarras, and his death, were subjects he could have rendered to perfection.

The name of the poem is a misnomer. There is no quest, only a starting on the quest.

But, in spite of this conspicuous fault, “The Quest of the Sangreal” is a great poem, containing passages of rare beauty. Of Joseph of Arimathea Mr. Hawker says,—

He dwelt in Orient Syria, God’s own land,The ladder-foot of heaven; where shadowy shapesIn white apparel glided up and down.His home was like a garner full of cornAnd wine and oil—a granary of God.Young men, that no one knew, went in and outWith a far look in their eternal eyes.All things were strange and rare: the SangrealAs though it clung to some ethereal chain,Brought down high heaven to earth at Arimathèe.

He dwelt in Orient Syria, God’s own land,

The ladder-foot of heaven; where shadowy shapes

In white apparel glided up and down.

His home was like a garner full of corn

And wine and oil—a granary of God.

Young men, that no one knew, went in and out

With a far look in their eternal eyes.

All things were strange and rare: the Sangreal

As though it clung to some ethereal chain,

Brought down high heaven to earth at Arimathèe.

The idea of the poet:—

The conscious water saw its God, and blushed—

in reference to the miracle at Cana, occurs with a change in Mr. Hawker’s verses, with reference to the Last Supper:—

The selfsame cup, wherein the faithful wineHeard God, and was obedient unto blood.

The selfsame cup, wherein the faithful wine

Heard God, and was obedient unto blood.

After the loss of the Holy Grail:—

The land is lonely now: Anathema.The link that bound it to the silent graspOf thrilling worlds is gathered up and gone:The glory is departed, and the diskSo full of radiance from the touch of God.This orb is darkened to the distant watchOf Saturn and his reapers when they pause,Amid their sheaves, to count the nightly stars.

The land is lonely now: Anathema.

The link that bound it to the silent grasp

Of thrilling worlds is gathered up and gone:

The glory is departed, and the disk

So full of radiance from the touch of God.

This orb is darkened to the distant watch

Of Saturn and his reapers when they pause,

Amid their sheaves, to count the nightly stars.

The Eastward craving of Mr. Hawker, the point to which his heart and instincts turned, find expression in this poem repeatedly:—

Eastward! the source and spring of life and light.Thence came, and thither went, the rush of worldsWhen the great cone of space was sown with stars.There rolled the gateway of the double dawnWhen the mere God shone down a breathing man.There, up from Bethany, the Syrian twelveWatched their dear Master darken into day.

Eastward! the source and spring of life and light.

Thence came, and thither went, the rush of worlds

When the great cone of space was sown with stars.

There rolled the gateway of the double dawn

When the mere God shone down a breathing man.

There, up from Bethany, the Syrian twelve

Watched their dear Master darken into day.

Sir Galahad holds the Orient arrow’s name,His chosen hand unbars the gate of day.There glows that Heart, filled with his mother’s blood,That rules in every pulse the world of man,Link of the awful Three, with many a star.O blessed East! ’mid visions such as thine,’Twere well to grasp the Sangreal, and die.

Sir Galahad holds the Orient arrow’s name,

His chosen hand unbars the gate of day.

There glows that Heart, filled with his mother’s blood,

That rules in every pulse the world of man,

Link of the awful Three, with many a star.

O blessed East! ’mid visions such as thine,

’Twere well to grasp the Sangreal, and die.

In one passage Mr. Hawker seems to be speaking the feeling of loneliness that he ever felt in his own heart: he was, as he says in one of his letters, “the ever alone.”

Ha! sirs, ye seek a noble crest to-day—To win and wear the starry Sangreal,The link that binds to God a lonely land.Would that my arm went with you like my heart!But the true shepherd must not shun the fold;For in this flock are crouching grievous wolves,And chief among them all my own false kin.Therefore I tarry by the cruel seaTo hear at eve the treacherous mermaid’s song,And watch the wallowing monsters of the wave,’Mid all things fierce and wild and strange—alone!Ay! all beside can win companionship:The churl may clip his mate beneath the thatch,While his brown urchins nestle at his knees;The soldier gives and grasps a mutual palm,Knit to his flesh in sinewy bonds of war;The knight may seek at eve his castle-gate,Mount the old stair, and lift the accustomed latch,To find, for throbbing brow and weary limb,That paradise of pillows, one true breast.But he, the lofty ruler of the land,Like yonder Tor, first greeted by the dawn,And wooed the latest by the lingering day,With happy homes and hearths beneath his breast,Must soar and gleam in solitary snow:The lonely one is ever more the king!

Ha! sirs, ye seek a noble crest to-day—

To win and wear the starry Sangreal,

The link that binds to God a lonely land.

Would that my arm went with you like my heart!

But the true shepherd must not shun the fold;

For in this flock are crouching grievous wolves,

And chief among them all my own false kin.

Therefore I tarry by the cruel sea

To hear at eve the treacherous mermaid’s song,

And watch the wallowing monsters of the wave,

’Mid all things fierce and wild and strange—alone!

Ay! all beside can win companionship:

The churl may clip his mate beneath the thatch,

While his brown urchins nestle at his knees;

The soldier gives and grasps a mutual palm,

Knit to his flesh in sinewy bonds of war;

The knight may seek at eve his castle-gate,

Mount the old stair, and lift the accustomed latch,

To find, for throbbing brow and weary limb,

That paradise of pillows, one true breast.

But he, the lofty ruler of the land,

Like yonder Tor, first greeted by the dawn,

And wooed the latest by the lingering day,

With happy homes and hearths beneath his breast,

Must soar and gleam in solitary snow:

The lonely one is ever more the king!

Here are some beautiful lines on Cornwall:—

Ah! native Cornwall! throned upon the hills,Thy moorland pathways worn by angel feet,Thy streams that march in music to the sea,’Mid Ocean’s merry noise, his billowy laugh!Ah, me! a gloom falls heavy on my soul:The birds that sang to me in youth are dead.I think, in dreamy vigils of the night,It may be God is angry with my land—Too much athirst for fame, too fond of blood,And all for earth, for shadows, and the dream,To glean an echo from the winds of song!

Ah! native Cornwall! throned upon the hills,

Thy moorland pathways worn by angel feet,

Thy streams that march in music to the sea,

’Mid Ocean’s merry noise, his billowy laugh!

Ah, me! a gloom falls heavy on my soul:

The birds that sang to me in youth are dead.

I think, in dreamy vigils of the night,

It may be God is angry with my land—

Too much athirst for fame, too fond of blood,

And all for earth, for shadows, and the dream,

To glean an echo from the winds of song!

Mr. Hawker’s poems were republished over and over again, with a few, but only a few, additions.

The pieces written by him as a boy,Tendrils, by Reuben, were never reprinted, nor did they deserve it. He saw that clearly enough.

In 1832 he published hisRecords of the Western Shore; in 1836, the second series of the same. In these appeared his Cornish ballads.

They were republished in a volume entitledEcclesia, in 1841; again, with some additions, under the title,Reeds Shaken by the Wind, in 1842; and the second cluster of the same in 1843.

They again appeared with “Genoveva,” in a volume calledEchoes of Old Cornwall, in 1845. “Genoveva” is a poem founded on the beautiful story of Geneviève de Brabant, and appeared first inGerman Ballads, Songs, etc., edited by Miss Smedley, and published by James Burns, no date.

HisCornish Ballads, and theQuest of the Sangreal, containing reprints of the same poems, came out in 1869. TheQuest of the Sangrealwas first published in 1864.

In 1870 he collected into a volume, entitledFootprints of Former Men in Cornwall, various papers on local traditions he had communicated toOnce a Week, and other periodicals.

Of his ballads several have been given in this volume. Two more only are given here; one, “The Song of the Western Men,” which deceived Sir Walter Scott and Lord Macaulay into the belief that it was a genuine ancient ballad.

Macaulay says, in speaking of the agitation which prevailed throughout the country during the trial of the seven bishops, of whom Trelawney, Bishop of Bristol, was one, “The people of Cornwall, a fierce, bold and athletic race, among whom there was a stronger provincial feeling than in any other part of the realm, were greatly moved by the danger of Trelawney, whom they reverenced less as a ruler of the Church, than as the head of an honourable house, and the heir, through twenty descents, of ancestors who had been of great note before the Normans set foot on English ground. All over the country the peasants chanted a ballad, of which the burden is still remembered:—

And shall Trelawney die? and shall Trelawney die?Then thirty thousand Cornish boys will know the reason why!

And shall Trelawney die? and shall Trelawney die?

Then thirty thousand Cornish boys will know the reason why!

The miners from the caverns re-echoed the song with a variation:—

Then thirty thousand underground will know the reason why!

The refrain is ancient, but the poem itself was composed by Mr. Hawker. This is its earliest form: it afterwards underwent some revision.

THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN.

A good sword and a trusty hand,A merry heart and true,King James’s men shall understandWhat Cornish lads can do.And have they fixed the where and when,And shall Trelawney die?Then twenty thousand Cornish menWill know the reason why!What! will they scorn Tre, Pol and Pen,And shall Trelawney die?Then twenty thousand undergroundWill know the reason why!Out spake the captain brave and bold,A merry wight was he:“Though London’s Tower were Michael’s hold,We’ll set Trelawney free.We’ll cross the Tamar hand to hand,The Exe shall be no stay;We’ll side by side, from strand to strand,And who shall bid us nay?”What! will they scorn Tre, Pol and Pen,And shall Trelawney die?Then twenty thousand Cornish menWill know the reason why!And when we come to London Wall,We’ll shout with it in view,“Come forth, come forth, ye cowards all!We’re better men than you!Trelawney, he’s in keep and hold,Trelawney, he may die;But here’s twenty thousand Cornish boldWill know the reason why!”What! will they scorn Tre, Pol and Pen,And shall Trelawney die?Then twenty thousand undergroundWill know the reason why!

A good sword and a trusty hand,

A merry heart and true,

King James’s men shall understand

What Cornish lads can do.

And have they fixed the where and when,

And shall Trelawney die?

Then twenty thousand Cornish men

Will know the reason why!

What! will they scorn Tre, Pol and Pen,

And shall Trelawney die?

Then twenty thousand underground

Will know the reason why!

Out spake the captain brave and bold,A merry wight was he:“Though London’s Tower were Michael’s hold,We’ll set Trelawney free.We’ll cross the Tamar hand to hand,The Exe shall be no stay;We’ll side by side, from strand to strand,And who shall bid us nay?”What! will they scorn Tre, Pol and Pen,And shall Trelawney die?Then twenty thousand Cornish menWill know the reason why!

Out spake the captain brave and bold,

A merry wight was he:

“Though London’s Tower were Michael’s hold,

We’ll set Trelawney free.

We’ll cross the Tamar hand to hand,

The Exe shall be no stay;

We’ll side by side, from strand to strand,

And who shall bid us nay?”

What! will they scorn Tre, Pol and Pen,

And shall Trelawney die?

Then twenty thousand Cornish men

Will know the reason why!

And when we come to London Wall,We’ll shout with it in view,“Come forth, come forth, ye cowards all!We’re better men than you!Trelawney, he’s in keep and hold,Trelawney, he may die;But here’s twenty thousand Cornish boldWill know the reason why!”What! will they scorn Tre, Pol and Pen,And shall Trelawney die?Then twenty thousand undergroundWill know the reason why!

And when we come to London Wall,

We’ll shout with it in view,

“Come forth, come forth, ye cowards all!

We’re better men than you!

Trelawney, he’s in keep and hold,

Trelawney, he may die;

But here’s twenty thousand Cornish bold

Will know the reason why!”

What! will they scorn Tre, Pol and Pen,

And shall Trelawney die?

Then twenty thousand underground

Will know the reason why!

The other is a touching little ballad, the lament of a Cornish mother over her dead child; which well illustrates the sympathy which always welled up in the kind vicar’s heart when he met with suffering or sorrow:—

They say ’tis a sin to sorrow,That what God doth is best;But ’tis only a month to-morrowI buried it from my breast.I know it should be a pleasureYour child to God to send;But mine was a precious treasureTo me and to my poor friend.I thought it would call me mother,The very first words it said:Oh, I never can love anotherLike the blessed babe that’s dead!Well, God is its own dear Father;It was carried to church, and blessed;And our Saviour’s arms will gatherSuch children to their rest.I will check this foolish sorrow,For what God doth is best;But oh, ’tis a month to-morrowI buried it from my breast!

They say ’tis a sin to sorrow,That what God doth is best;But ’tis only a month to-morrowI buried it from my breast.

They say ’tis a sin to sorrow,

That what God doth is best;

But ’tis only a month to-morrow

I buried it from my breast.

I know it should be a pleasureYour child to God to send;But mine was a precious treasureTo me and to my poor friend.

I know it should be a pleasure

Your child to God to send;

But mine was a precious treasure

To me and to my poor friend.

I thought it would call me mother,The very first words it said:Oh, I never can love anotherLike the blessed babe that’s dead!

I thought it would call me mother,

The very first words it said:

Oh, I never can love another

Like the blessed babe that’s dead!

Well, God is its own dear Father;It was carried to church, and blessed;And our Saviour’s arms will gatherSuch children to their rest.

Well, God is its own dear Father;

It was carried to church, and blessed;

And our Saviour’s arms will gather

Such children to their rest.

I will check this foolish sorrow,For what God doth is best;But oh, ’tis a month to-morrowI buried it from my breast!

I will check this foolish sorrow,

For what God doth is best;

But oh, ’tis a month to-morrow

I buried it from my breast!

The following beautiful verses, of very high order of poetical merit, have not previously been published:—

A THOUGHT.[30th Aug. 1866. Suggested by Gen. xviii. 1-3.]

A THOUGHT.

[30th Aug. 1866. Suggested by Gen. xviii. 1-3.]

A fair and stately scene of roof and wallsTouched by the ruddy sunsets of the West,Where, meek and molten, eve’s soft radiance fallsLike golden feathers in the ringdove’s nest.Yonder the bounding sea, that couch of God!A wavy wilderness of sand between;Such pavement, in the Syrian deserts, trodBright forms, in girded albs, of heavenly mien.Such saw the patriarch in his noonday tent:Three severed shapes that glided in the sun,Till, lo! they cling, and, interfused and blent,A lovely semblance gleams, the three in one!Be such the scenery of this peaceful ground,This leafy tent amid the wilderness;Fair skies above, the breath of angels round,And God the Trinity to beam and bless!

A fair and stately scene of roof and wallsTouched by the ruddy sunsets of the West,Where, meek and molten, eve’s soft radiance fallsLike golden feathers in the ringdove’s nest.

A fair and stately scene of roof and walls

Touched by the ruddy sunsets of the West,

Where, meek and molten, eve’s soft radiance falls

Like golden feathers in the ringdove’s nest.

Yonder the bounding sea, that couch of God!A wavy wilderness of sand between;Such pavement, in the Syrian deserts, trodBright forms, in girded albs, of heavenly mien.

Yonder the bounding sea, that couch of God!

A wavy wilderness of sand between;

Such pavement, in the Syrian deserts, trod

Bright forms, in girded albs, of heavenly mien.

Such saw the patriarch in his noonday tent:Three severed shapes that glided in the sun,Till, lo! they cling, and, interfused and blent,A lovely semblance gleams, the three in one!

Such saw the patriarch in his noonday tent:

Three severed shapes that glided in the sun,

Till, lo! they cling, and, interfused and blent,

A lovely semblance gleams, the three in one!

Be such the scenery of this peaceful ground,This leafy tent amid the wilderness;Fair skies above, the breath of angels round,And God the Trinity to beam and bless!

Be such the scenery of this peaceful ground,

This leafy tent amid the wilderness;

Fair skies above, the breath of angels round,

And God the Trinity to beam and bless!

This poem was sent to an intimate friend with this letter:—

Dear Mrs. M——,—I record the foregoing thought for you, because it literally occurred to me as I looked from the windows of your house, across the sand towards the sea. Forgive the lines for the sake of their sincerity, etc....

He wrote a poem of singular beauty on the auroral display of the night of 10th Nov. 1870, which was privately printed. In it he gave expression to the fancy, not original, but borrowed from Origen, or from North American Indian mythology, that the underworld of spirits is within this globe, and the door is at the North Pole, and the flashing of the lights is caused by the opening of the door to receive the dead. The following passage from his pen refers to the same idea:—

Churchyards.—The north side is included in the same consecration with the rest of the ground. All within the boundary, and the boundary itself, is alike hallowed in sacred and secular law. It is because of the doctrine of the Regions, which has descended unbrokenly in the Church, that an evil repute rests on the northern parts. The East, from whence the Son of Man came, and who will come again from the Orient to judgment, was, and is, his own especial realm. The dead lie with their feet and faces turned eastwardly, ready to stand up before the approaching Judge. The West was called the Galilee, the region of the people. The South, the home of the noonday, was the typical domain of heavenly things. But the North, the ill-omened North, was the peculiar haunt of evil spirits and the dark powers of the air. Satan’s door stood in the north wall, opposite the font, and was duly opened at the exorcism in baptism for the egress of the fiend. When our Lord lay in the sepulchre, it was with feet towards the east, so that his right hand gave benediction to the South, and his left hand reproached and repelled the North. When the evil spirits were cast out by the voice of Messiah, they fled, ever more, northward. The god of the North was Baalzephon. They say that at the North Pole there stands the awful gate, which none may approach and live, and which leads to the central depths of penal life.

R. S. H.

Morwenstow.

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