THE VASE AND THE WEED:
A PLEA FOR THE BIBLE.
I had a vase of classic beauty,
Rare in richly-carved design;
Memento of an ancient splendour
Was this peerless vase of mine.
A master-hand of old had graved it:
Hand for many a year inurned:
And out from every line and tracing
Germs of genuine genius yearned.
I took the gem and proudly placed it
On a pillar 'mongst the flowers,
And watcht how radiance round it hovered,
Bathed with sunlight and with showers.
A little weed-like plant grew near it,
And anon crept o'er its face;
Until at length, with stealth insidious,
It quite obscured its classic grace,
And where was once a noble picture
Of the Beauteous and the True,
There hung a mass of straggling herbage
Flecked with blooms of sickly hue.
The Summer passed: the plant had flourished,
As every weed in Summer will;
When Winter came and struck the straggler
To the heart with bitter chill.
It died: the winds of March played round it,
Laughing at its wretched plight.
Then blew it from its slender holding,
Like a feather out of sight.
But still in undimmed freshness standing,
Reared the vase its classic face;
Rare in its old, eternal beauty,
Majestic in its pride of place.
A RIDDLE.
A riddle of riddles: Who'll give it a name?
A portrait of God in a worm-eaten frame.
A mount in his own eye—in others' a mite;
The foot-boy of Wrong, and the headsman of Right;
A vaunter of Virtue—yet dallies with Vice;
From the cope to the basement bought up at a price;
A vane in his friendship—in folly a rock;
In custom a time-piece—in manners a mock;
A fib under fashion—a fool under form;
In charity chilly—in wealth-making warm:
In hatred satanic—a lambkin in love;
A hawk in religion with coo of a dove;
A riddle unravelled—a story untold;
A worm deemed an idol if covered with gold.
A dog in a gutter—a God on a throne:
In slander electric—in justice a drone:
A parrot in promise, and frail as a shade;
A hooded immortal in life's masquerade;
A sham-lacquered bauble, a bubble, a breath:
A boaster in life-time—a coward in death.
TO A FLY:
BURNED BY A GAS-LIGHT.
Poor prostrate speck! Thou round and round
With wildering limp dost come and go;
Thy tale to me, devoid of sound,
Bears the mute majesty of woe.
In bounding pride of revelry,
Seared by the cruel, burning blast,
Thy fall instructive is to me
As fall of States and Empires vast.
No sounding theme from lips of fire,
No marvel of the immortal quill,
Can teach a moral, sterner—higher,
Than thou, so helpless and so still.
Reft as thou art by blistering burn—
Blinded and shorn—poor stricken Fly!
The wise may stoop and lessons learn
From thy unmeasured agony.
It tells how maid, in guileless youth,
Flies tow'rds her Love with trusting wing,
Bruises her heart 'gainst broken truth,
And falls, like thee, a crippled thing.
How man in bacchanalian sphere
Soars to the heat of Pleasure's sun,
Then, by gradations dark and drear,
Sinks low as thee, poor wingless one:
How hearts from proud Ambition's height
Have drooped to darkest, lowest hell—
From blazing noon to pitchy night,
With pangs a demon-tongue may tell:
How aspirations glory-fraught
Have gained the goal in dark despair;
How golden hopes have come to nought
But wailings in the midnight air.
There! and the life I ne'er could give
In pitying tenderness I've ta'en;
Far better thus to die, than live
A life of helpless, hopeless pain.
Ambitious hearts—high-vaulting pow'rs—
That aim to grasp life's distant sky,
See through the spirit-blinding hours
What wrought the fall of yonder Fly.
TO A FRIEND.
I fear to name thee. If I were
To do so, I could never tell
What virtues crown thy nature rare;
'Twould pain thy heart—I know it well.
Thou dost not ask for thy reward
In words that all the world may hear,
For thoughtful acts and kind regard
By thee for others everywhere.
Thou seek'st alone for grateful thought
From those to whom thy worth is known;
So for much good thine heart hath wrought
Find gratitude within mine own.
RETRIBUTION.
A spider once wove a right marvellous net,
Whose equal no human hand ever wove yet,
So complete in design was each beautiful fret,
And finished in every particular.
And the wily old architect, proud of his craft,
Ensconced in a snug little sanctum abaft,
Laid wait for the flies; and he chuckled and laughed,
As he pricked up his organs auricular.
A week had elapsed, and the spider still wrought
Fell ruin on all the frail flies that he caught;
All right rules of decency set he at nought:
Each meal made him much more rapacious.
But his foot got entangled one horrible hour,
As he rushed forth a poor screaming fly to devour,
And to get his leg free was far out of his pow'r,
Secure was our spider sagacious.
Where now is the beautiful fabric of gauze?
Behold! in the centre, by one of his claws,
A dead spider is hanging surrounded by flaws
And many a struggle-made fracture.
'Twas hard, in the height of his fly-killing fun,
And sad, in the light of a Summer-day sun,
To die all alone, as that spider had done,
In a mesh of his own manufacture.
THE THREE GRACES.
I.
Her hair is as bright as the sunbeam's light,
And she walks with a regal grace,
And she bares full proud to the empty crowd
The wealth of her wondrous face;
And her haughty smile thus speaks the while:
"Approach me on bended knee!"
She's a beautiful star I could worship afar,
But—her love's not the love for me.
II.
Her hair is as black as the raven's back,
And her face—what a queenly one;
And her voice ripples out like the trembling shout
Of a Lark when he sings to the sun;
But her form is filled with a soul self-willed
That would lord o'er a luckless he;
Pride reigns in her breast, like snow in a nest,
And—her love's not the love for me.
III.
Her hair—what mind I the tint of her hair,
When her eyes are the tenderest blue;
And her loving face bears many a grace
Lit up with a sunny hue?
When I find—O I find, that her heart is kind—
That she goes not abroad to see
The World—or be seen. Her love, I ween,
Is the love that was made for me.
THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
Where now is the Summer's last Rose,
That reigned like a queen on the briar?
'T is faded! and o'er its grave glows
The glad warmth of Winter's first fire.
We welcome the Flame with delight,
As we welcomed the Rose in the Spring:
But the blossom's as nought in our sight
'Mid pleasures which Firesides bring.
And so with life's swallow-winged friends:
The Rose is adored in its day;
But when its prosperity ends
'T is cast like a puppet away.
THE STARLING AND THE GOOSE.
A FABLE.
A silly bird of waddling gait
On a common once was bred,
And brainless was his addle pate
As the stubble on which he fed;
Ambition-fired once on a day
He took himself to flight,
And in a castle all decay
He nestled out of sight.
"O why," said he, "should mind like mine
"Midst gosling-flock be lost?
"In learning I was meant to shine!"
And up his bill he tossed.
"I'll hide," said he, "and in the dark
"I'll like an owl cry out
("In wisdom owls are birds of mark),
"And none shall find me out!"
And so from turret hooted he
At all he saw and heard;
Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo! What melody!
And what a silly bird!
At length a Starling which had flown
Down on the Castle wall
Thus spake: "Why what a simple drone
"You are to sit and bawl!
"Though you presume an Owl to be,
"It's not a bit of use!
"Your body though folks cannot see
"They know the diff'rence—pardon me!
"Betwixt the screech of Owl up tree
"And the cackling of a Goose!"
THE HEROES OF ALMA.
OCTOBER, 1854.
Heaven speed you, Braves! Undaunted lion-hearts
Well have you thus redeemed a solemn trust,
And added, by your bright heroic deeds,
Another lustrous ray to deck the brow,
Of this the good Old Land, whose gladdened heart
Leaps forth for very joy and thankfulness,
Proud of the gallant sons she calls her own;
Right nobly have you ta'en the gauntlet up
Ambition flung before the world, and fought
'Gainst Evil, Might, and hated Despot-law;
Bled, conquered, clipped the wings of soaring Pride,
And earned in Serf-land such a brilliant name
Time's breath can never dim. But list!—a wail
Of sorrowing sadness sweeps across the Land,
With which the up-sent jubilant psalm is blent.
'Reft orphans' cries, in mournful cadence soft,
Sobs wrung from widows' broken, bleeding hearts;
And fond hoar-headed parents' sighs and tears,
Commingling all, merge in a requiem sad
For those brave hearts that fell in Freedom's cause.
Then let us plant Fame's laurels o'er their graves,
And keep them green with tears of gratitude.
A KIND WORD, A SMILE, OR A KISS.
There's a word, softly spoken, which leadeth
The erring from darkness and night;
There's an effortless action that sheddeth
A sun-world of gladdening light;
There's a sweet something-nothing which bringeth
A fore-taste of Paradise bliss:
Full and large is the love that up-springeth
From kind words, a smile, or a kiss.
Eyes a-plenty with tears have been blinded,
Hearts legion in sadness have bled,
And many of earth's angel-minded
In grief have gone down to the dead,
And the world, with its bright laughing gladness,
Oft changed to a frowning abyss,
By vain mortals refusing, in madness,
A kind word, a smile, or a kiss.
DEAR MOTHER I'M THINKING OF THEE.
NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1855.
In the hush of night, when the pale starlight
Through my casement silently steals;
When the Moon walks on to the bower of the Sun,
And her beautiful face reveals:
When tranquil's the scene, and the mist on the green
Lies calm as a slumbering sea,
From my lattice I peep, 'ere I lay down to sleep,
And whisper a prayer for thee:
Mother! Dear Mother!
O, blessings on thee!
From my lattice I peep, 'ere I lay down to sleep,
And think, dear Mother, of thee.
When the dew goes up from the white lily cup
In rose-coloured clouds to the sky;
When the voice of the Lark trembles out from the dark,
And the winds kiss the flowers with a sigh;
When the King of Dawn, like a world new-born,
Scatters love-light over the lea;
From my lattice I peep, when I wake from sleep,
And whisper a prayer for thee:
Mother! Dear Mother!
O, blessings on thee!
From my lattice I peep, when I wake from sleep,
And think, dear Mother, of thee.
THE HERON AND THE WEATHER-VANE.
A FABLE.
A weather-vane on steeple top
Had stood for many a day,
And every year a coat of gold
Increased his aspect gay.
Subservient to the changing air,
Each puff he'd quickly learn
To obey with sycophantic twist
And never-failing turn.
A Heron once, from lowly fen,
Soared up in stately flight;
But, striking 'gainst the gilded vane,
He fell in sorry plight:
And as, with wounded wing, he lay
Down in the marsh below,
He thus addressed the glittering thing,
The cause of all his woe:
"Vain upstart! 'tis from such as thee
That Merit, lowly born,
In striving oft to win a name,
Wins nought but bitter scorn:
But for such treacherous knaves as thou,
What crowds of souls would soar
With lofty swoop, that now, like me,
Will mount, Ah! never more!
It fits thee well, that lacquer suit,
Base flunkey as thou art!
Though bright, it never covered brain;
Though gilded, ne'er a heart!
Rather than wear upon my back
Such livery as thine,
I'd earn an honest crust, and make
The scullion's calling mine."
THE THREE MIRRORS.
A FABLE.
Three mirrors of the usual sort
Were gifted once with power of thought;
And as they hung against the wall
They felt that they were prophets all.
The first, a plate-glass o'er the fire;
The next, a concave, standing higher;
A portly convex 'tother side
Made up the three; and as he eyed
His brother mirrors, brilliant each,
Thus gave to thought the rein of speech:
"Such power as mine who ever saw?
If in my face without a flaw
Men chance to gaze, they taller seem
Than what they are: delightful scheme!
I like to elongate the truth;
What else but flattery pleases youth?
A boy who in my face should scan
Will grow as tall as any man!"
Says convex; "That is not the case
With me; for those who in my face
Should chance to look, themselves will find
Turned into things of dwarfish kind.
To praise mankind is what I hate:
What says our neighbour, Master Plate?"
The plate-glass then essayed to speak;
Said he: "My friends, I never seek
So to distort the things I see
That none can tell what things they be.
I find it more convenient far
To show mankind just what they are!"
A table the dispute had heard,
And asked for leave to say a word.
"Agreed," rejoined the glassy crowd:
When thus the table spoke aloud:
"The virtues which you each would claim
As yours, are virtues but in name.
You, Concave, lessen what you see,
Though well you know 't should larger be.
While Convex, aye to flattery prove,
Makes mounts of what are mites alone.
Plain-spoken Plate, in wrong the least,
Would tell a beast it was a beast,
Forgetting 'tis not always right
To judge from what appears in sight.
Your faces ought to blush for shame,
And yet you think you're not to blame!
You know that men are slow to think,
And will of any fountain drink;
Who fear their brain's behest to do,
So frame their faith from such as you!
Judged by the simplest human rules,
You are the knaves—and they the fools."
THE TWO CLOCKS.
A FABLE.
A country dame, to early-rising prone,
Two clocks possessed: the one, a rattling Dutch,
Seldom aright, though noisy in its tone,
With naughty knack of striking two too much.
The other was a steady, stately piece,
That rang the hour true as the finger told:
For many a year 't had kept its corner place;
The owner said 'twas worth its weight in gold!
One washing-eve, the Dame, to rise at four,
Sought early rest, and, capped and gowned, did droop
Fast as a church, to judge from nasal snore,
That broke the silence with a hoarse hor-hoop:
When all at once with fitful start she woke;
For that same tinkling Dutchman on the stair
Had told the hour of four with clattering stroke,
And waked the sleeper ere she was aware.
"Odd drat the clock!" she sighed; but, knowing well
The cackling thing struck two at least a-head,
She turned; and back to such deep slumber fell,
But for her snore you might have thought her dead.
And so she slept till four o'clock was due,
When t'other time-piece truly told the tale;
Straightway the drowsy dame to labour flew,
And soon the suds went flirting round the pail.
MORAL.
Whoe'er breaks faith in petty ways
Will never hold a friend;
While he who ne'er a trust betrays
Gets trusted to the end.
SACRIFICIAL.
WRITTEN AFTER WITNESSING THE EXECUTION OF TWO GREEK SAILORS AT SWANSEA, MARCH, 1859.
The morning broke fair, with a florid light,
And the lark fluttered upward in musical flight,
As the sun stept over the distant height
In mantle purple and golden.
The blue bounding billows in waltzing play
Lookt up in the face of the coming day,
And sang, as they danced o'er the sandy bay,
Their sea-songs mystic and olden.
High up, on the gable of yonder jail,
The workmen are plying with hammer and nail,
And the slow-rising framework hinteth a tale
Of mournful and sombre seeming.
'Tis the gibbet that rears its brow on high,
And the morn-breezes pass it with many a sigh,
As it stands gazing up to the fair blue sky
Like a spectre dumbly dreaming.
Through lane and alley: through alley and street
The echoes are startled by hurrying feet;
And thousands, in action fitful and fleet,
Press on to the execution.
The squalid-faced mother her baby bears;
And the father his boy on his shoulder rears:
The frail and the sinning emerge in pairs
From darkness and destitution.
Aloft on the gibbet two beings stand,
Whose foreheads are smirched with the murder-brand,
Whose lives, by the lawgivers bungling and bland,
Declared are to justice forfeit.
Below, like a statue stark and still,
A legion of faces, in brutish will,
Gaze up to the gallows with many a thrill,
And thirst for the coming surfeit.
But one more look at the silvery sea:
One thought of the lark in its musical glee;
One breath of the sweet breeze, balmy and free;
One prayer from two hearts that falter;
And Lo! in reply to a mortal's nod,
From the gibbet-tree dangle two pieces of clod,
Their souls standing face-to-face with their God,
Each wearing a hangman's halter.
Ah! shrink from the murderer; quaint, wise world
Yea: shudder at sight of him; sanctified world!
Go: plume him up deftly; clever old world!
Till he shines like a gilded excrescence:
Then strangle him dog-like—a civilised plan!
Quick! trample his life out: he's not of the clan:
He stinks in the nostrils of saintly man,
Though fit for the Infinite's presence!
WALES TO "PUNCH."
On his milking the amende honourable to Wales and the Welsh, in
some verses, the last of which was the following:
"And Punch—incarnate justice,
Intends henceforth to lick
All who shall scorn and sneer at you:
You jolly little brick."
I'm glad, old friend, that you your error see,
Of sneering where you cannot understand:
You've owned your fault: let by-gones by-gones be;
Past blows from Punch forgetting—there's my hand.
Lick whom you list—creation if you please:
Let those who choose laugh at me: let them sneer;
I earn, before I eat, my bread and cheese;
I love my language; and I like my beer.
Content with what I have, so that it come
Through honest sources: happy at my lot,
I seek not—wish not—for a fairer home.
Hard work: my Bible: children: wife: a cot:
These are my birthright, these I'll strive to keep,
And round my humble hearth affection bind:
From Eisteddfodau untold pleasures reap;
And try to live at peace with all mankind.
Then glad am I that you your error see,
Of sneering where you cannot understand:
You've owned your fault: let by-gones by-gones be;
Past blows from Punch forgetting—there's my hand.
WELCOME!
The following was written as a Prologue, to be read at the opening of the Wrexham National Eisteddfod, 1876. It was not successful in taking the offered prize, but as the adjudicator who made the award was pleased to say it was "above the average," I have thought its publication here will not be out of place.
Welcome! thrice welcome—one and all,
To this our Nation's Festival;
Be 't Peer or peasant; old or young:
Welcome! thrice welcome, friends among.
If Peer—no title that he bears—
No decoration that he wears—
Can the proud name of Bard excel,
Or pale the badge he loves so well.
If Peasant—he may here be taught
That none are poor who, rich in thought,
Possess in Mind's high utterings
A nobler heritage than kings.
If old—what once you were you'll see:
If young—what p'rhaps one day you'll be—
For youth yearns upward to the sage;
And childhood's joy delighteth age.
Come rich—come poor—come old and young,
And join our Feast of Art and Song.
What forms our banquet all shall know,
And hungry homeward none must go.
We boast not here of knife or platter;
Our feast is of the mind—not matter,
Along our festive board observe
No crystal fruit—no rare preserve:
No choice exotic here and there,
With wine cup sparkling everywhere:
No toothsome dish—no morsel sweet—
Such savoury things as people eat;
So if for these you yearn—refrain!
For these you'll look and long in vain.
Our Feast's composed of dainty dishes—
To suit far daintier tastes and wishes.
While for the splendour of our wine—
I've oftimes heard it called divine:
For who that drinks of Music's stream,
Or quaffs of Art's inspiring theme,
Shall say that both are things of earth—
That both are not of heavenly birth?
While gathered blossoms fade away,
The Poet's thoughts for ever stay—
E'en as the rose's perfumed breath
Survives the faded flow'ret's death.
No pleasure human hand can give
Is lasting—all things briefly live.
But sounds which flow from Minstrelsy
Vibrate through all eternity!
Then welcome! welcome! one and all,
To this, our Nation's Festival.
Come rich—come poor: come old and young
And join our Feast of Art and Song!
CHANGE.
In the Summer golden,
When the forests olden
Shook their rich tresses gaily in the morn;
And the lark upflew,
Sprinkling silver dew
Down from its light wing o'er the yellow corn;
When every blessing
Seem'd the earth caressing,
As though 'twere fondled by some love sublime,
Strong in her youthful hope,
Upon the sunny slope
A maid sat, dreaming o'er the happy time—
Dreaming what blissful heights were hers to climb.
In the Winter dreary,
When the willow, weary,
Hung sad and silent o'er the frozen stream;
And the trembling lark
Murmur'd, cold and stark,
In wailful pathos o'er its vanish'd dream;
When the bleak winds linger'd
And dead flowerets finger'd,
When all earth's graces, pale and coffin'd, slept,
With joys for ever flown,
In the wide world alone,
Over a broken faith a maiden wept—
Yet, with unswerving love, true vigil kept.
FALSE AS FAIR.
My heart was like the rosebud
That woos the Summer's glance,
And trembles 'neath its magic touch
As breeze-kisst lilies dance:
So, like the faithless Summer,
She kissed me with a sigh,
And woke my life to gladness,
Then passed in beauty by.
My heart was like the blossom
That blooms beside the brook,
And revels in its silvery laugh,
Its bright and sunny look:
So, like the graceful streamlet,
She kissed me with a sigh,
And woke my life to gladness,
Then passed in beauty by.
HEADS AND HEARTS.
The Head fell in love one day,
As young heads will oftentimes do;
What it felt I cannot say:
That is nothing to me nor to you:
But this much I know,
It made a great show
And told every friend it came near
If its idol should rove
It could ne'er again love,
No being on earth was so dear.
So Time, the fleet-footed, moved on,
And the Head knew not what to believe;
A whole fortnight its Love had been gone,
And it felt no desire to grieve.
Its passion so hot
In a month was forgot;
And in six weeks no trace could be found;
While, in two months, the Head,
Which should then have been dead,
For another was looking around.
The Heart fell in love one day:
The mischief was very soon done!
It tried all it could to be gay;
But loving, it found, was not fun.
For hours it would sit
In a moping fit,
And could only throb lively and free
When that one was near
Which it felt was so dear,
And when that one was absent—Ah, me!
So the days and the nights hurried on;
And the Heart nursed in silence its thought:
To a distance its idol had gone,
Then it felt how completely 'twas caught:
Other hearts came to sue:
To the absent 'twas true—
Loving better the longer apart:
Thus while Love in the head
Is very soon dead,
It is deathless when once in the heart.
FALL OF SEBASTOPOL.
1855.
"Advance!" was the cry that shot up to the sky
When the dawn of the day had begun;
And the steel glistened bright in the glad golden light
Of a glorious Eastern sun.
And the words rang clear, with no trembling fear—
"Brave Britons! on you I rely!"
And the answer pealed out with a mighty shout—
"Sebastopol falls, or we die!"
Advance!—Advance!—Men of England and France!
"Sebastopol falls, or we die!"
Now the death-storm pours, and the smoke up-soars,
And the battle rages with furious might,
And the red blood streams, and the fire-flash gleams,
And the writhing thousands—God! God! what a sight.
The hoarse-throated cannon belch fiery breath,
And hurl forth the murderous rain,
Which dances along on its message of death,
And sings o'er the dying and slain!
Crash! Crash! Then a leap and a dash!
Hand to hand—face to face, goes the fight;
The bayonets plunge, and the red streams plash,
And up goes a shout of delight—
"The enemy runs!—Men flinch from their guns!
On! Forward! For God and for Right!
Advance!—Advance!—Men of England and France!
Press forward, for Freedom and Right!
On—On—On! Hurrah! the goal's won;
See! the old colours flutter and dance,
And proudly they wave over Tyranny's grave:
Well done! Men of England and France—Hurrah!
Hurrah! for old England and France!"
TO LORD DERBY.
1877.
As the monarch that grows in the forest, and rears
Its brow ever green to the firmament bright,
So, stedfast and sturdy, thy proud form appears,
Of patriots the hope, and thy country's delight.
Through thy heart, firm and true as the oak trees that stand
In the soil of Old England—in which thou hast grown,
There runs the same life which they draw from the land,
And the heart of thy country 's the life of thine own.
With the seal of Nobility set by thy Sire,
Thou tread'st in his steps as thou bearest his name;
And the glow that he added to Albion's fire
Reflects through the Past and enhances thy fame.
Where Freedom is free'st, thou takest thy stand:
Where Tyranny threatens, thy misson is told;
And thy tongue, which we hail as the Voice of the Land,
Speaks the wish of a nation heroic and bold.
And bright will the name be of England, as long
As safe in thy keeping her honour remains—
'Twill stand 'mongst the noblest in story and song,
And be worthy the purest and loftiest strains.
UNREQUITED.
A beautiful Streamlet went dancing along,
With its bright brow fretted with flow'rs,
And it leapt o'er the woodland with many a song,
And laughed through the sunny hours.
Away and away!
All the blue Summer day,
The streamlet went laughing away.
A willow Tree grew near the light-hearted brook,
And hung o'er the Beauty in pride:
And he yearned night and day for a kiss or a look
From the streamlet that flowed at his side.
But away and away,
All the blue Summer day,
The streamlet went laughing away.
All his leaves and his blossom he shower'd on her head,
And would gladly have given his life:
But to all this affection the streamlet was dead,
And she laughed at the willow's heart-strife.
And away—away,
All the blue Summer day,
The streamlet went laughing away.
"Ah, me," quoth the willow: "how false was the dream!"
And, drooping, heart-broken he died;
While his last leaf in love he let fall on the stream
That so coldly flowed on at his side.
And away—away,
All the blue Summer day,
The streamlet went laughing away.
THE HOUSEHOLD SPIRIT.
A spirit stealeth up and down the stairs
Noiseless as thistle-down upon the wind:
So calm—so sweetly calm—the look it wears:
Meltful as music is its voice—and kind.
Like lustrous violets full of twinkling life
Two orbs of beauty light its face divine:
And o'er its cheeks a dainty red runs rife,
Like languid lilies flusht with rosy wine.
Its velvet touch doth soothe where dwells a pain;
Its glance doth angelize each angry thought;
And, like a rainbow-picture in the rain,
Where tears fall thick its voice is comfort-fraught.
How like a seraph bright it threads along
Each room erewhile so desolate and dark,
Waking their slumbering echoes into song
As laughs the Morn when uproused by the lark.
Methinks a home doth wear its heavenliest light
When haunted by so good, so fair a sprite.
HAD I A HEART.
Had I a heart to give away
As when, in days that now are o'er,
We watcht the bright blue billows play,
Roaming along the sounding shore;
When joys like Summer blossoms bloom'd,
When love and hope were all our own;
I'd bring that heart—to sadness doomed—
And let it beat for thee alone.
Had I a heart to give away,
Its daily thought in life would be,
Like yonder bird, with trembling lay,
To sing sweet songs, dear love, of thee.
But, ah! the heart that once was mine
Is mine, alas! no more to give;
And joys that once were joys divine
In mem'ry now alone can live.
A BRIDAL SIMILE.
Adown the world two grand historic streams
With stately flow moved on through widening ways,
Rich with the glory of life's noblest dreams,
Bright with the halo of life's sunniest days.
Out from their depths two blithesome streamlets ran,
O'er which the smiles of Heaven hourly shone;
Till, meeting: Ah! then life afresh began,
For both, embracing, mingled into one.
From yonder rose two crystal dewdrops hung
But yestermorn. The sun came forth and kissed
The gems that to the perfumed blossom clung,
And clothed them with a robe of purple mist.
The soft warm wind of Heaven gently breathed
Upon the twain: they hung no more apart;
But, with the sweetness of a rosebud wreathed,
Blent soul with soul and mingled heart with heart.
Live on, united pair: with love so blest
Your pathway ought but sunny may not be.
Live on, united pair: and be the breast
Of thornless roses yours unceasingly.
And as the river to the ocean flies
Be yours to pass as gently from life's shore:
Then, like sweet fragrance when the blossom dies,
Leave names to live in mem'ry evermore.
SONG.
They tell me thou art faithless, Love!
That vows thy lips have sworn—
The smiles which light thy lovely face—
Are false as April morn;
My brightest dreams of happiness
They wish me to forget:
But, No! the spell that won my love
Doth bind my spirit yet.
They tell me thou art faithless, Love!
And changeful as a dream:
They say thou'rt frail as drifts of sand
That kiss the laughing stream;
They whisper if I wed thee, Sweet!
My heart will know regret:
But, No! the spell that won my love
Doth bind my spirit yet.
I WOULD MY LOVE.
I would my Love were not so fair
In sweet external beauty:
And dreamt less of her charms so rare,
And more of homely duty.
The rose that blooms in pudent pride
When pluckt will pout most sorely;
P'rhaps she I'm wooing for my bride
Will grow more self-willed hourly.
Her form might shame the graceful fay's;
Her face wears all life's graces:
But wayward thoughts and wayward ways
Make far from pretty faces.
I would my Love were not so fair
(I mean it when I breathe it):
What though each hair be golden hair,
If temper ill dwells 'neath it?
Her lips would make the red rose blush,
Her voice trolls graceful phrases,
Her brow is calm as Evening's hush,
Her teeth as white as daises.
Her cheeks are fresh as infant Day's,
Round which cling Beauty's traces:
But wayward thoughts and wayward ways
Make far from pretty faces.
DEATH IN LIFE:
A TRUE STORY.
The following simple narrative is founded on fact. A young village couple married, and soon after their marriage went to live in London. Success did not follow the honest-hearted husband in his search for employment, and he and his young wife were reduced to actual want. In their wretchedness a child was born to them, which died in the midst of the desolate circumstances by which the young mother was surrounded. For three years the mother was deprived of reason—a gloomy period of Death in Life—and passionately mourned the loss of her first-born. An eminent London practitioner, to whom her case became known, was of opinion that reason would return should a second child be born to the disconsolate mother. This proved to be correct; and after three years of mental aberration the sufferer woke as from a dream. For many months after the awakening she was under the impression that her second child was her first-born, and only became aware of the true state of the case when it was gently broken to her by her husband.
I.
Lovely as a sunbright Spring is,
Yonder trembling maid advances,
Clothed in beauty like the morning—
Like the silver-misted morning—
With a face of shiny radiance,
Tinted with a tinge of blushes,
Like reflections from a goblet
Filled with wine of richest ruby.
Now she nears the low church portal—
Flickers through the white-washed portal,
Lighting up the sleepy structure,
As a sunbeam lights the drowsy
Blossom into wakeful gladness.
See! she stands before the altar,
With the chosen one beside her;
And the holy Mentor murmurs
Words that link their lives like rivets,
Which no force should break asunder.
Now the simple prayer is ended;
And two souls, like kissing shadows,
Mingle so no hand shall part them!
Mingle like sweet-chorded music;
Mingle like the sighs of Summer—
Like the breath of fruit and blossom;
Mingle like two kissing raindrops—
Twain in one. Thrice happy maiden!
Life to thee is like the morning,
As the fresh-faced balmy morning,
Full of melody and music;
Full of soft delicious fragrance;
Full of Love, as dew-soaked jasmins
Are of sweet and spicy odour;
Full of Love, as leaping streamlets
Are of life. Thrice happy maiden!
II.
Turn we to a lowly dwelling—
One amongst a million dwellings—
Where a mother silent rocketh
To-and-fro with down-let eyelids,
Gazing on her sleeping infant,
While the just-expiring embers
Smoulder through the gloomy darkness.
On the shelf a rushlight flickers
With a dull and sickly glimmer,
Turning night to ghostly, deathly,
Pallid wretchedness and sadness,
Just revealing the dim outline
Of a pale and tearful mother,
With a babe upon her bosom.
"Thus am I," she muttered, wailing,
"Left to linger lorn and lonely
In the morning of my being.
If 'twere not for thee, my sweet babe,
Lily of my life's dark waters—
Silver link that holds my sad heart
To the earth—I fain would lay me
Down, and sleep death's calm and sweet sleep.
Oh! how sweetly calm it must be.
In the green and silent graveyard,
With the moonlight and the daisies!
If 'twere not for thee, my loved one,
I could lay me down and kiss Death
With the gladness I now kiss thee.
Oh! how cold thy tiny lips are!
Like a Spring-time blossom frozen.
Nestle, dear one, in my bosom!"
And the mother presst the sleeper
Closer—closer, to her white breast:
Forward, backward—gently rocking;
While the rushlight flickered ghastly.
Hark! a footstep nears the dwelling;
And the door is flung wide open,
Banging backward 'gainst the table;
And a human being enters,
Flusht with liquor, drencht with water!
For the rain came down in torrents,
And the wind blew cold and gusty.
"Well, Blanche!" spake the thoughtless husband,
Not unkindly. "Weeping always."
"Yes, Charles, I could ne'er have slumbered
Had I gone to bed," she answered.
Then she rose to shut the night out,
But the stubborn wind resisted,
And, for spite, dasht through the crevice
Of the window. "Foolish girl, then,
Thus to wait for me!" he muttered.
When a shriek—so wild, so piercing—
Weirdly wild—intensely piercing—
Struck him like a sharp stiletto.
Then another—and another!
Purging clear his turbid senses.
"Blanche!" he cried; and sprang towards her
Just in time to save her falling;
And her child fell from her bosom,
Like a snow-fall from the house-top
To the earth. "Blanche! Blanche!" he gaspt out;
"Tell me what it is that pains thee."
But her face was still as marble.
Then he kissed her cheeks—her forehead—
Then her lips, and called out wildly:
"Blanche, my own neglected darling,
Look, look up, and say thou livest,
Speak, if but to curse thy husband—
Curse thy wretched, heartless husband."
Then her eyelids slowly opened,
And she gazed up in his white face,
White as paper as her own was!
"Charles!" she sighed, "I have been dreaming:
Is my child dead?" "No!" he answered,
"See, 'tis sleeping!" "Dead!" the mother
Murmured faintly, "Sleeping—sleeping!"
In a chair he gently placed her:
Then he stooped to take the child up,
Kisst and placed it on her bosom.
Frantic then the mother hugged it;
Gazed a moment; then with laughter
Wild, she made the room re-echo—
"They would take my bonny baby—
Rob me of my dainty darling,
Would they? Ha! ha! ha!" she shouted.
And she turned her large blue eyes up
With a strange and fitful gazing,
Laughing till the tears chased madly
Down her cheeks of pallid whiteness.
"Dear, dear Blanche!" her husband murmured,
Stretching out his hand towards her;
But she started wildly forward,
Crouched down in the furthest corner,
And, with face tear-dabbled over,
And her hair in long, lank tresses,
With a voice so low and plaintive
'Twould have won a brute to lameness,
Faintly sobbed she: "Do not take it!
Do not take it!—do not take it!"
And she hugged her infant closer,
Sobbing sadly, "Do not take it!"
"Blanche! dear Blanche!" her husband faltered,
With a voice low, husht, and chokeful,
"I—I am thy worthless husband!"
Then he walkt a step towards her;
But the girl with 'wildered features
Drew her thin hand o'er her forehead,
And in wandering accents muttered:
"Husband? Husband? No, not husband!
I am still a laughing maiden;
Yet methought I had been married,
And bore such a sweet, sweet baby—
Such a fair and bonny baby!
Baby—baby—hush; the wild winds
Sing so plaintive. Hush—h!" And then she
Laid the child upon the cold floor,
And, with hair in wild disorder,
Laughing, crying, sobbing, talking,
O'er it hung, like March a-shivering
O'er the birth of infant April.
Lightly then her husband toucht her
On the shoulder; but she look'd not—
Spake not—moved not. Slowly rose she
From her kneeling, crouching posture;
And she stood a hopeless dreamer,
With the child a corpse beside her!
III.
In a dry and sun-parch'd graveyard,
In a small corpse-crowded graveyard,
With the lurid sky above it,
With the smoke from chimneys o'er it,
With the din of life around it—
Din of rushing life about it;
Sat a girlish, grief-worn figure,
Croucht up in the darkest corner,
With her pallid face turned upwards;
To and fro in silence rocking
On a little mound of dark dirt.
Like a veiled Nun rose the pale moon,
Draped about with fleecy vapour;
And the stars in solemn conclave
Came to meet her—came to greet her,
To their convent home to bear her:
She had soared above the dingy
Earth, and left the world behind her.
As she passed she lookt down sadly,
Gazed with silent, noble pity,
At the girlish, grief-worn figure,
Sitting in the darkest corner
Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard,
With her pallid face turned upwards,
On a little mound of dark dirt.
Round about from windows flickered
Lights, which told of inside revels;
Rooms, with mirth and banquets laden,
Sobbing kisses, soft embraces,
Feasts of Love, and feasts of Pleasure,
Ruby lips, and joyous laughter.
Then the buzz of life grew softer,
Broken only by the tramping
Of a troop of bacchanalians,
Reeling through the streets deserted,
With their loud uproarious language.
Still the girlish, grief-worn figure,
Croucht in dark and dreary corner
Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard,
With her pallid face turned upwards,
On a little mound of dark dirt.
The gray herald of the Morning,
Dapple-clad, came forth to tell the
Sleepy world his Lord was coming.
Straight the drowsy buildings leapt up
Like huge giants from their slumber,
And, with faces flusht and ruddy,
Waited for the King of Morning!
Lo! he comes from far-off mountains,
With a glory-robe about him,
With a robe of gold and purple;
And a buzz of mighty wonder
Rises as, with step majestic,
And with glance sublime, he walks on,
Gathering his robe about him,
To his West-embowered palace,
Still the girlish, grief-worn figure,
Croucht in dark and dreary corner
Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard,
With her pallid face turned upwards,
To and fro in silence rocking,
On a little mound of black dirt!
When the box which held her treasure
Had been borne from home and buried,
She had followed, undetected;
And when all had left the graveyard
She had crept to that small hillock,
Trembling like a half-crusht lily;
Yearning towards the child beneath her,
Yet, the while, to earth-life clinging
By a link—bruised but unbroken.
Whilst at home her frantic husband
Called aloud in vain for "Blanche!"
IV.
Hours flew by like honey-laden
Bees, with sting and honey laden:
Days, like ghostly shadows, flitted
By; and weeks and months rolled onward
With a never-ceasing rolling,
Like the blue bright waves a-rolling,
Never quiet—never ending!
Still the girlish, grief-worn figure,
Might be seen, with vacant glances,
Threading through life's rushing whirlpool—
Gliding, like a sunbeam, o'er it—
To that small corpse-crowded graveyard;
Where for hours she'd sit and murmur,
With a wild and plaintive wailing;
"Come back, darling! Come back, darling;
Come, for I am broken-hearted."
When at home, with nimble fingers
Oft she'd clothe a doll and call it
Her sweet babe—her darling baby—
Her long-absent, long-lost baby!
Her fair bonny-featured baby!
And her husband would bend o'er her,
With low words of pure affection—
As when first he woo'd and won her.
And her home was not the dungeon—
The sad, dark, and dismal dungeon—
The cold death-vault of her infant,
With the drear and ghastly rushlight:
But a home of cottage comfort,
Every sweet of love and loving.
Yes! the wan and pallid mother
Found on that dark night, a husband—
Found a home; but—lost her reason!
V.
"Do not, for the world, awake her!
'Twere her death-knell to awake her!"
Urged the old and careful nursewife.
"Let me look but for a moment—
Gaze but for one little moment!"
'Twas the voice of Charles that pleaded:
Softly, then, he drew the curtain,
Gently, fearful, drew the curtain—
"Charles!—dear Charles!" a faint voice murmured,
In a tone so weak and lowly,
Sweetly weak and soul-subduing.
"Blanche!—my sweet one!" gasp'd the husband,
"Dost thou know me?—God, I thank thee!"
Then he threw his arms around her,
And, amidst a shower of kisses,
Truest, purest, grateful kisses,
Drew the loved one to his bosom:
And the babe that nestled near her
Covered he with warm caresses.
Reason, like a golden sunbeam
On a lily-cup, had lightened
Her sweet soul so dark and turbid—
For three years so darkly turbid;
Three long years so dark and turbid.
"Charles, my dream has been a sad one,"
Spake she, like expiring music,
Shadowed with a mournful sadness.
"I have dreamt they stole my baby,
Buried my dear, darling infant!"
Then she took the babe and kiss'd it,
Presst it to her snowy bosom;
And, with voice low, soft, and grateful,
Murmured, "Charles, I am so happy!
Do not weep—I'm very happy!"
VI.
Reader! 'tis no idle fiction:
Once a lovely, laughing maiden—
Lovely as a Summer morning,
Lived and loved, as I have told thee;
Lost her babe, as I have told thee;
And a mental night came o'er her
Like a ghastly, gaping fissure,
Like a chasm of empty darkness.
As a new-made grave in Summer
Bulges up dark and unsightly,
With the bright blue sky above it,
And the daisies smiling round it,
So, with all its doleful darkness,
Fell the dream of that fair suff'rer
O'er her mind with inward canker,
Like a slug upon the rose-leaf!
Then she woke, as I have told thee,
After three years' trance-like sleeping,
Knowing not she had been sleeping;
And for months she never doubted
That the child she loved and fondled
Was lier long-dead darling first-born!
Happy hearts all feared to tell her:
Death in Life again they dreaded.
Now no Death in Life they fear;
Blanche is happy all the year.
SONG OF THE STRIKE.
1874.
With features haggard and worn;
With a child in its coffin—dead;
With a wife and sons o'er a fireless hearth,
In a hovel with never a bed;
While the wind through lattice and door
Is driving the sleet and rain,
A workman strong, with sinews of steel,
Sits singing this dismal refrain:
Strike! Strike! Strike!
Let the bright wheels of Industry rust:
Let us earn in our shame
A pauper's name,
Or eat of a criminal crust.
Ah! What though the little ones die,
And women sink weary and weak;
And the paths of life, with suffering rife,
Be paved with the hearts that break?
While souls, famine-smitten and crusht,
Seek food in the skies away,
This workman strong, with sinews of steel,
Sits singing his terrible lay:
Strike! Strike! Strike!
Let the bright wheels of Industry rust:
Let us earn in our shame
A pauper's name,
Or eat of a criminal crust.
And while the dark workhouse gate
Is besieged by a famishing crowd,
Forge, hammer, and mine, with their mission divine,
Lie dumb, like a corpse in a shroud.
And Plenty, with beckon and smile,
Points up at the golden rain
That is ready to fall to beautify all,
But is checked by the dread refrain:
Strike! Strike! Strike!
Let the bright wheels of Industry rust:
Let us earn in our shame
A pauper's name,
Or eat of a criminal crust.
Alas! That a spirit so brave,
That a heart so loyal and true,
Should crouch in the dust with a sightless trust
At the nod of a selfish few.
Alas! That the olden ties—
The links binding Master and Man— (a)
Should be broken in twain, and this ghostly refrain
Cloud all with its shadowy ban:
Strike! Strike! Strike!
Let the bright wheels of Industry rust:
Let us earn in our shame
A pauper's name,
Or eat of a criminal crust.
(a) In a recent address to his workmen, Mr. Robert Crawshay, the extensive ironmaster, of Cyfarthfa Castle, said: "The happy time has passed, and black times have come. You threw your old master overboard, and took to strangers, and broke the tie between yourselves and me. When the deputation came up to me at the Castle, and I asked them to give me a fortnight to work off an old order of rails, and they refused, I then told them the old tie was broken; and from that day to this it has."
NATURE'S HEROES.
DEDICATED TO THE WELSH MINERS WHO BRAVELY RESCUED THEIR FELLOWS AT THE INUNDATION OF THE TYNEWYDD COLLIERY.
FRIDAY, APRIL 20TH, 1877. (a)
Hero from instinct, and by nature brave,
Is he who risks his life a life to save;
Who sees no peril, be it e'er so great,
Where helpless human lives for succour wait;
Who looks on death with selfless disregard;
Whose sense of duty brings its own reward.
Such are the Braves who now inspire my pen:
Pride of the gods—and heroes among men.
The warrior who, on glorious battle plain,
Falls bravely fighting—dies to live again
In fame hereafter: this he, falling, knows;
And painless hence are War's most painful blows.
This is the hope that buoys his latest breath,
Stanches the wound, and plucks the sting from death.
But humbler hearts that sally forth to fight
'Gainst foes unseen, in realms of pitchy night,
Ne'er dreaming that the chivalrous affray
Will e'er be heard of—more than heroes they,
And more deserving they their country's praise
Than nobler names that wear their country's bays.
Duty, which glistens in the garish beam
That makes it beautiful—as jewels gleam
When sunlight pours upon them—lacks the pow'r,
The grandeur, which, in dark and secret hour,
Crowns lowly brows with bravery more bright
Than fame achieved in Glory's dazzling light.
Nature's heroics need but suns to shine
To show the world their origin divine:
And as the plant in darksome cave will grow
Whether warm sunshine bless its face or no,
A secret impulse yearning day and night
In hourly striving tow'rds the unseen light,
So lives the hero-germ in every heart—
Of earthy life the bright, the heavenly part:
The pow'r that brings the blossom from the sod,
And gives to man an attribute of God.
(a) Four men and a boy were entombed for nine days, from noon on Wednesday, April 11th, to mid-day on Friday, April 20th, in the Tynewydd Pit, Rhondda Valley. They were at length rescued by the almost super-human efforts of a band of brave workers, who, at the risk of their lives, cut through 38 yards of the solid coal-rock in order to get at their companions, working day and night, and, at times, regarding every stroke a prelude to almost certain death. Their heroic exertions were crowned with success, and they received the recorded thanks of their Queen and country, having the further honour bestowed upon them of being the first recipients of the Albert medal, given by Her Majesty for acts of exceptional bravery.
ELEGY
ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE CHILD.
He came:
As red-lipt rosebuds in the Summer come:
A tiny angel, let from Heav'n to roam,
With laughing love to clothe our childless home
The God-sent cherub came.
He lived
One little hour; What bliss was in the space!
Our lives that day were fringed with fresher grace
And in the casket of our darling's face
What honeyed hopes were hived.
He droopt:
And o'er our souls a mighty sorrow swept,
With many fears the night-long watch we kept,
Tearful and sad: Yet even as we wept
Our star-faced beauty droopt.
He died:
And darksome grew our life's bright morning sun.
Gloomy the day so radiantly begun.
What joy, what joy, without our darling one,
Is all the world beside?
Tis past:
The perfumed rosebud of our life is dead:
Helpless we bend, and mourn the cherub fled,
Even as the bruisëd reed bends low its head
Before the cruel blast.