A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. THOMAS FAWCETT WHO LOST HIS LIFE BY THE ACCIDENT ABOVE MENTIONED.
Fawcett, twelve years have swiftly fled
Since first we one another knew.
Then mutual sufferings quickly led
To friendship which but stronger grew.
The Angel Death hath ta'en thy wife
From thy loved arms to dwell above;
I the sweet partner of my life
Had lost, and sadly missed her love.
Joy seized our sympathetic souls
As each to each his trials told;
We found that Bible Truth consoles
For loss of wives—worth more than gold.
Left with young families each was soon
Compelled again to seek a mate;
In love Heaven gave once more the boon
Of partners suiting well our state.
Laboring as Gospel Minister,
Thou Brantford left for other place,
Yet did thou not, I can aver,
Neglect to tell of God's rich grace.
Nobly thy work thou did'st pursue,
With a fair share of good success;
Daily grew clearer in thy view
The Scripture plan of Happiness.
At last amongst the poor Red Men,
Who needed much thy pastoral care,
Thy lot was cast, and O how fain
They were such ministry to share.
Of this we had the fullest proofs
When thy sad end to them was known;
Wailings were heard beneath their roofs,
And other signs of grief were shown.
They'll miss thee much, as Sabbath day
Brings fresh thy memory to their mind,
And gratefully a tribute pay
To thee—in thine thus left behind.
Oh! how can I now further sing?
How tell the horrors of that blow
Which caused thy death, when each rude string
Of my poor lyre doth tremble so?
Ah, me! that one on mercy bent,
Hasting to his sick brother's side,
Should be from life thus strangely rent,
And have his faith so greatly tried!
Peace! God All-wise gave this dread shock
And took his soul with Him to dwell.
He to the last stood on that Rock
Which can withstand the rage of Hell.
A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF MR. RICHARD FOLDS, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE APRIL 21, 1859.
"The Righteous are taken away from the evil to come."
This truth may to Christians in darkness be shrouded,
While mourning for friends in the grave newly laid,
But a time will soon come when the Dayspring unclouded
Of doubt, from our souls shall dispel every shade.
These words to his people by God have been spoken,
To light up their passage on Life's dreary way,
And each day's fresh mercy is from Him a token
That he will prove to them a Comfort and Stay.
This friend, who by conduct to us so endearing
Has drawn from us sympathy, called forth our love,
Is gone—O, the thought is transportingly cheering!
To join the glad throng of Redeemed Ones above.
And we who have witnessed his pure conversation
Have listened to Truths which he uttered so well,
Rejoice that the theme of Christ's glorious Salvation
Was that upon which he delighted to dwell.
His constant infirmities were but refining
A soul well endowed by both choice gifts and rare,
And he through a long course of years has been shining
By light gained from Heaven, which guided him there.
Friends, let these remembrances cheer and delight you,
And patiently wait till your own change shall come.
The death of dear Richard should not now affright you,
Since he through that portal has passed to his home.
TO THE HUMMING BIRD.
1859
Hail to thee, Humming Bird
Beauteous and bright,
That flitt'st like a spirit
Before my rapt sight!
I bid thee a welcome
To sip from my flowers
The rich, honied produce
Of sunshiny hours.
O, be not so easily
Moved to depart!
Thy presence is cheering
To my saddened heart.
Thine shall be the treasures
Of clove-currant trees
And bells of the Columbine
Prized by the Bees.
My odorous tulips
I will with thee share,
Nor grudge thee the blossoms
Of apple or pear.
The sweet-scented woodbine
I shall not withhold,
Nor rare perfumed lilies,
Like pure burnished gold.
O then, pretty Humming Bird,
Stay thou with me,
Midst bright blushing roses
So charming to see.
I'll hail thee at morning
Or woo thee at noon—
Thy presence at all times
Regard as a boon.
Then why be so anxious
My garden to leave?
Know'st thou that I never
Attempt to deceive?
I would not confine thee
In cage if I could:
I glory in Freedom—
The best earthly good.
Then, Humming Bird, listen
My earnest appeal;
The love I have for thee
I cannot conceal.
My children, too, love thee,
My wife does the same,
And I am in transports
At sound of thy name.
TO THE SAME.
JUNE, 1859.
Whence, and what art thou? O thou beauteous little thing!
That like a dazzling sprite
Appearest in my sight,
Sipping from sweet flower-cups the honey stores of Spring.
I have sought for many days to find a proper word
As a fitter name for thee
More pleasing unto me,
But cannot find a better than that of Humming Bird.
True, I might thee call A Fluttering Ray of Light
Decked in prismatic hues,
Which a radiance diffuse
Just like a beam of glory straying from a Seraph bright.
Yea, I could picture thee as a new-born infant's soul,
Bidding adieu to Earth
A moment after birth,
But having love for flowers which it scarcely can control.
Or, I might describe thee as a precious, new-coined thought
Illumined by the Truth,
Always enjoying youth,
Till into Wisdom's Temple 'tis by its Builder wrought.
Yet, whatever thou may'st be, or howsoever called,
Thou'rt welcome to remain—
My garden sweets to drain,
And a lonely Vision be evermore enrolled.
FIRE SONG.
TUNE, "AULD LANG SYNE."
When the wild cry of fire is heard
Borne on the midnight air,
And those who listen soon are stirred
To anxious ask "Where? Where?"
Our Firemen brave, full bent to save,
Rush to their engine room;
And flushed with hope they grasp each rope,
And with the "Rescue" come.
CHO.—Hurrah, then! for the firemen brave!
Who with stout hearts and arms
Are bent our lives and goods to save—
Not fearing fire's alarms.
While still the cry is going round,
And bells peal forth their notes,
The engine comes with rumbling sound,
Dragged by our bold "Red Coats."
And there too, rush, as if they'd crush
The ground on which they tread,
The band of "Hook and Ladder," who look
Truly devoid of dread!
CHO.—Hurrah, boys! for the fire brigade—
The men resolved to stand
In danger's front and bear the brunt
Of this foe to our land.
When fire is reached and water got;
In haste the hose they lay;
They fall to work, each brave "red coat,"
By night as well as day.
And now the hook and ladder boys—look!
Have made their "grapples" fast
To that huge frame midst glowing flame,
And down it comes at last.
CHO.—Hurrah, then! for the Fire Brigade,
Who heed not flame and smoke;
They work as though such working made
The zest of some good joke!
THE FIRE ALARM.
JUNE, 1859
Fire—fire—fire! Nigher still and nigher
Seem the tones of the "Alarum bell" borne on the air!
Awaking with a start, what a sinking of the heart
Even the strong are apt to feel, ere they are well aware!
Fire—fire—fire! Higher now and higher
Leaps the madly raging flames as the cry goes round!
In the darkness of the night what a truly awful sight
Is the burning up of homes, while we listen to the sound.
Fire—fire—fire! Behold the havoc dire!
When the black, wreathing smoke a moment clears away—
The flames both hiss and roar as the brave firemen pour
Constantly the crystal streams from Engines in full play.
Fire—fire—fire! Fresh force it does acquire!
The rising wind has sent the blaze unto the other side!
Yet men are standing round in torpor most profound;
Rouse ye up! now fall to work, and let your strength be tried!
Fire—fire—fire! Two blocks seem one vast pyre.
Oh, pity the poor houseless ones—fleeing now away!
Screen them from Winter's blast, for they are on you cast—
That sympathy in measure their losses may repay.
Fire—fire—fire! Thank God, the flames expire!
For a cold, but drenching rain most opportunely comes.
Now honor that Brigade which has such efforts made,
And don't forget your neighbors who have just lost their homes.
MY OLD ARM CHAIR.
1859.
My old Arm Chair! The wear and tear
Thou hast endured for me,
Long ere this time deserved a rhyme
Expressly made to thee.
When I thee bought, thy varnished coat
And well proportioned frame
My house adorned, and no one scorned
Thee Rocking Chair to name.
But since that day, my bairns in play,
Have tumbled thee about,
Till thou appears well struck with years,
And truly nigh worn out.
Dear to my heart—I'm loth to part
With such a well tried friend;
Yet even repairs to old arm chairs
Must some time have an end.
I've patched thee oft; and cushions soft
Those patches somewhat screen;
Still, thy poor arms—reft of paint's charms
Are scarce fit to be seen.
The rockers, too, I did renew—
Will hardly yield a rocking.
But out of sight to cast thee quite
Would, to my mind, be shocking.
I therefore say: Thou here shalt stay
As long as I remain;
And no neglect I can detect
Shall cause thee to complain.
Farewell, Arm Chair! thou canst not fare
Much worse than I have done;
For, by my pen, from fellow men
Large share of scorn I've won.
A TRIBUTE TO THE BRAVERY OF MY COUSIN, MRS. T. A. COWHERD, WHO CROSSED THE ATLANTIC IN MID-WINTER WITH THREE HELPLESS CHILDREN, AND UNDER VERY TRYING CIRCUMSTANCES.
1855.
Dear cousin, I hail you as Mother most brave,
Who crossed in mid-winter Atlantic's broad wave!
What you had to suffer in part I conceive,
Though no gloomy story you made me believe.
Assisted by Fancy I see your sad plight,
Before busy Liverpool passed from your sight;
On shipboard I view you with three little babes,
While the vessel rides proudly o'er blue ocean waves.
One small, year-old infant then hangs at your breast,
And one child much older disturbs your night's rest
By her frequent wailings from sickness most sore.
The third is but young and yet needs watching o'er.
I still look and wonder how you could bear up,
When drinking so deeply of this bitter cup.
I picture you gazing, with tears in your eyes,
Upon the poor sufferer and hushing her cries.
The vessel by dread winter tempests is tossed,
And many more favored give all up for lost.
But Hope—that sweet Angel! your courage supports,
And in these great trials to trust God exhorts.
I fancy I see you while nearing the land,
On the ship's crowded deck in sorrow now stand,
Still watching your babe as she gives her last sigh;
Yet Thomas, your husband, to help is not nigh.
And then is most vividly brought to my view
That Coroner's Inquest so trying to you;
The bearing your loved one away to the grave,
Though you, quite dejected, are still on the wave.
Oh, then I can paint, it is true but in part,
The anguish and grief of your warm loving heart,
Expecting at lodgings your partner to see,
As anxious as any fond mother can be.
Your painful suspense as day passed after day,
And trifle of money was melting away;
The pleasure which beamed in your calm, patient face,
When that friend was able your sojourn to trace.
Your journey so cold and so cheerless at last,
Till you and the two tender children were cast
On kindness of strangers in reaching our town,
While Winter put on his most terrible frown.
My own keen emotions I need not express
When you first came here and I saw your distress.
Once more I would hail you as Mother most brave,
Who crossed in mid-winter Atlantic's broad wave.
CANADIANS' WELCOME TO H. R. H. THE PRINCE OF WALES, 1860.
Canadians, welcome now the Prince—
Victoria's noble, first-born son;
Who comes amongst us to evince
How much his Mother's love we've won.
He comes not as, a despot's heir
From serfs their homage to demand.
He comes not with that outward glare
So suited to a slave-cursed land,
But as a freeman to the free,
His errand is of vast concern.
Then let us show our loyalty
By aiming sordidness to spurn.
And thus while he inaugurates
The wondrous triumph of Man's art*,
See that our conduct compensates
For right performance of his part.
*The Victoria bridge at Montreal.
Then shall his stay amongst us here
Fill him with memories so sweet
That he may, at no distant year,
Be led his visit to repeat.
And while he views our country, filled
With wonders of the vastest kind,
May grain fields wide, industrious tilled,
And thriving Arts, please well his mind.
Eager to prove ourselves content
With British rule, and land so fair;
We gladly hail the Prince now sent,
And trust he will our blessings share.
A thousand welcomes then to you,
The Heir to loved Victoria's throne;
Canadians still to Freedom true,
Would warmly make their homage known.
BRANTFORD'S WELCOME TO THE PRINCE OF WALES, 1860.
Welcome, thrice welcome, to our fair town,
Albert Edward, the heir to Brittania's Crown!
We hail this your visit
With feelings exquisite,
And all party spirit most cheerfully drown
In the joy of the day;
While we earnestly pray
That God's richest blessings may compass your way.
No Niagara's vast glories have we,
No Bridge spanning River as wide as a sea;
Yet we have a county
Whose soil, for its bounty,
Surpassed is by none in this clime of the FREE..
The Garden, 'tis named,
Of all Canada, famed
For choicest of land, though but lately reclaimed.
We have no splendid buildings to show,
No Millionaire's palace that might notice draw,
But yet we may boast of
A very fair host of
Both women and men who their duty well know.
While sweet girls and bright boys
Sympathize in our joys,
As your Highness can see by their truth-speaking eyes.
Nor yet men with great titles have we;
But some meet you here brave as bravest can be.
These have been no strangers
To greatest of great dangers,
When war's horrid front threatened Liberty's tree.
Both Red Men and White
Mingled then in the fight,
And still live together to stand for the RIGHT.
Our good town, as your Highness well knows,
Is called after one long released from life's woes.
His memory we cherish,
And gladly would nourish
The motives that led him to march against foes.
For brave Captain Brant
Did most eagerly pant
The Flag of true Freedom in these parts to plant.
Welcome, thrice welcome to our fair town,
Albert Edward, the heir to Brittania's Crown!
No niggardly measure
Would we yield of pleasure,
To you and your Suite, as you doubtless will own.
For we British rule prize,
And would strengthen the ties
Binding us to VICTORIA, the good and the wise.
A CALL FOR HELP FOR GARIBALDI.
1860
Canadian freemen, one and all,
Respond to Garibaldi's call,
And help him now to speed the fall
Of fair Italia's foes.
Our God this year abundance sends,
Oh, spend it not for selfish ends,
But give to him who RIGHT defends,
And strives to heal her woes.
See him as he unselfish stands,
Surrounded by his patriot bands—
The admiration of all lands—
Wave Freedom's banner high.
He moves—acclaiming thousands wait
To open wide each city gate.
And trust to him their future fate—
Assured redemption's nigh.
Whole-souled and brave as man can be,
He fights alone for Liberty;
Nor will he rest till Italy
Shake off her tyrants' chains.
This done he seeks not high estate;
Success does not his soul elate;
In lowliness he can be great,
For meanness he disdains.
Can we to such a one deny
Assistance? when to do or die
He passes outward splendors by
In singleness of heart?
Forbid it, ye of British blood!
Forbid it all who seek for good.
Rise! show that you have understood
An honest freeman's part!
Let not this noble Patriot's fate
Be such as was Kossuth's the Great.
May their magnific deeds create
A glow of sympathy
Which shall increase till every chain
Enslaving man be snapped in twain,
And universal Freedom reign
In glorious majesty.
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE'S ACCOUNT OF LINCOLN'S DEPARTURE FROM SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS, FOR WASHINGTON.
He stood—the noble Lincoln—calm, though, sad,
About to part from those with whom he lived
So many years in sweetest amity.
Before him prospects which might well appal
The stoutest heart. His country, fondly cherished,
But erst so great and fair, the humbled victim
Of black traitors' arts, and on the verge
Of fearful ruin's widely yawning gulf.
While recollections of domestic bliss,
Such as but few enjoy, might well indeed
Make him quite loth to leave his much loved home.
With steady eye he views the concourse vast,
Big thoughts fast welling from his inmost soul
Too big for utterance. Yet a few choice words
Steal forth and fall upon attentive ears:
"Here have I lived for many, many years;
Here were my children born, and one beneath
The graveyard sod rests now in death, at peace!
I know not when each dear familiar face
Now left behind may glad my eyes again;
But this I know—a duty greater far
Than ever fell to man since Washington
Held Governmental reins, now falls to me.
Without God's aid he never could have known
Success. Upon that Being placed he still
His firm reliance, and succeeded well.
Succeed I cannot without aid Divine
Imparted to me in this hour of need.
I place in God my trust; and oh, my friends,
Pray you for me that I may have His help!
Then shall success, such as we well may crave,
Be mine for certain in this crisis dread.
I bid you all affectionate farewell."
This heard with throbbing hearts the gazing throng;
And, deeply moved within their bosom's depths,
Responded soon, "We will all pray for you!"
Upon this scene might Angels fondly gaze,
And place 't on record in high Heaven's archives,
That Lincoln, feeling his own weakness much,
His burden cast upon the Lord of all.
Go thus, thou chosen one, and firmly stand
For Truth and Freedom in the Halls of State!
Let no time-serving policy be thine;
But, placing round thee men of sterling worth,
Grasp tight the reins of Constitutional sway.
If go they will, let dupes of Slavery go,
And reap the baneful fruit they've nurtured long.
In this they'll find a certain, speedy cure,
For madness such as they have always shown.
Go, Lincoln, then, and if Canadians' prayers
May aught avail, thou may'st their prayers command.
FEBRUARY, 1861.
"Sumpter has Fallen, but Freedom is Saved."
(New York Tribune, April, 1861.)
Thank God 'tis so! for now we know
All compromise is ended.
List Lincoln's call, then freemen, all
Who have from braves descended.
Your Stripes and Stars, ye gallant tars,
Keep proudly o'er you waving;
Strike for the right with all your might,
Stern danger freely braving!
Ye Soldier hosts, stand to your posts
Like Anderson, unflinching.
Those Southern foes need heavy blows
To cure them of their "lynching."
A traitor's fate may them await,
But yet their monstrous madness
May work you woe for aught ye know,
And fill the world with sadness.
Innocent blood—of this a flood
For vengeance loud is calling!
And God's light hand shall blast that land
With plagues the most appalling,
Which dares to hold from love of gold
Poor slaves in galling fetters!
Rise, East—West—North! Your might put forth,
For you are Freedom's debtors!
SONG.
MY LOVE IS NO GAY, DASHING MAID.
My love is no gay, dashing maid,
With rosy cheeks and golden curls,
Nor high-born lady well arrayed
In glittering diamonds and pearls.
Yet she is a lovely, loving wife,
Who can blithely sing while working well;
And so happy is our married life,
That I on its pleasures fondly dwell.
O my love is no gay, dashing maid,
But a wife in matronly worth, arrayed.
I've seen young girls of beauty rare,
With ruby lips and sparkling eyes,
Use all their charms to form a snare
By which to carry off a prize.
I've noted the wedded life of such,
Oft finding them slatterns void of love;
And none need wonder so very much
If I value high my turtle dove.
For she is no vain, dashing maid,
But a wife in matronly worth arrayed.
Through years of matrimonial care,
And constant toil from day to day,
To me her face has still been fair,
As if her charms would ne'er decay.
And our house is full of girls and boys,
The pledges sweet of a sacred love,
Sent to keep young and bright the joys
Which many with wealth oft fail to prove.
O my love is no gay, dashing maid,
But a wife in matronly worth arrayed.
THE SEWING MACHINE.
1861.
I sing the Sewing Machine,
The blessings it brings to the fair.
Some of those blessings I've seen,
And therefore its praises declare.
'Tis a curious thing
Of which I now sing,
And poets have sung it before me;
But if the theme's good,
'Twill be well understood
I'm right in prolonging the story.
Well finished Sewing Machine!
Whose form is so graceful and neat;
Thou of inventions art Queen,
And to look at thy work is a treat.
Each nice burnished wheel,
With the plate of pure steel,
Thy gold bedecked arms and the gauges,
All speak of the skill
Which the genius at will
Puts forth in the work that he wages.
Wonderful Sewing Machine!
No visions of gloom and despair
Float over my mind serene,
As I thy performance compare
To the old-fashioned stitch,
The dread sorrows which
Accompanied work by the fingers
Of those forced to sew
'Midst a life full of woe.
With pity my soul on it lingers.
Excellent Sewing Machine!
Thy musical click-a-click-click,
Removes far away the spleen
From those who of toiling are sick.
Thy task speeds along,
While the fair ones in song
Give vent to their feelings of gladness.
How diff'rent I ween
From the sight often seen
By HOOD with a heart full of sadness.
[Footnote: See "Song of the Shirt."]
Dutiful Sewing Machine!
Now cheerfully stitching away,
Neatly and quickly, as seen
In the things by my wife made to-day;
Enraptured am I,
For no heart-bursting sigh
Escapes from the dear operator;
But a smile of delight
Is now alwavs in sight,
Of happiness sweet indicator.
Beautiful Sewing Machine!
How thankful am I to the man
Through many years who has been
Thus carefully forming thy plan!
May smiles from the fair,
Rid of much toil and care—
Shine on him, in moments of anguish.
May their tender hands
To obey his commands
Be ready, should he in life languish.
TABBY AND TIBBY.
As Tabby and Tibby were playing one day,
I, watching their frolicksome mood,
Greatly wondered they never got tired of play,
But the secret I soon understood.
For, listening, I hear on the drum of the ear,
These thoughts in cat language conveyed—
The which I interpret lest it should appear
Of telling the truth I'm afraid.
Said Tabby to Tibby: "Our master's downcast;
Else why are his looks full of gloom?
There's something like spectres in future or past,
Which strangely before his mind loom.
"So, daughter, still further in frolic indulge,
And thus chase his sadness away;
Our motives we need not to mortals divulge;
Then at it in right earnest play."
This said, she gave Tibby a sly, knowing wink,
And straight on her haunches sat down,
While Tibby, who is of all kittens the pink,
Laid the counsel safe by in her crown.
And now, as if struck by electrical shock,
The young one swift bounded aside,
And then with an air which would true valor mock,
Some strange soldiers' antics she tried.
Advancing, retreating, with rig well upreared,
Her looks testify to her ire;
And every manoeuvre, it is to be feared,
Will bring some calamity dire.
But meantime, the mother in calmest content,
And careless as cat could well be,
Just waited till Tibby's flash-valor was spent,
Yet now and then winking at me.
I judged from this fact that a wrinkle had struck,
To the depths of her sage cat-like brain;
And I thought of my beautiful kitten's ill-luck
In entering on such a campaign.
The thought had scarce flashed through the chambers of mind,
When she pounced like a tiger on prey!
Oh, horror! but stop! with relief I now find
They both were engaged in mere play.
But whether in play or real earnest, it seems
Young Tibby's no match for her mother;
So thus I now end this my first of cat dreams,
Not caring to write such another.
LINES COMPOSED AT MR. M'LARTY'S, WEST MISSOURI, AUGUST 3, 1873.
McLarty, I can't leave your house,
Your darling daughter, charming spouse,
Without at least a single rhyme
Commemorating that sweet time
When I, with my beloved wife,
Shared your dear home, with comforts rife.
And now I backward cast my eye
O'er eight-and-twenty years, gone by,
Since first to you the land I sold
Which now you prize far more than gold.
Ah, then with trees 'twas covered o'er
Thousands of which are now no more;
But in their stead rich, waving grain,
On hill and dale and pleasant plain
Abundant grows; and year by year
Adds comforts to your home so dear.
Fair trout creek still flows softly by,
Though not so pleasing to the eye,
As when at first its stream I saw,
So many, many years ago.
For then no logs unshapely, rude,
Did on that beauteous creek intrude;
But o'er its smooth and gravelly bed
It held its course, and murmur shed
Like sweetest music on my ear,
And made me long to live just here.
But urgent duty called me hence,
To scenes less pleasing to the sense
Of one who had a poet's eye
For Nature's works. I bade good bye
To what so quickly had become
To me almost as dear as home.
And now, kind friends, we must return
To that same home, while bosoms burn
With platitude for kindness shown
To those you had so little known.
We linger still: 'tis hard to part
From you, when fondly heart to heart
Beats now, as if for years we'd been
Fast bound in friendship's bands serene.
God bless you all! we fervent pray,
And make you happier every day!
Should we in future meet no more,
O, may we all reach Canaan's shore.
FAMILY PIECES
LINES TO MY MOTHER, WHO DIED WHEN I WAS ABOUT TWO YEARS OLD.
I had a mother once, and her dear name
Has power even now to thrill my very frame,
And call forth feelings which can only rise
When Love doth view its object in the skies.
So would I view thee, Mother, and rejoice
That I have power to raise my feeble voice
And tell what thoughts arise within my breast,
As thus I view thee entered into rest.
O, say, my Mother, canst thou see thy son?
Dost thou behold the poor, erratic one
Who has been tossed on Life's tempestuous wave
Till he has fairly longed to find his grave?
I fain would know if, when I heave a sigh,
Tears e'er bedim thy sympathetic eye?
When I have drunk so deep of heartfelt woe,
And: roved the vanity of all below,
Oh, say, my Mother, hast thou felt a share
Know'st thou what 'tis to be weighed down with care?
Why write I thus? for souls in heavenly bliss
Feel not our woes—know not what sorrow is—
Unless their past experiences they feel,
To aid, by contrast, in producing weal.
For it is written, "God shall wipe away
Tears from all faces," in Eternal Day!
Then let me rest content, and strive to show
True patience, while I suffer here below,
And follow Christ wherever he may lead:
Thus proving faith sincere by every deed.
O, then, whenever he may call me hence,
I shall be willing to leave time and sense
And mount aloft to dwell with God forever,
To taste that bliss from which naught can me sever.
TO MY WIFE.
Ellen, dear, it is clear
I have not half thy merits told;
Sweet of life, lovely wife,
More precious thou hast been than gold.
Listen now; truth I trow
Will be my guide while I relate
What pure love, sweetest dove,
Thou still hast shown in marriage state.
When I'm ill thou dost fill
The office of a comforter;
Soothing sickness with such quickness
That disease seems banished far.
If low spirits we inherit,
Thou swiftly drivest them away
By sweet song all day long,
Until I feel quite young and gay.
Then our house, tidy spouse,
Is kept by thee so trim and neat,
That from home I'll not roam
To try and find a snug retreat.
Of girls and boys, and many joys,
We have, my dearest, quite our share;
How to use them, not abuse them,
Should always be our constant care.
But alas! how soon pass
All present good desires away.
Feel we weakness? then in meekness
Let us unto our Father pray.
He is strong, and has long
Upheld us by His mighty arm;
O how glorious! Faith victorious
Will us preserve always from harm.
Then let us pray, love, day by day,
That our dear children may be brought
Into His fold, ere they are old:
Even as God himself hath taught.
O, what pleasure in rich measure
We then should feel, my own true love!
For naught ever could us sever,
But all at last would dwell above—
By God's grace in that place
Inhabited by Spirits bright.
This secured, we allured,
Might view by Faith the glorious sight.
TO THE SAME, WHEN AWAY FROM HOME
Oh, when will my beloved come
To her own home again?
Surely it will not be my doom
To miss her always in each room,
And of her loss complain.
Dear Chris and Jenny wish her home,
And ask why she's not here;
And I in quest of her would roam,
But fear to miss her much-loved form,
Which I would hope is near.
Yet I would not impatient be;
Thou art on Mother tending.
Thy love to her I like to see.
It will not lessen mine to thee,
Until my life is ending.
And should'st thou stay another week,
A month, or even a year—
Thy conduct past would loudly speak
Thy faithfulness, thy spirit meek,
And say I've naught to fear.
Then stay, my dear, till thou hast done
All that thy mother needed;
Yet just remember there is one
Who will be sadly woe-begone,
His loneliness unheeded.
For well I know that such a wife
Is better far than gold;
And all the joys of bachelor life,
However free from care and strife,
On my mind take no hold.
Just now her brother brings me word
That I must go and see her.
For all the joys this will afford
May I be thankful to the Lord,
And go from care to free her.
Within an hour I see her face
Bedecked with smiles to greet me,
But yet she seems in woeful case,
For marks of toothache I can trace
As she comes forth to meet me.
We spend the night with th' dear old folk,
The moments quickly fly,
While we link-armed start on a walk,
But soon return to sing and talk—
The fire all sitting by.
Upon the morrow then return
To home, "sweet home," again.
Our hearts afresh with love do burn,
As we at hand our house discern,
And all it does contain.
TO MY DEAR LITTLE BOYS, JAMES, CHRISTOPHER AND ALFRED.
Three lovely boys who bear my name,
Have all upon me equal claim,
And seem to ask a rhyme from me—
A humble poet as you see.
James, Christopher and Alfred, dear,
You often do my spirit cheer,
Each in his own most charming way,
From hour to hour, from day to day.
James by his often tuneful mood,
And other things best understood
By a fond parent, at the time,
To he as sweet as music's chime.
In him, though young, my eye can trace
A something in his pretty face
Which shows strong passion lurks within
That childish breast—the fruit of sin.
I also think I truly see
A trait somewhat too miserly.
I may be wrong—I hope I am,
For 'twould be sad in my sweet lamb.
Then Chris, what must I say of him,
Who shows us many a little whim?
But with it all displays affection
For one so young in much perfection,
And can forget his sorrows all,
Though his young heart he filled with gall.
If but his mother seem to cry
he upward turns his bright brown eye,
And asks so earnestly a kiss
That we're compelled to love our Chris.
Once, dear child, O strange to tell,
From brother Willie's knee he fell
And sadly burned his little arm,
Which greatly filled us with alarm.
He cried, as might have been expected,
And quick relief was not neglected.
But while his heart was fit to burst,
He spied a wound on Mamma's hand,
And though his own w as far the worst,
The sight of Hers he could not stand.
He ceased his crying, gave a sigh,
"Poor Mamma's sore," [Footnote: A literal fact] became his cry.
My darling child, this act of thine
Makes me right glad to call thee mine.
But I must hasten; one remains
Who well deserves my ablest strains.
This is my Alfred—lovely babe
A smiling cherub sure art thou,
How can I best describe thy charms?
How can I write about thee now?
Nearly four months have passed away
Since thou first saw the light of day;
And in that time we've hardly had
One tedious night with thee, my lad.
By day thy chirruping and smiles
Thy own dear mother's heart beguiles,
And makes me run a dreadful risk
Of falling to idolatry!
But let me tell thee, little Frisk,
This will not do for thee or me!
'Tis time to quit; I cease to write,
And bid my precious babes good night!
TO ALFRED, JUST LEARNING TO WALK
1854
O, Alfred dear, thou wilt, I fear,
Get burned before 'tis long;
Thy little tricks with fiery sticks
Have called forth this my song.
That roguish eye seems to defy
All I can say or do.
Thy chubby face does not disgrace
The food thou art used to.
Come now, my boy, thy skill employ
In walking to Papa;
Well, now, my child, I own I smiled
To see thee choose thy Ma.
But still I will that thou fulfill
My just commands to thee;
Sometime I shall soon make thee squall
For disobeying me!
And now a walk or else some talk
I do insist upon;
But mind that chair or thou wilt fare
Not cry well, my son!
Thy limbs are strong, so don't be long,
Nor mind that little mountain;
Ah, down he goes! and out there flows
Big tear-drops from their fountain.
Fear not, my son, thou hast well done;
I'll wipe thy tears away,
And lie in hopes on Life's rough slopes
Thou wilt not go astray.
Now come again, I can't refrain
From tuning one more trial;
Don't stagger on so woe-begone,
But use some self-denial.
Thou wilt have need if thou succeed
In life, to use it often,
And I have found in moving round
It does life's trials soften.
Mind thou the stove! nor further rove,
For fear thou get a burning
Let not thine eyes in such surprise
Upon thy Pa be turning.
See, there at last thou hast got past
The dangers which beset thee,
So in my arms, proud of thy charms,
I'll hug thee if thou let me.
I fain would hope that thou wilt cope
With ills besetting mortals,
Depending on God's Arm alone,
And so reach Heaven's portals.
TO AMELIA MY LAST INFANT DAUGHTER
1854
On the fifth of chill November
Came my Amie unto me,
Adding one more lovely member
To my numerous family.
Daughter, thou art welcome truly
To the care we can bestow;
May we do our duty duly
While we stay with thee below.
Think not, daughter, we will slight thee,
Since so many claim our love;
Gladly—wish we to delight thee,
As we look for help Above.
Thou art to us, little charmer,
Dear as any child we own;
And our love to each grows warmer
For the sorrows we have known.
Take then, daughter, take our blessing,
It comes forth from loving hearts;
Though we shrink hot from confessing
Oft we fail to act our parts.
TO FREDRIC
Fred, thou art six months old
This very day!
And I no more withold
From thee a lay.
That rosy, smiling face—
Thou need not fear—
Has weeks since claimed a place
'Midst "rhyming gear."
Thy winning, childish pranks
Make further claim
To set thee in the ranks
Of infant fame.
But when I think what troubles
Thou hast passed through,
The obligation doubles
What I've to do—
In rhyming for thee, Fred,
My dark-eyed boy;
And I have left my bed
To sing the joy.
I feel from day to day
In seeing thee
So full of lively play—
Most sweet to see.
By such most lovely smiles,
Such crowing, too,
Ah, Fred, thy many wiles
Have charmed me through!
'Tis true Ma lost much rest,
By day and night,
Through thee when so distressed.
Which scarce seemed right.
But doubtless 'twill be seen
To be for good,
Since God our Friend has been,
And by us stood.
Then, with this full in view
I 'll close my rhyme,
And hope that it may do
Thee good some time.
TO MY DAUGHTER IDA, WHEN THREE MONTHS OLD.
1859.
Ida, it is a burning shame
That thy short, sweet poetic name
Has not a single lay called forth
From my cranium since thy birth!
Thy pale-face, brown-eyed style of beauty
Every day points out my duty.
Conscience, too, whispers 'tis not right
That I this task should longer slight.
So now I take thee on my knee
And woo the Muse right eagerly,
In earnest hope she'll lend her aid
Until this tribute be well paid.
Ida, thou art of babes the best;
This much at least must be confessed,
Unless thy mother's words are wrong—
Words shadowing forth Affection strong.
Thou art indeed, sweet tempered pet,
As good a child as I have met.
And oh, my heart for thee' has bled,
When thou wert forced to be spoon-fed,
Because of Mamma's trying weakness.
Yet this thou didst still bear with meekness,
And ever from the first thy cries
Had for companions tearful eyes,
And such a mournful, piteous mien
As is not in bad temper seen.
When I saw this thou may'st be sure,
I felt quite ready to endure
Thy tediousness by night or day,
While mother on a sick-bed lay.
Now, as reward for all my toil,
Thou cheerest me by many a smile.
And while I gaze on thy sweet face
Bedecked with every infant grace,
My soul's best feelings are called Forth—
I see in thee increasing worth.
Say, sweetly smiling, pretty creature,
So perfect in each limb and feature,
What means that dreamy sort of look
Thou wear'st at times? Art thou then struck
With wonder at our household ways?
At brother's, sister's childish plays?
I would give something just to know
How thoughts within the mind can grow.
I fancy sometimes thou art thinking
On what's around thee or else drinking
Thou fill of heavenly visions sweet,
Such as would prove to me a treat:
Art silent still? Ah, then, young Miss,
Thou must eve'n give a parting kiss!
Farewell, my dear, my lovely child,
Fair Ida, with the look so mild!
TO MY WIFE, ON THE THIRTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR WEDDING DAY
SEPT. 26, 1860.
A thousand joys, my darling wife,
Be thine on this our marriage day!
And now I'll sing; for such a life
As we have led deserves a lay
Fresh-gushing from a heart like mine—
By thee well known to be sincere.
O, where are charms compared with thine?
Which, after years of toil appear
More fresh and fair,
Though much of care
Has fallen daily to thy share.
On me old Time has marked his flight—
My outward frame doth tell me this;
But still, sweet dove, my heart's as light
As when at first I found the bliss
Of Ellen's love in silken bands.
And what the future has in store
I know not, but my soul expands
Assured thou lov'st me more and more.
This rapturous thought
With blessings fraught
By gold could never have been bought.
But love—such love as we now feel
Ten thousand ills can face and foil,
And passing years afresh reveal—
We better are for cure and toil!
I would not then my lot exchange
For one where pampered luxury
The hearts of man and wife estrange,
And all is insincerity.
A lot like this,
Devoid of bliss,
Dear wife, may we forever miss!
What though when let but forty-three
I sober Grandpa have become?
With thee, my Ellen, yes, with thee
I can enjoy our humble home;
And the dear children to us given,
With those left by my first loved spouse,
Can by God's blessing make a heaven
For me in yet a poorer house!
The world dreams not
That in our cot
We pure, substantial joys have got.
As thus I sing in gladsome strain
Of my unmatched felicity,
There comes an almost endless train
From the deep founts of Memory,
Of pleasing pictures which retain
Poetic colors lich and rare.
Yet fearing they might make me vain,
I breathe to God this fervent prayer:
Lord, shield me well,
From potent spell
Of syren Pleasures, and Pride quell!
Oh, let us humbly now renew
Our vows to God, my sweetest love!
He then will shed His grace like dew
Upon us all, and bid the Dove
Of steadfast Peace assure our souls.
Thus may we battle on in life,
And as each season forward rolls
Feel stronger for the daily strife
Until at last
Our lot is cast
With those who into heaven have passed.
TO THE SAME, ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR MARRIAGE.
SEPTEMBER 26, 1872.
Dear Bride of five-and-twenty years,
I gladly give to thee this song.
That thou wilt spurn it I've no fears,
For love still reigns within thee strong,
And will reign long as life shall last;
For it has stood the fiery test
Of anguished moments in the past—
When out of pain came peaceful rest,
Until our life
Of toil and strife
Is joyful still, my darling wife.
When last I penned a lay to thee
I little dreamt that youthful charms
Would cling to thee at forty-three;
But now the thought my spirit warms
That I can see thee lovelier grown!
While fond affection constant beams
Within thy lovely eyes, light brown,
Thus realizing my young dreams.
For then I thought
The wife I sought
Should bring to me what thou hast brought.
A face lit up with genial smiles,
A heart to love through trials great,
With winning ways, with pleasant wiles,
To cheer me in life's troublous state.
I pictured her both fair and neat,
With voice so soft, with wifely skill,
To make my home a snug retreat
From many kinds of mortal ill.
Such hast thou been,
My own heart's queen,
As good a wife as e'er was seen.
What though we've not attained to wealth?
Have still to toil for daily bread?
So long as God gives precious health,
We have no worldly needs to dread,
For, day by day our table's filled,
Our dearest children constant fed;
With many comforts life to gild,
Our years enjoyably have sped.
Then we'll not care
For larger share
Of riches, which oft prove a snare.
Then, darling, let us battle on,
The future may ev'n brighter prove;
But if it does not we have won
A glorious boon in such true love
As well might smooth a harder life.
And few, I trow, have lived so long
wedded state with joys so rife.
Then fear not, let our hearts be strong
In Christ our Lord,
And let His Word
Yield us the comfort therein stored.
Now, as the ears flow swiftly by,
With crosses manifold to hear,
We still will look to Him on high,
Who has permitted us to share
So much of matrimonial bliss,
And in that bond has kept us true.
Let's deem it best His rod to kiss,
And keep His promises in view.
So, side by side
Our lives may glide
Till death bring us o'er Jordan's tide!
TO THE SAME, ON THE THIRTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR MARRIAGE.
SEPTEMBER 26, 1877.
Full thirty years of wedded bliss,
My darling wife, we have enjoyed;
And still I can with rapture kiss
Thy sweet, chaste lips—for I am void
Of every fear that thou wilt fail
To love me till our race is run.
Our mutual love is still as hale
As though we had but just begun
To link our fate
In marriage state,
Where joys for sorrows compensate.
So, filled with sense of God's rich love,
Let us those decades three review;
For though we have with trials strove
To keep our happiness still new,
We've had Religion's holy aid
Still shedding sunshine on our way,
As we pursued our humble trade
And struggled on from day to day.
Our hearts imbued
With gratitude
Call loud for vows to God renewed.
Now looking back through all these years,
'Midst chequered scenes of daily life,
A family of eight appears
For thee to love and serve, my wife!
Thou wert indeed a youthful bride,
But weak in body—not in heart—
As thou my cherished hearth beside
Sat down, content to do thy part.
And well I know
No lot below
Was e'er more free from earthly woe.
In this review I can't forget
How oft in sickness, grief and pain,
Thy loving heart our needs has met,
While solace rich came in thy train.
Nor when thyself on sick bed lay,
Racked with Neuralgia's maddening pangs.
How Patience kept the wolf at bay,
And made him soon withdraw his fangs.
My darling sweet,
'Tis surely meet
I thee with song like this should greet!
Nor yet when by that dreadful fall
Thy limbs were bruised, thy system shook,
How easily I can recall
Each winning smile, each tender look,
As I attempted to alleve
Thy sufferings great for many days.
And while I could not help but grieve,
I saw thy meekness with amaze;
For no dread pain
Could triumph gain
O'er thee, nor did'st thou once complain.
Then, O my darling, join with me
To celebrate our Father's praise!
For he has kept us lovingly
From hankering after worldly ways.
Raise then our Ebenezer high!
Join, children, in my joyful song!
Lay ever disagreement by,
That you in, union may be strong.
Thus let us wait
At Wisdom's gate,
Till Christ in turn shall each translate.
FAREWELL TO MY HARP
Farewell my rude Harp and my still ruder Lyre!
For season your tones may not fall on my ear;
At the bench will hard labor repress rhyming fire,
And Fact over Fancy triumphant appear.
Yet I will remember the exquisite pleasure
For full thirty years freely rendered by you;
How oft in that time you have proved a rich treasure—
Still constant abiding and evermore true.
Again and again bring afresh to my mind.
How in youth your wild minstrelsy ravished my soul
Till I became daily to musings inclined,
And strong, gushing impulse that scarce brooked control.
I oft will recall how you chased away sadness,
As sore family tumbles my heart did affright
When a fond, faithful partner, whose presence was gladness
Was reft from my side—turning day into night!
Nor forget soon the dirges you poured o'er the tomb
Enclosing both her and our infant so dear;
Whose soul-stirring notes dissipated my gloom,
And since have refreshed me through many a year.
Ah, no! those sweet memories, fresh in me springing,
Shall nerve to new efforts in God's holy cause;
And hearing within me your melodies ringing,
I'll steadfastly aim at observing His Laws.