[69] Cornfields.
[70] A kind of knitted jacket for the body.
[71] The woodbine.
[72] The peasant’s cot.
A School Festival.[73]
Among the fern, the chestnut, and the oak,—
Beside the stilly lake and silent brook,—
A host of little boys and maidens play
With pastors, masters, keeping holiday.
Their merry whistle and their shrill-voic’d tongues,
The hip-hurrahs join’d with their youthful songs,
Make one glad concert of unusual mirth—
One happy unison of joy on earth.
They tumble, rumble, on the beauteous lawn,
As free from care as are the swift-foot fawn
That stray beneath yon summer-blooming trees,
And sniff at will the heav’nly-perfum’d breeze.
See how the little rev’lers romp and fall,
Whilst some are racing for the sky-thrown ball:
A stripling, heedless of th’ obscurèd root
Of some large chestnut, trips his nimble foot,
And stumbles; but ’tis only o’er a mound,
Clad with Earth’s velvet, so no harm is found.
There (laughingly) th’ expectant bride,
Is sporting lovingly with him—her pride:
Then sprightly tripping to another, tries
To startle him, who (turning round) espies
Her merry-making face, and laughs consent,—
Whilst she discloses some blithe sentiment.
* * * * *
Look round again: there seems a sweet content
In every eye; in every bosom seems
A heart that beats with love’s enchanting beams.
List to the music of th’ refection bell:
Behold the young ones,—e’en their gestures tell
What speaks it; they come hast’ning to its ting,
And form themselves, adroitly, in a ring
Upon the trodden blade. They sit, and eat,
And quaff. Why should they not?—It is most meet
Those Englanders should well enjoy their treat.
Hear then the thunder of the little throat
Of him, who first doth nail[74] the Pastor’s coat,—
Of them, who follow—anxious for the prize,
Which is held out to greet their longing eyes—
As forth the Pastor runs from tree to tree,
With equal pleasure and sincerity.
* * * * *
Now for the elder ones: they, like the young,
Refresh’d, hie forth and mingle with the throng,
As prone to mirth, apparently as gay
As Spring’s sweet blossoms in the bright noon-day:
Some tune their voices in harmonious glee,
And thus make jub’lant the festivity;
Whilst others, wand’ring o’er the pleasant grounds,
Return to welcome those according sounds,
And bid them echo, with their meet applause,
The blitheful song in honour of the cause.
Again the ball is launch’d upon the green:
But lo!—down west, day’s radiant lamp is seen
In gorgeous amplitude. The hour has come—
The junior host are marshall’d out for home.
God then is prais’d:[75] and, as the heav’ns grow dark,
The deer are left the guardians of the park.
[73] Composed on the occasion of St. Peter’s (Pimlico, London) annual School Festival, held at Bushy Park, Hampton Court, 27th July, 1865.
[74] Make holdfast.
[75] The singing of a hymn.
An Autumnal Day.[76]
When Morn,[77] returning, upward leaps
Into the realms of day—
Re-gilding mountain-tops, and steeps,
Most heav’nward in the sky,
And finding unpropitious clouds
Spread o’er the vast expanse,—
Obscuring from Earth’s mingling crowds
His needed countenance,—
He puts his golden armour on,
Bends his portentous bow,
And sends his arrows quiv’ring down
Direct upon the foe;—
So swift, so pond’rously each beam
Falls on the murky host,
Disconsolation seizes them;
When, gathering to their post,
Again they furiously contend
For the supremacy;
But they, alas! dejected, wend
Their course reluctantly.
* * * * *
Now, whilst the conflict waxed hot,
He sought the briny foam—
Return’d afresh’d, (but they were not),
And cheer’d the peasant’s home;
Or stole across an emerald lawn,
Thus dighting Nature’s face,
And play’d among the bounding fawn,—
Those youngsters of the chase;
Then o’er the woodland, o’er the plain,
Or down the streamlet borne—
Through grassy vales—on to the main,
Where sailors hail blest Morn:
Now back again to the garden spot,
Or to the infant’s cheek—
Whilst rocking in the nursling cot;
Thence to the orchard creek;
Perchance o’er housetops high and low,
Against the village spire,
Or through the fane he deigns to go
And scans the sacred choir;
Then saunters o’er the lonely grave,
Where mingle rich and poor:
Now off again to the crested wave;
Again to the old barn-door.
* * * * *
And now the god ordains to grace
The city; but ’tis vain—
A sluggish mist pervades the space,
While clouds, dispensing rain,
Lay ’cumbent o’er the busy crowd:
At length his portly mien—
Through some one condescending cloud—
Re-animates the scene!
* * * * *
Ah me! methinks those human beings,
Who raise that murm’ring sound,
Are like a myriad little things
Which hither—thither bound—
Unstable as the sandy shore,
As restless as the sea—
Receding, curling, toppling o’er,
For all eternity.
* * * * *
And when he once more skirts the sky—
Down gliding in the west—
Observe the tim’rous clouds which fly,
Carnation’d, to the east:—
O! watch the gorgeous king of day,
Descending, gone from view * * *
Ah! who shall live to rise, and pray,
As he comes round anew?—
And that he will; but who shall see
The god as round he rolls?—
It may be—Immortality
Hath claim’d a thousand souls!
* * * * *
Some live to see the glorious Sun
Descend the great concave;
But thousands, ere the day is done,
Are silent in the grave!!!
[76] This poem is intended to illustrate the Sun’s fleetings on the Earth’s surface, occasioned by the passage of clouds, on a breezy day.
[77] The Sun.
Our Little Brother.[78]
’Tis night! ’tis night! the solemn hour is come;
A storm-toss’d bark, “’lexandra,”’s on the foam:
Sound an alarm ere she is rift!
To Heaven a hundred eyes uplift:
His Answer comes as doubly swift,—
The winds abate; calm is the crested main,
The goodly craft rides on in peace again.
Touch, touch the thread, which stretches land and sea;
Command it bear the news, with accuracy,
Through channels, rivers, lakes, and rills;
Through England’s vales, o’er Scotland’s hills;
Through Ireland’s uplands, creeks, and dells,—
“Ere proud Aurora flush’d the purple East,
The Danish bark was safe, and sleeps at rest.”
Sound, sound the cymbal, sound the silver horn;
Herald afar “a Prince to-day is born:”
Tell Denmark’s King, “Safe is his child,
That the Great God in kindness smil’d;
A nation’s heart is reconciled:”
Tell him “his Daughter is old England’s pride;
That in our love she alway may confide.”
Send forth the word unto Balmoral halls,—
“That pray’rs were said within our sacred walls,
To Him above, the gracious Giver,
For her, for him, and his for ever:
All hail the little princely brother!”
On British hearts, engraven is the word—
“Our crown and country rules with one accord.”
O Lord, inspire the mother’s tender breast,
That she may offer up her thanks, the best;
And have, in Thee, the surest friend,
To-day, and to a distant end;
Down on her children comfort send:
Bless, Thou, the haven which the shelter gave;
Guard sire, and dame, and children to the grave!
[78] Written on the occasion of the birth of Prince George Frederick Ernest Albert, second son of their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales, at Marlborough House, Pall Mall, 3rd June, 1865, at 1.18.
The Coming of the Belgians.[79]
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!—
Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on;
Ring out its welcome in the sky,
And herald forth to Wimbledon
Our warrior-guests from Belgium-land:
From Belgium land they come, they come
To share with us in Britons’ land
The banquet-board and social home.
Right welcome shall those warriors be
To Britons’ land, to Britons’ land,
For they have come across the sea
To Britons’ land, to Britons’ land.
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!—
Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on;
Ring out its welcome in the sky:
Hurrah! hurrah! for Wimbledon.
’Tis there our laurels now are won—
Where bloom the gorse’s golden flower,
And where the butterfly, anon,
Doth sport amid the bramble bower;
And where the heather dights the plain,
Where Nature, in its forest trim,
Delights the eye, perfumes the main:
Where every daisy is a gem;
Where soars the cuckoo’s glad ding-dong,
And the sweet blackbird’s merry air;
Aye! where the skylark’s matin song
Is, is of all the sweetest pray’r.
Hoist, Britons, host the banner high! etc.
’Tis there th’ elect of Englishmen,
And Scotland’s fairest sons of might,
Bemake the upland grove and glen,
The pinnacle of fame and fight:
’Tis there Hibernia’s children hie,
Join’d by the men of ancient Wales.
For Honor’s prize each country vie;
Ho! ho! ye plains, ye hills, ye vales;
Ho! ho! my kinsmen, ho! and hail
Our brother Belgians from afar,
Who now (responsive) westward sail,
To join in modern modes of war.
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.
To join in modern modes of war
They came, our brother Belgians come,
But not for conquest, nor the star
Which desolates the peasant’s home;
For honor, wisdom, love, and truth,—
These are the prizes—these their aim:
Behold those patriots, age and youth,
All marksmen for their country’s fame.
Then welcome them to Wimbledon,
Ye Britons bold and bolder still;
For there the laurels shall be won
By those of most abundant skill.
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.
’Tis there our countrymen advance
On the high road to royal regard,
For there shall Edward nobly glance
On Britain’s patriotic guard.
Then on! ye willing warriors, on!
Unfurl the standard, lift it high,
And let it wave o’er Wimbledon,—
A beacon to the Belgian eye.
Up with your tents, encamp ye round
“The flaming flag of liberty;”
Send the swift ball forth to the mound;
’Tis won!—whose is the victory? * * *
Let Record mark this year of grace,
When forth the Belgian from the east,
With glowing heart and beaming face,
Came o’er to share the British feast:
When Britain, lit with loyalty,
Drew forth its chamois as of yore,
And deck’d with right baronialty
The banquet-board with choicest store:
Whereat the best skill’d war-men came,
From highlands, lowlands, vales, and plains;
And where the foremost heard his name
Proclaim’d in proud triumphant strains.
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!—
Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on;
Proclaim aloud the victory!—
Hurrah! hurrah! for Wimbledon!
[79] Return visit of the Belgian Volunteers (to England), July, 1867.
A Song: “Willy” and Anne.
“Will you write to me, love, when away,—
When poor ‘Willy’’s gone over the lake![80]—
If you will, I will promise to pay
Thee for all the sweet labour you take?”
“Yes!”—she said, with a faint yet sweet voice—
“But be sure you fail not, in your turn,
To write back to the maid of your choice,—
If ’tis me then she’ll long your return.”
Singing on—said he “Oh! I’ll not fail,
If the heavens are kind to the ship,—
Safely wafting her on with the gale,—
And we reach the French port of Dieppe.”
“Ah then!—when you are there,” said sweet Anne,
“Will you send by the first coming post?”—
(With the same, a small pearl over-ran)—
And she sigh’d—“else I’ll think you are lost!”
Singing on—said he, “Can you forget
Our last ramble beneath the bright moon,
When your ‘Willy,’ and you, loving sat
On the gate-stile, and watch’d it go down?”
“Never! never!” she said, “for e’en now
Thy dear arms I feel round me entwin’d,
With thy lips on my unveilèd brow,
Whilst the zephyrs were wafting behind.”
[80] Signifying the sea.
A Song: The Lost Merchantman.
Dire is the night!—fleet lightnings flash
Across the sombre main;
The thunders roll; the surges lash;
Terrific is the rain:
The quiv’ring ship looks straight a-head,—
She strives to face the storm,—
When lo—the mainmast’s struck, and fled!—
Now her dismantled form
Reels piteously upon the wave,—
She mourns her broken beam;
And the poor seaman sees his grave
Within the turb’lent cream.
Unhappy ship!—unhappy ship!—
Ah! but an hour before
Light as a fairy didst thou skip;
And merrily on you bore
Your burden o’er the field of blue—
Trimm’d like a lovely girl—
Until the ghastly tempest grew,
And all hands ’gan to furl
Thy sails, to shun the dread “white squall,”—
That most unwelcome guest,—
The most portentous foe of all
Upon the ocean’s breast.
The minute-gun booms, but in vain;
Her ropes shriek in the gale;
Alas! her “midship”’s rent in twain:
The Captain, he looks pale,
And—faltering—sighs, and drops a tear,
But brave unto the last:
Now, conscious that his end is near,
(The ship was sinking fast)
Appeals for all to Him on high!
His orisons have flown;—
“Farewell,” he said to one “hard by,”
Then with the ship went down!!!
London, October 2nd, 1865.
Friend Charles ——.[81]
I’m glad, Dear C., to find you’re living still;
And thank you for the usual quinine pill:
Be pleas’d t’accept—more than the sum you crave—
Two extra postage-stamps, with which pray have
One glass of Bass’ —— to cheer thy trusty heart:
May ten years more (if spared to thee) impart
A better spirit to thy chast’ning health:
Altho’, like me—thou may’st lack worldly wealth,
Thou hast a soul symbolical of love,—
Yet never ventur’d in the Hymeneal grove!
Whate’er inquiries might be made for me
Among thine own, and my fraternity,
Tell them I’m blithe (tho’ scanty is my purse),
And that I care not one brave “cobbler’s curse”
For all the riches other men enjoy;
I do my best, my energies employ
To pay the sixpence where there’s any due,—
And therefore settle my account with you.
[81] A few lines on the author’s receipt of a box of pills from an old acquaintance (C. H.) of Ashburton.
The Fallen Leaf.
Autumn’s here: the leaves are flitting,
Thousands o’er the fields are tripping,—
O! watch them as they fall:
Go, eye them as they leave the tree,
All fluttering down reluctantly
Across the beams of Sol.
See ye the Sun—far down the west—
As he goes forth (as ’twere to rest),
And bids one half[82] “Good-night?” * * *
Well—tens of thousands go with him
Down o’er that bank with gilded brim;
Whilst the proud sky is dight
With clouds, like flowers of beauteous tint
Strewn o’er the heav’nly continent
And capering with the breeze—
Stretch’d far and wide and circling round,
And frisking through the vast profound,
As leaves frisk from the trees.
D’ye ween the meaning of my line?—
When Sol goes down that great incline,
I’d have ye think, with me,
That thousands have gone o’er the hill—
Whilst he goes on revolving still—
Unto eternity!
If right ye ween, I’d have you be—
Yea! like that orb—as readily
Prepared to leave the Earth.
Ye high, ye low, ye rich, ye poor,
Ye crownèd head, ambassador,—
No matter rank or birth,—
Reflect ye: for, like as the leaf
Falls down without a sign of grief,
Nor deigns to heave a sigh,
The monarch or the statesman must
Fall down and crumble into dust—
As all are born to die!
London, 18th October, 1865.
[82] One hemisphere.
[83] The nation.
[84] The Right Honourable Henry John Temple, Viscount Palmerston, K.G., G.C.B., &c. (the then Premier of the British Government), died at “Brockett Hall,” Herts, at a quarter to eleven o’clock in the forenoon of Wednesday, 18th October, 1865, aged eighty-one years (all but two days), having been born on the 20th October, 1784. The above lines were written on the occasion of his death.
[85] Scriptural limitation.
The Gout.
That enemy—the gout, I ween,
Of all such demons is most keen:
Some clever people seem to think
It is the treach’rousness of drink;
But where’s there one who fain would bear
Such agony for wine or beer,
Or any other kind of cheer?—
Stuff and all nonsense: yet, no doubt,
Some drinks are feeders to the gout.
Rare Doctor Jenner, whom we praise,
Regarded not this foul disease;
Or if he did, ’tis plain that he
Could not invent a remedy.
Oh! would he had devised a plan
To extirpate the gout from man:
Much praise would then ascend to Heaven
For all the comfort he had given.
But if man must for e’er endure
(For lack of any kingly cure)
To the world’s end this evil thing,
I say—God grant unto the king,
Or queen, or statesman, be who ’t may,
A life no longer than a day!—
For surely ’tis a sin to wish
The gouty monster to a fish.
* * * * *
Would there were men, with wit enow,
This nevious demon could subdue;
I would, for one, bestir the stars
To introduce them to famed Mars,
To Jupiter, or Mercury,—
(Together or alternately,)—
That theirs may be felicity
For evermore. And, farther still,
I’d have their names engraven well
Upon a diamond monument,—
An everlasting testament,—
Recording all their virtues on ’t—
What they had done with liniment,
Without it or with medicines.—
* * * * *
(Now, if I thought ’twere treach’rous wines,
Rums, brandies, whiskies, or champagnes,
Which set this venom in man’s veins,
I’d have the sea drink all the trash. * * *
Give me the bottles for to smash!—
For not one dog[86] shall e’er remain
To give man such infernal pain.)—
* * * * *
And more than this[87]—I’d have them driven
Across the great concave of heaven,
In chariots wrought of solid gold;
Choice diamonds, rubies, gems untold,
Should be inlaid about its sides;
And flying horses (o’er their hides
’Boss’d bullion-trappings, chaste and neat)
Should from their heads down to their feet
Be clad with * * * *;
That gods may envy those proud beings
Who drove from man those evil things—
The gout! the gout! the gout! the gout!—
I turn again my muse about,
And fancy yet I can’t refrain
From lauding in the highest strain—
(As ’twere—with organs, great in tone,
Reverb’rating from zone to zone,
And angels rivalling to intone
Their universal notes of joy;
Whilst all the hosts of heaven deploy
In armour wrought by gods of grace,
And shining through th’ ethereal space
With so much splendour that ’tis meet
One closed his eyes against the treat)—
These men who could the cure complete.
* * * * *
Old Doctor Samuel[88] said (I’m told)—
A pyramid of solid gold,
As high as heav’n—or higher still—
For him who could the villain kill,
Ought to be built upon a hill.
Aye! thousands would improve the pen,
In ecstasies, to praise the man,
Or rhetorise in words of bliss—
“To him perpetual happiness
Should be awarded from on high,
For ridding that dire enemy.” * * *
Oh! what a song of joy I’d write
If I could hear it said to-night—
“The plaguy rogue was kill’d outright.”
Alas! (I am most loath to state)
I fear not one, so fortunate,
Will ever be the poor man’s friend
To bring this d——l to an end.
[86] Bottle.
[87] The introduction to Mars, Jupiter, Mercury, &c.
[88] Doctor Samuel Johnson.
The Fox’s Lair.
Bleak is that spot, prone to the west,
When winter lays it bare,
And when among those rocks the blast
Moans harshly on the ear.
But there, though bleak, though rough, though wild,
Old Reynard makes his bed,
And shelter’d by those rocks, beguil’d,
Serenely rests his head.
Therein he lurks the livelong day,
There sleeps the wily thief;
He, like a robber, plans for prey,
But comes at last to grief.
Around and ’bout those mossy stones,
Wherein the felon prowls,
Lay strewn a thousand tiny bones—
The sunder’d frames of fowls,
Of lambs, and other innocents,
Bred to have ’dorn’d the plate:
Those sundry farm-yard ’habitants
Met a most wretched fate!
The sunbeams gild not Reynard’s brow,
He shuns it with dismay;
He feeds not with the old milch-cow
In open fields of day.
The last streaks of the sunken Joy
Are signals to advance;
Then the foul cave he leaves so coy,
And like a rogue doth glance
Below, above; his eyes roll round,
He sniffs the breath of night:
All’s silent now,—no yelping sound
Prevents his hasty flight.
Out, and upon his deathly track,
The coppice combs his hair;
Instinctively he weens his back
Will have a prize to bear.
Behold him on the farm-yard fence,
Surveying the peaceful fold:
See how the tartar sneaks from thence—
Ah! see—his jaws have hold! * * *
His little lambkin victim dies:
Then, with accustom’d skill,
He hurls it on his back, and flies
Home to the stony-hill.
There in his haunt (rocks and dank earth),
The daring burglar spills
His victim’s blood, with brigand’s mirth,
And sends it forth in rills * * *
Next morn, as usual, all the flock
Is counted o’er, and o’er,—
Suspicion is arous’d—the stock
Is minus one! (not more)—
The farmer hurriedly looks ’round,
Unwilling to believe
His little lamb’s not to be found,
Then he begins to grieve:
So ’round and ’round the yard he paced,
Scann’d every thought-of nook;
At length upon the fence he traced
The course the rebel took.
Beyond the fence a narrow pass
Through thick-grown furze led on
To where there was a patch of grass,
A spot both dank and lone;
Here turn’d the fiend through dwarfish oak,
Which stretch’d up half a mile,
Then nimbly cross’d a limpid brook,
And gain’d the granite pile.
Long ere the farmer reach’d this den
The wolfish feast was past:
He mourn’d his lost one, but ’twas vain,
And said—“This is thy last.”
Six rough-hair’d terriers, fresh from sleep,
All eager for the fray,
Compell’d the laughing fiend to weep
Before it was noon-day.
The clacking of each battle dog
Surprised the sharp-nosed thief;
Who doubtless stood shrunk like a slug,
Yet desperate in his grief.
Now raged the conflict doubly fierce:
Uncertain which had won,
The farmer listen’d: shrieks then pierce
His ear: he listen’d on—
Alas! he miss’d his favourite’s voice—
His darling’s tongue was hush’d;
From him—the warrior-dog of choice—
Life’s stream had freely gush’d,
Though his was not the only wound:
A pause: now all is mute:—
Then came five grisly dogs to ground;
They limp—the pain’s so ’cute.
Spill’d blood bespatter’d each rough skin,
Which spoke the dreadful strife
That murderously had raged within,
With sacrifice of life.
Yes! out they came, and bore along
The corpse of their slain mate:—
The farmer’s heart was sorely wrung
To see his favourite’s fate!