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Title: The Original Poems of Edward Edwin Foot, of Her Majesty's Customs, London
Author: Edward Edwin Foot
Release date: March 29, 2019 [eBook #59153]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Meredith Bach and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ORIGINAL POEMS OF EDWARD EDWIN FOOT, OF HER MAJESTY'S CUSTOMS, LONDON ***
THE
ORIGINAL POEMS
OF
EDWARD EDWIN FOOT,
OF HER MAJESTY’S CUSTOMS, LONDON.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR.
1867.
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR,
BY CASSELL, PETTER, AND GALPIN, LUDGATE HILL,
LONDON, E.C.
THE POEMS
OF
EDWARD EDWIN FOOT,
MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION, TO
HENRY WILLIAM DOBELL, ESQ.,
Comptroller-General of Her Majesty’s Customs, London,
BY
HIS MOST OBEDIENT AND OBLIGED SERVANT,
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
The author[1] of the present Volume, in tendering his sincere thanks to the gentlemen of Her Majesty’s Customs,[2] and to his other numerous and kind patrons, who so liberally subscribed towards the publication of his little work, assures them that he is deeply sensible of his obligations to them for the almost uniform courtesy with which his solicitations were met; because (being perfectly conscious at the onset of his undertaking how necessary it was to prepare to subject himself to censure as well as approbation, and to arm himself with those indispensable virtues—patience, perseverance, endurance, and thankfulness, without which the attempt would have been futile, and being also aware that nothing but a favourable response to his appeal could possibly lead to the accomplishment of his object) the success which has attended his efforts is certainly far beyond what might have been expected by one in so humble and so obscure a position in life.
There is, however, one gentleman[3] in particular to whom it is the Author’s duty to be—if ’twere possible—more than grateful, for his generous condescension in permitting the manuscripts to be placed in his hands for perusal, and who—after surveying a portion of them—not only recommended the method of publication which was adopted, but gave effect to his advice by kindly becoming the first subscriber to the work—for the Author never would have presumed to publish these poems on his own personal estimation of whatever merit they may possess, so that unless such an impetus had been given to the project it is more than probable he never would have had the gratification of seeing them produced in their present form.
This the Author hopes will afford to his numerous subscribers, and to those in whose hands it may perchance happen to fall, a not unreasonable excuse for his having intruded himself into the unmerciful arena of poetical literature, and, perhaps, be the means of saving his little work—the product of his leisure hours—from being thrust into the gloomy recesses of oblivion.
E. E. FOOT.
London, December, 1867.
[1] A native of Ashburton, Devonshire.
[2] To which he belongs.
[3] Sir F. H. Doyle, Bart., Receiver-General of Her Majesty’s Customs, &c.
The Poems of Edward Edwin Foot.
PUBLISHED 1867.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME.
| PAGE | |
| A Voice from the People (To Her Majesty the Queen) | 9 |
| O! Gather in the Old Yule Log | 11 |
| Evening | 13 |
| The Homeward-Bound Passenger Ship | 15 |
| “Raven Rock” | 28 |
| “Lovers’ Leap” | 36 |
| A Welcome to Alexandra | 41 |
| A West-Countryman’s Visit to London | 45 |
| England’s Hope | 60 |
| Christening the Prince | 62 |
| The Astronomer | 64 |
| On Shakespeare | 68 |
| The Banquet | 71 |
| Thought | 74 |
| Sheep | 77 |
| A School Festival | 81 |
| An Autumnal Day | 84 |
| Our Little Brother | 87 |
| The Coming of the Belgians (1867) | 88 |
| A Song: “Willy” and Anne | 91 |
| A Song: The Lost Merchantman | 93 |
| Friend Charles | 94 |
| The Fallen Leaf | 95 |
| The Gout | 97 |
| The Fox’s Lair | 101 |
| The Petrified Nest | 105 |
| The Kingly Oak of Bagot’s Park | 106 |
| Song: Up, Up my Brave Comrades! | 109 |
| A Letter to His Lordship | 111 |
| My dear Friend John | 113 |
| Christmas Eve (1864) | 114 |
| The End of Miscellaneous Poems. | |
| The Death, Burial, and Destruction of Bacchus; or, The Fruits of Lasciviousness.—An Allegorical Poem, in Two Cantos | 117 |
| Jane Hollybrand; or, Virtue Rewarded.—A Romance, in Six Chapters | 161 |
| A Word for Gifford (In Conclusion) | 263 |
THE POEMS OF EDWARD EDWIN FOOT.
A Voice from the People.
[Composed on the occasion of the inauguration of the memorial statue of His late Royal Highness the Prince Consort, at Aberdeen, 13th October, 1863.]
Hail! virtuous Lady, England’s pride;
Abate thy grief, and gently glide
Among thy people, who—so free—
Have long’d thy widow’d face to see
Bedeck’d with smiles, and thou again
Enjoying tranquilly thy reign.
Come, Lady, and sweet comfort find;
Come with thy children ’round thee twin’d,
For they shall reap that earthly bliss
Sown in thy former happiness.
We’ve miss’d thee, seemingly, for years;
The while thou’st shed a nation’s tears
For thine, for ours, for God’s elect:
Come forth, conjointly to erect
Our heads, and give Him praise for all.
Let Hope’s bright rays again thy soul,
And ours, abundantly rejoice!—
That all thy subjects, with one voice,
May sing “God save our gracious Queen:”—
“Long live our dear and noble Queen
Victoria;” who at Aberdeen,
To-day, amidst her people’s seen
Unveiling to her country’s gaze
A lov’d one’s statue, ne’er t’erase
’T from memory. With fortitude
The ceremony she withstood,
And taught the world how much she loved
The one whom she had so well proved
A husband, and a worthy sire,—
Once mortal; now, immortal, higher!
From thy deep solitude come forth
And tread the land which gave thee birth
With footsteps light; thus, cheerily,
List to our songs so merrily
As thou wert wont in days of yore:
Come, be as blithe as heretofore,
Among thy people; for we fain
Would see thy queenly smiles again.[4]
[4] The author having sent a copy of this poem to Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales (then at Sandringham), had the pleasure of receiving the following letter:—
“Sandringham, November 4, 1863.
“Sir,—I am desired to inform you that, by the direction of the Princess of Wales, I have to-day forwarded to Sir Charles Phipps, for presentation to Her Majesty the Queen, your poem, written on the occasion of the inauguration of the memorial statue of the Prince Consort, at Aberdeen. Her Royal Highness also desires me to say that she read the lines with great gratification.
“I am, sir,
“Your most obedient servant,
(Signed) “Herbert Fisher.
“Mr. E. E. Foot,
“105, Ebury St., Pimlico.”
O! Gather in the Old Yule Log.
O! gather in the old yule log,
No longer green and strong
In the forest of his ancestors,
Cheering the storm-blast’s song;
Nor bending his oaken branches
In rev’rence to the gale,
Whilst echoing forth the forest glee
So hearty and so hale.
O! gather in the old yule log,
Whose lineage and renown
Bespeak for him a welcoming—
Such as is only known
In England’s halls and palaces;
So trim him fair and neat,
And wheel him to the old recess,
Where he shall glow with heat.
O! gather in the old yule log,
The hall-door open wide,
And cheer his venerable corpse,
The forest’s latest pride:
Yet whilst he’s passing—ponder ye
O’er God’s majestic ways;
For in him, gently gliding ’long,
There counts two centuries!
O! gather in the old yule log,
And range him on the hearth;
No subject in the woodland glen
Can tell of better birth.
Where is the heart not grieving (say!)
To part with this old friend,
That’s doomed to blazon here to-night,—
Two hundred years to end?
O! gather in the old yule log,
Who rear’d his branches high
In the sunbeams of a summer’s eve,—
Heav’n’s radiant canopy:
While waving in th’ horizon, then,
Ah! then he could proclaim
His anger to the whirlwind; but,
Alas! it conquer’d him.
O! gather in the old yule log;—
Those leaves are long since fled
Which last adorn’d his stately limbs,
And crown’d his tow’ring head:—
O! could we sing of “glory still
Encircling his old frame;”
But no!—the only thing survives
Is his proud ancient name.
Evening.
What gulfs and ridges mark that shaded line,
Which banks the setting sun!—
The rugged path of life it doth define,
When mortals have outspun
Their “three-score-ten” of years.
The rural margin, form’d by gentle slopes,
Here, there, a cot or farm,
Reveals, as ’twere, a store of heav’nly hopes
Possessing such a charm—
We shed our tribute tears.
Blest is the hoary head that can with joy
Behold the beauteous sight
Of the retiring Orb,—’neath clouds, so coy,
Fring’d with his golden light,
Without recurring sighs!
Whose magisterial beams so oft doth paint
In the unbounded Vast,
Such gorgeous pictures as forbid restraint
Of gladness. Will it last?—
Oh, no! the moment flies.
The city’s margin of this evening scene
Is form’d by spires, and domes,
Uneven roofs of dwellings; where, within,
The wearied find their homes
In reeking atmosphere.
Yon tow’ring dome,[5] crown’d with a golden cross,
Not seemingly content
With its proud quantum of the ariel-moss,[6]
Still higher hath intent;
But stay—this is thy sphere.
Beneath that sacred edifice, so grand,
There rests the dust of men—
Brave warriors, statesmen, and that skilful hand
Which wrought the fabric—Wren.
Ah! ’tis a solemn sight.
The evening breezes bade the mist begone
From off this monument,
Rais’d unto God!—then, in full glory, shone
The holy firmament,
So beautiful and bright.
Haste, haste, ye mortals,—lovingly behold
The goodly visitor!—[7]
Another day is spent, and with it told
The last, the last!—sigh for * * *
But ’tis in vain—’tis fled.
Yes, yes, ’tis fled; and with it gone for ever—
Forth from the mortal cave—
Ten thousand spirits to their first great Giver—
To Him, who Godlike gave:
But, Sol, thou art not dead!
Those eyes that twinkle ’neath the grey-hair’d brow
Of One with wondrous mind—
Defining laws to nations—teaching how
Rulers should rule to find
Love in the multitude—
When clos’d for e’er, ah! then thy country’ll shed,
O! generous Palmerston,—
Its tears for thee, and mourn that thou art dead,—
And History shall mention
Thee,—in gratitude.[8]
[5] The dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, London.
[6] Dew.
[7] The setting sun.
The Homeward-bound Passenger Ship.
Refulgent ’rose day’s harbinger,
And lit with joy the azure space;
The good ship glided gently o’er
The ocean’s undulating face:
And on she goes, she ploughs the deep
With seeming skilfulness and love;
Her inmates gather out from sleep,—
Some send their orisons above:
While others,—thoughtless of the hour,
When it is meet to bend the knee,—
Begarb themselves, display their pow’r,
And revel on, as yesterday.
The cabin deck-light pane is bright,
Which tells them ’tis a cheery morn;
(They do not dream—that ere ’tis night,
Not even one shall live to mourn! * * *)
Good Zephyrus[9] speeds the ship along,
She heeds it—lovingly she bows;
The sailors raise their bowline-song,
And smiles adorn their iron brows.
All’s well, and everything goes meet,
The fleecy clouds, in sport above,
Afford an ocean scene so sweet—
It tempers friendship into love.
The decks are wash’d, the breakfast-meal
Is past, the passengers look gay;
Some pace the quarter-deck, and feel
Desirous to prolong their stay.
A few are lounging o’er the poop,
To see the log-line, out or in;
While on the forecastle’s a group,
Perhaps discoursing on the scene.
Mid-ships—some little children, there,
Dight the clean deck in playful mood;
While mothers hail them to repair
Below, to take their mid-day food.
So “pleased as Punch” away they run;
On Bobby’s back his brother rides;
Dear little Susan loves the fun,
And laughs enough to split her sides.
’Tween-decks, are now in dinner-trim,
The frugal meal is well pursued;
And not a cloud had yet made dim
The deck-light pane, above them view’d.
Sol now hath reach’d his highest point,
The captain marks its altitude;
The beauteous orb’s full golden front
Gives to the seaman—latitude.
The chart is traced, the captain smiles;
The rippling wavelets fly apace;
And all is well; Time thus beguiles,
For joy appears in every face.
The cabin-passengers partake
Their sumptuous fare, unlimited;
Out flies the cork! they freely slake,
And thus their meal is finished.
Down yonder hatchway, in the shade,
The dice or cards are nimbly dealt;
While those who move them oft degrade
Themselves by adding sin to guilt.
Whilst farther aft, in best of hope,
A group[10] seem pompous o’er their gain;
They saffron liquid freely tope,
And whisk the bottles in the main.
The miser counts his money o’er,
Then locks again his little trunk:
The spendthrift, as the day before,
Flies to the bottle and gets drunk.
Here, there is one hums out a tune;
And there, another fain would sleep:
(They little think, ere morrow’s noon
All, all would have to plumb the deep.)
Young wives, with rosy faces, trip—
Sing tunefully as they go by—
Towards the galley of the ship,
To boil, to broil, to bake, or fry,
Some little dainty—eggs, or ham,
An omèlet, or such rarities
As tarts composed with currant-jam,
In readiness towards their teas.
(Oh! had they known it was the last
Their beaming eyes would ever see;
Oh, had they known this one repast,
Preceded their eternity!—
Oh! had they known what sighs and sobs,
What streams of tears would sadly flit,
What beating breasts, what aching throbs,
And how the sturdiest brow would knit—
They would have stagger’d on the deck!
They would have shudder’d at their fate!
Instead of tripping by so quick,
Intent upon the dish or plate.
Yea—e’en the pen that writes it down,
Doth falter at the dismal thought—
That ere the sun, which lovely shone,
Had ’rose again, the wreck was wrought!)
But whilst within the galley, lo!—
A rather sudden lurch ’tervenes,
A little spray hops o’er her prow,
And all is not so well, it seems.
Nay, more: a gloom pervades the deck;
The air is cool; the sky’s o’ercast;
The ship’s smooth course receives a check;
The sturdy seamen scale the mast.
The captain scans the ruffled zone,[11]
And heeds the wind’s increasing scope;
He knows full well, and reckons on
His seamanship, but God’s his hope.
An angry-looking cloud appears,
Extends, and fast obscures the sky;
The timid, nay, the stout heart fears
A storm’s approaching, that ’tis nigh.
The beautiful and sun-lit main,
Which greeted all at early morn,
Is dight with sullen clouds, and rain;
(Already is a jib-sail torn.)
The whistling wind seems full of woe—
The roy’l-top-gallant yard is broke;
The boatswain calls aloud, “Let go!”
And ere another word is spoke,
A sea hath struck hard on her port;[12]
The gale increases fearfully;
For safety now the crew resort,
And fasten down the main-hatchway.
The first dread peal of thunder rolls;
And loud, and louder shrieks the wind;
The captain, through his trumpet, calls—
“Make fast the spanker-boom, behind.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” is the pert reply,
As readily it is obey’d;
While some below prepare to die
On bended knee, with lifted head.
The sweating helmsmen try, in vain,
To guide her through the troubled sea;
And as she pitches in the main,
They labour on incessantly.
Stripp’d of her gayest canvas clothes
She seems undone, yet faileth not
(Though turbulently toss’d) like those
Who to their sleeping berths have got.
She willingly doth brave the storm:
But now the elements conspire,—
The lightning flits in hideous form,
And tints the ship with ghostly fire!
The thunders clap with horrid din,
The minute-guns their storm-cries send;
The fearful shrieking hurricane
Her foretop-gallant mast doth rend!
Sea after sea, leaps o’er her bows;
Sail after sail, are torn in shreds;—
The angry trough more angry grows,
And would-be sleepers fly their beds!
Confusion reigns above, below,—
And Jews and Gentiles fear the Lord,—
Yea, strong men seem as children now,
And strive to utter forth the word.[13]
The boats are lower’d in dreadful haste;
But ’tis too late,—for, one by one,
The merc’less ocean lays them waste;
And fruitless is the minute-gun.
At last the captain, in despair,
Exhorts the passengers t’attend
Unto his last few words of prayer,—
To meet their ’nevitable end!
In every feature death is seen,
In every gesture dire dismay,
For now the seas are stoving in
The starboard, gunwale, and gangway.
For hours the pumps in vain were mann’d,
As tenfold did the waters rise;
The pumpers frenzically scann’d * * *
And some, unnerv’d, betear’d their eyes.
(My muse doth falter to go on,
But on I must, so on I write,—
Though tears are all but trickling down,
As I bewail that mournful night.)
Then mothers, with their infants, cry
And pray, if ne’er before they pray’d;
And those that knew not how, now try:
But in an instant all is said!—
The ship hath rent herself in twain:
A hundred shrieks, and all is lost!
Now, now the furious raging main
Engulfs the overwhelmèd host.
And not a single craft at hand
To witness, or to render aid? * * *
(Read on, if thou canst understand
The dreadful havoc that was made.)
The day before, the sailors’ song
Rang merrily upon the ear;
Sweet infants to their mothers clung,
And fathers did their children cheer.
The night before, the mainmast-truck
Strain’d lovingly the courter’s eye;
Though lack’d it inland flowers to pluck,
The spangled stars flow’rèd the sky.
The good moon took her wonted tour
Along an almost cloudless sky;
Round roll’d the planets as of yore,
And all was pleasant to the eye.
Yes, all was pleasant to the eye
To see the myriad wavelets play,
Or frolic, as it were, so coy
Upon the moon’s expansive ray.
Ah! then she furrow’d the green sea,
And toss’d the phosphorescent spray,
As on she glided merrily
Along th’ unfathomable way.
Next (as the muse described before)—
Refulgent ’rose day’s harbinger;
A prosperous voyage seem’d in store
For passenger and mariner.
The Ocean donn’d its garb of green,
And every little wave that rose
Enhanc’d the beauty of the scene;
And here and there did birds repose.
They watch’d the vessel’s onward course;
The refuse crumbs to them were bliss:
Although its particles were coarse,—
They peck, and deem’d it not amiss,
(Oh! would that vessel ’d been a bird,
To ’ve flown beyond the gale’s dread scope,
And then to ’ve dropp’d again unheard,
Again sail’d on with former hope.)
They saw the ship, dismantled, sink,
And ’lighted on the floating wreck:—
Yea, on the whirlpool’s ghastly brink,
They mock’d the dying on the deck,
(Saw they, alone, the craft divide—
Save Him, in heaven, whose unknown way
Sets men’s poor handiworks aside,
And summons them t’eternity!)
And on the foaming billows lept
With bird-like similè of joy;
Thereon they swung, thereon they slept,
Until the next returning day.
Then, while the sun, swol’n round and red,
Was garnishing the lolling sea,
Uprose the albatross and fed,
(And fed, I ween, luxuriously,)—
Perch’d on a barrel, block, or spar,
An upset boat, a riven mast,
A rope, that shone afresh with tar,
Which yielded to th’ unerring blast.
Or on, methinks, a sailor’s trunk
(Ransack’d in haste for some lov’d thing),
The bottle which, perhaps, got drunk
Him who was last to laugh and sing,—
Unwilling to believe his soul
Would vanish with another breath,
Beyond the influence of the bowl,
Into th’ eternal gulf of death!
(O God, forbid that such an one
Should breathe his last in such a state!
Or ever an unholy son
Inebriately should meet death’s fate.)
Look, look ye down the plumbless deep,
See,[14] if ye can, their lifeless forms!—
Here laid, poor things! across a steep,
An infant in its mother’s arms;
There, it may be, a man and wife
(Embracing either now as when
They went to rest at night, in life),
Are resting in a turbid glen;
And here a damsel, once so fair,
A smile still lurking on her cheek,
But now across that cheek her hair
Is floating wildly in a creek;
There, laid a stripling, great in build,
A leathern girdle’s round his loins,
In which a pocket’s nearly fill’d
With sundry gold and silver coins.
Oh! could we see the ocean’s bed,
(Strewn o’er, no doubt, with mangled bones,
And where there are no bones, instead
Lie gems of rare and precious stones—
Jewels of value set in gold,
And gold engraved by skilful hands,
With marks of friendship on them told,
Near ’bliterated by the sands,)
Our sorrow would vent out in tears;
Nay, should we not, think, shun the sight,—
To see more than a thousand years
Of dismal relics prone to light? * * *
Now in the morn, when all was o’er,
And heaven reveal’d the glorious sun—
When the dire tempest roar’d no more,
And all those leaden clouds were gone—
It chanc’d the ocean’s limpid breast
Bore on and on a minor craft,
From head to foot garb’d in her best,
And meetly trimm’d afore and aft.
Observant did her seamen see
(What prov’d, indeed, too true a sign:)
A splinter’d wreck of the Dundee—
(Ah! once a “clipper” of the “line”)—
On which they read the name in full,
And grasp’d it as it hugg’d the side;
For then the zephyrs seem’d to lull
Expressly to obey the tide.
This cast a sudden gloom on board,
A sort of stupor seiz’d the crew;
They solv’d the mystery in a word—
She’s lost! Then farther on they view
The drifting particles of woe,
Strewn o’er the now peace-waving main.
Confirming what they sadly knew—
“That she would never sail again!”