[35] London.

[36] “Captain” is a familiar term invariably applied to the manager of a mine.

[37] Westlooe is a small town in Cornwall.

[38] Little dreaming of the sad disasters which were about to befall him. The puffing of the engine.

[39] Passing through a tunnel.

[40] Where the train stopped for ten minutes.

[41] The refreshment department at the station.

[42] A Five-shilling piece.

[43] A very doubtful matter whether the lad ever did return.

[44] Paddington Station.

[45] In a dream.

[46] Seven and sixpence—a singular coincidence.

[47] The sensation of one’s hair standing erect.

[48] Inside the skirt-lining of his coat.

[49] Stationer’s shop.

[50] The lady with whom the Captain joked on his journey to town.

[51] The Captain had promised his friends to give them a full account of his journey, &c., when he returned.

[52] His wit.

[53] An extra sixpence to pay for a glass of grog.

[54] Including the value of the watch, chain, &c.

[55] The Captain himself.

[56] Grave.

[57] There seems to be no doubt whatever (assuming the story to be a true one) that the Captain’s greatest disaster—his losing his old “leathern pouch,” as he called it, occurred on the platform of the Paddington Station, when, in his great hurry to get away, he tumbled so violently over the trunk; and being in the habit of carrying his “pouch” in the inside breast-pocket of his coat, the probability is, that it escaped from thence in consequence of the sudden jerk it received. He, as a matter of course, being a Cornishman, took very little—if indeed any—notice of the fall, for (with an air of triumph) he recovered his perpendicular, and started off—as observed before in the poem—in which the direction of Edgware Road. As regards the disappointment and dismay which the Captain met with afterwards as to the recovery of his watch, that was what might have been expected by any shrewd person, because it was very natural that some sharp individual would have observed the “vertisement,” and would, as a matter of course, take some such a step as, unfortunately for Joseph, turned out to be the case.

England’s Hope.

Note.—The author takes the opportunity of stating here that, having sent of the three poems—“England’s Hope,” “Christening the Prince,” and “Our Little Brother”—to Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales (as the three incidents occurred), he had the gratification of receiving on each occasion a letter expressing their thanks for the same.

When suddenly one wintry night,
Throughout the land with ’lectric flight,
The news[58] sped far and wide,
Old England ’rose with sterling joy,
And hail’d the princely infant boy!—
The offspring of our pride.
For whilst on Britain’s favour’d soil,
Ten thousand round had ceas’d from toil,
Kind nature rack’d her frame:
But Time, the god of hope and fear,
Deign’d not, in love, to linger there;
Relief was wrought and came!
And Providence, so wondrous kind,
Thus sooth’d a mother’s anguish’d mind—
The parent[59] of our hope:
Whose children’s transient joys, or cares,
She most affectionately shares
With gentle sovereign scope.
Thanks! thanks! a myriad hearts entreat;
Look upwards and with zeal repeat
This universal song,—
Grant to the mother, God, so good,
Thy daily gifts of choicest food;
And pour amid the throng,
On her Thy unction of sweet peace;
Thy wisdom and Thy care increase,
And save her from the foe
That robb’d us of a cherish’d name.[60]
Let health and charity inflame:—
Command it to be so,
“’Tis done!” Praise, and with might implore
The righteous God, His gifts to store
For the sweet infant prince;—
To gird with strength and love combined;
T’endow him with a generous mind:
And let a people hence-
Forth render eagerly their arms,
If that false god—Delusion charms
Or enemies incite
To dare invade the British Isles,
Our valour, hope, our tears and smiles,
Shall guard them in the fight!
But may the warlike dream be this:
“A son receive a mother’s kiss,—
A father’s fondness prove,—
The only weapons to engage;
The only conflict to assuage;
The only god—pure Love.”

[58] The accouchement of Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales, and the happy birth of a Prince, at Frogmore Lodge, Windsor, at 8.55 p.m., Friday, 8th January, 1864.

[59] Her Majesty the Queen.

[60] Albert. His late Royal Highness The Prince Consort died 14th Dec., 1861.

Christening the Prince.[61]

One circle round our Sun—and o’er—
Is perfected, since forth there stray’d[62]
In youth a fair Princess,
From whom fell liquid drops of love—
Love-crystals of her wedding tour.
Though griev’d, the fair-form’d gentle maid
(Whom God was pleas’d to bless),
With modest courage sweetly strove
And conquer’d it!—Joy helping her.
Those moments sad, Time soon spent out:
Her Edward, yet afar,
Beheld her with bright vision’s eye.
She wiped away the pearly tear,
And tripp’d on deck. Then ’rose a shout
For Denmark’s shooting star—
Resounding thro’ the azure sky!
Silently sped the ship over the sea:
Edward beheld his Bride, happy and free.
England’s store of wealth and fame
Burst forth in one united blaze,
And reel’d in ecstasy—
Love’s civil war of Joy v. Joy!
To-day, around the Font to name—
(As on a courtly group we gaze
In seemly modesty)—
The pretty infant nursling boy,
A family of royal descent
Implore Great God’s especial care,
For this, their lovely child.
* * * * *
O bounteous Lord, who gave him breath!
Behold them reverently bent
Whilst offering up their pray’r
To Thee, Who kindly smiled:—
Defend and succour unto death.
Now in their triple bond, safe from the sea,
Edward beholds them both happy and free.

[61] The reader will please to observe that lines 1st and 5th, 2nd and 6th, 3rd and 7th, &c., have rhythmical terminations.

[62] The author seeks indulgence in using the word “stray’d.”

The Astronomer.

Cold, yet salubrious, is the night,
And quiet reigns around;
Mid-winter’s nimbly spread its white
Robe o’er the goodly ground.
The silver’d earth reflects the moon,
As, in her majesty,
She rides across that vast saloon
Where mystic meteors fly,—
Where giant stars,[63] all in their course,
Roll through the plains of night,—
Sustain’d by their centrip’tal force,
And centrifugal flight,—
Illuminating the blue main
(Where discontents ne’er rise),
As on they travel in a train
Through the enchanting skies. * * *
Famed Venus, Jupiter, or Mars,
Attract the passer-by;
While countless other glittering stars
Ne’er catch a single eye.
Some creatures, weary with their toil,
Scarce lift their heads above;
And others, thoughtless of them all,
Prefer their downs of love.
But the Astronomer’s deep mind
Soars through the ocean air,—
He loves the Hand which has design’d
The heav’ns with so much care;
For in’t he finds a glorious feast
Of beauteous wonderment!
Though thousands ’round him take their rest,
He seeks the firmament:
Therein abides his only hope,
And there his soul is lost!—
In solitude he loves to cope
The grand nocturnal host;
His nourishment—the silv’ry draught,
While ’tis a cloudless sky;—
But lo! he turns and views, abaft,
Some striplings of dark dye.
And then a group, of murky hue,
Seem to conspire to mar
The radiant twinklers from his view,
And hide his favourite star.
All hope—awhile—now gone from him,
He seeks his lonely bed,
And there he utters, in a dream,
Those words—“When I am dead!” * * *
Awoke—his ever-studious mind
Impels his feathery pen,
And draws, perchance, his last design
Of the ethereal main.
Ah! something stirs him to a smile—
Like lightning skips his quill;
Then, for some reason, waits awhile,
And sits, as ’twere, stark still:
Or, studiously obedient to
The impulse of his heart,
Inclines his heavy-laden brow,
And drops his grey-goose dart.
Then, when ’tis eve, he travels forth
To scan the starry height,
With instruments of precious worth,
And compasses the night.
Fix’d,[64] and directed to the spot—
The object of his gaze—
Exclaims the man, “O, beauteous dot!—
Some men, methinks, will praise
Thee more than I, when ’neath the sod
My cold clay form is laid:—
When I th’ immortal path have trod,
They’ll talk of him that’s dead.” * * *
He strikes the bosom of his muse,
And chants in silent song
A hymn of joy, whilst he reviews
The grand celestial throng.
He envies not the king his throne;
The nation its proud wealth:
But ponders o’er the purple zone,
Till self-destroying health
Bids him relax the arduous task,—
He sighs at every breath,—
For on his pale cheeks lurk the mask
Of hungry-looking death.
Yet still assiduously goes on
The man (not of this world):
Until, alas! his period’s run—
The sails of life are furl’d!
His worldly goods are sought by those
The nearest of his kin;—
On cumb’rous shelves, in cupboards, doze
The products of his pen.
They see, at length, in their rude style
That in the vast blue heav’n
There rangeth one more ariel-isle!
Its name was all but given * * *
Enough though had been writ of it,
Man’s wisdom to absorb;
For yet-liv’d ’stronomers deem’d fit
To seek the new-born orb:—
Yes, and ’twas found! and then they raise
A tribute to its fame,
And learn the dead man’s works to praise.
And lauded forth his name.

[63] The Planets.

[64] His astronomical instrument.

On Shakespeare.

[Composed on the occasion of “The Shakespeare Tercentenary Festival,” 1864.]

Note.—The reader is requested to observe that lines 1-5, 2-6, 3-7, 4-8 (and so in every eight consecutive lines), have rhythmical terminations, though the quantity of feet do not agree; but the number of feet in lines 1-9, 2-10, 3-11, 4-12, 5-13, 6-14, 7-15, and 8-16 (and so in each successive 16 lines), will be found to correspond, with but slight variation.

He liv’d to die, but not to be forgott’n,
Without a title save that his parents gave him,—
A proud yet simple one indeed,—
Such as almost a very babe might utter.
Although the dust of his birth-dwelling’s long since trodd’n,
He’s now, as was of yore, a glorious shining beam,
On which our memories love to feed.
His mother fondly watch’d his gentle stature:
Himself the womb of a rare sparkling brain:
And heaping, aye! unthought of world-wide wondrous fame
With his enchanting pen:—the food,
The fondest food of history, and the stage:
’Twas but a little cabinet that did contain
The ponderous manuscripts which bore his goodly name—
Those volumes so well understood.
O god of bards, thou wert the greatest sage!
* * * * *
“The tempest” of life he did begin to fare
One April-month, ’tis writ (in Fifteen’ sixty-four)
Not “much ado about nothing.”
“Love’s labour lost?” Oh, no—indeed ’twere not!
In him were planted tender shrubs, and striplings rare,
Which grew, at length, to giant trunks of strength and pow’r:
In literature he ’came a king.
To grasp the sceptre of the stage he wrote.
* * * * *
Whilst but a youth, at Stratford-upon-Avon,
He stole, poor lad! away from one Sir Thomas Lucy.
A lucky day was that for “Will,”—
When he began his “comedy of errors,”—
Startling, withal, men’s minds for ever and anon!
Erst chalking satire on the knighted-man’s own gateway.
“Measure for measure,” penn’d his quill,
And left poor Lucy, first to taste his terrors.
* * * * *
O thou bright charmer of the inmost spark!
Why revell’d thou so soon in death’s grim holiday—
Ere time had run its ’lotted space?
In peace thy work began was finished well.
Like as the stars which shine throughout the dreary dark
Thy feather’d instruments made letters and words say
That thou didst live—didst live to chase
Gods to their heav’n; and devils to their hell.
* * * * *
(Men stirr’d themselves and ransack’d o’er their wit,
And did in their quiet homilies rack brain and soul
To render unto the great dead
A worthy tribute of their country’s love.
With all the modern implements of learning writ
They—each and either of them—their own favourite roll:
“Not as you like it,” be it said,—
He wrote a play while they their plans approve.)
“Will’s” cloudy days nigh spent, his sun arose!
(God with him, tickling his fair brow and sparkling eye)
With wisdom wrote he ’n majesty
On high-born kings and lowly peasantry
In rhyme’s sweet readings; lines of quaint sarcastic prose:
Perhaps offendingly to some; whilst others sigh,
Or laugh, or cry, and timidly
Enjoy the witty man’s bright pleasantry.—
Behold his genius! look ye to the skies;
For like a planet, known by its respective sign,
So was he—good William Shakespeare—
Occupying the golden throne of history;
Whose countless pages, fraught with gloomy mysteries—
Stored o’er and o’er in ancient and in new design—
Are lasting monuments, so dear,
That he shall ne’er escape from memory.

The Banquet.[65]

The summer crept from May to June,
When flow’rs yield most their perfumes sweet,
And add their charms to the saloon,
To make the banquet-room complete.
See: there they are, of every hue,
Of every cast, in aspect rare;
All greeting all who deign to view,
And smiling on the happy pair.
Their meet companions all attend—
Those crownèd giants of the pine,—
And in their place, beneath them, bend
The goodly tenants of the vine.
Those purple cisterns,[66] fill’d to brim,
(And those green beauties by their side,)
Enrich the little seas that swim
In goblets, through the eventide.
’Round golden pedestals they cling,
Among th’ elect of every fruit:
Hear they, as ’twere, the glasses ting;
Burst they with joy, yet they are mute.
Their turn is come—O, happy fate!—
A kindly hand assists them down;
They garnish well the polish’d plate,
Until their fairy-life is flown.
Now listen to the harmony—
Those compliments of courteous love:
Observe how wondrous loyally
And royally the things do move!
The banquet-board bore on its face
Profusion’s burden of choice store:
The hostess loan’d her wonted grace—
Enhanc’d by the gay garb she wore:
And by her side, on her right hand,
The son of England’s cherish’d Queen,—
Prince Edward, of all Britain’s land:
None fairer of his sex are seen.
Glance o’er the board—behold the host,
(Whom this fair Prince doth honour well,)
Though years he numbereth the most,
In wit and wisdom none excel:
On his right hand, eyes sparkling bright,
Sat Alexandra, England’s own.—
She saw, was seen, and spell’d the night:
Yet there were other stars that shone,
Whose smiling countenances glowed
With love, and hope, and charity;
Within whose bosoms freely flowed
The stream which mark’d their ancestry,—
Of ancestors who scared the foe
With swords and bucklers, armour bent,
Swift arrows from well-bended bow,
Or matchlock leaden bullets sent;
Whose loyalty unto the crown,
When dangers frown’d at home, abroad,
Brought kingly gratulations down,
And blessings from Almighty God.
Have ceased those feudal wars of yore,—
When heritages were purloin’d,
Or purchas’d with death’s clotted gore,
To satisfy th’ insatiate mind.
Now peace, triumphant, fill’d each heart;
The rosy wine-cup teem’d with pride;
The banquetees[67] had met to part:—
Gone, gone is this blithe eventide!

[65] This poem was composed on the occasion of the Banquet given by Lord and Lady Palmerston, June 22nd, 1864, in honour of their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales.

[66] Grapes.

[67] The guests.

Thought.

O silent tickler of the human brain!—
The infant’s, boyhood’s, manhood’s, and old age’—
In some thou ’bidest with consoling strain;
In others, burning with revengeful rage.
The babe is prompted to its mother’s breast,
While with sweet lullabys she heeds her child,
And dandles it, or rocks it on to rest;
Herself perchance a widow, or beguil’d:—
A widow! and within her village cot,
She sees the fence encircling the green sward,
And eyes the porchway, leading to the spot
Where he lies mould’ring, once the village bard.
“Boys will be boys,” and so they go a playing;
Methinks I see nigh twenty of them there
Who drop their marbling while the donkey’s braying,
And laugh most heartily at what they hear.
There, ten years hence, not one of them is seen,
The field of industry absorbs them all,
Yet there are others playing on that green,
Knuckling at marbles, or at batting ball.
One well-known lad has gone across the sea,
Another’s crippled, and another’s dead:
Out of those twenty there remains but three,
And they have cares, for each of them have wed.
The man—a merchant, or a city-scribe,
Has round him rang’d his family-group at night;
His gains are great, and therefore doth subscribe
Towards the evening’s leisure of delight.
God’s holy day comes round, they take in turn
To fill the pew, for which he pays the rent:
They’ve not yet had occasion for to mourn,
And so the intervals are cheerly spent.
He banks his cash day after day, perchance;
His sundry books are regularly pent;
He speculates at home, in Belgium, or in France,
For all goes well upon the Continent.
Speeds forth at morning in his usual health;
The family-group repeat their kind adieu;
Once more he’s on the path to gain and wealth,
And meets a friend, who startles him anew!
The news of some disastrous incident
Now smites him like a demon’s evil dart—
The bank, in which he felt most confident,
Is “broken,” and will soon have broke his heart!
He then to Heaven uplifts his tearful eyes
(Adversity had check’d the worldly spark);
Despairingly he ponders, then he sighs,
Like as a seaman in a sinking barque.
Time, swiftly rolling, ’printeth on his cheek
A hallow’d countenance, imbued with care;
Once mighty,—humble, thankful now, and meek,
And regular at morn’ and evening pray’r.
Obedient to God’s laws of life and death,
Old Age prepares to meet Eternity!—
Deep furrows on his brow, and shorten’d breath,
Are tokenings of his infirmity.
Recurs to him (when at his social board)—
Some little element of jealousy,
Occasion’d through an inadvertent word
Escaping, when in his prosperity.
He now repenteth of the injury done,
And makes amends by words of lovingness;
Calls to his side his dear and only son,
Whose mind, refresh’d, at once forgiving is.
A thousand little things flit to his mind,
With wondrous force of perspicuity;
As in his old arm-chair he is reclined,
Believes what once was incongruity.
The lessons of a life-time now hath taught
The old man to put faith in holy things;
He strikes his bosom, for a happy thought
Revives some former truthful ponderings.
Alas! he fails, bed-ridden; (hence he dies.)—
Some goodly creature reads the Book of fate.[68]
His family ’round him, sees him close his eyes;
And thus is finish’d the four-fold estate.

[68] The Bible.

Sheep.

How welcome ’tis to human eye
To see the mead-lands gay with sheep:
How homely is the lambkin’s cry,
How sweet to see them run and leap.
Look, whilst unheeded falls the show’r,
How nimbly each one nips the blade;
And, as the rain-drops trickle o’er
Them, how intent they mind their trade.
Their life-time’s short, but sweet content
Ne’er fails them: on and on they pass,
And as they wander innocent-
Ly yield, and aid the growing grass.
When Dame Aurora steeps the main
With her resistless flood of light,
They’re up, and at their trade again,
And nibble, nibbling till ’tis night.
But when a storm is gathering fast,
See how they’ll seek some shelter’d cove;
How cunningly they’ll shun the blast,
Beneath a hazel-hedge, or grove.
When down at night they gently lie,
Unconscious where the light hath flown,
It may be plann’d for all to die
Before the morrow’s afternoon.
’Tis so!—a sound doth ’lectrify
The timid throng: they congregate;
And, as th’ intruder they espy,
Seem apprehensive of their fate.
Away unto some nook they run,
Or to the angle of the field;
The shepherd marks them one by one,
And one by one they have to yield.
(Perchance it is the month of May):
Their shornèd quarters fat and fleet
Are needed in some other way,—
Are soon, alas! transform’d to meat.
O! little faithfuls,—eat and drink,
For on to-morrow you must fall:
’Tis good thou hast no thought to think;
Were ’t so thy life-time would be gall.
Suppose it’s March: the fields[69] are bare;
The hunter’s horn rides on the gale;
And suddenly a fox, or hare,
Comes bounding over hedge or pale,
Then see them how they’ll gather round,
As though some dreadful foe was near;
And mark, when forth the foremost hound
Comes yelping onward, how they fear;
And stand aghast-like—stark and still—
Until the yelpers have flown past,
Until the hunters cross the hill,
And then again seek their repast.
(Now when the distant sportsmen see
The nervous flock haste to the fence,
’Tis known to them with accuracy
The prey hath cross’d, or crossing thence.)
Ah! little think they (but ’tis true)
That, as they heed the fleeting throng,
Those hunters’ coats, red, green, or blue,
Have from such backs as theirs been flung.
Turn, reader, from the blithesome chase
To where the staggering thrust is dealt;
Behold the death-stains on the face,
And see what gory blood is spilt:
Conceive, what thousands in a day
Reel at the shock which lays them low;
That as they hang, as cold as clay,
Ten thousand more receive the blow!
All pity’s fled, when (at the fire,)
Leg, loin, or shoulder’s on the spit,
To grace the table of the squire—
Surrounded by things amply fit.
Where they were born, or how they live,
On what they feed, or how they die,
Or how the little creatures grieve
When on the butcher’s block they lie.
Ne’er strikes th’ attention of the guest,
Host, hostess, scull’ry-maid, nor cook;
It’s—whether it be rightly drest,
And whether “paid,” or on the book.
O! little faithfuls,—eat and drink,
For on to-morrow you must fall:
’Tis good thou hast no thought to think;
Were ’t so, thy lifetime would be gall.
Trip on, lie down and go to sleep,
Run skipfully, or stand ye still;
Feed on, as should ye—pretty sheep,
Until thou deem’st thou’st had thy fill;—
No-one will grudge thee what thou’st ta’en,
For in return thou ’videst us food:
Ah! through the field and narrow lane
Thou’rt hurried to the field of blood.
Thy jackets, shorn, are piled in store,
Or carted to the mart for sale;
Thy wool, O! meek ones (woven o’er),
Adorns the hearth, flaunts in the gale.
In every land, on every sea,
Where commerce traverses the globe,—
’Tis knit in garb’s simplicity;
Knit in the monarch’s choicest robe;
Knit in the infant’s swaddling clothes;
Knit in the mother’s “jaconet;”—[70]
In colours various as the rose,
As various as the violet,
Promiscuous ’sturchion, and (methinks)
Still further—the chrysanthemum,
Punctilious dahlia, hornèd pinks,
The rose-like poppy in full bloom.
Nay, more—geraniums, beauteous things,
The ear-drop fuchsias—every kind,
And that sweet flow’r[71] which gently clings
To where contentment fills the mind[72].—
Not that contentment reigns alone
In the most humble cottages,
But that it is more rarely known
To dwell in gorgeous palaces.