[157] The ferryman of Hell.

[158] Dog with three heads.

[136] Libitina, goddess of funerals.

[137] A son of Jupiter, remarkable for his wondrous strength and numerous exploits.

[138] The goddess of death.

[139] The west wind.

[140] The embalming of the body of Bacchus.

[141] Goddess of the morn.

[142] The moon.

[143] “Stripling” is intended to signify its more recent discovery in the heavens than that of the other planets.

[144] The World.

[145] Goddess of agriculture.

[146] The earth.

[147] The superior and inferior deities and planets enumerated in the poem.

[148] Of the interment of Bacchus.

[149] Daughters of Jupiter. The Muses.

[150] Wife of Pluto.

[151] With their tremendous shouts.

[152] Here follows Bacchus’ agony.

[153] The three Fates.

[154] The three Furies.

[155] The word “there,” at the beginning of same line.

[156] The goddess of Darkness.

A Poem, in Romance.

IN SIX CHAPTERS.

JANE HOLLYBRAND;
OR,
VIRTUE REWARDED.

BY
EDWARD EDWIN FOOT.

Jane Hollybrand; or, Virtue Rewarded.

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

I.

In yonder vale,—famed for its genial mould,
Its pastoral beauties, and rare grains of gold,[159]—
There, ’neath the shelter of a peasant’s cot,
A pair of rosied cheeks was the fair lot
Of young Jane Hollybrand; who had to toil,
To cook potatoes; cauliflowers to boil;
To scrub and clean the inside[160] oaken floor;
To watch and feed the chickens at the door;
To see the drowsy pig cried not in vain;
To cheer in summer-time, or winter’s reign,
Her loving father. On returning home
From his day’s work, she’d say:—“Come, father, come.”
And, with an angel’s voice, so clear, so sweet—
“The supper’s ready, father, take your seat.”
Alas! her mother, Death had stol’n away
Just when ’twas needed most that she should stay
For her child’s good. The poor man’s heart was rent:
The twilight hour was regularly spent
In reading godly books, wherein he sought
The Holy One, for help: then was he taught
That sacred saying—life is but a span!
And then he’d sigh, and well he might, poor man.
Twelve years of sweet conjugal happiness,
Had made their little home a paradise,—
’Til that grim monster stretch’d his deathy hand,
And marr’d the pleasures of George Hollybrand.
Great must, indeed, have been the father’s grief;
But gaining faith—through pray’r, he found relief.
He taught his darling with a father’s care
To spell, to read, to write; to be aware
Of certain youths; who, from the village, found,
Their way unto the cottage-hallow’d ground.

[159] Corn.

[160] Inner room.

II.

About this thatch-roof’d dwelling, so remote,
A blackbird chirped from its tiny throat
Its rural anthem; and for this Jane gave
The brown-bread crumbs, she’d made a rule to save.
So came the pretty robin-redbreast, too,—
(Oh! that the world was half so good and true,)
She from the leaded window-sill would pick
With birdlike aptitude—so wondrous quick—
The frugal fragments of Jane’s surplus store;
Haste to her offspring, and return for more:
Sometimes the pretty creature chirp’d in vain,
But not when Jane could spare a crumb or grain.
Throughout the months of April, May, and June,
Forth came the cuckoo, and chimed out his tune
Upon the sky-branch of the apple-tree;
There, unmolested, perch’d he merrily:—
O! happy favourite, of the wingèd host,
Where dost thou dwell—inland? or on the coast?—
Or in some dreary cave, where all is night,—
Belike earth’s chaos ere God gave the light?
Say—whither shall imagination trace
Thy magic form; to hear thee chime with grace
Thy rare ding-dong harmonious voice:
Oh! tell us, tell us, that we may rejoice
In thy long absence,—that we may obtain
A fancied hearing of thy heav’nly strain:
Ah! thine, indeed, must be a cherub’s throat:
Who taught thee singing, blest one? or, by rote,
Didst thou, thy pretty self improve the note
With such precision, that for miles around
Attentive list’ners hear thy twofold sound?
Thou art a sort of majesty in air,
Without a crown, without a kingdom’s care:
When in July thou’st bidden all farewell—
Methinks I hear thee still in yonder vale;
And long the joy to list thy voice again
When winter’s past, and spring resumes her reign.

III.

Now in the spring-time of the coming year,
When in the south celestial hemisphere
Proud Horus mounted with increasing strength,
And each succeeding day had grown in length;—
When April clouds their vernal drops had shed,
And bonny May had made all nature glad;—
When that arch monarch had assail’d the moon,
And bade her quarter in the month of June;—
Then in the garden, rearward of the cot,—
(A little oblong well-trimm’d fruitful spot,
Encompass’d round with hedge-row elder trees,)
Thenceforth would come the meek harmonious bees;
There trip from plant to plant, from flow’r to flow’r,
A-gathering in their luscious golden store.
Some day, perchance, when Horus waxed warm,
The honied-host would sally forth and swarm:
Their movements little Jane would watch with care;
Would call her father, and again repair
Towards the garden: then she knew full well
’Twas time to fetch and swing the tinkling bell,
To save them winging down the orchard-dell.
* * * * *
A stone-throw from this cot, where ran a stream
’Twixt mossy blocks of granite, there would gleam
The glowworm’s beautiful and brilliant light,—
Whilst wandering in the silent lovely night,—
A living lantern in the darksome hours,
’Midst the green hawthorn and the wild-grown flow’rs,
For other insects of its kindred race,
Whose continent is but a little space.
The rivulet (whose distant stream is heard
Careering on and on as though it fear’d
To lose its turn into eternity[161]—
To mingle in old Neptune’s revelry,)
Is oft obscured by Nature’s ambient sward;
Oft check’d; its reckless dance and frolic marr’d,
And turn’d aside to till the farmer’s pail
For breakfast, tea, and to make home brew’d ale.

[161] The ocean.

IV.

Not far from here,[162] in this delightful vale,
The venerable squire’s old mansion stood,
Surrounded by rich pasturage and wood;
The squire, himself a rare good-natured gent,
Oft at this dwelling, hours of leisure spent;
Would smoke his pipe, and not refuse to take
A crust of cottage bread, of honest[163] make:
The sweet demeanour of this youthful lass
Induced his “honour” to go there, and pass
A portion of his time in quiet talk—
In cautioning the damsel how to walk
Through life’s rough path; and whilst to him she’d listen,
Her face would crimson, and her eyes would glisten:
This frank old Englishman confess’d his pride
In stealing forth from home; awhile to hide
From those gay gatherings within his halls,
Where fashionable folk make daily calls
(A-talking of the past, and coming balls,)
Their avocation,—there to bow and prate,
And worry nature in its last estate.

[162] The cottage.

[163] Unadulterated.

V.

It hap’d a gentle youth—a lordly heir
To vast domains—did annually repair
Unto this country-mansion, to renew
His pleasant visits to his uncle Prew:
The fair-hair’d stripling proved a welcome guest,
For there was something in his generous breast
Which won for him the universal mark
(From Bishop Butler,[164] to the parish-clerk,)
Of friendship—nay, the love of one and all:
The village-matrons, all were wont to call
Him “the young Squire;” and as he pass’d their way
They’d call their daughters from the washing-tray,
Or spinning-wheel, or the old-fashion’d loom,
Or in the midst of scrubbing out a room,
Or at the pigs’ sty—where they were intent
Upon the beast,[165] which paid the yearly rent:
And forth they’d come—some with their naked arms;
Some with their “wee-uns;” some much skill’d in charms,—
For in most hamlets superstition reigns—
Where there is one at least, who sundry pains
Profess to cure by praying to the gods
With speechless lips, quaint motions, and queer nods;
And some again, who’d done their household needs,
Prim dress’d,—perchance a widow in her weeds,
Who’d lost her dear-one by the hand of death;
And others hastening, almost lacking breath.
Some lazy tailors in a kitchen-shop,
Fond of a sight, from out the window’d pop
Their uncomb’d heads of most peculiar shape,
With beards as bristly as the hog, or ape;
Who for a shilling, breakfast, dinner, tea,
And aught beside, go forth and work the day
At some farmhouse (or at the village priest’s),
Re-seating breeches, patching coats or vests.
And then the village cobbler drops his tool,
Throws down his spectacles, lifts from his stool
His grizzled visage; not o’er fond of trade,
(Who often vows he wish’d the pick and spade
Had been his implements of industry,
Instead of hemp and wax machinery,)
He’s not at all partic’lar what abuse
Accrues for keeping sons’ or daughters’ shoes
Much longer than he ought—he care? not he!—
He’s well inured to such-like trickery:
Come what there will, if there’s the slightest chance,
(Be ’t funeral-weeping, or a wedding-dance,)
The faintest prospect—either facts or fibs—
Where there is hopes of friendship with some ribs
Of beef sirloin, or rump, no matter which—
“The devil take the awl,”—not one more stitch
Will there be done that day; on goes his best,
(Whate’er he’s got) and revels with the rest.
The blacksmith, also, at the village forge,
(His handy-workman, or his own son George,)
Is not unlike the cobbler or the “snip,”
Just let him hear the cracking of a whip,
With rather more than usual dexterous hand,
He drops the sledge, and quickly makes a stand;
First gazes on the rider, then the horse,
The vehicle, if any; and, of course,
Pulls half-way o’er his nose his old greas’d peak,[166]
(Tho’ rough in manners, modest in his keep,)
Views well the fetlocks, and the horse’s parts;
His vete’nary skill in words imparts,—
Consults his own, or his son George’s mind,
And speaks the word according as he find * * *

[164] The (imaginary) bishop of the diocese.

[165] The value of ——.

[166] (Peak of his cap), in making obeisance to the passer-by.

VI.

As there is always one[167] in every town
Who prattles much and takes transactions down,
Who smears the placard, then besmears the wall;
So there’s in villages—however small—
A man whose wisdom he, perchance, conceives
Excels his neighbours’, but himself deceives,—
A fellow who detests hard healthful work,
(By birth a Jew, or it may be—a Turk,)
Existing on his wit or tortuous brains,
Perhaps dishonest; and who takes sad pains
T’effect the purpose of his daily life—
The source of much contention and of strife;
In contradiction to all those who hap
To come in contact with the wily chap:
Here, there, then, when, and how; tells all he knows
And more;—at length it comes to blows:
Some fellow now detects his fraudful game,
Becomes combatable; at last with aim
Deals on his cheek, or breast, a direful shock!
The boaster ’turns not; dares, nor feigns to knock
His adversary: and so, disquieted,
He sneaks away; but not discomfited—
For when ’tis twilight there he is again
With pleasant features, but distorted brain,
Inducing some way-faring man[168] to cards;
And whilst he shuffles, cuts, deals out, discards,
The knave has managed to get hold the ace
From out the pack; then with his wont grimace
Allows his trusty friend to win awhile
A few odd pence, and whilst he feigns a smile
He meditates to cheat him of his gold
Or silver coin; then dashes out so bold—
“Ace,” “king,” and “queen,” (himself the “jack,”)
And throws his comrade quite upon his back,
As ’twere! The man, being sorely duped and “done,”
Picks up his sundry wares and travels on. * * *

[167] A news-monger, or “bill-sticker.”

[168] Suppose him to be a pedler.

VII.

One sultry morning Lady Prew[169] grew faint:
So, to the cot, young Arnold[170] ran t’acquaint
His uncle; for, as usual ’bout that hour,
He’d ta’en his pleasurable cottage tour:
Surprised, indeed, was he to see the youth!
“There’s something wrong,” he said; “come, tell me truth!”
So then the boy drew forth, and ’gan to say—
“Dear aunt is taken ill; but uncle, pray
Don’t be alarm’d:” when lo! he ’spied (between
The quaint old settle, and a kind of screen,
Which hid a bed,) the lovely cottage queen:
Who, when she saw the gentle youth advance,
Had thither fled, and sought t’avoid his glance:
Her dark-blue eyes shone in that sombre light
Like glow-worms spangling in the depth of night:
He saw!—he felt a smart impulsive move!—
And from that hour he sought t’improve his love.
The old man call’d the “lassie” forth and said
“There, Arnold, is she not a pretty maid?—
She has the work of all the house to do,
Yet always clean: come, Arnold, we must go.”
The uncle dreamt not that his nephew’s heart
Was smitten, wounded with love’s keenest dart:
He little thought it—that henceforth this girl,
Of humble birth, would be so rich a pearl
To his “dear boy:” it never cross’d his brain
The youth so soon would wander there again;
And there to press her tiny hand in his,
(The while implanting on her cheek a kiss,)
And leaving in that hand a valued ring,—
That when she saw ’t she might, remembering
Some future day the giver, say—“Ah me!
How oft I’ve thought, and still shall think, of thee!
Thou art a treasure—O, thou beauteous gem!
I’ll kiss thee now and think I’m kissing him:
Perhaps it’s but a dream, yet shall mine eyes
For e’er behold him in this pretty prize.”

[169] At Westonbury Hall, the “squire’s” mansion.

[170] Arnold Mountjoy.

VIII.

Young Mountjoy now was nineteen years of age,
Susceptible to love, and prone t’engage.
His beauty, (he call’d her) tall inclin’d,
Made such impression on his gentle mind
That he, with whom he went, wherever he stray’d,
Without disguise profess’d he lov’d the maid.
Three times, or more, within the cottage he
Improved the hour, and with solemnity
Pour’d forth his orisons. (When all alone
He often ’d pray’d that Jane might be his own.)
Love’s rosy tint flush’d her sweet cheeks and brow
As Jane beheld him, yet she knew not how
Or why he lov’d her so: (but as she grew
She heard his voice in every breeze that blew.)
And now he kiss’d her cheek, and wept a tear
To think the hour of parting drew so near:
He thought (no doubt) at home there’d be no rest—
That dearest Jane would never be their guest;
But still he thought—when many years are flown,
And I am lord and master of my own,
(Good Heaven willing it) my Jane shall then
Be welcom’d mistress at the old domain.

IX.

When George, returning home from work one day,
Saw at a distance by some ricks of hay
In the “eight-acre” field, close by the gate,
The well-known die,[171]—he paus’d: “as sure as fate,”
He said, “that’s my dear child!—what can it be?”
And hasten’d forward; when she cheerfully,
Ran forth to meet him, say’ng “dear father look!”
At the same time she from her bosom took
A tiny parcel, which contain’d the ring;
Unfolding it, and tip-toe whispering—
“For this I gave one little lock of hair,
And I must keep it with the greatest care
For Arnold’s sake; and, then besides all this,
He gave me such a loving, loving kiss,
And said—‘When far and far away, that he
Should kiss that pretty curl and think ’twas me:—
The ring,’ he said, ‘was gold—of precious worth,
That he had priz’d it more than all the earth!’”
George seem’d amaz’d; and speechless for awhile,
Sat brooding o’er it[172] on the gateway-stile:
A thousand things came flitting in his brain:
He thought, as thousands would, of her being slain
In childhood’s sweet simplicity!
And pray’d to God to solve the mystery.
Thus he at once his cause to Heaven resign’d:
And Heaven as soon consoled his harass’d mind;
For scarcely were his pray’rs (in silence said)
Gone forth on high, (whilst ’round his daughter play’d,)
When Jane this brief appeal t’her father made—
“Pray tell me, father, why you seem so sad;
Oh! was it wrong to take it from the lad?
Forgive me, father, if I’ve done amiss:
He only press’d my hand and gave a kiss!”
Then George was comforted, and sped along,
Humming a kind of bass to Janie’s song;
But still he labour’d on in deep suspense—
Assur’d of this—that it would give offence
To all the folks[173] at Westonbury Hall;
And thus it proved, for dreadful was the fall.—
Ambitious they were, of rank and name
Nought ever shock’d the lady’s tender frame
So much as this sad news. She found no rest;
Fell in a violent rage and smote her breast;
Flew to her writing-desk, dipp’d pen in ink,
(Appear’d as tho’ she thought it sin to think—
Ironic’lly exclaiming, ah! ah! ah!)
And wrote a lengthy note to Arnold’s “pa.”
Her fondest hopes, she said, were frustrated,
Which for so many years concentrated
In him. * * * God never bless’d them with a son;
So she, it seems, had calculated on
A son-in-law, in Arnold; but alas!
This hope had fled. (Not like the blade of grass,
Which in the summer-time for lack of rain
Decays and dies, whilst there comes up again
One equally as rare when clouds recruit,
And shed their globulès down to its root.
Nor like the corn-crops yellowing in July,
Slain by the reaper ’neath an August sky,
For there again shoots up, of equal worth,
Some other esculent to gladden earth.
No!—Arnold’s living; yet for ever dead;
His name is spoken, but with constant dread:
No longer shall he lift the wine-cup there,—
Ne’er more be welcom’d as the “lordly heir.”)

[171] One of her poor mother’s dresses.

[172] His daughter’s statement.

[173] The Prews.

X.

To Rollingate,[174] flew swift, as flew the mail,
From Westonbury Hall, the direful tale.
Lord Mountjoy donn’d his spectacles and read!
Then for a moment scratch’d his hoary head—
Inclined to think it never could be true,
And half-inclined to doubt dear Lady Prew.
But never could his lordship entertain
The least degree of wrath, nor yet disdain,
Towards his son;—“no! time, alone, will prove
The best dictator of dear Arnold’s love,”
He said—and thus: “I’ll wait my boy’s return,
And from his lips the secret try to learn.”
“Love,” said Lord William, “is a desperate dart,
Not easily extracted from the heart;
Wherein once seated, whether good or ill,
Retains possession—come who, or what will:
It is the buckler of the youth at sea,
The beam of war which gains the victory:
The soldier’s hope: the banner of the soul:
The great consoler, and the Christian’s bowl.
Where’s the proud bachelor who’ll dare to say
He never lov’d a damsel in his day?
Or where’s the spinster, when she heaves a sigh,
Can tell of none for whom she once could die?”

[174] The seat of Lord William Mountjoy:—Arnold’s father.

XI.

When Arnold Mountjoy bade the Prews farewell,
It jarr’d the elder-ears, as doth the knell
Of some departed child—lov’d, but too well.
Alas! he’s gone: the door is clos’d, and fate
Had made the Prews the most disconsolate
Of creatures. Yes, that morn, that wretched morn,
The lady cried; the squire, he felt forlorn;
And poor Miss Prew, she doubly sad as they,
Could not refrain from weeping bitterly.
As Arnold cross’d the park, he ’spied the smoke
Uprising through the branches of the oak,—
A noble tree, whose sturdy limbs had kept
The little cottage shelter’d on the left,—
Which spread its foliage o’er the gable end,
And frown’d, or would, on whom who dared t’offend
That little sacred dwelling-place of Jane.
And, furtherward, he turn’d and saw the lane
Which led from thence and thither to the cot;
In front of which a small triangle spot,
(Where April “golden-cups,”[175] and daisies vie
To lure the trav’ler, or the tourist’s eye,)
Was fenc’d with stones, crust from Earth’s surface wrung;
The fence was broad, and taper’d to make strong:
Three unwrought beams were set within the close,
With cords out-stretch’d, to dry the linen clothes:
There, he beheld—whom he admir’d the most,
Going ’round the inclosure; then from post to post,
She skipp’d along, and seem’d attentively
Engaged in ranging out the drapery.
Now, stopping at a roadside shingle-gate,
He invented an excuse t’interrogate
An husbandman, in the immediate field,—
The nature of the soil, and of its yield;
The owner of the land; and whose the mill,
From whence the water-course which turn’d its wheel.
Receiving in reply the man’s best wit,
Until he saw his pretty angel flit;
Then, unperceiv’d, he kiss’d his hand, and thrust
It forth towards the cot, pray’ng heaven’s gust
Might waft it o’er; and with it went a sigh,—
His last adieu! and turn’d away his eye.

[175] A pretty yellow flower, which generally abounds in Meadlands.

XII.

At noon, the coach[176] had yet twelve leagues to run:
The air grew chilly, and dark clouds begun
To form a leaden mass: entirely hid
Was he,[177] who in the morn ’rose round and red:
A dreadful storm was evidently near;
And distant rumblings fell upon the ear:
Yon wary sheep were gath’ring in a hav’n,
A shelter’d nook: the wind had now aris’n,
And boist’rously swept o’er the open-plain:
The sullen-featured clouds dispersed their rain
Tempestuously, and all around was gloom:
Increasing murm’rings in th’ ethereal room,
And the first streak, shot thro’ the sombre-rent,
Disturb’d an inside lady-occupant,
Who sought for sympathy from those without:
Th’ affrighted horses fain would turn about;
But there’s no help, no refuge from the storm
Until they gain’d “old Antrobus’s farm—”
About three miles: when there the drenching-drops
Combin’d the gale, and bent the grainéd-crops:
Fork’d flittings quiver’d through the mournful vast;
Th’ inured coachman even sat aghast;
For Heaven’s artill’ry now had vollied forth
A deaf’ning roar,—which shook the stable earth.
At length the storm subsides; the clouds disperse;
The welcome orb afresh begins t’immerse
The varied herbage, and the waving folds;
Encompassing the furze and heathery wolds:
And all was calm again—save one poor soul,
Whose head still rang with the last thunder-roll.