HOME SORROW.

Woe is the guest Of every breast As they turn from the grave, Bordered in a wave Of melancholy deep. But their woe is not as our woe In fervor or depth; they cannot know The fulness to weep Which we know,— We who have held the keep Of her noble heart, Who was of our unity the crown, And who was the bosom of our home, Where did the soul of every member come. We know the part, As true mourners, to weep; For never again, While time doth remain, Shall we hear her voice Relating in choice Some well-pleasing tale, Which never could fail The hours to beguile, As many a smile Ran from face unto face. But now her wonted place Is vacant, and we Can sorrow but see In all things which she By remembrance comes. Yet there is a soft tranquil in presence of grief, Which filleth the bosom of hallowed relief, Making the pang sweet which rendeth the heart, Soothing the sorrow and easing the smart, Leading the mind from vain follies away, To seek a more sacred and truthful array.



IN REMEMBRANCE.

O memory of a mother gone! Whene'er with others, or alone, I hear or breathe that sacred name, May it allure the hallowed flame To shine on thee, and lead thy son Into a better life, begun Unworthy that which hath been done. For him and all, and us anon, In course of life I hear the knell Of mournful, solemn funeral bell, Or see the deep black drapings flow Of funeral cortege moving slow. Or, when the sombre weeds I don, May they of warning not be lone, But freely tell, in solemn truth, The waning of my boasted youth; That ere a while those rites shall be Obsequies fashioned over me. Then heedless, hasty spirit, pause To learn and know the better cause Wherefore ye live, and freely ask Of wisdom for a fitter task.



TO THE OBSERVER.

Pause, cold observer, pause awhile; Why will not death thy thoughts beguile? Think ye for ever to abide By this deluding desert side? O wanderer, turn; O wanderer, stay; Why will ye spurn The voice to-day? A little while— An hour—may bring A broken smile, Death on the wing, To bear thee down By laden grief Beneath his frown. The time is brief. Then stay, oh stay! And lend an ear To what the dead— The dying say. Thy doom is hid, Thy death is near; The Judge will bid Thee soon appear.



THE WORLD'S END.

The gates of heaven are opened, and, behold, The herald comes upon the wings of night, When men in slumber lie, and when abroad The robber goes to plunder what he can; And when the lusty have gone forth to cull A night's defilement in an evil way; The gambler sitteth at his dizzy game, The sotted drunkard feeds his bestial thirst, And revel dancers are aloud in mirth. Alike the heedless and the godly sleep, When from the herald's waking trumpet comes The awful and sonorous cadence, which Shall roll around the earth from pole to pole— More grand, more great, and more tremendous than The voice of terror in the stormy sky, As when a thousand thunders war therein An angry war among the heavy clouds. And at the sound the wicked tremble sore, For now they know an awful doom at hand, And quail to find no rescue from its power. The robber drops the plunder from his hand; The lusty startle at the mighty sound, And from their beds of sin turn wildly forth; And from his game the gambler leaps amazed And terror-struck; whereas the drunkard wakes— The sotted drunkard—from his stupid sleep, And feels the awful terrors of the hour. But by the righteous is the sound received As the glad tidings which they long have sought; For well they know the glory of the sign, When He, their true Deliverer, shall come. The earth shall tremble and rebound, and all The graves shall ope their darkened mouths, until The long-forgotten dead shall come therefrom. Then He who is the Judge appears forth from The heavenly gates; upon the lurid flame His chariot shall roll, and on the clouds Of sable smoke, down through the stormy sky, Where roar tremendous thunders, mid the cries Of agony and fear, which rise anon, Heartrending, from the lost, in anguish sore, Who call for shelter, but have no reply, Save terrors still more awful than before; Who seek for mercy, when their fearful doom Shall echo in their ear, "Too late! too late!" Then all the earth shall be engrossed in flame From sea to sea, and high the lurid glare Shall rise in streams amid the gloomy clouds; And the great waters, laving on the flame Their boiling waves, shall feed its power ten times, And lend their vapors to the burning air. All things shall be consumed excepting man; And through the flames the righteous shall be led Unhurt, as though there were no flame; whereas The wicked shall of tortures be conceived More deep in power than ever known before. Then on His throne, mid glories so immense, The Judge in dreadful majesty appears, And looks in thrilling calm on all around. And on His brow sits equity enthroned, And truth and love united with it there; So radiant is His presence that, unveiled, The eye is dazzled which upon it dwells. He calls before Him all the people, and Discerns between the evil and the good Of all the deeds which they have done, and weighs Together in a balance, one in one, The evil and the good of all their thoughts, And all their words and mingled purposes. Then they to whom the balance falls to ill Their judgment thus receive: "Depart, depart Unto the burning lake, for ever fed. Ye would not hearken to the warning words, And now it is too late. Depart! depart!" Then to the hell eternal they and all The tortures of the world, and fears, and pains, And lust and anger, malice and disdain, And pride, and pomp, and every evil thought, Shall roll together, in a burning mass, Down deeper, deeper to the yawning gulphs. Thus all the mountains and great hills shall fly; And seas, and lakes, and rivers of the earth Shall vanish as a cloud before the wind; And He who was the Judge shall now ascend, Together with His chosen people, high Unto the heavenly gates, and, entering in, Shall have abode through day that knows no end In an Elysium of unmeasured joy.



THE SABBATH DAY.

Sweetest and fairest of the days that dawn Upon Elysian hill, and over lawn, And field, and city spread a roseate light! The morning of the Sabbath day—in dight Of many a hallowed strain it comes. The bell Of every village o'er the plain doth tell, From its high seat, within the sacred tower Above the house of God, from hour to hour, A joyous song; and in cathedral town The gladsome peals break forth and warble down; While through the city every belfrey gives A glad reply, which seems to say, "He lives! He lives!" The song of praise is heard ascend, Raised to the heavenly throne, in one to blend With angels' song, from many a cottage rung, Where on this day the father with his young Sits down in peace; while, in the pine grove down The rural glen, a myriad voices crown The clear-tuned solo of the warbling thrush, Or oft in chorus to a duet flush, Sung with the full-piped blackbird of the wood, Their notes are joined. The aspect and the mood Of everything is changed, as wont on day Of toil the crowded city moves to lay The bands of slumber for a time away, But brings not out the bustle and the din Which is her weekday aspect; and within Her walls a stilly peace prevails; the roar And noise of lumbering waggon comes no more Along the well-worn street, nor busy tread Of envoy, hurrying on, by duty led, To bank, or warehouse, or to court of law. The myriad sounds have ceased, which nature saw Were fit to wait upon the day of toil; Nor mendicant nor ballad beggar foil The sacred rest with their assiduous song. And round the factory door the noisy throng Forgets to come as on the other days; Aside her task the weary seamstress lays, Now from the close and foul-aired workroom free. The toilsome shop is closed, and also he Who for the week stood there doth taste the sweets Of liberty awhile; the penman meets No more the tiring scroll; and now in chain The prisoner sits within his dungeon, wan And weary; but he hears some soothing strain Break through the thick and iron-girded wall; And then the heavy shackles seem to fall From off his feet; a strange emotion fills His soul, and through his wasted body thrills, When of the bygone days he thinks in sweet And lingering thought; and then his eyes to meet The scanty rays are turned, and on his mind Awhile the captive fate forgets to find Its deepest force or weary sigh to send. Turn from the city, and to country lend A passing thought. All labor is at rest. The plough lies set, point in the mottled breast Of half-tilled field; the flail is laid above The barn's brown wall; the shining sickles move Not from their keep; the woodman's axe is still; The golden sheaf doth not the feeder fill; The huntsman's horn is hung behind the door; The delver's spade stands idle on the floor; The horse and oxen run the open field, Set free to graze; the holloaing drivers wield No whip or goad, and all the swain is free; The laborer walks abroad, and turns to see, With favoring look, the toilings of his hand, And fruits of labor rising from the land; The rustic lovers saunter in the fields, To talk of love and reap the joy it yields. The tower-clock now the worship-hour relates, And every church the worshipper awaits. Then thither come the cottar and his wife, (Once fair, now furrowed with the cares of life,) With sons and daughters; and, behind them near, The jovial farmer and his wife appear. Then comes the county squire; till the seats, One after one, are full. Then shortly meets The people's eager eye the tranquil face Of their beloved pastor, in his place. He kneels to God, and in deep fervour prays A sweet and powerful prayer; then he lays The open Bible down, and well expounds The message of the Saviour's love, till bounds, For truths so hallowed, every tending heart In joy. Then praise is sung; a ready part Takes every voice to raise a worthy song, Which breaks from seat to seat the aisle along. Then kneel the people by the throne of grace To take the blessing, ere they part to pace Again the world's besetting path. It falls Among them like as dew upon the palls Of parched flowers, to raise and nourish in The hour of need the vital spark within.

* * * * *

Sweetest and fairest, hallowed day of rest! "Peace" is thy banner and thy mottoed crest— An open boon to all. The weary wait— The weary wait and sigh to see the gate Of dawn admit thee forth in eastern sky. The merchant's daughter, as each morn goes by, Looks on the scenes without, and counts the days That fly—six, five, four, three, two, one—and lays A hopeful joy upon the day to come, When she shall by her father sit, and some Inspiring volume read, or, in a walk Through wood or vale, employ the time in talk, Sweet and instructively. The widow waits To see her son come home, and anxious gets When near the hour has drawn that she shall hear The step of her sole comforter draw near, With whom on earth she findeth sweetest joy. The orphans wait, and every night employ A time in prayer, that God be pleased to spare Their elder brother, and bestow him fair And happy days. They long the Sabbath day; For then he comes among them, and doth lay A cheerful spirit to the humble home; Pure and delicious truths he tells them from A flowing heart, and they all love him well. All people love the Sabbath—they who dwell In early years of innocence and joy, And they of lusty prime, whom cares employ A thousand snares to tangle or to stem. But more than all, the Sabbath is to them A day of sweet delight who totter near The precincts of the grave without a fear— Yea, rather, with a joyous hope ere long To leave the weary ranks they now belong, Of feeble age, and, passing death's dark throng, Attain the kingdom of eternal song.



BEAUTY ADORNED.

Of late stood Time amid the scenes of life, With hoary locks and beard of silvery grey, And furrows deep upon his sage-like brow. Beside him was a dial of huge size, Whereby he shewed the minutes as they grew To hours, and days, and years in silent haste. He was in wistful mood, and, while I saw, Did point his finger to the midnight hour. 'Twas in a dream this wondrous scene appeared, Or in that stupor which is known between The rule of sleep and wake, when neither claim The power of holding a supreme command, Which may be call'd half slumber and half wake. Morpheus had drawn his stilly presence nigh, And hush'd all things into a calm profound. A thousand wondrous thoughts upon my mind, In order unaccounted, had gone by. Then as they passed a striking vision came; 'Twas bright and lucent as the early dawn, Which pays obeisance to a smiling morn. The stage of life was there before me set; The curtain rose, and on it I beheld A maiden fair, the foremost in the act. Her mien was noble, and she held erect A form which was in Beauty's garb arrayed. Her eye was sparkling as the morning dew, And full of language—full that it o'erflowed. Her teeth were white and pure as Winter snow; I saw them peer between her cherry lips, As these were moving in a gracious smile, Which traced her features like a silvery stream, And ran from view adown her dove-like neck. Her cheek was blooming as a new-blown rose; A modest flush came o'er it as she stood. Her voice was sweet like music on the air, Thrown from a harp touched by a fairy sprite; And in her look a happy tranquil dwelt. Bound with the crown of virtue which she wore Upon her brow (a diadem of gems) Were the sweet flowers of purity, which gave A charm more sweet than all the rest to see. In short, she was perfection's perfect choice, And Beauty's fairest child of all the group Of Eve's unnumbered daughters, who abide, Or have abode, amid these mingled scenes. 'Twas now the season of her noonday prime, Wherein she might have gloried if she would; But the calm spirit which within her moved Would not allow like vanities to rise. Amid the lucent streams of mellow light, Which showered its fullest softness down on her, She stood—the beauteous maiden stood adored. To see the gay perfection of her charms Came wonder, peering forth; for he was lured With an intense delight to see a form Clothed and adorned in such simplicity, Yet of unbounded elegance the while. And far her fame had spread throughout the land. Then soon from town and city numbers came, And from the quiet of their country homes, To cast their admiration at her feet; For they had longed with their own eyes to see Her nymph-like form, and with their ears to hear The music of her voice, and for themselves To read the language of her sparkling eye. And many sought to win her as his own; And to her shrine they brought rich offerings all, Each of the best and choicest of his stores. And she beheld the riches which they brought, And heard the words of flattery which they bore, And marked the attentions lavished unto her, But gave no heed to these, and deemed them all As idle and deluding vanities; For she beheld they sought the outward charms, But minded not the treasures of the heart, Which are more precious than all other gain. So she did make, in firm yet kindly words, An answer of refusal unto each, And held her from them in discreet reserve. Erewhile another came, whom she beheld Sought more the secret worth than outward charms, And that he was in every purpose fair, And just and honorable, true and good, And that he brought no dazzling gifts to tempt Her with, that he might win her heart and hand. And he in silent heed did note awhile Her nature and the ordering of her ways, And was much pleased to see them ordered well, And that the beauties of a virtuous mind Were not extinguished by her outward charms, As is, alas! the case too frequently. Then from this admiration yet awhile Did rise a love fair and reciprocal; And in due course he sought her heart and hand, And she did yield them gladly unto him. Thus they were in the bonds of wedlock joined, To mete the measure of their lives in one; And in their home was harmony and peace, And in all things they were together true. Time stood, and from his hand the hours, and days, Anon, and years dealt listlessly away; And, ere a while, she merged on ripened years, With many honors rising from her path, Had sons and daughters, and had trained them well, As it is fitting that a mother should, And had her mission filled in every way. Then was her act concluded, and she left The scenes of life and all the changes there, And came in gladness to a higher realm, And there abode together with the just, Who to their Maker give the glory due, And who in the affairs of life forget Not to ascribe Him praise and worship most. The curtain fell, and, lo! a clear, strange voice Broke from the hidden scenes, declaring thus, And with the words a thrilling power was borne, That every passer in amazement turned: "Blessed are they who walk in virtue's way! A maid of virtue is a precious gem, More priceless than the pearl of many seas. Her mind is pure as snow which Winter breathes, White and unspotted with the stains of time. Her memory is like the gorgeous sun, Which hath gone down behind the distant hills, Yet sends a stream of glory from its seat Upon the firmament where once it rode, Diffusing there a sweet and golden light. So shall the recollections of her shine Upon the hearts of men, who in her time Did know her worth and the fair fruits thereof." Scarce had these words been uttered, when again. The curtain rose, which hid the stage of life; And, lo! I saw the like fair scenes were there, Which in the former act had been displayed; But she who stood the foremost in the act Was other maiden, yet as sweet and fair. Her every limb of beauty was adorned, And in her face did winning brightness shine. A manner gay she had, which unto men Was sweet and charmful, that whoe'er beheld Was at the sight of thrilling rapture filled; And all her mirth was gay and ever full, And all her laughter fraught of dancing fun. A roguish eye she had, from which went forth Glances askance, to plunder, as they wot, From simple hearts, which could not turn away The wily darts which she cast unto them. Her cheek was bright, and of a rosy hue, And wondrous was the fashion of her lips, And they did seem to speak soft tales of love In every motion which pervaded them. Which turned to rapture all who gazed thereon, So deep the passion which they pouted forth. Her locks were golden, and with braids entwined In such a magic manner, and they waved Upon the breezes in a sportive way. Her raiment was of Fashion's last design, And so arranged to shew her perfect form In all the fine proportions it displayed. Her soft white arms were bared unto the view, And scarce she needed other charm to hold, Than did the vesture sideward drawn reveal Of beauty lying in a tranquil sleep Upon a pillow of the sweetest form. And she was proud of graces like to these; And sadly well she did her beauty know. Forth from the ranks of town and city came A host of pert admirers, to gaze Upon her sweet and all-bewitching charms, And cull a little frolic from her hand. And she was free and open unto all, And held to each full gaiety and wit, And on her manner kept no check at all, And strove to seem more pleasing every hour, And loved the admiration which they gave. Time stood, and from his hand the hours, and days, Anon, and years dealt listlessly away; And one by one her charms were seen to go; For every year, as it sped on its course, Plucked from the flower of purity a leaf, And from her beauty took the brightest gem, Until all virtue had been torn away, And beauty shorn of every single germ. Thus was her ruin sealed, and day by day She sank into more hopeless depths of sin, And was more hardened unto evil ways. Her form grew haggard and uncouth to see, And in her eye a dark defiance frowned. Her soul turned black unto its very core, And was polluted as a mountain stream Drugged with the fluid from a bloody war. Her brow was stamped with hatred and revenge. Woe and distraction, from these loathsome fonts, Fierce as hell-torrents, burst upon her path; And she did spurn repentance. And I saw The Evil One from depths of darkness come; And in her way he set a fearful pit, And death appeared the entrance thereunto. Then it was opened wider in her way; I heard an awful shriek, and, lo! beheld That she was swallowed in its boundless depths. Thus was the act concluded, and again The curtain fell upon the stage of life; And all who saw it trembled at the scene, And deathlike was the calm which stood around, And every breath was held for very fear. Then the same voice was heard again which spoke Such words of wisdom in the former scene. And now the curtain was again withdrawn, And every form had vanished from the view, Save he who spake and hoary-headed Time; And Time still stood and dealt the hours away. And over all a mighty change had come; Old things had gone, and others held their place; And he who was the speaker stood upright, And was adorned with raiment pure and white. He stood surrounded by a dazzling light; More bright his presence was than gorgeous suns, Whereas he had an eye of wondrous power. Imposing was his presence to behold, And these the words in stirring force he spake: "Pause, all ye young, ye thoughtless ones who run In wild delight among the gay-borne paths, Which pleasure spreads enticingly around. O youth deluded! dwell not in the thought That they shall prosper for eternal years. Truth is profound, and this more deep than all— That beauty is but like a passing charm, And youth a landmark by the way of Time— A stage which soon his chariot rolls by, And leaves in dark obscurity behind, As it drives on to the eternal gates. Then pause, and be not blinded by the show Of such an idle vanity. Ye know An end awaits the sojourn here below." These were his warnings. Then methought I saw, One on each hand, the two eternal gates; Whereto he turned, and, opening one, disclosed Realms of most wondrous beauty, and therein Were beings of a loveliness untold; And all around appeared to give them joy, And in their midst dwelt unity and love, And they were clothed in raiments purely grand, With diadems of honor on their brows; And sweet the music was which hovered round, And this appeared an everlasting feast. Then he did close, without a word or sign, This gate, and to the other mutely went, And, opening which, disclosed to the view Such ghastly scenes of torture, and therein Were creatures seething in eternal flame; And loathsome was their presence to behold, And woe and agony were ever in their midst, And bitter were the strifes, in which they bore An angry hate to other wretches doomed Alike with them to welter in its toil. These were the scenes. Then, mutely as before, He closed the gate, and vanished from the view. And every gazer stood in wonder bound, Until upon the distance came the sound Of chariots and horsemen; and, erewhile, Came rolling up the chariots of Time In quick succession; and I saw therein, Beings conveyed to the eternal gates; Some unto that o'er which these golden words Were traced in figures ever bold and bright: "Enter, ye blessed, to eternal joy;" And others unto that o'er which I saw, "Enter, ye cursed, to eternal doom." Then fell the curtain on the scene, and, lo! I woke from slumber, and it was a dream.



Minor Pieces.

WALTER. AN ACROSTIC.

While vigor lives, and youth's brief time is still, Apply thy mind to wisdom, and fulfil Life's noble purpose, which is "Good to all." Thus cull a favor which shall never fall; Enriched of labors, so enshrine thy name; Repose at last in peace with honored fame.



THE ARRIVAL IN LEITH DOCKS, ON A VISIT TO SCOTLAND.

The sun had risen but an hour, And spread his golden ray O'er sea, and land, and garden bower,— Thus dawned a glorious day.

A stilly calm prevailed to rest On the surrounding scene; Scarce could upon the ocean's breast Be a faint ripple seen.

The soft, fresh air of Summer morn Stood peacefully around, When we, upon the ocean borne, In view of Leith were found.

I rose in haste to hail the sight Of Scotland's lovely shore, Which to my mind brought fancies bright And thoughts of days of yore.

The good old castle towering stood Majestic o'er the scene; Defiance from its rocky rood Was alway frowning seen.

I thought, had it the power to speak, What stories could it tell; What deeds of darkness could it break, Or mysteries dispel.

Around its seat, in hidden gore, Foul deeds of vengeance sleep, Which caused orphans to implore, And widows oft to weep.

And now, in close succession, see The smoky ringlets rise, From many a chimney-top set free, Ascending to the skies.

Then comes there to salute the ear Faint fragments of a sound; And mingled noises soon I hear,— The bustle turns profound,

From slumber as the city wakes, And Duty gives her call, And for each man a mission makes,— A duty gives to all;

Then set I foot upon the shore— The shore I long to gain; It shall be dear for evermore, While memory I retain.



RECOLLECTIONS. To Sarah.

Let recollections, like the proud sun's ray, Illuminate and cheer each lonely day, Restore a peace, afford a tranquil rest, Create a joy in your oft troubled breast; And when kind slumber doth its tendance lend, And angels sweet around thy pillow bend, May dreams of happy hours thy spirit cheer— Fond dreams of they who to thy heart are dear. But tell me, love, what is the lingering thought Which seeks a presence, from the distance brought, Far, far away, and which, with pleasing spells, Doth mingle here and there a word which tells— Oh sadly true!—that ye shall meet no more The one you love? These thoughts are very sore; The spirit sinks in grief and sadness low, And thrilling shudders through the being flow. Farewell, farewell, my cup of earthly joy! I drain the dregs, and they are now alloy.



A STOLEN KISS.

The day had passed as other days do pass, With record made of all the deeds Performed by one, or two, or a whole mass,— It matters not, for all concedes.

The sun in turn had lit the eastern sky, Performed his circuit to the west, Diffusing light and heat below and high, And there had sunk his golden crest.

Monotony had likewise marked my course— By that I mean that nothing rare Had happened at all, to cause recourse To friendly joy or cold despair.

A pleasant ramble by the ocean side— May be it was the company That added joy when I did watch the tide Roll on the shore of the great sea.

This o'er, thought turned to urge a night's repose— An old, though ever new, retreat— To rest the weary body, and to close The mind awhile in tranquils sweet.

But, prior to this, I thought it might be well To store some food into the mind, And on the wonders of the day to dwell, There fitting nourishment to find.

The comic thoughts of famous "Punch" were read, Then something dry, but suited more As wholesome food—so some old fogies said— "The Daily News," let none deplore.

For comfort's sake—which people always mind, Excepting ladies, when the book Of modes another pleasing style can find, And then they think more how they look.

An instance take of chignon (dead folk's hair)— A lady, I know well, remarked, "I wish I was not forced those things to wear, But fashion must be always marked."

Again I say, for comfort's sake alone The couch I sought, and thought it best Awhile to rest my weary body on; The weary always seek for rest.

The chronicle of news a time was used, At first with understanding clear; It gave instruction, and sometimes amused, (A mixture there for any seer.)

A nod then came, and soon I winged my flight Away into the land of Nod; All earthly things were lost to sense and sight; A fairy land my footsteps trod.

The distance might have been an inch, a mile, Or thousands,—ten, for what I know; It seemed a pleasant place, for still a smile Was on my face; I liked it so.

Wrapt in those fairy dreams of pleasant lands, A gentle pressure on my lips, Of softest touch, like that of fairy hands, And sweet as though with honey tips,

Saluted me, and such a silvery sound Came with it, which as magic fell Upon my ear, so sweet and so profound. It is a stolen kiss I tell.



THE ORPHAN BOY.

See that poor, deserted, homeless boy, All lonely, sad, and weary; Nothing to cheer his wee heart to joy, All melancholy dreary. For his heart is heavy, and he sobs; Tear-drops trickle from his eye; As in solitude he sits and throbs, Gay people pass him by. The poor wee boy.

No mother has he, so kind and dear, To wipe his big tears away, His heavy heart to gladness cheer, Or soft words of kindness say; No father a home to provide, From the Winter's chilly blast; But anywhere he may abide,— A deserted, poor outcast. The poor wee boy.



A BRIGHT DAY, AFTER A SEASON OF DULL WEATHER.

How smiling all the people seem! On every face behold a gleam; Each heart of joy must brimful teem, And thus send forth a cheering beam.

The gloomy clouds have passed away, And bright and glorious is the day; The sun gives forth a genial ray, And gentle breezes music play.

'Tis strange—but no more strange than true— That cloudy weather can construe Unto our thoughts a gloomy view, That all things seem of dismal hue.

But with a clear, transparent sky, All gloomy thoughts as quickly fly, And bright and happy ones supply Their place, and raise our spirits high.

And thus we in the world shall find The rough and smooth will be combined, Ordained by One who meaneth kind, To brace the firmness of the mind.



MUSIC.

Come, music sweet; come, music, to me here; In softest strains of melody appear; Pour on this wounded heart thy healing balm, Prepared to soothe, and troubled spirits calm. E'er since the time that on this mouldy ball Man held a place, and that before the fall, The youthful world was held in no reserve; For thy enchanting strains did pleasure serve The young creation, and they hailed the sound. But then the Author's work did all rebound With perfect mirth, and music in it all, Till evil spirits caused man to fall. But when the fruit was tasted and thought good, First by the woman, then the man, as food, Though the condition was at first so placed, That they might use or all the produce taste Of the fair garden, save alone one tree, Which in the centre stood, and there to be Untouched; but, notwithstanding these commands, The rosy fruit looked tempting in Eve's hands, Where it was by the cunning serpent placed. Her watering teeth the dimpled apple traced It suited well her palate when she ate; She gave to man, and then was sealed their fate. When in the book of record was inscribed This scene so sad, as man to evil bribed, Music still came, but with it came alloy, For sounds of sadness came with sounds of joy. At first the music was but nature's own; Yet who will not in ready justice own That nature's notes in beauty far excel All sounds that art's production can impel? Who this can question, if they lend an ear Unto the lark that, pouring music clear, Makes all the sphere for many miles around With his gay song re-echo and resound; Or, pausing, marks the sweet, melodious lay The nightingale at stilly night doth lay; Or listens to the morn or evening praise, As the wild warblers blended chorus raise, The hum of bee, as duty it fulfils, The rippling stream that sports among the hills, The constant murmur of the mighty seas, Or pensive sighing of the Summer breeze, Which, rambling, rustles through the leafy trees, The choice of favor it may well command? Yet art's production may in honor stand, And hear the praises which her lover tells. Who doth not love to hear the Sabbath bells? Or who attend, without an inward sigh, The gentle song which maidens' lips supply, While on the harp with skilful touch is played Responsive song, in harmony conveyed? Or who can hear the noble martial strain, And not be moved to long the sounds again? The deep, grand notes of noble organ who Can mutely tend, as they go thrilling through, From aisle to aisle of some cathedral old, And, rising, still their richer sounds unfold? The love of music in the bud appears First in the child of sweet and early years; Then in the youth its early leaves unfold; The fruit it bears in manhood's time behold; Until the Autumn comes, old age enthrals, Decay sets in, and then the leaflet falls.



THE EVIL ONE.

The Devil is out unfettered; His dens lie deep in hell; His power is scarcely bettered; Who can his cunning tell?

He roams in raving hunger; The world is his course; He's dreadful more than thunder Where'er he has recourse.

Destruction wanders with him, And death is in his hand; A mighty host is with him; Well armed is his band.

He lies in ambush for thee; He hovers near thy path; He follows ever by thee; An aim on thee he hath.

Then haste thee, haste thee; surely Ye soon will feel his power. Be watchful, be not weary; Let not thy spirit cower.

The path is steep and narrow; 'Tis rugged, rough, and torn; A harsh, a testing harrow, Beset with many a thorn.

There yawns a mighty chasm; The fearful pit is deep; 'Tis terror but to see them; It makes the spirit creep.

No guide but One is able To lead thee safely through; All others are unstable, Unfit, untried, untrue.

Fly to the rock for safety— The rock he cannot climb! Fly! fly! nor think it hasty; And trust not fickle time.



FRIENDSHIP.

And friendship is the sacred name— The name I love to hear; Gives to my heart a sacred flame, And music to my ear.

Yes, friendship is a joy indeed, A peaceful, fragrant bower; To which doth many a soul recede In tribulation's hour;

And there its load of sorrow lays, Feels conscious of relief, Soothed by the balm which it displays For healing wounds of grief.

Its paths are pleasant and serene; They lie in pleasure's way; It is true pleasure—there is seen No base, no false array.

'Tis there true joy is to be found, And anger lays her down Amid the placid scenes around, To bask away her frown.

And there that childhood oft is seen To spread its purest glee, And hold its dimpled arms in ween To friendship pure and free.

'Tis there that riper manhood goes And feeble age reclines; For it the genial sunshine knows, Which on her pathway shines.

True friendship's fervour ne'er grows cold; Its lamp doth alway burn; Its beauty never waxeth old; Its shadows never turn.

The waters are both sweet and pure, Which through its courses flow; Such as would souls of trouble lure; 'Tis they who try them know.

Were old and young together joined, In friendship's paths to tread, What blessings would thereby rebound On many a sorrowing head!



TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

Hail, spirit of poetic flame! Thine is the theme for me; Thine are the realms—the glorious realms My fancy longs to see.

What seraph on the wings of light Can bear a charm like thee? And where, in fancy's wide domain, Can fitter grandeur be?

Behold thy shadows on the sky, Thy glory in the sun; And o'er the earth, as light as air, Thy fairy footsteps run.

I see thee in the smiling morn And in the glowing noon, Thy sparkling brightness in the stars, Thy beauties in the moon.

I see thy bark go gliding on O'er all the mighty seas. I hear thy voice upon the storm, And gentler on the breeze,

Comes thrilling with the warbling notes The lark pours out on high, And in the blackbird's evening song Flows to my pathway nigh;

Comes with the brooklet's murmuring voice, And from the ocean wave, Which Neptune in his choice sees fit Upon the shore to lave.

I hear the rude, prosaic law Pour out its vile abuse, In earnest with its bitter vice My fancy to seduce.

Yet let the sceptic whet his scythe, Thy beauties to deplore; So shall I love them fonder still, And seek thy presence more.

The proud revilers who employ Their tongues as poisoned darts I deem of rude, unpolished taste, Uncouth and shallow hearts.



BOYISH DAYS.

Hail, happy thought— Sweet, happy thought Of boyish days! Can hope no more arise? Can I no more surmise That they will come again? All happy sport! All sweet resort To merry games, To which, with spirit light, I often did unite In free and boy-like glee! The welcome call To bat and ball I used to hear With that intense delight, So free, and pure, and bright, Which only boys can know. The merry gambols And country rambles I loved to join, With admiration high, To which no fear was nigh. Are they for ever gone? Yes, they are gone— For ever gone; In time's abyss I see them foundering fast; It soon will be the last—, The dying breath of them. 'Tis sorrow now Bedecks my brow, And sorry care Lies waiting in my path; Prevailing power it hath To bear the spirit down. But let me rise To win the prize, Which is for those Who triumph o'er despair, And, passing every care, Fight bravely to the end.



BEAUTY.

Beauty, as the rose of Summer, For a season looketh gay; Ere a while it fades and falleth; So doth beauty pass away.

Charms, the brilliant and enticing, Sparkle to allure awhile; But they are the world's vain treasure, And an outward, fleeting wile.

There is yet a charm more pleasing Than the outward to behold; 'Tis a humble spirit, easing Pilgrims onward to the fold.

This the scythe of time shall never Rob of its adorning grace; But shall leave it laurels ever To bedeck its resting place.

'Tis the maiden who shall win them Walks in virtue's modest way, Heeding not the world's gay treasure, Minding not the worldling's way.

Not the maiden who rejoiceth To abound in vaunting show; This shall in the time forsake her, When her hope hath sunken low.



MY SCHOOLMATES.

Oh! where have all my schoolmates gone, With whom I used to play, In harmless sport and happy glee, For many a pleasant day?

It grieves me much whene'er I think That I no more may see The happy faces of the few Who schoolmates were to me.

To seek them would be fruitless toil; I know not where they are; For up and down the world wide They're scattered near and far.

Some still are in the native place, Some far beyond the sea, Some trading on the mighty main, Some in eternity.



THE DEPARTED YEAR.

Farewell, departed year! How swiftly have thy golden moments fled! Gone to the past, In the dark lays of record to repose; Whence might be culled a tale Which would impeach our name— The way we spent the precious hours, Whereof to learn we shudder, in the thought That they passed from us as a worthless thing, While all our heed to idleness was lent. Recall the olden deeds, Review the acts performed, and see How they will bear the scrutiny ye give. How do the deeds of ill Throng round the retrospective glance! While few and feeble are the acts of truth. Where is the profit we have gained? Or where the good a brother took from us? Let us not spurn the many warnings shewn. Who may not from the ranks of friendship glean One name, or more, in sacred reverence held, Of some dear friend, departed now, But who, while we gave welcome to the year just gone, Was with us, and who held A love deep rooted in our hearts, And who, we once had hope, Would seasons more remain to comfort us. The present ours. May we of wisdom learn the way to live; For who can know that we may live To see this year depart, or see another come? Now let us to the year departed say farewell; For it has gone, with all its joys and cares, Which, ere we knew, moved from our presence, and Another came; which in the old seat sits, whereof We wonder what its course may yield, And all around mysterious fancies rise. But darkness o'er the scene a curtain holds, And veils from view what is upon the time Which is to come.



TO THE SNOWDROP.

Onward ever time is passing; Forward still it hies; By the way delaying never, In constant speed it flies. By days and years we number make, And lay out every stage; While change in many a form appears, To mark each passing age.

But, mid the changing scenes of time, Thy pale head still appears, To shew that, in her beauty clad, Loved Spring's sweet presence nears. With soothing balms she comes supplied, Prepared to bestow Them freely on each troubled head; For freely do they flow.

But thou, the first of all her band, The fairest of her gems, We hail thee as a welcome guest, Which Winter still contemns. For thou art still the harbinger (A credit to her choice) To tell that pleasant times draw nigh, For which let all rejoice.

What artist's pencil e'er could trace, Or painter's brush apply On canvas, such a perfect form As thy frail leaves supply? They are more pure than running brook, And whiter than the snow— The winter garment of the ground, Which soon will beauty shew.

No giddy grandeur vesteth thee; No fitless fashions flow; Thy mien retains a modest air, Whence hidden graces shew. From this might many a maiden fair A lesson good receive:— That gay appearance fades away, And tends but to deceive.



SPRING.

Blest bearer of peace, she comes in her grandeur; I hear the sweet echo, and hear it again, Through the forests of trees and o'er the green fields, In sounds of contentment, in music's sweet strain.

She rides in the skies, and she comes on the breeze From her mansions so aerial, illumined, and fair; They stand in a mystery unfathomed by thought, And who can describe them, or who can tell where?

The sound of her footstep, the tone of her call Is hailed with rejoicings—rejoicings of joy; Her whisper so gentle, her breathings of peace All feelings of sadness allure and decoy.

The birds of the air, the warbling songsters, The thrush and the blackbird uniting send higher, By adding their songs to chorus of chorus, Redouble her welcome and sing a sweet lyre.

See, through the dark soil, in patient procession, The flowers are beginning again to appear; From beds of repose, from darkest of hidings, In caution most careful they cunningly peer,

And seemingly ask, in anxious desire, If 'tis the voice of Spring, if Winter's no more; All longing the time when howling blasts go, To crown her their queen from shore unto shore;

To spread a rich carpet, by nature entwined, Pave all her pathways with richest of gems; To stud it with beauty in grandest profusion, With roses and daisies on stalks and on stems.

Then welcome right gladly, then welcome, sweet Spring! Let all be united, let every one sing; Blended in a lyric let every voice be, Your fairest of praises and sweetest notes bring.



THE BEREAVEMENT. Written for S. L.

Beside a bed of sickness sat A maiden young and fair, Torn from the scenes of youth and joy, Her loved one was laid there.

She watched with an unceasing care From morning until night, Nor left him in the stilly hours Before the morning light.

She marked each feebly passing breath And every burdened sigh; Nor grew she weary of the task; No sleep came to her nigh.

She kissed his cheek, his pillow smoothed, His burning brow she bathed; And with a balmy fillet oft His aching temples swathed.

Into the future deep and long Her brooding thoughts would pry; She could not think that he must soon— That he must truly die.

And yet she saw the ruddy hue Pass from his cheek away, And that the lustre of his eye Grew fainter every day.

At last a gentle sleep he slept, And hope came in her breast, As she beheld the tranquil smiles Which on his features rest.

She sat and sighed, "Ah me! ah me! Oh for the time again When I shall see thy happy smile Its wonted mirth regain!

Then shall we, as in time before, The tranquil hours employ In love and in a measure full Of unpolluted joy."

Oh, child of hope! She knew not then That he who by her lay Was closed in death's unyielding arms, His spirit borne away.

And when she turned from these fair dreams, And saw he breathed no more, Oh! woeful was it to behold The grief the maiden bore.

She grasped the pale and lifeless form; Her tears fell on it fast; She sat the long night through and wept, And wept the noonday past.

No more she cares for earthly things, Nor friendly presence nigh; These gladly now would leave behind, And now would gladly die.

Dear mourner, is there nought to calm— To soothe thy troubled breast? Is there no balm to heal its wounds, And give thy spirit rest?

Yes! there is one—a fragrant balm, A fountain filled with love, Which floweth ever full and free In the bright realms above.

'Tis there the weary and the sad Can comforts true receive, And there the bleeding heart alone Its anguish can relieve.

Oh! brightly yet the star of hope Sends forth its radiant beams, And sweetly yet the voice of love In friendly welcome gleams.

Then raise thy tear-bedimmed eyes, And call its bounty down; Which, if in faith ye seek, will flow, And all thy sorrows drown.



FAREWELL.

Farewell! farewell! a sad farewell My soul can only give. And can it be That I may see Thy cherished face no more,— See it again no more?

I cannot tell, I must not tell The sorrow that is mine; But while I live Yet will I give A lingering thought to thee, A happy thought to thee.

And to those days, those happy days, I often will recur, Which we have spent, On pleasures bent, Together bound by peaceful joy— A fair, a pure, a loving joy. Farewell! farewell!



IN FANCY BOUND.

I lost myself in labyrinths of unexplored delight, In wandering from the paths of sterner truth; They seemed, beyond a doubt, all pleasing, fair, serene, and bright, Such as would charm the wonder of a youth.

Behind, before, and all around, appearing to the eye As one concerted scene of peaceful joy, With pleasing streams of unpolluted pleasure flowing by, And in it all I saw no base alloy.

The scope was boundless, and I wandered, still admiring all, Indulging oft in free, unfettered thought; In wonder wrapt, I wandered on, but found no rest withal, As each new scene was to my fancy brought.

And in the future I could see with an imagining eye A cheering prospect, rising pure and bright. It seemed my future path in smooth, unchequered ways did lie, That cares were easy and life's burdens light.

Amid the tranquils sweet around, and to my own design, I built me castles of a towering height, And thereto did my pleasures and my rising hopes resign, Thought that these bulwarks would resist all might.

But, lo! they fell in ruined heaps, and mighty was the fall, And my bright hopes lay ruined at my feet, And the deluding dream of fancy passed away, and all The scenes so fair did from me now retreat;

Like as the mirage travellers see upon the desert waste, In view where cooling waters seem to rise, And which the body longs to reach, the parched tongue to taste— Alas! alas! such fancy is not wise.



COUNTRY RAMBLES.

Well do I love to ramble Among the golden heath, To roam, and rove, and scramble On the soft turf beneath.

'Tis there that health is ever Abounding to be found, And beauty faileth never In full charms to abound.

I pity oft and sorrow For the poor city child, That ne'er the chance can borrow To ramble free and wild;

It looks so pale and feeble, Its cheek is thin and white, Its sicknesses are treble, Its joys are never bright.

How different is the childling That roams the open lea! A rosy little wildling, And gay, and blithe, and free.



THE OWL.

Thou hermit bird of tender sight! Ha! well thou fliest from the light, To lie in secret and repose, Hid in some crevice no one knows; And, wrapt in slumber's lightest sleep, Thy ears their vigils ever keep, Lest some stray wanderer may intrude, To mar thy sacred solitude. Thy pinions only bear thee out To search for plunder and to scout For prey, in soft and noiseless flight, When earth lies in repose, and night Has drawn her curtain o'er the sky. 'Tis then, 'tis then thy tender eye Is keen to see, reviewing all Which under its quick glance may fall.



MINNIE LEE. A PICTURE.

A maiden came to Castletown; A tear stood in her eye; Soon on her cheek it trickled down; Sore did the maiden cry.

I called her to my side, and said, "Why, maiden, do you cry?" A while her weeping then was stayed, But she made no reply.

I spoke to her, in kindly tones, Of friendship and of love; I asked about her loved ones, And where she meant to rove.

She, with a voice in sadness lost, And choked with many a sigh, Said that her father's form was toss'd Beneath the billows high.

Her mother had for many years Been silent in the grave; Her brother, too, she told in tears, Was killed—a soldier brave.

And now her father's friends withheld The friendship once they gave; And she, an orphan lone, beheld No succour but the grave.

She then besought some menial form Of duty to fulfil, And gladly would the child conform To many a trying ill.

I said, "Dear maiden, come with me; My home shall too be thine, And with my daughters ye shall be Another child of mine."

And then she wept for very joy; Her tongue would not convey The words she sought it to employ What thanks she longed to say.

And with, a trembling step she came, And, ere a little while, Her joys returned, of old the same, And came her olden smile.

And she by all was fondly loved; She was so good and kind, And gentle in her way, and proved A charm of charms combined.

Years rolled away, eight happy years, Since the memorial day; Then in the town gay joy appears, And merry minstrels play.

And loudly peal the merry bells; It is her wedding-day; It is my son who gladly tells "I will," I love to say.



THE AIM OF LIFE.

Mark well, and do not pass in heedless haste, Nor all your time in needless folly waste; But, if with you a solemn thought doth dwell, Pray lend it here, and think it may be well Awhile to set aside the world's stern care, And for a true, though passing, glance prepare Upon a theme which is too often hid By pleasure's streams and vanities which thread The onward path which through the wide world wends, Which chequered is, and many a snare attends. The theme I speak of is the aim of life. Who fails to see, amid the passing strife Where man appears, and in a season dies, Forgotten soon in mouldering dust he lies, That he has strayed from the good purpose far, That all his joys are vain, and such as mar His hope to an unmitigated peace. The bonds grow stronger, and his lusts increase The while his chances are for ever lost, And he is now before the tempest toss'd. A thoughtful mind in question thus may dwell; And who is found an answer fit to tell? When man was formed, what aim was held in view By the Creator, ever just and true, Who all things made but for a purpose wise? Behold, his work an ample proof supplies What feelings stirred His breast when man was made, And all creation to him subject laid. Discretion lent to shew the ill from good, Portrayed in him the Maker's image stood; Nor was it meant that he should time employ In foolish pleasure and licentious joy, Less far that self should be his only theme; A fallen state soon had he to redeem. More thus the purpose, and the Maker's law Held it as good, and man the duty saw— That God, the Maker, should true worship have, And reverence and love; and, as to prove Obeyance, it was held that he should love His neighbour as himself. This from above Bestowed, and from conditions free, save one, And which was sweet and pleasing to be done In the true spirit of a perfect life, Where no fear came, or jealousy, or strife— No earthly thing should have the honor due Unto the Maker; yet how sadly few Can say they have endeavoured to be true!



THE PRIMROSE.

Not in a rosy bower, Not in a garden gay, Nor by a watchman's tower, I saw the primrose play;

But by a meadow green— A meadow sweet and fair, In beauty it was seen; I saw the primrose there.

It sported with the breeze, It courted with the sun, And tried so hard to please With all its puny fun.

It flirted with the moon, And kissed the early dew; They left it both ere noon; These lovers were not true.

A little murmuring brook Came wandering by the way; It came to have a look, And with the flower to play.

It gave it drink so sweet, And sang a pretty song; The brook seemed to entreat To be the lover long.

A sturdy old oak tree Bent o'er it night and day, Its guardian feigned to be, And shelter it alway.

In time some courtiers took Their turn to have a woo. I came to take a look, And was a lover too.

I took the pretty flower, And set it in my breast, Rejoicing in that hour, But sorrowing left the rest.



IN MOONLIGHT MET. To L. A. A.

Lest gossip wakes, be mute, breathe not a word Of how, or where, or when, save that we met; To chance, or luck, or fortune bid the fault, Till ye can tell how else our friendship came. Improved occasions are not often rued, Except discretion fails in self-command.

As brief a while as may a friendship live No one can tell, so soon it dies, or how, Now as it came, and as a seed expands, In nurture soon springs up; so sprang, matured Each time the more a favor in regard.

As first of chance, unsought till then, but now Let favor choose if she may hold the power Drawn from the font of pleasure to supply Enticing sweets, which, though you took, rebelled. Reigned o'er the scene the silvery moon, which smiled, Together with the stars, in silent joy. Of that she deemed no harm, was sweetly pleased! Neptune breathed silence and supplied the chance.



A WAYWARD CHILD. To K. N.

Knew she not whence fair fancy rose, Audacious fun in vagrant throws, Turned random, loose, on purpose set, Elate to cope with those it met.

Now aptly sprung new forms around, As each advanced the most profound. She held to all a winning smile; How many took her heedful wile.



A FLIRT. To L. W.

Lost love, I answer, since you make me tell Of every maiden who from prudence fell Unto the rambling tide, flirtation swell. I mete my mind, though ye regard in scorn; She gives her heart, in many fragments torn, A piece to each who have her flirtings borne.

Who spreads her charms to every wind that beats, Or loves a bit with every man she meets, Of constant love can never be possessed. Duped is the man who, for a mating nest, Sets choice on her; his life shall lack of rest.



THE LITTLE ROGUE. To H. B.

Ha! the little rogue, I caught her As she stole my heart away; Round and round she had entwined her, Reeling in her grasp it lay. In my fancy could I think her E'er so wicked as to play Torture on a helpless prey?

But how happy was the sorrow As a captive there to be, Resting ever on the morrow To advance new joys to me! Lost amid the vast abounding, Each endeavour found me more Tangled in the great surrounding, Turned obeying to adore.



ENAMOURED.

By her sweet and silvery laughter, And the dimples on her rose cheek, Roguish languish in her black eye, Telling tales of love and romance— Oh how lovely to behold her! Never beauty sweeter, fairer.



A PRESENCE SWEET.

A soothing balm, a cheering ray Thy presence is to me, Though rising clouds may for a day A darkening shadow be.

Yet I will hope the flame of love A beacon bright will shine, And cast the hazy clouds away, And prove thee truly mine.

Oh! quickly fly the happy hours Thy presence doth beguile, As on thy cheek I sit and see The rosy dimples smile,

And hear the silvery sounds which rise Like music from thy lips, To dance upon the balmy air, Which every listener sips.



FAITHLESS.

Oh call me not a faithless friend! The charge I cannot bear, When spoken by such lips as thine, By one so sweetly fair.

Pray yield me but the chance to tell, The time to give to thee A reason, and it will dispel The doubts ye now can see.

Blest is the man whose onward course Is free from every ill, Who also doth impartially Love's golden censer fill.



DECEITFUL.

Deceitful, yet so young; Deceitful, yet so fair; Who, gazing on those charms, Would think deceit was there?

Oh that I now must learn Of beauty to beware! For that it is a tempting bait Upon a hidden snare.

THE END