Dear heart! How sad, in the gorgeous light, In the gorgeous light of a purple dawn, With life so hopeful of pure delight, Away from the world to be rudely torn! To be rudely torn in the tender hour, In the tender hour when her heart was young; While the virgin dew on the opening flower With a trembling joy like a jewel hung.

Ere the budding soul, so sweetly shy, Had opened its core to the coming kiss Of an earthly love that was born to die Ere it filled her heart with its hallowed bliss. So down in the churchyard old and green, In the churchyard green where the yew-tree waves, A dark little mound of earth is seen— One billow more to the sea of graves.

Scarce nineteen Summers had breathed their bloom, Had breathed their bloom on her dainty cheek, And they bore her away to the voiceless tomb With hearts so full they were like to break: With hearts so full even this belief Dispelled not a tear from their aching eyes— Though they saw their beloved through clouds of grief An angel beyond in the golden skies.



NEW YEAR'S BELLS.

Hearest thou that peal a-telling Night-noon stories to the Sky; Hark! each wave of sound comes welling Like a scolded angel's cry; And the voice the belfry flingeth Sobbing from its brazen breast, Like a god in trouble singeth, Waking half the world from rest; Now it wails in murmuring sadness, As a child at words unkind; Now it comes with merry gladness, Floating weirdly on the wind. Ah! 'tis sad;—-yet sprightly-hearted; Song of Birth and gloomy Bier; Death-dirge for the Days departed; Carol for the coming Year. Is it that the voice reminds thee Of the wasted moments past? Saith it that the New Year finds thee Where it left thee last?

Doth the merry music taunt thee, How the Palace love had reared Mocks with echoes now, that haunt thee Where thou dream'dst they would have cheered? Moan the bells with thee in sorrow O'er a little mound of green, Rising up from graveyard furrow Bleakly blank upon the scene? Doth the tender language, stealing O'er the soul with soothing swell, Waken thoughts from sweet concealing: Joyous tale for chimes to tell; Reviving dainty hours of gladness, Fresh as daisies in the spring, As birds in summer, void of sadness, Songs, heart-buried, wake and sing? Doth the sea of music bear thee Back again upon the Past, To show thee that the New Year finds thee Happier than the last?

Doth it tell of plans laid glowing On the anvil of thy heart; Times thou'st raised thy hand for throwing In life's battle many a dart? How each plan unstricken lingered Till the mouldful heat was gone? How each dart was faintly fingered, Resting in the end unthrown; Of the Faith thou pawn'dst for Fancies— Substance for a fadeful beam? Doth it taunt with bartered chances— Sterling strength for drowsy dream? Doth it brand thee apathetic? Twit with lost days many a one? Doth it chant in words emphatic "Gone for aye; for ever gone?" Is it that the voice reminds thee Of the wasted moments past? Saith it that the New Year finds thee. Wiser than the last?

'Tis not so!—and still, as ever, Time's a jewel in its loss; But, possessed in plenty, never Held as ought but worthless dross. Like lost truant-boys we linger Whimpering in Life's mazy wood, Heedless of the silent finger Ever pointing for our good; Each, in plodding darkness groping, Clothes his day in dreamy night, 'Stead of boldly climbing, hoping, Up the steeps towards the light, Where, as metal plucks the lightning Flashing from the lofty sky, Sturdy purpose, ever heightening, Grasps an Immortality. Let not future peals remind thee, Then, of wasted moments passed; Let not future New Years find thee Where each left thee last.



THE VASE AND THE WEED:

A PLEA FOR THE BIBLE.

I had a vase of classic beauty, Rare in richly-carved design; Memento of an ancient splendour Was this peerless vase of mine. A master-hand of old had graved it: Hand for many a year inurned: And out from every line and tracing Germs of genuine genius yearned. I took the gem and proudly placed it On a pillar 'mongst the flowers, And watcht how radiance round it hovered, Bathed with sunlight and with showers. A little weed-like plant grew near it, And anon crept o'er its face; Until at length, with stealth insidious, It quite obscured its classic grace, And where was once a noble picture Of the Beauteous and the True, There hung a mass of straggling herbage Flecked with blooms of sickly hue. The Summer passed: the plant had flourished, As every weed in Summer will; When Winter came and struck the straggler To the heart with bitter chill. It died: the winds of March played round it, Laughing at its wretched plight. Then blew it from its slender holding, Like a feather out of sight. But still in undimmed freshness standing, Reared the vase its classic face; Rare in its old, eternal beauty, Majestic in its pride of place.



A RIDDLE.

A riddle of riddles: Who'll give it a name? A portrait of God in a worm-eaten frame. A mount in his own eye—in others' a mite; The foot-boy of Wrong, and the headsman of Right; A vaunter of Virtue—yet dallies with Vice; From the cope to the basement bought up at a price; A vane in his friendship—in folly a rock; In custom a time-piece—in manners a mock; A fib under fashion—a fool under form; In charity chilly—in wealth-making warm: In hatred satanic—a lambkin in love; A hawk in religion with coo of a dove; A riddle unravelled—a story untold; A worm deemed an idol if covered with gold. A dog in a gutter—a God on a throne: In slander electric—in justice a drone: A parrot in promise, and frail as a shade; A hooded immortal in life's masquerade; A sham-lacquered bauble, a bubble, a breath: A boaster in life-time—a coward in death.



TO A FLY:

BURNED BY A GAS-LIGHT.

Poor prostrate speck! Thou round and round With wildering limp dost come and go; Thy tale to me, devoid of sound, Bears the mute majesty of woe. In bounding pride of revelry, Seared by the cruel, burning blast, Thy fall instructive is to me As fall of States and Empires vast.

No sounding theme from lips of fire, No marvel of the immortal quill, Can teach a moral, sterner—higher, Than thou, so helpless and so still. Reft as thou art by blistering burn— Blinded and shorn—poor stricken Fly! The wise may stoop and lessons learn From thy unmeasured agony.

It tells how maid, in guileless youth, Flies tow'rds her Love with trusting wing, Bruises her heart 'gainst broken truth, And falls, like thee, a crippled thing. How man in bacchanalian sphere Soars to the heat of Pleasure's sun, Then, by gradations dark and drear, Sinks low as thee, poor wingless one: How hearts from proud Ambition's height Have drooped to darkest, lowest hell— From blazing noon to pitchy night, With pangs a demon-tongue may tell: How aspirations glory-fraught Have gained the goal in dark despair; How golden hopes have come to nought But wailings in the midnight air.

There! and the life I ne'er could give In pitying tenderness I've ta'en; Far better thus to die, than live A life of helpless, hopeless pain. Ambitious hearts—high-vaulting pow'rs— That aim to grasp life's distant sky, See through the spirit-blinding hours What wrought the fall of yonder Fly.



TO A FRIEND.

I fear to name thee. If I were To do so, I could never tell What virtues crown thy nature rare; 'Twould pain thy heart—I know it well.

Thou dost not ask for thy reward In words that all the world may hear, For thoughtful acts and kind regard By thee for others everywhere.

Thou seek'st alone for grateful thought From those to whom thy worth is known; So for much good thine heart hath wrought Find gratitude within mine own.



RETRIBUTION.

A spider once wove a right marvellous net, Whose equal no human hand ever wove yet, So complete in design was each beautiful fret, And finished in every particular. And the wily old architect, proud of his craft, Ensconced in a snug little sanctum abaft, Laid wait for the flies; and he chuckled and laughed, As he pricked up his organs auricular.

A week had elapsed, and the spider still wrought Fell ruin on all the frail flies that he caught; All right rules of decency set he at nought: Each meal made him much more rapacious. But his foot got entangled one horrible hour, As he rushed forth a poor screaming fly to devour, And to get his leg free was far out of his pow'r, Secure was our spider sagacious.

Where now is the beautiful fabric of gauze? Behold! in the centre, by one of his claws, A dead spider is hanging surrounded by flaws And many a struggle-made fracture. 'Twas hard, in the height of his fly-killing fun, And sad, in the light of a Summer-day sun, To die all alone, as that spider had done, In a mesh of his own manufacture.



THE THREE GRACES.

I.

Her hair is as bright as the sunbeam's light, And she walks with a regal grace, And she bares full proud to the empty crowd The wealth of her wondrous face; And her haughty smile thus speaks the while: "Approach me on bended knee!" She's a beautiful star I could worship afar, But—her love's not the love for me.

II.

Her hair is as black as the raven's back, And her face—what a queenly one; And her voice ripples out like the trembling shout Of a Lark when he sings to the sun; But her form is filled with a soul self-willed That would lord o'er a luckless he; Pride reigns in her breast, like snow in a nest, And—her love's not the love for me.

III.

Her hair—what mind I the tint of her hair, When her eyes are the tenderest blue; And her loving face bears many a grace Lit up with a sunny hue? When I find—O I find, that her heart is kind— That she goes not abroad to see The World—or be seen. Her love, I ween, Is the love that was made for me.



THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

Where now is the Summer's last Rose, That reigned like a queen on the briar? 'T is faded! and o'er its grave glows The glad warmth of Winter's first fire.

We welcome the Flame with delight, As we welcomed the Rose in the Spring: But the blossom's as nought in our sight 'Mid pleasures which Firesides bring.

And so with life's swallow-winged friends: The Rose is adored in its day; But when its prosperity ends 'T is cast like a puppet away.



THE STARLING AND THE GOOSE.

A FABLE.

A silly bird of waddling gait On a common once was bred, And brainless was his addle pate As the stubble on which he fed; Ambition-fired once on a day He took himself to flight, And in a castle all decay He nestled out of sight. "O why," said he, "should mind like mine "Midst gosling-flock be lost? "In learning I was meant to shine!" And up his bill he tossed. "I'll hide," said he, "and in the dark "I'll like an owl cry out ("In wisdom owls are birds of mark), "And none shall find me out!" And so from turret hooted he At all he saw and heard; Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo! What melody! And what a silly bird! At length a Starling which had flown Down on the Castle wall Thus spake: "Why what a simple drone "You are to sit and bawl! "Though you presume an Owl to be, "It's not a bit of use! "Your body though folks cannot see "They know the diff'rence—pardon me! "Betwixt the screech of Owl up tree "And the cackling of a Goose!"



THE HEROES OF ALMA.

OCTOBER, 1854.

Heaven speed you, Braves! Undaunted lion-hearts Well have you thus redeemed a solemn trust, And added, by your bright heroic deeds, Another lustrous ray to deck the brow, Of this the good Old Land, whose gladdened heart Leaps forth for very joy and thankfulness, Proud of the gallant sons she calls her own; Right nobly have you ta'en the gauntlet up Ambition flung before the world, and fought 'Gainst Evil, Might, and hated Despot-law; Bled, conquered, clipped the wings of soaring Pride, And earned in Serf-land such a brilliant name Time's breath can never dim. But list!—a wail Of sorrowing sadness sweeps across the Land, With which the up-sent jubilant psalm is blent. 'Reft orphans' cries, in mournful cadence soft, Sobs wrung from widows' broken, bleeding hearts; And fond hoar-headed parents' sighs and tears, Commingling all, merge in a requiem sad For those brave hearts that fell in Freedom's cause. Then let us plant Fame's laurels o'er their graves, And keep them green with tears of gratitude.



A KIND WORD, A SMILE, OR A KISS.

There's a word, softly spoken, which leadeth The erring from darkness and night; There's an effortless action that sheddeth A sun-world of gladdening light; There's a sweet something-nothing which bringeth A fore-taste of Paradise bliss: Full and large is the love that up-springeth From kind words, a smile, or a kiss.

Eyes a-plenty with tears have been blinded, Hearts legion in sadness have bled, And many of earth's angel-minded In grief have gone down to the dead, And the world, with its bright laughing gladness, Oft changed to a frowning abyss, By vain mortals refusing, in madness, A kind word, a smile, or a kiss.



DEAR MOTHER I'M THINKING OF THEE.

NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1855.

In the hush of night, when the pale starlight Through my casement silently steals; When the Moon walks on to the bower of the Sun, And her beautiful face reveals: When tranquil's the scene, and the mist on the green Lies calm as a slumbering sea, From my lattice I peep, 'ere I lay down to sleep, And whisper a prayer for thee: Mother! Dear Mother! O, blessings on thee! From my lattice I peep, 'ere I lay down to sleep, And think, dear Mother, of thee.

When the dew goes up from the white lily cup In rose-coloured clouds to the sky; When the voice of the Lark trembles out from the dark, And the winds kiss the flowers with a sigh; When the King of Dawn, like a world new-born, Scatters love-light over the lea; From my lattice I peep, when I wake from sleep, And whisper a prayer for thee: Mother! Dear Mother! O, blessings on thee! From my lattice I peep, when I wake from sleep, And think, dear Mother, of thee.



THE HERON AND THE WEATHER-VANE.

A FABLE.

A weather-vane on steeple top Had stood for many a day, And every year a coat of gold Increased his aspect gay. Subservient to the changing air, Each puff he'd quickly learn To obey with sycophantic twist And never-failing turn.

A Heron once, from lowly fen, Soared up in stately flight; But, striking 'gainst the gilded vane, He fell in sorry plight: And as, with wounded wing, he lay Down in the marsh below, He thus addressed the glittering thing, The cause of all his woe:

"Vain upstart! 'tis from such as thee That Merit, lowly born, In striving oft to win a name, Wins nought but bitter scorn: But for such treacherous knaves as thou, What crowds of souls would soar With lofty swoop, that now, like me, Will mount, Ah! never more!

It fits thee well, that lacquer suit, Base flunkey as thou art! Though bright, it never covered brain; Though gilded, ne'er a heart! Rather than wear upon my back Such livery as thine, I'd earn an honest crust, and make The scullion's calling mine."



THE THREE MIRRORS.

A FABLE.

Three mirrors of the usual sort Were gifted once with power of thought; And as they hung against the wall They felt that they were prophets all. The first, a plate-glass o'er the fire; The next, a concave, standing higher; A portly convex 'tother side Made up the three; and as he eyed His brother mirrors, brilliant each, Thus gave to thought the rein of speech: "Such power as mine who ever saw? If in my face without a flaw Men chance to gaze, they taller seem Than what they are: delightful scheme! I like to elongate the truth; What else but flattery pleases youth? A boy who in my face should scan Will grow as tall as any man!" Says convex; "That is not the case With me; for those who in my face Should chance to look, themselves will find Turned into things of dwarfish kind. To praise mankind is what I hate: What says our neighbour, Master Plate?" The plate-glass then essayed to speak; Said he: "My friends, I never seek So to distort the things I see That none can tell what things they be. I find it more convenient far To show mankind just what they are!" A table the dispute had heard, And asked for leave to say a word. "Agreed," rejoined the glassy crowd: When thus the table spoke aloud: "The virtues which you each would claim As yours, are virtues but in name. You, Concave, lessen what you see, Though well you know 't should larger be. While Convex, aye to flattery prove, Makes mounts of what are mites alone. Plain-spoken Plate, in wrong the least, Would tell a beast it was a beast, Forgetting 'tis not always right To judge from what appears in sight. Your faces ought to blush for shame, And yet you think you're not to blame! You know that men are slow to think, And will of any fountain drink; Who fear their brain's behest to do, So frame their faith from such as you! Judged by the simplest human rules, You are the knaves—and they the fools."



THE TWO CLOCKS.

A FABLE.

A country dame, to early-rising prone, Two clocks possessed: the one, a rattling Dutch, Seldom aright, though noisy in its tone, With naughty knack of striking two too much. The other was a steady, stately piece, That rang the hour true as the finger told: For many a year 't had kept its corner place; The owner said 'twas worth its weight in gold! One washing-eve, the Dame, to rise at four, Sought early rest, and, capped and gowned, did droop Fast as a church, to judge from nasal snore, That broke the silence with a hoarse hor-hoop: When all at once with fitful start she woke; For that same tinkling Dutchman on the stair Had told the hour of four with clattering stroke, And waked the sleeper ere she was aware. "Odd drat the clock!" she sighed; but, knowing well The cackling thing struck two at least a-head, She turned; and back to such deep slumber fell, But for her snore you might have thought her dead. And so she slept till four o'clock was due, When t'other time-piece truly told the tale; Straightway the drowsy dame to labour flew, And soon the suds went flirting round the pail.

MORAL.

Whoe'er breaks faith in petty ways Will never hold a friend; While he who ne'er a trust betrays Gets trusted to the end.



SACRIFICIAL.

WRITTEN AFTER WITNESSING THE EXECUTION OF TWO GREEK SAILORS AT SWANSEA, MARCH, 1859.

The morning broke fair, with a florid light, And the lark fluttered upward in musical flight, As the sun stept over the distant height In mantle purple and golden. The blue bounding billows in waltzing play Lookt up in the face of the coming day, And sang, as they danced o'er the sandy bay, Their sea-songs mystic and olden.

High up, on the gable of yonder jail, The workmen are plying with hammer and nail, And the slow-rising framework hinteth a tale Of mournful and sombre seeming. 'Tis the gibbet that rears its brow on high, And the morn-breezes pass it with many a sigh, As it stands gazing up to the fair blue sky Like a spectre dumbly dreaming.

Through lane and alley: through alley and street The echoes are startled by hurrying feet; And thousands, in action fitful and fleet, Press on to the execution. The squalid-faced mother her baby bears; And the father his boy on his shoulder rears: The frail and the sinning emerge in pairs From darkness and destitution.

Aloft on the gibbet two beings stand, Whose foreheads are smirched with the murder-brand, Whose lives, by the lawgivers bungling and bland, Declared are to justice forfeit. Below, like a statue stark and still, A legion of faces, in brutish will, Gaze up to the gallows with many a thrill, And thirst for the coming surfeit.

But one more look at the silvery sea: One thought of the lark in its musical glee; One breath of the sweet breeze, balmy and free; One prayer from two hearts that falter; And Lo! in reply to a mortal's nod, From the gibbet-tree dangle two pieces of clod, Their souls standing face-to-face with their God, Each wearing a hangman's halter.

Ah! shrink from the murderer; quaint, wise world Yea: shudder at sight of him; sanctified world! Go: plume him up deftly; clever old world! Till he shines like a gilded excrescence: Then strangle him dog-like—a civilised plan! Quick! trample his life out: he's not of the clan: He stinks in the nostrils of saintly man, Though fit for the Infinite's presence!



WALES TO "PUNCH."

On his milking the amende honourable to Wales and the Welsh, in some verses, the last of which was the following:

"And Punch—incarnate justice, Intends henceforth to lick All who shall scorn and sneer at you: You jolly little brick."

I'm glad, old friend, that you your error see, Of sneering where you cannot understand: You've owned your fault: let by-gones by-gones be; Past blows from Punch forgetting—there's my hand. Lick whom you list—creation if you please: Let those who choose laugh at me: let them sneer; I earn, before I eat, my bread and cheese; I love my language; and I like my beer. Content with what I have, so that it come Through honest sources: happy at my lot, I seek not—wish not—for a fairer home. Hard work: my Bible: children: wife: a cot: These are my birthright, these I'll strive to keep, And round my humble hearth affection bind: From Eisteddfodau untold pleasures reap; And try to live at peace with all mankind. Then glad am I that you your error see, Of sneering where you cannot understand: You've owned your fault: let by-gones by-gones be; Past blows from Punch forgetting—there's my hand.



WELCOME!

The following was written as a Prologue, to be read at the opening of the Wrexham National Eisteddfod, 1876. It was not successful in taking the offered prize, but as the adjudicator who made the award was pleased to say it was "above the average," I have thought its publication here will not be out of place.

Welcome! thrice welcome—one and all, To this our Nation's Festival; Be 't Peer or peasant; old or young: Welcome! thrice welcome, friends among. If Peer—no title that he bears— No decoration that he wears— Can the proud name of Bard excel, Or pale the badge he loves so well. If Peasant—he may here be taught That none are poor who, rich in thought, Possess in Mind's high utterings A nobler heritage than kings. If old—what once you were you'll see: If young—what p'rhaps one day you'll be— For youth yearns upward to the sage; And childhood's joy delighteth age. Come rich—come poor—come old and young, And join our Feast of Art and Song. What forms our banquet all shall know, And hungry homeward none must go. We boast not here of knife or platter; Our feast is of the mind—not matter, Along our festive board observe No crystal fruit—no rare preserve: No choice exotic here and there, With wine cup sparkling everywhere: No toothsome dish—no morsel sweet— Such savoury things as people eat; So if for these you yearn—refrain! For these you'll look and long in vain. Our Feast's composed of dainty dishes— To suit far daintier tastes and wishes. While for the splendour of our wine— I've oftimes heard it called divine: For who that drinks of Music's stream, Or quaffs of Art's inspiring theme, Shall say that both are things of earth— That both are not of heavenly birth? While gathered blossoms fade away, The Poet's thoughts for ever stay— E'en as the rose's perfumed breath Survives the faded flow'ret's death. No pleasure human hand can give Is lasting—all things briefly live. But sounds which flow from Minstrelsy Vibrate through all eternity! Then welcome! welcome! one and all, To this, our Nation's Festival. Come rich—come poor: come old and young And join our Feast of Art and Song!



CHANGE.

In the Summer golden, When the forests olden Shook their rich tresses gaily in the morn; And the lark upflew, Sprinkling silver dew Down from its light wing o'er the yellow corn; When every blessing Seem'd the earth caressing, As though 'twere fondled by some love sublime, Strong in her youthful hope, Upon the sunny slope A maid sat, dreaming o'er the happy time— Dreaming what blissful heights were hers to climb.

In the Winter dreary, When the willow, weary, Hung sad and silent o'er the frozen stream; And the trembling lark Murmur'd, cold and stark, In wailful pathos o'er its vanish'd dream; When the bleak winds linger'd And dead flowerets finger'd, When all earth's graces, pale and coffin'd, slept, With joys for ever flown, In the wide world alone, Over a broken faith a maiden wept— Yet, with unswerving love, true vigil kept.



FALSE AS FAIR.

My heart was like the rosebud That woos the Summer's glance, And trembles 'neath its magic touch As breeze-kisst lilies dance: So, like the faithless Summer, She kissed me with a sigh, And woke my life to gladness, Then passed in beauty by. My heart was like the blossom That blooms beside the brook, And revels in its silvery laugh, Its bright and sunny look: So, like the graceful streamlet, She kissed me with a sigh, And woke my life to gladness, Then passed in beauty by.



HEADS AND HEARTS.

The Head fell in love one day, As young heads will oftentimes do; What it felt I cannot say: That is nothing to me nor to you: But this much I know, It made a great show And told every friend it came near If its idol should rove It could ne'er again love, No being on earth was so dear.

So Time, the fleet-footed, moved on, And the Head knew not what to believe; A whole fortnight its Love had been gone, And it felt no desire to grieve. Its passion so hot In a month was forgot; And in six weeks no trace could be found; While, in two months, the Head, Which should then have been dead, For another was looking around.

The Heart fell in love one day: The mischief was very soon done! It tried all it could to be gay; But loving, it found, was not fun. For hours it would sit In a moping fit, And could only throb lively and free When that one was near Which it felt was so dear, And when that one was absent—Ah, me!

So the days and the nights hurried on; And the Heart nursed in silence its thought: To a distance its idol had gone, Then it felt how completely 'twas caught: Other hearts came to sue: To the absent 'twas true— Loving better the longer apart: Thus while Love in the head Is very soon dead, It is deathless when once in the heart.



FALL OF SEBASTOPOL.

1855.

"Advance!" was the cry that shot up to the sky When the dawn of the day had begun; And the steel glistened bright in the glad golden light Of a glorious Eastern sun. And the words rang clear, with no trembling fear— "Brave Britons! on you I rely!" And the answer pealed out with a mighty shout— "Sebastopol falls, or we die!" Advance!—Advance!—Men of England and France! "Sebastopol falls, or we die!" Now the death-storm pours, and the smoke up-soars, And the battle rages with furious might, And the red blood streams, and the fire-flash gleams, And the writhing thousands—God! God! what a sight. The hoarse-throated cannon belch fiery breath, And hurl forth the murderous rain, Which dances along on its message of death, And sings o'er the dying and slain! Crash! Crash! Then a leap and a dash! Hand to hand—face to face, goes the fight; The bayonets plunge, and the red streams plash, And up goes a shout of delight— "The enemy runs!—Men flinch from their guns! On! Forward! For God and for Right! Advance!—Advance!—Men of England and France! Press forward, for Freedom and Right! On—On—On! Hurrah! the goal's won; See! the old colours flutter and dance, And proudly they wave over Tyranny's grave: Well done! Men of England and France—Hurrah! Hurrah! for old England and France!"



TO LORD DERBY.

1877.

As the monarch that grows in the forest, and rears Its brow ever green to the firmament bright, So, stedfast and sturdy, thy proud form appears, Of patriots the hope, and thy country's delight.

Through thy heart, firm and true as the oak trees that stand In the soil of Old England—in which thou hast grown, There runs the same life which they draw from the land, And the heart of thy country 's the life of thine own.

With the seal of Nobility set by thy Sire, Thou tread'st in his steps as thou bearest his name; And the glow that he added to Albion's fire Reflects through the Past and enhances thy fame.

Where Freedom is free'st, thou takest thy stand: Where Tyranny threatens, thy misson is told; And thy tongue, which we hail as the Voice of the Land, Speaks the wish of a nation heroic and bold.

And bright will the name be of England, as long As safe in thy keeping her honour remains— 'Twill stand 'mongst the noblest in story and song, And be worthy the purest and loftiest strains.



UNREQUITED.

A beautiful Streamlet went dancing along, With its bright brow fretted with flow'rs, And it leapt o'er the woodland with many a song, And laughed through the sunny hours. Away and away! All the blue Summer day, The streamlet went laughing away.

A willow Tree grew near the light-hearted brook, And hung o'er the Beauty in pride: And he yearned night and day for a kiss or a look From the streamlet that flowed at his side. But away and away, All the blue Summer day, The streamlet went laughing away.

All his leaves and his blossom he shower'd on her head, And would gladly have given his life: But to all this affection the streamlet was dead, And she laughed at the willow's heart-strife. And away—away, All the blue Summer day, The streamlet went laughing away.

"Ah, me," quoth the willow: "how false was the dream!" And, drooping, heart-broken he died; While his last leaf in love he let fall on the stream That so coldly flowed on at his side. And away—away, All the blue Summer day, The streamlet went laughing away.



THE HOUSEHOLD SPIRIT.

A spirit stealeth up and down the stairs Noiseless as thistle-down upon the wind: So calm—so sweetly calm—the look it wears: Meltful as music is its voice—and kind. Like lustrous violets full of twinkling life Two orbs of beauty light its face divine: And o'er its cheeks a dainty red runs rife, Like languid lilies flusht with rosy wine. Its velvet touch doth soothe where dwells a pain; Its glance doth angelize each angry thought; And, like a rainbow-picture in the rain, Where tears fall thick its voice is comfort-fraught. How like a seraph bright it threads along Each room erewhile so desolate and dark, Waking their slumbering echoes into song As laughs the Morn when uproused by the lark. Methinks a home doth wear its heavenliest light When haunted by so good, so fair a sprite.



HAD I A HEART.

Had I a heart to give away As when, in days that now are o'er, We watcht the bright blue billows play, Roaming along the sounding shore; When joys like Summer blossoms bloom'd, When love and hope were all our own; I'd bring that heart—to sadness doomed— And let it beat for thee alone.

Had I a heart to give away, Its daily thought in life would be, Like yonder bird, with trembling lay, To sing sweet songs, dear love, of thee. But, ah! the heart that once was mine Is mine, alas! no more to give; And joys that once were joys divine In mem'ry now alone can live.



A BRIDAL SIMILE.

Adown the world two grand historic streams With stately flow moved on through widening ways, Rich with the glory of life's noblest dreams, Bright with the halo of life's sunniest days. Out from their depths two blithesome streamlets ran, O'er which the smiles of Heaven hourly shone; Till, meeting: Ah! then life afresh began, For both, embracing, mingled into one.

From yonder rose two crystal dewdrops hung But yestermorn. The sun came forth and kissed The gems that to the perfumed blossom clung, And clothed them with a robe of purple mist. The soft warm wind of Heaven gently breathed Upon the twain: they hung no more apart; But, with the sweetness of a rosebud wreathed, Blent soul with soul and mingled heart with heart.

Live on, united pair: with love so blest Your pathway ought but sunny may not be. Live on, united pair: and be the breast Of thornless roses yours unceasingly. And as the river to the ocean flies Be yours to pass as gently from life's shore: Then, like sweet fragrance when the blossom dies, Leave names to live in mem'ry evermore.



SONG.

They tell me thou art faithless, Love! That vows thy lips have sworn— The smiles which light thy lovely face— Are false as April morn; My brightest dreams of happiness They wish me to forget: But, No! the spell that won my love Doth bind my spirit yet.

They tell me thou art faithless, Love! And changeful as a dream: They say thou'rt frail as drifts of sand That kiss the laughing stream; They whisper if I wed thee, Sweet! My heart will know regret: But, No! the spell that won my love Doth bind my spirit yet.



I WOULD MY LOVE.

I would my Love were not so fair In sweet external beauty: And dreamt less of her charms so rare, And more of homely duty. The rose that blooms in pudent pride When pluckt will pout most sorely; P'rhaps she I'm wooing for my bride Will grow more self-willed hourly. Her form might shame the graceful fay's; Her face wears all life's graces: But wayward thoughts and wayward ways Make far from pretty faces.

I would my Love were not so fair (I mean it when I breathe it): What though each hair be golden hair, If temper ill dwells 'neath it? Her lips would make the red rose blush, Her voice trolls graceful phrases, Her brow is calm as Evening's hush, Her teeth as white as daises. Her cheeks are fresh as infant Day's, Round which cling Beauty's traces: But wayward thoughts and wayward ways Make far from pretty faces.



DEATH IN LIFE:

A TRUE STORY.

The following simple narrative is founded on fact. A young village couple married, and soon after their marriage went to live in London. Success did not follow the honest-hearted husband in his search for employment, and he and his young wife were reduced to actual want. In their wretchedness a child was born to them, which died in the midst of the desolate circumstances by which the young mother was surrounded. For three years the mother was deprived of reason—a gloomy period of Death in Life—and passionately mourned the loss of her first-born. An eminent London practitioner, to whom her case became known, was of opinion that reason would return should a second child be born to the disconsolate mother. This proved to be correct; and after three years of mental aberration the sufferer woke as from a dream. For many months after the awakening she was under the impression that her second child was her first-born, and only became aware of the true state of the case when it was gently broken to her by her husband.

I.

Lovely as a sunbright Spring is, Yonder trembling maid advances, Clothed in beauty like the morning— Like the silver-misted morning— With a face of shiny radiance, Tinted with a tinge of blushes, Like reflections from a goblet Filled with wine of richest ruby.

Now she nears the low church portal— Flickers through the white-washed portal, Lighting up the sleepy structure, As a sunbeam lights the drowsy Blossom into wakeful gladness. See! she stands before the altar, With the chosen one beside her; And the holy Mentor murmurs Words that link their lives like rivets, Which no force should break asunder. Now the simple prayer is ended; And two souls, like kissing shadows, Mingle so no hand shall part them! Mingle like sweet-chorded music; Mingle like the sighs of Summer— Like the breath of fruit and blossom; Mingle like two kissing raindrops— Twain in one. Thrice happy maiden! Life to thee is like the morning, As the fresh-faced balmy morning, Full of melody and music; Full of soft delicious fragrance; Full of Love, as dew-soaked jasmins Are of sweet and spicy odour; Full of Love, as leaping streamlets Are of life. Thrice happy maiden!

II.

Turn we to a lowly dwelling— One amongst a million dwellings— Where a mother silent rocketh To-and-fro with down-let eyelids, Gazing on her sleeping infant, While the just-expiring embers Smoulder through the gloomy darkness. On the shelf a rushlight flickers With a dull and sickly glimmer, Turning night to ghostly, deathly, Pallid wretchedness and sadness, Just revealing the dim outline Of a pale and tearful mother, With a babe upon her bosom. "Thus am I," she muttered, wailing, "Left to linger lorn and lonely In the morning of my being. If 'twere not for thee, my sweet babe, Lily of my life's dark waters— Silver link that holds my sad heart To the earth—I fain would lay me Down, and sleep death's calm and sweet sleep. Oh! how sweetly calm it must be. In the green and silent graveyard, With the moonlight and the daisies! If 'twere not for thee, my loved one, I could lay me down and kiss Death With the gladness I now kiss thee. Oh! how cold thy tiny lips are! Like a Spring-time blossom frozen. Nestle, dear one, in my bosom!" And the mother presst the sleeper Closer—closer, to her white breast: Forward, backward—gently rocking; While the rushlight flickered ghastly. Hark! a footstep nears the dwelling; And the door is flung wide open, Banging backward 'gainst the table; And a human being enters, Flusht with liquor, drencht with water! For the rain came down in torrents, And the wind blew cold and gusty. "Well, Blanche!" spake the thoughtless husband, Not unkindly. "Weeping always." "Yes, Charles, I could ne'er have slumbered Had I gone to bed," she answered. Then she rose to shut the night out, But the stubborn wind resisted, And, for spite, dasht through the crevice Of the window. "Foolish girl, then, Thus to wait for me!" he muttered. When a shriek—so wild, so piercing— Weirdly wild—intensely piercing— Struck him like a sharp stiletto. Then another—and another! Purging clear his turbid senses. "Blanche!" he cried; and sprang towards her Just in time to save her falling; And her child fell from her bosom, Like a snow-fall from the house-top To the earth. "Blanche! Blanche!" he gaspt out; "Tell me what it is that pains thee." But her face was still as marble. Then he kissed her cheeks—her forehead— Then her lips, and called out wildly: "Blanche, my own neglected darling, Look, look up, and say thou livest, Speak, if but to curse thy husband— Curse thy wretched, heartless husband." Then her eyelids slowly opened, And she gazed up in his white face, White as paper as her own was! "Charles!" she sighed, "I have been dreaming: Is my child dead?" "No!" he answered, "See, 'tis sleeping!" "Dead!" the mother Murmured faintly, "Sleeping—sleeping!" In a chair he gently placed her: Then he stooped to take the child up, Kisst and placed it on her bosom. Frantic then the mother hugged it; Gazed a moment; then with laughter Wild, she made the room re-echo— "They would take my bonny baby— Rob me of my dainty darling, Would they? Ha! ha! ha!" she shouted. And she turned her large blue eyes up With a strange and fitful gazing, Laughing till the tears chased madly Down her cheeks of pallid whiteness. "Dear, dear Blanche!" her husband murmured, Stretching out his hand towards her; But she started wildly forward, Crouched down in the furthest corner, And, with face tear-dabbled over, And her hair in long, lank tresses, With a voice so low and plaintive 'Twould have won a brute to lameness, Faintly sobbed she: "Do not take it! Do not take it!—do not take it!" And she hugged her infant closer, Sobbing sadly, "Do not take it!" "Blanche! dear Blanche!" her husband faltered, With a voice low, husht, and chokeful, "I—I am thy worthless husband!" Then he walkt a step towards her; But the girl with 'wildered features Drew her thin hand o'er her forehead, And in wandering accents muttered: "Husband? Husband? No, not husband! I am still a laughing maiden; Yet methought I had been married, And bore such a sweet, sweet baby— Such a fair and bonny baby! Baby—baby—hush; the wild winds Sing so plaintive. Hush—h!" And then she Laid the child upon the cold floor, And, with hair in wild disorder, Laughing, crying, sobbing, talking, O'er it hung, like March a-shivering O'er the birth of infant April. Lightly then her husband toucht her On the shoulder; but she look'd not— Spake not—moved not. Slowly rose she From her kneeling, crouching posture; And she stood a hopeless dreamer, With the child a corpse beside her!

III.

In a dry and sun-parch'd graveyard, In a small corpse-crowded graveyard, With the lurid sky above it, With the smoke from chimneys o'er it, With the din of life around it— Din of rushing life about it; Sat a girlish, grief-worn figure, Croucht up in the darkest corner, With her pallid face turned upwards; To and fro in silence rocking On a little mound of dark dirt. Like a veiled Nun rose the pale moon, Draped about with fleecy vapour; And the stars in solemn conclave Came to meet her—came to greet her, To their convent home to bear her: She had soared above the dingy Earth, and left the world behind her. As she passed she lookt down sadly, Gazed with silent, noble pity, At the girlish, grief-worn figure, Sitting in the darkest corner Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard, With her pallid face turned upwards, On a little mound of dark dirt. Round about from windows flickered Lights, which told of inside revels; Rooms, with mirth and banquets laden, Sobbing kisses, soft embraces, Feasts of Love, and feasts of Pleasure, Ruby lips, and joyous laughter. Then the buzz of life grew softer, Broken only by the tramping Of a troop of bacchanalians, Reeling through the streets deserted, With their loud uproarious language. Still the girlish, grief-worn figure, Croucht in dark and dreary corner Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard, With her pallid face turned upwards, On a little mound of dark dirt. The gray herald of the Morning, Dapple-clad, came forth to tell the Sleepy world his Lord was coming. Straight the drowsy buildings leapt up Like huge giants from their slumber, And, with faces flusht and ruddy, Waited for the King of Morning! Lo! he comes from far-off mountains, With a glory-robe about him, With a robe of gold and purple; And a buzz of mighty wonder Rises as, with step majestic, And with glance sublime, he walks on, Gathering his robe about him, To his West-embowered palace, Still the girlish, grief-worn figure, Croucht in dark and dreary corner Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard, With her pallid face turned upwards, To and fro in silence rocking, On a little mound of black dirt! When the box which held her treasure Had been borne from home and buried, She had followed, undetected; And when all had left the graveyard She had crept to that small hillock, Trembling like a half-crusht lily; Yearning towards the child beneath her, Yet, the while, to earth-life clinging By a link—bruised but unbroken. Whilst at home her frantic husband Called aloud in vain for "Blanche!"

IV.

Hours flew by like honey-laden Bees, with sting and honey laden: Days, like ghostly shadows, flitted By; and weeks and months rolled onward With a never-ceasing rolling, Like the blue bright waves a-rolling, Never quiet—never ending! Still the girlish, grief-worn figure, Might be seen, with vacant glances, Threading through life's rushing whirlpool— Gliding, like a sunbeam, o'er it— To that small corpse-crowded graveyard; Where for hours she'd sit and murmur, With a wild and plaintive wailing; "Come back, darling! Come back, darling; Come, for I am broken-hearted." When at home, with nimble fingers Oft she'd clothe a doll and call it Her sweet babe—her darling baby— Her long-absent, long-lost baby! Her fair bonny-featured baby! And her husband would bend o'er her, With low words of pure affection— As when first he woo'd and won her. And her home was not the dungeon— The sad, dark, and dismal dungeon— The cold death-vault of her infant, With the drear and ghastly rushlight: But a home of cottage comfort, Every sweet of love and loving. Yes! the wan and pallid mother Found on that dark night, a husband— Found a home; but—lost her reason!

V.

"Do not, for the world, awake her! 'Twere her death-knell to awake her!" Urged the old and careful nursewife. "Let me look but for a moment— Gaze but for one little moment!" 'Twas the voice of Charles that pleaded: Softly, then, he drew the curtain, Gently, fearful, drew the curtain— "Charles!—dear Charles!" a faint voice murmured, In a tone so weak and lowly, Sweetly weak and soul-subduing. "Blanche!—my sweet one!" gasp'd the husband, "Dost thou know me?—God, I thank thee!" Then he threw his arms around her, And, amidst a shower of kisses, Truest, purest, grateful kisses, Drew the loved one to his bosom: And the babe that nestled near her Covered he with warm caresses. Reason, like a golden sunbeam On a lily-cup, had lightened Her sweet soul so dark and turbid— For three years so darkly turbid; Three long years so dark and turbid. "Charles, my dream has been a sad one," Spake she, like expiring music, Shadowed with a mournful sadness. "I have dreamt they stole my baby, Buried my dear, darling infant!" Then she took the babe and kiss'd it, Presst it to her snowy bosom; And, with voice low, soft, and grateful, Murmured, "Charles, I am so happy! Do not weep—I'm very happy!"

VI.

Reader! 'tis no idle fiction: Once a lovely, laughing maiden— Lovely as a Summer morning, Lived and loved, as I have told thee; Lost her babe, as I have told thee; And a mental night came o'er her Like a ghastly, gaping fissure, Like a chasm of empty darkness. As a new-made grave in Summer Bulges up dark and unsightly, With the bright blue sky above it, And the daisies smiling round it, So, with all its doleful darkness, Fell the dream of that fair suff'rer O'er her mind with inward canker, Like a slug upon the rose-leaf! Then she woke, as I have told thee, After three years' trance-like sleeping, Knowing not she had been sleeping; And for months she never doubted That the child she loved and fondled Was lier long-dead darling first-born! Happy hearts all feared to tell her: Death in Life again they dreaded.

Now no Death in Life they fear; Blanche is happy all the year.



SONG OF THE STRIKE.

1874.

With features haggard and worn; With a child in its coffin—dead; With a wife and sons o'er a fireless hearth, In a hovel with never a bed; While the wind through lattice and door Is driving the sleet and rain, A workman strong, with sinews of steel, Sits singing this dismal refrain: Strike! Strike! Strike! Let the bright wheels of Industry rust: Let us earn in our shame A pauper's name, Or eat of a criminal crust.

Ah! What though the little ones die, And women sink weary and weak; And the paths of life, with suffering rife, Be paved with the hearts that break? While souls, famine-smitten and crusht, Seek food in the skies away, This workman strong, with sinews of steel, Sits singing his terrible lay: Strike! Strike! Strike! Let the bright wheels of Industry rust: Let us earn in our shame A pauper's name, Or eat of a criminal crust.

And while the dark workhouse gate Is besieged by a famishing crowd, Forge, hammer, and mine, with their mission divine, Lie dumb, like a corpse in a shroud. And Plenty, with beckon and smile, Points up at the golden rain That is ready to fall to beautify all, But is checked by the dread refrain: Strike! Strike! Strike! Let the bright wheels of Industry rust: Let us earn in our shame A pauper's name, Or eat of a criminal crust.

Alas! That a spirit so brave, That a heart so loyal and true, Should crouch in the dust with a sightless trust At the nod of a selfish few. Alas! That the olden ties— The links binding Master and Man— (a) Should be broken in twain, and this ghostly refrain Cloud all with its shadowy ban: Strike! Strike! Strike! Let the bright wheels of Industry rust: Let us earn in our shame A pauper's name, Or eat of a criminal crust.

(a) In a recent address to his workmen, Mr. Robert Crawshay, the extensive ironmaster, of Cyfarthfa Castle, said: "The happy time has passed, and black times have come. You threw your old master overboard, and took to strangers, and broke the tie between yourselves and me. When the deputation came up to me at the Castle, and I asked them to give me a fortnight to work off an old order of rails, and they refused, I then told them the old tie was broken; and from that day to this it has."



NATURE'S HEROES.

DEDICATED TO THE WELSH MINERS WHO BRAVELY RESCUED THEIR FELLOWS AT THE INUNDATION OF THE TYNEWYDD COLLIERY.

FRIDAY, APRIL 20TH, 1877. (a)

Hero from instinct, and by nature brave, Is he who risks his life a life to save; Who sees no peril, be it e'er so great, Where helpless human lives for succour wait; Who looks on death with selfless disregard; Whose sense of duty brings its own reward. Such are the Braves who now inspire my pen: Pride of the gods—and heroes among men. The warrior who, on glorious battle plain, Falls bravely fighting—dies to live again In fame hereafter: this he, falling, knows; And painless hence are War's most painful blows. This is the hope that buoys his latest breath, Stanches the wound, and plucks the sting from death. But humbler hearts that sally forth to fight 'Gainst foes unseen, in realms of pitchy night, Ne'er dreaming that the chivalrous affray Will e'er be heard of—more than heroes they, And more deserving they their country's praise Than nobler names that wear their country's bays. Duty, which glistens in the garish beam That makes it beautiful—as jewels gleam When sunlight pours upon them—lacks the pow'r, The grandeur, which, in dark and secret hour, Crowns lowly brows with bravery more bright Than fame achieved in Glory's dazzling light. Nature's heroics need but suns to shine To show the world their origin divine: And as the plant in darksome cave will grow Whether warm sunshine bless its face or no, A secret impulse yearning day and night In hourly striving tow'rds the unseen light, So lives the hero-germ in every heart— Of earthy life the bright, the heavenly part: The pow'r that brings the blossom from the sod, And gives to man an attribute of God.

(a) Four men and a boy were entombed for nine days, from noon on Wednesday, April 11th, to mid-day on Friday, April 20th, in the Tynewydd Pit, Rhondda Valley. They were at length rescued by the almost super-human efforts of a band of brave workers, who, at the risk of their lives, cut through 38 yards of the solid coal-rock in order to get at their companions, working day and night, and, at times, regarding every stroke a prelude to almost certain death. Their heroic exertions were crowned with success, and they received the recorded thanks of their Queen and country, having the further honour bestowed upon them of being the first recipients of the Albert medal, given by Her Majesty for acts of exceptional bravery.



ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE CHILD.

He came: As red-lipt rosebuds in the Summer come: A tiny angel, let from Heav'n to roam, With laughing love to clothe our childless home The God-sent cherub came.

He lived One little hour; What bliss was in the space! Our lives that day were fringed with fresher grace And in the casket of our darling's face What honeyed hopes were hived.

He droopt: And o'er our souls a mighty sorrow swept, With many fears the night-long watch we kept, Tearful and sad: Yet even as we wept Our star-faced beauty droopt.

He died: And darksome grew our life's bright morning sun. Gloomy the day so radiantly begun. What joy, what joy, without our darling one, Is all the world beside?

Tis past: The perfumed rosebud of our life is dead: Helpless we bend, and mourn the cherub fled, Even as the bruised reed bends low its head Before the cruel blast.



MAGDALENE.

Penitent! Penniless! Where can she go? Her poor heart is aching With many a woe. Repentant—though sinning: Remorseful and sad, She weeps in the moonlight While others are glad. Shrink not away from her, Stained though she be: She once, as the purest, Was sinless and free: And penitence bringeth A shroud for her shame: Hide it forgetfully; Pity—nor blame.

Penniless! Penitent! Gone every hope: Warm lights are gleaming From basement to cope. Plenty surroundeth her: Starving and stark, Lonely she pleadeth Out in the dark. The cold moon above her, The black stream below, No friendly voice near her: Where can she go? Turned every face from her Closed every door: Plash in the moonlight! She pleadeth no more.



LOVE WALKS WITH HUMANITY YET.

Though toilers for gold stain their souls in a strife That enslaves them to Avarice grim, Though Tyranny's hand fills the wine cup of life With gall, surging over the brim; Though Might in dark hatefulness reigns for a time, And Right by Wrong's frownings be met; Love lives—a guest-angel from heaven's far clime, And walks with humanity yet.

And still the world, Balaam-like, blind as the night, Sees not the fair seraph stand by That beckons it onward to Morning and Light, Lark-like, from the sod to the sky; Love, slighted, smiles on, as the Thorn-crown'd of old, Sun-featured and Godlike in might, Its magic touch changing life's dross into gold, Earth's darkness to Paradise bright.

As gems on Death's fingers flash up from the tomb And rays o'er its loneliness shed; As flowerets in early Spring tremblingly bloom Ere Winter's cold ice-breath has fled; So Love, rainbow-like, smiles through sadness and tears, Bridging up from the earth to the sky; The grave 'neath its glance a bright blossom-robe wears, As the Night smiles when Morn dances by.

The rich mellow sunshine that kisses the earth, The flow'rs that laugh up from the sod, The song-birds that psalm out their jubilant mirth Heart-rapt in the presence of God, The sweet purling brooklet, with voice soft and low, The sea-shouts, like peals from above, The sky-kissing mountains, the valleys below, All tell us to live and to love.



THE TWO TREES.

A FABLE.

Two trees once grew beside a running brook: An Alder, one, of unassuming mien: His mate, a Poplar, who, with lofty look, Wore, with a rustling flirt, his robe of green. With pompous front the Poplar mounted high, And curried converse with each swelling breeze; While Alder seemed content to live and die A lowly shrub among surrounding trees.

And many a little ragged urchin came And plucked the juicy berries from the bough Of teeming Alder, trading with the same, Thus earning oft an honest meal, I trow: But stuck-up Poplar glanced with pride supreme At such low doings—such plebeian ties— Cocked up his nose, and thought—oh! fatal dream!— To grow, and grow, until he reached the skies.

Each Autumn Alder brought forth berries bright, And freely gave to all who chose to take: Each Summer, Poplar added to his height, And wore his robe with loftier, prouder shake, One day the woodman, axe on shoulder, came, And laid our soaring Poplar 'mongst the dead, Stripped off his robe, and sent him—O the shame!— To prop the gable of a donkey shed.

MORAL.

Whoe'er, like Alder, strives to aid The lowly where he can, Shall win respect from every soul That bears the stamp of man: But he who, Poplar-like, o'er-rides Poor mortals as they pass, Will well be used if used to prop A stable for an ass.



STANZAS:

WRITTEN IN THE SHADOW OF A VERY DARK CLOUD.

"Never saw I the righteous forsaken," Once sang the good Psalmist of old; "Nor his seed for a crust humbly begging." How oft has the story been told! But the story would ne'er have been written, Had the writer but lived in our day, When thousands with hunger are smitten— No matter how plead they or pray.

They may say there's a lining of silver To the darkest—the dreariest cloud: That garniture, white fringe, and flowers, Grace the black pall, the coffin, and shroud. But the lining at best is but vapour; Silk and lacquer to nothingness fade After hearts in their sorrow have broken O'er the wrecks which Adversity made.

They may say that the box of Pandora Holds reward in the bottom at last For those who strive on in the searching. And forget the fierce blows of the Past. But late comes the voice of approval, And worthless the cup and the crust, When, in striving, by Death overtaken, We lie lone and low in the dust.

They may say that right-living and thinking Will keep the grim wolf from the door; But how many Saints are there sinking Whose crime is to live and be poor! Let the knave promulgate the deception, And dress the world's wounds with such salve; It is false—while rank Villainy prospers, And Virtue 's permitted to starve.

They may say—but mankind is a fiction That puzzles the wisest to read; And life is a vast contradiction— A fable—a folly indeed. He happy in heart is who careth No jot for mankind or its ways, To defy the world's frown he who dareth, Unconscious of blame or of praise.



VERSES:

WRITTEN AFTER READING A BIOGRAPHY OF HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BEAUFORT, TO WHOM THESE LINES ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.

1877.

Like a Sea with its source in the distance belost, That upholds on its breast and contains in its heart Countless treasures and gems of which none know the cost— All the brightest achievements of Science and Art:

So the proud race of Somerset flows down the Past, With its Statesmen and Warriors—kinsmen of Kings: With its learning and culture—its heritage vast— And its virtues which inborn Nobility brings.

In the Wars of the Roses three Somersets gave Up their lives for their Monarch in danger's dark hour, And the rain of their hearts'-blood that watered each grave Brought a still brighter flush to their Destiny's flow'r.

And when men the fair features of Liberty smeared With the stain of Licentiousness through the dark Past, 'Twas a Somerset England's proud Standard upreared O'er the stronghold of Raglan—and bled to the last:

A stronghold whose name once a Warrior bore Who with courage undaunted chivalrously led The brave soldiers of England through carnage and gore; Where a Czar bade defiance—a Somerset bled.

Long the foremost in loyalty, forum, and field; Where the sword wins renown or where politics grace: Always first to be doing—the latest to yield: All these are the virtues, the pride of thy race.

In the face of thy life like a mirror we see All the lives of true Englishmen shaped as thine own, For the tastes and pursuits which form nature in thee Are the food from whose sustenance Britons have grown.

When Philanthropy leads, in its fights for the Poor, No sincerer heart follows more keenly than thine; For there's nought else in life hath more pow'r to allure, Where the soul takes delight in the mission divine.

All the ages the wild storms of Faction have raved, Though alluring the paths in which traitors have trod, Not a moment hast thou or thine ancestors waived In your love for Old England, its Throne, and its God.



A SIMILE.

In early Morning, tall and gaunt, Our shadows reach across the street; Like giant sprites they seem to haunt The things we meet.

But at noon-tide more dwarfed they fall Around about each sun-crown'd thing; Yet lengthen out, and grow more tall, Towards evening.

And thus Dependence among men Is largely seen in Childhood's stage; At Mid-life hides; but comes again With hoary age.



THE TWO SPARROWS.

A FABLE.

Two Sparrows, prisoned in a room, Kept, every now and then, Dashing against the window-panes, Which threw them back again: And many a time, with trembling heart, They flew towards the light, But something which they could not see Still stopped them in their flight:

A-tired they hopped about the floor, And watched the sunshine gay, And each one asked within himself "Why ca'nt I get away?" Another try: another dash, As though with heart and soul; And one, by chance, the barrier broke, And bounded through the hole.

His comrade heard the merry chirp He gave till out of sight, Then, fluttering round, to free himself He tried with all his might. But at that moment Puss came in, And on him cast an eye, Then took the trembler in her claws And taught him how to die.

MORAL.

How oft in life, though never meant, Men gain their point by Accident, Or Chance—that foe to 'stablished rules; The guiding-star of knaves and fools.



FLOATING AWAY.

A maiden sat musingly down by the side Of Life's river that flowed at her feet, And she watcht the dark stream 'neath the willows glide In its voiceless and stately retreat. 'Twas a solemn tide— Deep, dark, and wide, And fringed with a sedgy fray: In the morning—at night— Through darkness and light, It floated—floated away.

The maid was light-hearted, with features as fair As the sunbeams that played o'er her face, And her bosom was garnisht with flowerets rare That gave to it many a grace: And she playfully sung, As she plucked and flung Each blossom as bright as the day From her breast to the stream That like a drear dream Went floating—floating away.

The sun in its brightness illumined the sky; The lark loudly carolled aloft; The breezes swept onward with many a sigh, And kissed with caresses soft. Still, still the fair maid By the dark river strayed, And flung forth in thoughtless play Each bud from her breast In wilful unrest, And laught as it floated away.

Up the tall pine trees clomb the shadows of eve To welcome the coming night; And the recreant bird in the twilight was heard Wending nest-ward in plaintive plight; When, too long delay'd, In haste rose the maid Heart-tired of her flirting play. And she saw the last gleam Of her flow'rs down the stream Floating—floating away.

The blossoms so chaste that had made her more fair With their sweetness, their perfume, and light, Were gone—and her bosom, now cheerless and bare, Grew cold in the dewy night. Thus they who, in youth, Mistake flirting for truth, And fritter their love but in play, Will behold, like the maid, All their brightest charms fade, And floating for ever away.



A FLORAL FABLE.

A sweet geranium once, in pride of place 'Mongst rare exotics in a Palace lived; With watchful care from tender hands it thrived, Standing in lofty sphere with odorous grace.

The smiling Sun, each morning making call, Such tender looks and such sweet kisses gave, That in a little time, true as I live, He to the tender flow'r was all in all.

But true love's course, 'tis said, ne'er smooth did run: The pretty flower was sent, now here, now there, Until at length she found more humble sphere, Far, far removed from kisses of the sun.

Here, with dejected look, she pined anew, Placed in the lattice of a lowly cot, In pent-up alley, fever-fraught and hot, And wore from day to day a sicklier hue.

No blessed sunlight flusht her dainty cheek, No cooling breeze refreshed her pallid brow, Droopful she stood—methinks I see her now, Nursing the grief of which she might not speak.

A blinding wall shut out her darling sun, Tow'rds which, with prayerful arm, she hourly reached In mute appeal; and lovingly beseeched, As 'twere, to gaze upon the worshipped one.

No soul e'er panted its dear love to see With dreams more tender than the dying plant— Hoping and yearning, with a hungering want, Sun-ward in all her heart's idolatry.

But Ah! the fickle sun, from flow'r to flow'r, In lusty love did revel all the day, Nor thought of her, now dying far away, Whom he had kissed through many a rosy hour.

In dead of night, when great hearts die, the storm Swept down the barrier that blocked out the light, And in the morn, refreshing, pure, and bright, The sun came leaping in, so soft and warm.

But sunshine came too late. The blossom brave, While yearning for dear light and warmth, had died. As men will sometimes die waiting the tide That flows at length to eddy round—a grave.



"RING DOWN THE CURTAIN."

"Ring down the Curtain" were the last dying words of a young and beautiful American actress, who died of consumption when in the zenith of her popularity.

Ring down the curtain; So ends the play! Night-time is coming; Past is the day. Sang I in sadness Adorned with a smile; Pourtraying gladness And dying the while! How my brow burneth— With fever oppressed: How my heart yearneth For silence and rest. Soothe me to slumber: Why should ye sigh? Ring down the curtain; 'Tis pleasant to die!

Ring down the curtain: Critics depart! The end of your blaming— A wearisome heart: Fame which your praise brought— A Summer-day cloud: Fruit of my toiling— A coffin and shroud! Light though, and fitful, The dreams of my life, My soul like a vessel From ocean of strife Calmly and peaceful To her haven doth fly: Ring down the curtain— 'Tis pleasant to die!



THE TELEGRAPH POST.

A FABLE.

A telegraph post by the roadside stood In a village humble and fair, And he raised his head, did this column of wood, As high as he could in the air: "Oh, Oh!" quoth he, as along the wire The news from the wide world through Hurried backwards and forwards in words of fire, Breathing promises fair, or threatenings dire, Never heeding the post as they flew.

"Oh, Oh!" quoth he: "That I should stand here "And bear on my shoulders high "Such an upstart lot, who no manners have got "To pass me, who upraises them, by! "I'll stand it no longer,"—and thinking, no doubt, To bring down the wires in his fall, He stumbled: but no! for above and below The other posts stood—the wires wouldn't let go: And our post couldn't tumble at all.

And there he hung like a helpless thing, Till his place by another was ta'en; And the foolish post with dry sticks a host On the firewood stack was lain. "You ignorant dolt!" said a Raven wise Who sat on the wall bright in feather— "You must have been blind. When to tumble inclined "You should with your neighbouring posts have combined And have all stood or fallen together."

MORAL.

Units, as units, are helpless things In the soul-stirring struggles of life; But Success is the laurel which Unity brings To crown the true heart in the strife.



BREAKING ON THE SHORE.

I saw the sunbeams dancing o'er the ocean One Summer-time. Bright was each laughing wave; I felt a thrill to see their sweet emotion, Each happy in the kiss the other gave: But Winter came with all its storm and sadness, And every wave that kissed and smiled before Bid long farewell to dreams of sunny gladness And broke its heart upon the stony shore.

So like the Summer crown'd with many a blessing She dawn'd upon this lonely heart of mine: And life grew lovely with her sweet caressing As blooms the thorn claspt by the bright woodbine: But now, Alas! in churchyard bleak she's lying, And dearest joys are gone to come no more: Like yonder wave, for absent sunbeam sighing, My heart with grief is breaking on life's shore.



HURRAH FOR THE RIFLE CORPS

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED IN 1856.

The fair Knights of old, with trappings of gold, And falchions that gleamed by their side, Went forth to the fight with hearts gay and light To war 'gainst Oppression and Pride: And though long since dead, it must not be said That the proud reign of Chivalry 's o'er— There are many as bold as the brave Knights of old To be found in the Rifle Corps. Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps; May they ever be ready to stand In defence of the Right, and be willing to fight For the Queen and their native land.

Old England intends with the world to be friends, While Honour with Peace is combined; But the moment her foe lifts his hand for a blow, All friendship she flings to the wind. Should an enemy dare e'en as much as prepare To bring War's alarms to our shore, He will find every coast bristling o'er with a host Of the brave-hearted Rifle Corps. Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps; May they ever be ready to stand In defence of the Right, and be willing to fight For the Queen and their native land.

Let the wine goblet brim with red wine to the rim— Let Beauty look on all the while, As with eyes that approve in the language of love She crowns the proud toast with a smile: May each Rifle be seen round the Throne and the Queen Should danger e'er threaten our shore: And with many a shout let the echo ring out— Three cheers for the Rifle Corps! Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps; May they ever be ready to stand In defence of the Right, and be willing to fight For the Queen and their native land.



CAREFUL WHEN YOU FIND A FRIEND.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

O if in life you'd friends obtain, Be careful how you choose them; For real friends are hard to gain, And trifling things may lose them. Hold out your hand to every palm That reaches forth to greet you; But keep your heart for those alone Who with pure friendship meet you. Then if in life a friend you'd find, Be careful how you choose one; True friends are scarce among mankind: A trifling thing may lose one.

A friend your heart may now relieve, And one day want relieving; So if from others you'd receive Ne'er shrink from wisely giving. Be grateful when you find a friend— The heart that's thankless—spurn it; Let conscience guide you to the end— Take friendship and return it. Then if in life a friend you'd find, Be careful how you choose one; True friends are scarce among mankind: A trifling thing may lose one.

When days grow cold the swallow flies, Till sunshine bright returneth; When life grows dark false friendship dies: True friendship brighter burneth. An angel fair, twin-born of Love, It lights life's pathway for us; And like the stars that shine above, At night beams brighter o'er us. Then if in life a friend you'd find, Be careful how you choose one; True friends are scarce among mankind: A trifling thing may lose one.



BROTHERLY LOVE.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

There's a place in this world, free from trouble and strife, Which the wise try their hardest to find, Where the heart that encounters the sharp thorns of life Will meet nought that's harsh or unkind; Where each tries his best to make joy for the rest— In sunshine or shadow the same; Where all who assemble in Friendship's behest Are Brothers in heart and in name. Let brotherly love continue— Let the flag of the Craft be unfurled; We 'll join hand-in-hand While united we stand: 'Tis the way to get on in the world.

There's a pleasure in life go wherever we may, 'Tis one of all pleasures the best— To meet as we travel by night or by day One friend that's more true than the rest. Whose heart beats responsive to Friendship and Love, In Faith, Hope, and Charity's call; Who, blind to our follies, is slow to reprove, And friendly whate'er may befal. Let brotherly love continue— Let the flag of the Craft be unfurled; We 'll join hand-in-hand While united we stand: 'Tis the way to get on in the world.

Then let us, my brothers, through life's busy scene, Should sadness or sorrow appear, Be true to our promise, as others have been, And strive the dark pathway to cheer. Our stay is but short in this valley below; On all sides we troubles may scan; Let us help one another wherever we go, And make them as light as we can. Let brotherly love continue— Let the flag of the Craft be unfurled; We 'll join hand-in-hand While united we stand: 'Tis the way to get on in the world.



ENGLAND AND FRANCE.

WRITTEN DURING THE CRIMEAN WAR.

(FOR MUSIC.)

Let the proud Russian boast of his granite-bound coast, And his armies that challenge the world; Let him stand in his might against Freedom and Right, With his flag of Oppression unfurled: Old England and France hand-in-hand will advance In the wide path of Progress and Glory, That will win them a name on the bright scroll of Fame, Everlasting in song and in story. Old England and France, then, for ever; Brave France and Old England for ever; And while the world stands may the glorious Twin-lands Be united in friendship together.

Both by land and by sea this land of the free— Britannia, the Queen of the wave, Proudly stands side by-side, and in Friendship allied, With France, the gallant and the brave: Whilst the stern Tyrant raves at his nobles and slaves, Old England and France frown defiance, And both bravely press on till the goal shall be won— Then Hurrah! for the glorious alliance! Old England and France, then, for ever; Brave France and Old England for ever; And while the world stands may the glorious Twin-lands Be united in friendship together.



AGAINST THE STREAM.

(FOR MUSIC.)

How oft, in life's rough battle, we, Struck down by hard adversity, In saddest hour of trial see No friend with helping hand. Then in despair beneath the wave We sink, with none to help or save. When if we 'd been both bold and brave We might have reached the land. Should things go wrong this is the plan; Forget the past as best you can, Then turn your sleeves up like a man And pull against the stream.

Yes, pull against the stream, my friends; That lane is long which never ends; That bow ne'er made which never bends To shoot its arrow home. If twenty times you miss your aim, Or ten times twenty lose the game, Keep up your spirits all the same— Your turn is sure to come. Should things go wrong this is the plan; Forget the past as best you can, Then turn your sleeves up like a man And pull against the stream.

In love or pleasure, work or play, Men cannot always win the day, For mixed among life's prizes gay What hosts of blanks are found. Though skies to-day be overcast— Though bitter blows the wintry blast— The Summer days will come at last With hope and sunshine crown'd. Should things go wrong this is the plan; Forget the past as best you can, Then turn your sleeves up like a man, And pull against the stream.



WRECKED IN SIGHT OF HOME.

(FOR MUSIC.)

The ship through the sunshine sails over the sea, From many a distant clime comes she, Freighted with treasure, see how she flies Cheerily over the foam. Hearts are all happy, cheeks are all bright, The long-absent land appears in sight; Little they dream that the beautiful prize Will be wrecked in sight of home!

The storm breaks above them, the thunders roll, The ship gets aground on the hidden shoal, And the turbulent waters dash over the barque, And cries from the doomed ship come. Till nothing is left the tale to tell, But the angry roar of the surging swell; So the grand old vessel goes down in the dark— Wrecked in sight of home.

And thus as we wander through life's rugged way, Fighting its battles as best we may, Seeking in fancy a far-distant spot To rest when we've ceased to roam: And just as the haven of comfort appears, Our hopes are all turned into sadness and tears, We droop near the threshold—ne'er enter the cot— Wrecked in sight of home.



SONNET.

I could not love thee more, if life depended On one more link being fixed to Affection's chain; Nor cease to love thee—save my passion ended With life; for love and life were blanks if twain! I could not love thee less; the flame, full-statured Leaps from the soul, and knows no infancy; But like the sun—majestic, golden-featured, Soars like a heav'n of beauty from life's sea. I would not love thee for thy radiant tresses, Rich budding mouth, and eyes twin-born of Light. No: Charms less fadeful thy dear heart possesses— Gems that will flash through life's noontide and night. But simple words fall short of what I'll prove: Accept them but as lispings of my love.



SEBASTOPOL IS WON.

1855.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

Dance on! ye vaulting joy-bells, shout In spirit-gladdening notes, Whilst mimic thunders bellow out From cannons' brazen throats: "Tyrant! awake ye, tremblingly; The advent has begun: Hark! to the mighty jubilant cry— "Sebastopol is won!" Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands, Shout, patriots, everyone! A burst of joy let rend the sky: Sebastopol is won!

No dream of brilliant conquest 'twas, Nor selfish hope of gain, That sent the blood mad-rushing through And through each Briton's vein; No! such was not the spell that nerved Old England for the fight, Her war cry with her brother braves' Was "Freedom, God, and Right!" Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands, Shout, patriots, everyone! A burst of joy let rend the sky: Sebastopol is won!

Shame! shame! upon the craven souls Of those who trembling stood, And would not—dare not—lend a hand To stay this feast of blood! Whose cringing spirits lowly bowed Before the despot-glance Of him whose star now pales before Brave England! Mighty France! Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands, Shout, patriots, everyone! A burst of joy let rend the sky; Sebastopol is won!

Tho' hoary grows the mother-land Her enemies may learn That 'neath her smile so queenly-grand There lives a purpose stern! Then Britons chant exulting paeans, Long pent-up joy release; From yonder flaming pile upsoars The Morning Sun of Peace! (a) Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands, Shout, patriots, everyone! A burst of joy let rend the sky: Sebastopol is won!

(a) I am sorry to find that the aspiration here embodied has been falsified. War is now raging (1877), and from precisely the same causes as those which led to the Crimean war, nearly a quarter of a century ago.



HOLD YOUR TONGUE.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

I've often thought, as through the world I've travelled to and fro, How many folks about me—above me and below— Might make this life more happy, if old as well as young Would bear in mind the maxim which bids them hold their tongue. Hold your tongue—hold your tongue—you'll ne'er be thought a dunce: Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once: Hold your tongue—for quiet folks are oft reputed wise: Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.

How oft we find that words unkind unhappy lives will make; That loving hearts through idle words will bleed and sometimes break; What mischief have we scattered all our bosom friends among, Which might have been avoided had we only held our tongue. Hold your tongue—hold your tongue: you'll ne'er be thought a dunce: Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once: Hold your tongue—for quiet folks are oft reputed wise: Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.

The kindly deeds men do in life their own reward will bring; But where they come with trumpet-words, their sweetness bears a sting: The silent giver 's most beloved right-thinking folks among; So when you do a kindly thing, be sure you hold your tongue. Hold your tongue—hold your tongue: you'll ne'er be thought a dunce: Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once: Hold your tongue—for quiet folks are oft reputed wise: Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.

Yes: hold your tongue, except in life when days of sorrow come; Then speak to raise a drooping heart, or cheer a darksome home. If none of these—let silence be the burden of your song: He holds his own, nor hurts his friend, who learns to hold his tongue. Hold your tongue—hold your tongue; you'll ne'er be thought a dunce: Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once: Hold your tongue—for quiet folks are oft reputed wise: Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.



MY MOTHER'S PORTRAIT.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

Ah! Well can I remember: "She'll come no more," they said. Her last sweet words, they told me, Were blessings on my head. Ah! Well can I remember What sadness all things wore In childhood, when they told me "She'll come—she'll come no more!" Awake or asleep, Sweet prize above all other; Close to my heart I'll keep The likeness of my mother.

Ah! Well can I remember, Those eyes were filled with tears— The face that smiled upon me Seemed sad with many fears: "Who'll care for thee, my sweet one?" "Who'll love thee now?" she cried: Then from her arms they bore me— 'Twas then, they said, she died. Awake or asleep, Sweet prize above all other: Close to my heart I'll keep The likeness of my mother.

What though, through cloud and sunshine, Bright thoughts around me cling: Though friends in kindness greet me, No mother's love they bring. I see her form before me; I see the sad, sweet smile; And yet my heart is lonely, So lonely, all the while. Awake or asleep, Sweet prize above all other: Close to my heart I'll keep The likeness of my mother.



NEVER MORE.

FOR MUSIC.

A tear-drop glistened on her cheek, Then died upon the sand. With aching heart, as though 'twould break, She waved her trembling hand. And as the vessel cleft the foam And fled the rocky shore, She sought alone her cottage home And murmur'd "Never more!"

He ne'er returned. She droopt for him With all her girlish love; And oft her thoughts would lightly skim The sea, like Noah's dove. But every wave that danced along Like silver to the shore Brought back the burden of her song, And murmur'd "Never more!"



LINES

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. CANON JENKINS, VICAR OF ABERDARE.

If the great heart of Lifetime in unison beats With Eternity's throb through Infinity's space, Then our thoughts of thy goodness, which love oft repeats, May vibrate in thy bosom, though lost be thy face.

Thy life was a martyrdom: noble the part Of self-abnegation thou playd'st for the Poor; Whose gratitude fixes thy name in each heart, Where in Memory's shrine 'twill for ever endure.



FILIAL INGRATITUDE.

A FABLE.

An oak tree falling on the mead, By woodman's stroke laid low, Saw, as a handle to the axe Which wrought the fatal blow, A bough that once upon his breast Drew nurture from his heart, And as a tender, helpless shoot, Grew of his life a part. "Woe! woe!" he sighed, as on the earth He drew expiring breath: "That what I nurtured at its birth "Should rend my heart in death!"



THE VINE AND THE SUNFLOWER.

A FABLE.

A very young Vine in a garden grew, And she longed for a lover—as maidens do; And many a dear little tendril threw About her in innocent spirit. For she yearned to climb upward—who is it that don't? Only give man a chance, and then see if he wont: To rise in the world, though some fail to own 't, Is a weakness we all inherit.

So this very young Vine, with excusable taste, And knowing such things for her good were placed, Looked all round the garden with glances chaste For a something her faith to pin to. The fair little wisher had thoughts of her own, Nor cared for the pleasure of climbing alone; To perhaps the same feeling most ladies are prone, But that question we'll not now go into.

The first thing that came in her youthful way Was a gold-featured Sunflower—gaudy and gay— Who dressed himself up in resplendent array, And gazed on the sun as an equal. "Look! look!" quoth the Vine: "He's a lover of mine: "And see how the gold round his face doth shine!" So at once she began round the stem to twine; But mark what befel in the sequel.

One morning, soon after, a hurricane rose: And as most people know, when the storm-god blows, The hollow of heart is the thing that goes To the ground—and the wind sweeps past it. So the arrogant Sunflower, lofty in pride, And hollow from root to branch beside, Soon tumbled before the stormy tide, And lay where the wind had cast it.

It was well for the Vine that her tendrils' hold Was a clasp that a moment served to unfold; So she turned from the thing that she thought was gold With a heart for the warning grateful: And that which had dazzled her youthful eyes— Which filled her young bosom with sweet surprise— The flow'r which she took for a golden prize— Became all to her that was hateful.



POETIC PROVERBS.

I.

"If thou be surety for thy friend, thou art snared with the words of thy mouth,"—PROVERBS vi. v. 1, 2.

Think well, my son, before you lend Your name as bond for any friend; Or, when the day of reckoning comes, Come broken hearts and blighted homes. Think well, my son, before you give Your trusty word, that knaves may live: Be not for such the stepping-stone, But strive to earn and keep thine own.

II.

"A wise son maketh a glad father; but a foolish son is the heaviness of his mother."—PROVERBS x, v. 1.

Be wise, my son, as o'er the earth Thou walk'st in search of wealth or fame; Return her love who gave thee birth— His, who thy youthful guide became. That mother's heart must cease to beat; That father's voice must cease to guide; Oh! then what recollections sweet Will cheer thy life's dark eventide.

III.

"Hope deferred maketh the heart sick; The desire accomplished is sweet to the soul.—PROVERBS xiii, v. 12, 19.

I am watching—I am waiting; And my heart droops sad and low. No glad message brings me comfort As the moments come and go. While the flowers bask in sunshine; While birds sing on every tree; I am weary—weary, waiting— For a message, love, from thee.

IV.

"A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband."—PROVERBS xii, v. 4.

As is the lustre to the lily; As is the fragrance to the rose; As is the perfume to the violet In sweet humility that grows. As is the glad warmth of the sunshine Whene'er the earth is dark and cold; So, to the loving heart that wears it, Is Virtue's purest crown of gold.

V.

"Even in laughter the heart is sorrowful, and the end of that mirth is heaviness."—PROVERBS xiv, v. 13.

What though kind friends that gather round me Seek to make my heart rejoice? I miss the face I love so dearly— Miss the music of thy voice; And though I smile, as if in gladness, Tis but the phantom of a smile; My heart, in sorrowing and sadness, Mourns thy absence all the while.



CHRISTMAS ANTICIPATIONS.

As the sun looks down on the ice-bound river Melting the stream that is frozen o'er, So gladness to hearts that the long years sever Comes with old Christmas as of yore. For the hearth glows bright in the yule-log's light, And we look for the face that is far away: 'Twill come with the morn—with the wakening dawn, And our hearts will be happy on Christmas Day.

The holly-branch laughs with its berries bright, As we hang it up high in the air; The mistletoe shakes with subdued delight The leaves that its branches wear; The ivy smiles out from its place on the wall; And the fire-light gives welcome cheer; We have dreamt they are coming—and, one and all, Are wondering "Will they be here?"

Christmas bells are ringing—ringing, Ringing out the olden chime; Choristers are singing—singing, Singing carols, keeping time; And my heart is waiting—waiting, Waiting for the day so near; For my Love is coming—coming, Coming with the glad New Year.

As flowerets turn towards the sun, As streams run to the sea, So yearns my heart for Christmas-time That brings my love to me!



GOLDEN TRESSES.

Like threads of golden sunshine By angels' fingers wove, Sweet as the scented woodbine, Are the tresses of my love. The winds that whisper softly I'd give my life to be, That I might kiss those tresses bright, And die in ecstasy.

Those threads of golden sunshine Like bonds my heart enchain, And when in dreams I wander They win me back again. They throw a gleam of glory O'er the pathway where I go, As when of old, in splendour bright, Heav'n's angels walkt below.



HOPE FOR THE BEST.

Hope on for the best; where's the use of repining: Droop not by the way, for there's work to be done; Great ends are attained, not by fretting and whining— By patience and labour the goal must be won. Fear not the world's frown: though it spurn the down-falling, 'Twill shrink from a lamb if in lion-skin dresst; Whate'er be thy trouble—however enthralling— Press onward, despair not, and hope for the best.

If sorrow o'ertake thee—then be not faint-hearted; Life ne'er was ordained to be shadeless and bright; One morn from the other by night-time is parted; The sun always shines though we see not the light; Misfortunes in life, like the nettle, prove harmless, If grappled stout-hearted and fearlessly presst; Rich sweets, without bitters, soon cloy and grow charmless, Then press on, despair not, and hope for the best.



GONE BEFORE.

The silent night is coming on, The day is gone and past; The willows waving to and fro Their mournful shadows cast. I'm thinking o'er the happy years We wandered side by side, And Oh, my heart is filled with tears, I've lost my darling bride. Softly sighs the evening breeze, And soothes my bosom sore, While angel voices seem to sing: "Not lost, but gone before."