Chapter 8

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.