Chapter 7

Then might that brotherhood which Christ ordained, Be through the wide world practised and proclaimed, As one grand creed for earth's vast family, Of loving service to the Deity.

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THE CENTENARY OF A HERO.

George Stephenson, the heroic son of Britain's hardy race, The world this day holds festival, his grand career to trace; And proudly as compatriots England enshrines his name, Among her choicest heroes, on her cherished scroll of fame.

This ninth of June commemorates the glad centenary Of him whom mighty nations hold in grateful memory; A veritable hero he, worthy immortal praise, And the most lavish monuments mankind may to him raise.

Out of the humblest ranks of life the Wylam pitman rose, To a stern, irresponsive world great secrets to disclose; And through the rare, majestic force of a God-inspiring will, He forced the world his grand design and purpose to fulfil.

The poor, illiterate youth thus reared in penury extreme, Could scarcely read or write ere he attained eighteen, And yet, by the observant force of a self-guided brain, He lived to benefit a world, and gain immortal fame.

Battered and forged by poverty, his iron spirit rose, Unbroken and undaunted by the world's derisive blows, Spurred on by opposition, through the sharp furnace leapt, Strengthened and sharpened--a great power--this king of railroads stept.

His life work in his vast results will long outlive the fame Of warrior, statesman, ruler, bard, and make his honoured name An inspiration for all time to prove what can be done By observation, force and skill--what deathless laurels won!

Take courage, sons of hardy toil, your iron spirits, too, By stern, unflinching industry, may some wise forging do, Which might yourselves ennoble, and benefit your race, Who would in turn, with gratitude, your names delight to trace.

He sailed a trackless, unknown sea in the vast realms of thought, Discovered paths to enterprise, with golden issues fraught, Which lent fair commerce fleetest wings, and spurred the heels of trade, And throughout Britain's pleasant land his iron highways laid.

Something there is in lives like these that stirs the soul of man, With irresistible desire to do the best he can; Like him, through dauntless industry, and noble, firm resolve, To aid life's wheel of progress more smoothly to revolve.

Thus may his grand career inspire the multitude to-day, Throughout the nation he has dowered all homage due to pay To the majestic mind and will of him, whose honoured name The British nation shrines anew, on the world's proud scroll of fame.

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SPRINGBANK.

Dreaming before the cheerful fire, Cushioned in easy chair, Methought a troupe of fairies bright, So blithe and debonair, Trooped gaily in the dim lit hall, With buzz of tempered joy. Four little fairy maiden forms Led by a merry boy, In robe of ermine, crown of gold, Dove-eyed Dora as Britain's Queen, Whose brown hair sprayed o'er shoulders fair, And wee feet peeped from satin sheen. Clad in America's proud flag, Comes Liz with eyes of blue, Personifying with rare grace, Columbia's goddess true. The two right heartily shake hands, By which 'tis understood That they were pledged, come weal, come woe, To dwell in brotherhood. From the assembled groups around They hearty plaudits won, All feeling sure these nations could Brave the whole world as one. Then as the prince of Eastern lore With mirthful mischief rife, Comes Harry pressed by love to kiss The princess back to life; The eyes soon ope beneath his touch; The maids in glad surprise See the prince break the fairy spell, And claim his willing prize. Little Red Ridinghood comes next, Crying in sad despair: O grandma, what long teeth you've got! What eyes! what shaggy hair! In this case happily the wolf Ne'er moved or spake a word; Perhaps he was too much ashamed To have his gruff voice heard. Then to my wondering gaze appeared Old goody in her shoe, With all her numerous tribe that made Her not know what to do. And next a lovely belle who caught All hearts as in a cage, And bearing up her graceful train A quite bewitching page. Then the scene changed and nothing but A barrel, labelled "flour," Appeared upon the mimic stage In that glad evening hour; When lo! from out the wooden tub A beauteous little sprite, Emerging kissed her tiny hands, The household _flower_ that night. Then 'round a caldron on a grate To spoil the broth appeared, Five little dainty fairy cooks Whom _tout le monde_ now cheered. Next came the awful family squalls, Which Granny vainly tried To stay with Winslow's stuff for which Full many a babe has cried; The stuff and rod were all in vain, The squallers loudly bawled; Granny, despairing, shrieked aloud, And all in chorus squalled. And now "the reign of terror" dire Was pictured by them all, Nestling most trustingly beneath An umbrella tall. And still once more the scene was changed. The fairy sprites so bright, In robes _de nuit_ with tapers lit, All sweetly sang "good night." Good night, I cried; why, how is this; Things are then what they seem, And these sweet picture-paintings here Have not been all a dream? For there's our doctor's pleasant smile, There the kind brothers Gale, And there the little happy group Who tableaw'd each sweet tale. There Arnold as a southern belle, Who'd made much fun to-night, There all the guests of Springbank too, Applauding with their might. Better than fiction, I exclaimed, And crowning all the rest Glad charity the prceeds had, Making the pastime blest, Thanks to ye, little happy ones, Thanks for the vision bright, Which with such zest and innocence, You've given us to-night.

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RECOLLECTIONS OF FONTAINEBLEAU.

Well I remember, many years ago, Deep in the forest shade of Fontainebleau, With six dear girls in lovely virgin prime, Partaking of its rural joys sublime. Sue, Polly, Edith, Amy, Maud, Dear girls, whom no one could but love and laud; I like a mother to them tried to be, We were, in truth, a happy family. Far from our homes, in foreign lands we strayed; In Paris for twelve months our quarters made, Studying most earnestly, serenely gay, In the good _pension_ of Madame Rey. We visited the Palace, and roamed through Its storied chambers and trim gardens, too, And lingered by the fish pond where, 'twas claimed, Poor Marie Antoinette the fishes tamed, And then into the lovely forest sped, With simple meal of ripe fruit, meat and bread, Which we discussed with appetites made keen By games and frolic on the meadow green. The over-hanging wealth of summer trees Were swayed by Zephyr's stimulating breeze, While the sun's ardent glances played between The joy-tossed leaves and frolicked on the green. Wearied with a long ramble we reclined Beneath the waving foliage, glad to find A spot so lovely for a needful rest, Feeling by nature there supremely blest. Reclining 'neath the sun's inspiring kiss, We felt by nature soothed to peaceful bliss, Too great for human utterance of word, Though our whole being was to rapture stirred. Thus in a dumb delight our thoughts took wing, In grateful homage to fond nature's king, With newly waken'd resolutions blest, During that hour of blessed, peaceful rest; And when at length we from the sweet trance woke, What joyful exclamations from us broke! As all in one rich harmony agreed, We felt from every earthly burden freed. Then, coming on a lovely forest glade, By a clear, purling brook refreshing made, We sat upon some rocks that tempting lay, Full in the smile of the sun's chastening ray, And its full glory rested on the hills, Falling on lonely brooklets, streams and rills, While the West glowed with blazing, crimson fires, Kindled to emulate divine desires. The sun-lit glory streaming from the West Lulled us once more to tranquil, joyous rest, When, with a silent wonder, we espied Most lovely lizards o'er the smooth stones glide. Doubtless the pretty creatures were lured forth By the supernal love light flooding earth, And in rich robes, with gorgeous colours bright, Were joining nature's transports of delight; For 'twas the tranquilizing sunset hour, When the great sun-god concentrates his power, To spread refining influence and show His colour painting to the earth below. And thus refreshed, we bent our homeward way, Strong in the gladdening influence of the day, Gathering bright wreaths of wild flowers rare, to be Mementoes of the day's felicity.

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THE TUNBRIDGE WELLS FLOWER SHOW.

What wealth of floral beauty, fresh from bright summer bowers! What exquisite commingling of lovely fragrant flowers! What budlets of rich promise, what hope-set leaves are here, Grouped with rare skill and elegance--the eye and heart to cheer!

Bright flowers of humble beauty, from forest, wood, and glade, Stand by their wealthier cousins, in innocence arrayed, And blending with rich blossoms the graceful maidenhair, Spreads far its fairy frondlets, to woo the joyful air.

And roses, too, sweet roses, gems of dear England's soil, Welcomed alike in palace as in the cot of toil; Tender and soft their tintings, as gentle maiden's blush, Soothing their perfumed breathings, as twilight's mystic hush.

Fruits ripened rich and luscious, sore tempters to each sense. And vegetables--divers, well cultured, and immense; All in full life and vigour, delightful to behold The produce of old England's well cultivated mould.

These fruits so rare and luscious, these gorgeous flowerets gay. These graceful gems of verdure--delighting us to-day Are tender loving tokens, fresh from the living sod, Of the surpassing wisdom and boundless love of God.

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APPENDIX

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_The first volume_ of HOME LYRICS _was published during the life of the authoress, in 1876, receiving, amongst others, comments from the press as follows:_

From the _Morning Post_, Jan. 4th, 1877.

The mantle of Mrs. Hemans may be said to have descended on Mrs. H. S. Battersby. She infuses into her poems the ardour of home affection; her faith is pure, and her hope unswerving. Many of her verses have inspiration from the clear, bracing air of Canadian skies. She loves the grandeur of nature; lofty rocks and waterfalls; forests whitened with snows, and vast frozen lakes, smooth as polished marble, and solid as granite. He who delights in the fauna and flora of nature has in every clime

"Which the eye of Heaven visits."

a library fruitful of study and a pursuit which is innocent and healthful. Mrs. Battersby deduces a moral lesson in her spirited lines "To the Chaudière Falls, Canada"--

"Oh, wild rolling waters; oh, white-crested foam, I, too, would press onward, right on to my home; Like thee, with stern purpose, let nothing impede, Or cause me to falter in courage or speed.

"My mission, like thine, is right onward to go, Though tempests be raging and dark waters flow, Oh, might I, like these, with firm, resolute voice, Through dangers, and even through tempests, rejoice!"

But the author reserves her warmest welcome and her loudest notes of praise for the charming scenery of her native land. "Beautiful Malvern" is dearer to her heart than the most romantic regions in Europe. More beloved than the snow-capped grandeur of the Alps, than the castle crowned Rhine, enshrined in the stanzas of a hundred poets, Helvetia's dark gorges, and the silvery cascade of Giessbach, calm Chamounix, and the gloomy dungeons and stake of the Castle of Chilon.

"All these wonders of nature and wonders of mind, With their thousand attractions of beauty combined, Have served but to strengthen my fond love for thee, And make thee, dear Malvern, still dearer to me."

This supports the quaint remark of a tourist that one of the great delights of travelling is the thought and anticipated pleasure of coming home again. From the subjects chosen for many of her poems the author has evidently made appeal rather to the narrow circle of her own near relations and friends than to that ever-increasing one which is expressed by the phrase of the "reading public." She writes thus in her preface, the brevity of which is much to be commended:--"They are published chiefly for the author's dear children, relations, and valued friends, to whose hearths and hearts it is hoped that they will, as HOME LYRICS, readily find their way."

In "A Painful History," Mrs. Battersby speaks boldly out against one of our social inequalities, which she sensibly and very justly denounces. All men of true honour must accept and endorse her verdict. Hood treats the same theme with all the tenderness of his fine sensitive nature, and with all that exquisite harmony which his refined muse had at ready command. HOME LYRICS is a charming little volume of poems, full of sincerity, grace, and devotional feeling.

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From the _Tunbridge Wells Gazette_.

"One of the prettiest collections of poems we know of. It is very nicely printed, and the poems will be found to have a large amount of poetry in them. A more suitable present to a young friend we do not think could be found than this volume."

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From the _Western Times_, Jan. 2nd, 1877.

Poetry will never die while there are Hearts and Homes. The poetical spirit of this accomplished lady has hovered over that sacred spot, Home, sweet Home, and there sung, like the Bethlehem angels, those sweet melodies of love. They are published, she tells us "chiefly for the author's dear children, relatives and valued friends, to whose hearths and hearts it is hoped that they will, as Home Lyrics, readily find their way." It is a fortune all its readers will wish it, where the gems under the gold-lettered, crimson covers will be often inspected, and the neat volume often made a Christmas or a New Year's gift.

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From the _Tunbridge Wells Gazette_, July, 7th, 1876.

Under this title will shortly be published a volume of poems. We have seen the author's proofs and can testify to the depth of feeling and mature thought, together with the telling language brought to bear in working out many of those homely scenes upon which the heart delights to dwell, as well as others of a miscellaneous character.

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From the _Tunbridge Wells Gazette_, Sept. 1st, 1876.

This book, by H. S. Battersby, the issue of which we announced a short time ago, has been published, and forms a very handsome volume. We have before referred to the diversified character of the poems thus collated, in fact several of them have appeared in our columns; suffice it now to say that the general topics selected are of a pleasing character, simple rather than striking, yet effectively thought out in excellent composition. As its name denotes, it is chiefly the mirror of home attributes, and thoughts, and feelings, and what is more calculated to engross the attention of a thoughtful mind than such irresistible appeals, all the more attractive from their natural bearing and ingenious meaning! To the lover of poetical thought the volume will be welcome, while the general reader will find much that cannot fail to interest.

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From the _Worcestershire Chronicle_, Sept. 9th, 1876.

The above is an appropriate title for a volume of poems in which events occurring within the domestic circle are largely, but by no means exclusively, dealt with by the authoress, who explains, in a modest and brief preface, that the poems are published chiefly for "dear children, relatives, and valued friends." To many of these, no doubt, most of the effusions contained in this volume will have a personal interest, especially as the verses are written with much feeling and natural truth, which will be sure to elicit sympathy. But there are other poems which will interest the general reader, especially if he or she has travelled much, as the authoress has jotted down in verse her thoughts upon many of the numerous places she has visited. Amongst these is Malvern, with which town and the hills Mrs. Battersby seems particularly pleased, if not quite enthusiastic. There is "A Welcome to Malvern," after years of absence, which clearly demonstrates this; then the delightful prospect from the "Beacon" is discoursed upon; and, later on appear a few verses on "St. Ann's Well," followed by "Farewell to Malvern," in which, after references to the pleasant locality, the Abbey Church, and the Promenade Gardens, there occurs the following verse:

And then, 'tis the home of a man of rare fame, Rare talents, rare worth, Dr. G----y, by name, Whose wonderful skill and refinement combined Administers (_sic_) balm to the body and mind.

This, we apprehend, was written and published prior to the disclosures in the Bravo case, in which Dr. G----y cut such a very sorry figure.

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From the _Western Daily Mercury_, August 24th, 1876.

We are pleased to find that a second edition of Mrs. Battersby's poems has been called for; they really contain some very excellent verse, the offspring of a mind far superior to that of the ordinary rhymester. We have always had a good deal of sympathy for the Moon and the Sea, because they are generally the first victims of every "poet's" misguided pen; it was, therefore, an intense relief to find that Mrs. Battersby's lyrics on these subjects are quite readable; indeed, the lines to the Sea are exceedingly pretty and full of original ideas. The volume contains a few weak pieces, which might have been omitted with advantage. Of these is a "Farewell to Malvern," from which we extract the following verse, as being somewhat interesting at the present time:--

And then, 'tis the home of a man of rare fame, Rare talents, rare worth, Dr. G----y by name, Whose wonderful skill and refinement combined Administers balm to the body and mind.

Mrs. Battersby says she prints this book for her relatives and friends, and of the latter we are sure it will make a great number.

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From the _East Sussex News_, September 1st, 1876.

HOME LYRICS, by H. S. Battersby, is a small but neat volume of miscellaneous poems, published by Messrs. Ward, Lock and Tyler, Warwick House, Paternoster Row. The authoress states that the poems have been written at various times and under various circumstances, and several of them have already appeared separately in the columns of journals as occasional contributions. The versification is good and the true spirit of poetry runs through the volume. Mrs. Battersby's descriptions of scenery in Canada as well as in this country are very pleasing, and the language employed is evidently that of a devout Christian. These HOME LYRICS should find their way to many hearths and hearts.

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From the _Hampshire Advertiser_, August 26th, 1876.

This is a pretty volume of poems, written, as the preface informs us, at various times and under different circumstances. They also vary in merit, but the same kindly sentiment runs through the whole, and they will be welcome at many a fireside on account of the sympathy they manifest with home life. In the descriptions of scenery a warm admiration is manifested for the beauties of nature, but the chief attraction of these LYRICS lies in the interest they impart to the ordinary incidents of life.

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From the _Broad Arrow_, August 26th, 1876.

There is a homely look about friend Hannah's photographic frontispiece which bids us look beyond the title page. Anything that appeals to _home_ sympathies must ever find a welcome from the soldier and sailor, too often thought to be the light and airy citizen of the world, but ever in his inmost heart yearning, amidst duty and glory, for _home_. Our poetess shadows out a great and grand home sentiment in the lines--

"O vast, mysterious, solemn sea, Great reflex of the Deity; Safe in the hollow of His hand Doth all thy waste of waters stand."

Indian Indra and Teutonic Thurmor alike bow in acknowledgment of the truth of this conception.

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Extract from the _Tunbridge Wells Gazette_, 7th July, 1876.

Under this title has been published a volume of original poems. We can testify to the depth of feeling and mature thought, together with the telling language brought to bear in working out many of those homely scenes upon which the heart delights to dwell, as well as others of a miscellaneous character.

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Extract from _Pioneer_, Allahabad, 9th June, 1877.

HOME LYRICS.--_London: Ward, Lock, and Tyler, Warwick House, Paternoster Row_.--

It is not surprising that this handsomely got-up book of poetry, gilt edged, and printed on toned paper, should have passed into a second edition. It would be difficult to find a work more adapted for a "present" than Mrs. Battersby's HOME LYRICS; for, while far removed from those hateful goody-goody collections of "poetry," which perplex and distress the unfortunate reader, her verses are tinged with a deep, religious earnestness which may find an echo in any well balanced mind. This very earnestness, in fact, is the most noticeable point in the whole of the detached pieces which go to make up the volume. Apart from the mechanism of the verses, which might readily be made to work more smoothly, there is found a rare amount of originality in the pieces and an enthusiastic admiration for Nature and Nature's wonders which finds expression in various outbursts, more or less poetical. Whether singing of the "proud hills of Malvern" or inditing blank verse in face of the Horse Shoe Falls at Niagara, the author is equally at home, inasmuch as she is always under the influence of a keen appreciation of the sublimity and beauty of natural objects. The following "Hymn to Nature" will give an exact idea of the merits and defects of her style:--

"Dear Nature, how I love thee, In all thy varied forms, Through which the God of beauty Thy loveliness adorns. Pure fount of gushing gladness, From spring of heavenly birth, Whose living Waters flow for The children of the earth.

"Crowned by soft, beauteous moonbeams Of holy, silver light, Types of that ancient pillar That led the hosts by night-- Kissed by fond golden sunbeams Of love-streams from on high, Well may thy glad song ever Fill the wide earth and sky."

To those who can enjoy the quiet and peaceful side of life with only an occasional glimpse of its stern realities, these LYRICS will be very acceptable.

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