Part 7

COME! we will wander to the lone hill-side, And, awe-struck, view the winter in its pride;-- Crispy the grass and scant; The little flowers have vanished, not a trace Is left of blossom on pale Nature's face:-- Restraint lies mighty on the stream--it sings No more--dead, dead now,--like all other things; The trees, as spectres gaunt, Or churchyard monuments, all scattered stand, As if they mourned the bareness of the land,-- Meagre as pallid want. Where be the fairies now, the little fays, That dance in buttercups in summer days, Though only Poets view Their gambols in the flowers and in the rays Of noonday, which the common sight gainsays, To Fancy ever new!

The grasshopper is gone. Ah, me! can death Have will to stop _its_ modicum of breath? Swift fly the clouds, why should they fly so swift? Come they like Angel-spirits, with a gift Of mercy to mankind? In this drear time, the heart asks where are they That tell of sunshine being on the way? The harbingers of light and genial heat, That make the meadows and the valleys sweet When softly sighs the wind: Make rich the upland grass to mountain goat, When balm and beauty through the ether float, Like gossamer reclined. Oh! for a cheerful note from blackbird--gone, All gone, the songster and his song are flown; There's nought to cheer the ear. Oh! now to list the mavis in the wood,-- The psalms of Nature's singers, always good, Bring solace to the year.

Oh! for one glimpse of sunshine, to remind The Earth of summer, ever bland and kind.

HUMAN CONDUCT.

WHY is it that the heart of man So full is of vagary, That when he's told what's right, he jerks The rein, and does contrary.

Like skittish horse, or stubborn pig, Or other self-willed creature, That in the public highways shows Its vile and perverse nature.

There's many a lesson taught to man, But little does he mind them, Many's the warning given to him,-- He throws them all behind him.

But let me a short tale relate Instead of moralising, You'll prize it more, I dare to say, Than any such premising.

The sun was shining on the hills, The countryside looked sweeter, And brighter and more beautiful Than I can tell in metre.

It was the spring-time of the year, That pleasant balmy season, When freshness passes o'er the earth, And come the buds the trees on.

When Nature young looks, and is young, But though she dresses gaily, The time grows old, for Time, like man, Grows older daily, daily!

Ah me! that men should be so weak As not to read the lesson,-- Ripe fruits are offered them, but they The garbage love to mess on.

One day along a country road With hedge and hawthorn bristling, A country lad was passing, and In merry mood was whistling.

Stout was he and his joints well knit, And firm as time-tried timber, But light withal and agile too, No sapling yet was limber.

Anon a horseman came that way Who sat on horseback rarely, This the horse knew as well as he, And so had bolted fairly.

The young man eyed him as he came And was by no means idle, For as he passed he leapt in front, And caught him by the bridle.

The horse reared back, and with the shock His rider fell right over Among the mud, and well for him The place was soft as clover.

Brought to his feet, without a hurt, But all o'er very muddy, He thanked the lad, well-pleased to find He sound was and unbloody.

He was a thin spare man, and past Mid-life, and looking sickly; Not that his health was touched at all, Or that his limbs were weakly;

But he had been for many years In towns a constant dweller, Confined to business close, and this On health is oft a teller.

He had an eye for bales and goods, And turnings of the market; But for the country's picturesque, His shadow rare did dark it.

He rode out had to breathe the air, And give his nerves a bracing, His steed unruly had become, His horsemanship disgracing.

The countryman pulled up some grass, No readier thing appearing, And rubbed him down in ostler style, The mud from off him clearing.

And then for having saved his life,-- To cut my tale the shorter,-- He offered him, as a reward, To take him as his porter;

And if he showed capacity, To give him education, To make him fit in course of time, To fill a higher station.

The youth agreed to't, for he thought, (While handing back the bridle) He'd like the change, besides just then He happened to be idle.

In Glasgow busy city now, Behold this country clown bred, First porter and then junior clerk, And learning to be town bred.

Years passed, the sun shines once a day, But days make years, and every Sun that rises counts one, thus time Flows on, as water rivery.

Through all gradations of the desk The youth, still true and steady, Had risen till, from senior clerk, He partner was already.

The merchant now, as commerce had To counting-house long held him, Resolved to take his ease at last, And came to business seldom:

The junior partner and head-clerk Care of the cash-box keeping, While he himself had chosen to be What's called the partner sleeping.

The countryman, no longer young, Had toiled both late and early, And gained some wealth, and 'twas his boast That he had won it fairly.

But with it he had learnt betimes And aye the more the faster, Some of the city's ways that were Not pleasing to his master.

He ne'er had married, and was fond Of being hospitable; For 'twas his pride always to have His friends around his table:

And so extravagant became, To feasting much addicted, And rich wines drinking, which of course His income much restricted.

One night his master was in town And heard he had a party, An old man now, not wanting sense, But humorous and hearty;

Yet this he to himself oft thought, He thought that 'twas a pity, His clerk should spend his money in Thus feasting all the city.

And so resolved to call on him And bring him to his senses, Not by a lecture commonplace Of prudence and expenses:

But by a something which he had, A sort of old memento, That in his judgment was well worth Of lectures grave a cento.

It was a frosty night, and there Had been a fall of snow on, The slippery streets required great skill And caution them to go on.

With but one fall, he reached the house, The entrance well he knew there, Sudden and unexpected burst Amidst the jovial crew there.

The gas burnt clear, the host looked blue, And not the lights, as use is When one particular guest appears That no one introduces.

He said, "Lies the skeleton frost On one street and another, "I tripped and fell, and where I lay One skeleton hugged his brother.

"His breath is on each pane congealed, Cold enters through each portal, "How my teeth chatter with the cold, A sign that we are mortal.

"What's this, a banquet spread and rich, The wines all bright and glowing, "No thought of this when you I met Along the road-side going."

He then produced a bundle which He opened with derision, And singly held up the contents To their astonished vision.

There was the wellworn hairy cap, The corderoys to back it, His host had owned, and there too was His former fustian jacket.

These were the clothes the country lad Had on at their first meeting, And these he now brought forth to be To him his present greeting;

That he might pause in his career Of jollity and revel, Lest in his age, reduced he should Be to his former level.

'Tis strange that human conduct oft So reckless is and hollow, That when the right path reason shows, It seeks the wrong to follow.

The master having said and done, Quick vanished from them after: The host attempted at the time To turn it off with laughter. Next morn reflection made him take The hint,--and to be brief then,-- Though roughly put, 'twas kindly meant,-- He turned o'er a new leaf then.

MORAL.

To be of any use, reproof Still strong should be and home put, A lecture grave or saying wise The mind is quickly from put;

Instead of gen'ral moral saws, Facts personal lay stress on, And like a surgeon probing deep, Reform is in the lesson.

COURTSHIP LINES.

OH! let not sorrow cloud thine eye, Or doubt oppress thy heart, For love, like truth, can never lie, Nor truth, like love, depart. To be mine own, I've chosen thee, From all the world deems fair; And I've vowed thine own to be, Then wherefore cherish care?

Thou canst not think a love like mine, Could e'er to thee cause pain; Or make thy gentle heart repine That it has loved in vain: Thee still mine eyes desire to see, Like sunlight from above; For all my heart is full of thee, And all my heart is love.

1833.

LOVE-WEAKNESS.

I canna' get my mouth about it, It lies so deeply on my heart, That aye when trying to divulge it, My thoughts fly somehow all apart.

Were I to learn the best confession That e'er by pen of man was writ, To try to speak it in her presence I should not have the power or wit.

As in the rose's opening petals Devotion pure is ever spread, So in the flushings of my countenance She my heart's feelings must have read.

Oh! gladly anywhere I'd venture, Dare anything to prove it true; But to disclose my ardent passion Is just the thing I canna' do.

I canna' get my mouth about it, It lies so deeply on my heart, That aye when trying to divulge it, My thoughts fly somehow all apart.

LINES

TO THE REV. HENRY DUDLEY RYDER,

_On reading his volume, entitled "The Angelicon, a Gallery of Sonnets, on the Divine Attributes, and the Passions, the Graces, and the Virtues."_

THY strains, sweet poet, have the power To give a solace to the mind, What time the clouds of sadness lour,-- Like sighs of thine own "lyrëd wind."

For when thy page I deeply trace, Where thoughts and fancies thickly throng, It brings to mind free nature's grace, Where wood-birds tune their mystic song;

And pleasant streams in ways remote, Where sweetest music loves to reign; Where solitude gives birth to thought, And thought is born of thought again;

Visions of earth, the pure and bright, As poet only hath divined, When high-toned genius pours her light, Upon the rapt and feeling mind.

Well hast thou sung the grace and love Th' Almighty deigns bestow on man, When seeking mercy from above By His own sole appointed plan.

And well, too, hast thou shown the sway The passions have o'er mortal kind, Avarice, Ambition, Jealousy, And other turmoils of the mind.

These, like the rays that burst from heaven, Shine brightly forth in verse of thine, For the proud gift to thee is given, To charm, to waken, to refine.

Go on thy way, thy song must claim, From a dull world its ardent praise; With saintly Herbert's twine thy name, And bind with Herbert's verse thy lays.

THE POET.

I WAS told yesterday by one with wise Solemn aspect, and wrinkles 'bout his eyes, That poetry is an idle trade, alack! He had a good black coat upon his back, And deemed himself respectable,--he said, too, That he who verses writes will never do Well in the world, that his character is gone, And he himself no better than a drone. So having said he walked away well pleased;-- Now that's a man, I say, whose mind's diseased. Has he in summer ever watched a rose Burst into blossoming, and as it grows More and more beautiful, sweeten all the air With its rich perfume,--poetry was there.

A sunbeam thrown across The clouds, that makes them glow With light ineffable To eyes from earth below; A small wave of the sea When the vast ocean waits The coming of the storm, That slightly agitates Its surface passing,--as When of danger near First made aware, the roused Lion, though not in fear Looks up, the watchfire then Kindling in his eye, His mane scarcely as yet Moved, nor erected high His head, but his proud glance Circling keen, rapid, stern,-- There poetry is seen By one that can discern. A priest of Nature's own, One she herself ordains, The poet walks in brightness, And still new blessings gains. The sky above hath in it More beauty to his sight, Than to the world it shines In its canopy of light.

The flowers his kindred are That grow in fields remote; They waken in his heart The pure wellsprings of thought: They speak to him alone With low and whispering voice, Like gentle maiden to The lover of her choice.

And none but he can tell What is it that they say, For a most sweet communion Is their's to cheer his way. The ocean in its vastness, He loves, too, as he sees It driven by the tempest, Or slumbering in the breeze. It brings into his vision The coming of that day, When Time within Eternity Shall merge itself away.

The forest trees antique Are his familiar friends, With the spirit of the woods His own for ever blends: And voices of the past, With fancies of old times, Do their murmurings recall Which he fondly puts in rhymes.

Echoes of distant lands Beyond the western sea, Or in the burning east, Where'er they chance to be, Are brought to him at night And cheer his spirit then, When sleep forsakes the eyes Of care-worn worldly men. And ever for his kind Doth his spirit warmly yearn, And his verses speak of things Which only he can learn.

The human heart, and all Its feelings, hopes and fears, All that it fondly loves, All that it blindly fears, Its sympathies, affections, Its duties and desires, All that its doubts foreshadow, All that its pride inspires,

Its sorrows and its faintings, Its buoyancy and glee, Its passions and its promptings, Its truth and constancy; He knows, and can depicture, For of the human mind He is the chosen minister, The prophet of his kind.

Such, yea and more, the poet is, Had he had a choice Of destinies, if in his fate Had been heard his voice; It might have been so that he had Been a worldling born, And looked solemn like his scorners, And had gravely worn A black coat too, of fashion's cut, And smoothed trim his beard, And shook his head wisely, and been Sententious, and feared The world's opinion, and condemned Poetry as idle, But in his vocation he can Ne'er his feelings bridle. His thoughts are in a stronger hand Than his own, his mind Has thinks passing in it still, that Cannot be confined: Like the birds flying as they list Through the summer air, Or the clouds driven by the breeze Floating everywhere.

LIGHT AND SHADOW.

SHINE down, fair sun, on vale and hill, And light each height and hollow;-- No shade rests in the air, but still On earth the shadows follow.

Grow green, old trees, where'er you may Your festival be keeping;-- On branch and stem, on leaf and spray, Decay is slowly creeping.

Bloom bright, fair flowers, in wild or mead, Around you all perfuming;-- The blight that mingles with each seed, The blossom is consuming.

Grow well, sweet fruit, on garden walls, Or in hot-houses hasting;-- The sooner ripe, the sooner falls Corruption with its wasting.

Flow on, calm river, still flow on With ever constant motion;-- Soon shalt thou mingle, all unknown, Forgotten in the Ocean.

Play up, sweet music, to the ear, A merry note of gladness;-- The chords that lively stricken cheer, Give also tones of sadness.

Shine bright, young Summer, o'er the earth, And fill the land with laughter;-- Soon Autumn comes to mar thy mirth, And winter follows after.

Burn high, fair hope, within the breast, By pleasant things attended;-- Misdoubt and fear do still molest Our life, till it is ended.

Fill slow, oh! Time, the rounded cup Of numbered hours that's set us; Soon shall our days be gathered up, And even our own forget us.

Then shine, fair sun, on vale and hill, On tower and town and meadow;-- 'Tis Heaven that sends the brightness still, Earth only gives the shadow.

THE EARLY DEAD.

_On my youngest Daughter, died 20th March 1845, aged twenty-one months._

SHE rests within her little grave, A bud of promise too soon taken, And wanting the sweet smile she gave, We deem ourselves as if forsaken.

Life wore for her no luring guise, She tasted time, and found it dreary, Calmly she closed her gentle eyes, As one that falls asleep aweary:

Like to a star whose little ray Is quenched ev'n when 'tis brightly shining; Or as a flower that fades away While yet its bloom tells nought of pining.

And when her latest sigh was spent, And fled her spirit to its Giver, We felt as with it also went A lapsed part of our heart for ever.

Oh! twice before we knew the blight Upon the heart that deeply falleth, When death for ever from the sight, Of our own life a portion calleth:

But though it has the power to slay, Still is this consolation given, It cannot take the hope away That we shall meet again in heaven.

There is a place of rest above, A home for children there provided, To which away from earth, in love Their guileless spirits still are guided.

And when our hearts with sorrow sink And our weak eyes are sore with weeping, 'Twill soothe and cheer us still to think That they sweet watch are o'er us keeping.

And in the dark and lonely night, When sleep our eyelids have forsaken, We'll see again the faces bright Of our three babes so early taken.

A DIRGE.

MOURN for the untimely dead! Early blossoms quickly shed! Soon taken to their long long rest, Now there waves The green grass thickly o'er their breast, On their graves.

Neither care nor sorrow now Leaves its trace upon their brow, Nor can pain them more molest, For there waves The green grass thickly o'er their breast, On their graves.

Little flowers their heads begem, But they cannot look at them, For death's cold hand their eyes have prest, And there waves The green grass thickly o'er their breast On their graves.

Winds sigh through the shadowing trees, Summer brings the hum of bees; But no sounds can their ears invest, Where there waves The green grass thickly o'er their breast On their graves.

Still they lie in their low beds, To sleep till the last morn sheds Its light upon their place of rest: Now there waves The green grass thickly o'er their breast On their graves.

A BENEDICTION.

GOD bless thee! is my fervent prayer, At morn and eve, from day to day, Ev'n as thou tend'st, with anxious care, Thy children dear with love alway.

God keep thee ever in His grace, And still new mercies on thee shower, Ev'n as thou fold'st in thy embrace Thine infants tender every hour.

God love thee, with the love he shows Still to his own, in earth and heaven, Ev'n as thou lov'st, with true love, those Who to thy keeping have been given.

God guide thee still through all thy days, And let no evil on thee light, Ev'n as thou guid'st and guard'st the ways, Of thy dear offspring day and night.

God comfort thee in all thy grief, And ever thy sure Hope remain, Ev'n as thou comfort'st with relief Thy little ones in woe and pain.

God cherish thee throughout thy life, In weal and woe thy guardian be, Ev'n as a mother and a wife Thou still hast cherished them and me.

HEALTH.

OH! what a thing is health to lose, And what a prize to gain, Most valued when the spirit woos Its coming back again.

After long days and restless nights, Reclined on weary bed, How sweet when first its blessing lights Upon the aching head.

Its coming turns the life, as doth The ocean with its tide, Or as the spring renews the growth Of what Earth's stores provide.

Power, fame, and with them cherished gold, That form man's constant aim, All would be gladly overtold Its halcyon bliss to claim.

It passes life and death between, From heaven's own portals borne, Like the sweet under-light scarce seen That parts the night from morn.

An emblem of the peace that springs, To chase away all strife, An earnest of the grace, that brings Life to the inner life.

THE GAME OF LIFE.

WATCHING the game of life as daily played, One marvels at the blunders that are made; Few trust to chance alone to gain their aim, But with the means they use 'tis just the same. Low cunning some employ, and call it skill, Or substitute for Reason headstrong Will; And when they win the prize for which they strive, To their own genius they the credit give; But when they lose, the blame on fate is thrown; They never think the fault may be their own. Others who boast that cunning they disdain, Affect by Pride their purposes to gain; High-reaching objects do their minds devise, By which they blind their own and neighbours' eyes; Aiming at lofty things, they highly rate Their own designings, but they find too late That for success mere unassisted Pride Does not all necessary means provide; So thinking surely to promote their aim, And win the stake of their ambition's game, But not particular as to how 'tis played, They call, Pride's contrast, meanness to their aid: Yet ev'n though Fortune should their hopes attend, It does not change the matter in the end; Meanness and Pride may climb the highest hill, But Pride and meanness they continue still.

Since Life's a game where all their part must play, Reason and Truth should in it have the sway, Or wanting these, as is too oft the case, Folly and Passion will usurp their place.

When this weak body dwindles into dust, And man becomes the nothing that he must, How puny then will to the soul appear All that man toils and struggles for when here! Bound to the narrow aims and views of Earth, At death his spirit finds that all is dearth That to this world relates, and well that he Makes Time provide still for Eternity.

CONSUMPTION.