The poems of Mary Howitt
Date: 2025-05-06T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: English poetry -- 19th century

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Title: The poems of Mary Howitt

Author: Mary Howitt

Release date: May 6, 2025 [eBook #76027]

Language: English

Original publication: Philadelphia: John Locken, 1844

Credits: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF MARY HOWITT ***

MARY HOWITT.
CHILDHOOD.

THE
POEMS
OF
MARY HOWITT.
WITH
A MEMOIR.

Go little book, and to the young and kind,
Speak there of pleasant hours and goodly things.

PHILADELPHIA:
PUBLISHED BY JOHN LOCKEN,
No. 311 Market Street.

1844.

Stereotyped by S. DOUGLAS WYETH.

PRINTED BY T. K. & P. G. COLLINS.

CONTENTS.

| PAGE.
The Poor Scholar | 11
The Sorrow of Teresa | 27
HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES.
Marien’s Pilgrimage:
Part I. | 56
Part II. | 62
Part III. | 67
Part IV. | 73
Part V. | 77
Part VI. | 83
Part VII. | 89
Part VIII. | 93
Part IX. | 98
Part X. | 105
Part XI. | 112
Part XII. | 121
Old Christmas | 130
The Twelfth Hour | 133
The Blind Boy and his Sister | 134
The Poor Child’s Hymn | 138
The Boy of the Southern Isle:
Part I. | 139
Part II. | 145
Part III. | 149
Easter Hymns:
Hymn I.—The Two Marys | 153
II.—The Angel | 154
III.—The Lord Jesus | 155
IV.—The Eleven | 157
The Two Estates | 158
Life’s Matins | 161
A Life’s Sorrow | 164
The Old Friend and the New | 172
Mabel on Midsummer Day:
Part I. | 174
Part II. | 177
BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS:
The Stormy Peterel | 184
The Poor Man’s Garden | 186
The Oak-Tree | 190
The Carolina Parrot | 192
Morning Thoughts | 198
Harvest Field-Flowers | 199
Summer Woods | 200
The Cuckoo | 203
The Use of Flowers | 206
Sunshine | 207
Summer | 209
The Child and the Flowers | 211

Childhood

212

L’Envoi | 216
SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY:
The Coot | 219
The Eagle | 221
The Garden | 223
The Spider and the Fly | 226
TALES IN VERSE:
Andrew Lee | 230
The Wanderer’s Return | 232
A Swinging Song | 239
Ellen More | 240
A Day of Disaster | 244
The Young Mourner | 249
The Soldier’s Story | 251
The Child’s Lament | 257
A Day of Hard Work | 260
The Old Man and the Carrion Crow | 264
The Little Mariner | 268
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES:
The Sale of the pet Lamb of the Cottage | 274
America | 278
Mourning on Earth | 291
Rejoicing in Heaven | 292
An English Grave at Mussooree | 293
A Forest Scene in the days of Wickliffe | 297

MEMOIR
OF
MARY HOWITT.

Mary Howitt was born at Coleford, in Gloucestershire, where her parents were making a temporary residence; but shortly after her birth they returned to their accustomed abode at Uttoxeter, in Staffordshire, where she spent her youth. The beautiful Arcadian scenery of this part of Staffordshire was of a character to foster a deep love of the country; and is described with great accuracy in her recent prose work “Wood Leighton.” By her mother she is descended from an ancient Irish family, and also from Wood, the ill-used Irish patentee, who was ruined by the selfish malignity of Dean Swift,—from whose aspersions his character was vindicated by Sir Isaac Newton. A true statement of the whole affair may be seen in Ruding’s “Annals of Coinage.” Charles Wood, her grandfather, was the first who introduced platina into England from Jamaica, where he was assay-master. Her parents being strict members of the society of Friends, and her father being, indeed, of an old line who suffered persecution in the early days of Quakerism, her education was of an exclusive character; and her knowledge of books confined to those approved of by the most strict of her own people, till a later period than most young persons become acquainted with them. Their effect upon her mind was, consequently, so much the more vivid. Indeed, she describes her overwhelming astonishment and delight in the treasures of general and modern literature, to be like what Keates says his feelings were when a new world of poetry opened upon him, through Chapman’s “Homer,”—as to the astronomer,

“When a new planet swims into his ken.”

Among poetry there was none which made a stronger impression than our simple old ballad, which she and a sister near her own age, and of similar taste and temperament used to revel in, making at the same time many young attempts in epic, dramatic, and ballad poetry. In her twenty-first year she was married to William Howitt, a gentleman well calculated to encourage and promote her poetical and intellectual taste,—himself a poet of considerable genius, and the author of various well-known works. We have reason to believe that her domestic life has been a singularly happy one. Mr. and Mrs. Howitt spent the year after their marriage in Staffordshire. They then removed to Nottingham, where they continued to reside until a few years ago, and are now living at Esher, in Surrey.

Mary Howitt published jointly with her husband two volumes of miscellaneous poems, in 1823; and, in 1834, she gave to the world “The Seven Temptations,” a series of dramatic poems; a work which, in other times, would have been alone sufficient to have made and secured a very high reputation: her dramas are full of keen perceptions, strong and accurate delineations, and powerful displays of character. She afterwards prepared for the press a collection of her most popular ballads, a class of writing in which she greatly excels all her contemporaries. She is also well known to the young by her “Sketches of Natural History,” “Tales in Verse,” and other productions written expressly for their use and pleasure.

Mrs. Howitt is distinguished by the mild, unaffected, and conciliatory manners, for which “the people called Quakers” have always been remarkable. Her writings, too, are in keeping with her character: in all there is evidence of peace and good-will; a tender and a trusting nature; a gentle sympathy with humanity; and a deep and fervent love of all the beautiful works which the Great Hand has scattered so plentifully before those by whom they can be felt and appreciated. She has mixed but little with the world; the home-duties of wife and mother have been to her productive of more pleasant and far happier results than struggles for distinction amid crowds; she has made her reputation quietly but securely; and has laboured successfully as well as earnestly to inculcate virtue as the noblest attribute of an English woman. If there be some of her contemporaries who have surpassed her in the higher qualities of poetry,—some who have soared higher, and others who have taken a wider range,—there are none whose writings are better calculated to delight as well as inform. Her poems are always graceful and beautiful, and often vigorous; but they are essentially feminine; they afford evidence of a kind and generous nature, as well as of a fertile imagination, and a safely-cultivated mind. She is entitled to a high place among the Poets of Great Britain; and a still higher among those of her sex by whom the intellectual rank of women has been asserted without presumption, and maintained without display.

THE POOR SCHOLAR.

PERSONS.

THE POOR SCHOLAR.
ACHZIB, THE PHILOSOPHER.
THE MOTHER.
LITTLE BOY.

The Scholar’s Room—Evening.

THE POOR SCHOLAR AND LITTLE BOY.

Little Boy, reading. “These things have I spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.” Here endeth the 16th chapter of the Gospel according to St. John.

Poor Scholar. Most precious words! Now go your way;

The summer fields are green and bright;

Your tasks are done.—Why do you stay?

Christ gave his peace to you: Good night!

Boy. You look so pale, Sir! you are worse;
Let me remain, and be your nurse!
Sir, when my mother has been ill,
I’ve kept her chamber neat and still,
And waited on her all the day!

Schol. Thank you! but yet you must not stay;
Still, still my boy, before we part
Receive my blessing—’tis my last!
I feel Death’s hand is on my heart,
And my life’s sun is sinking fast;
Yet mark me, child, I have no fear,—
’Tis thus the Christian meets his end:
I know my work is finished here,
And God—thy God too—is my friend!
The joyful course has just began;
Life is in thee a fountain strong;
Yet look upon a dying man,
Receive his words and keep them long!
Fear God, all-wise, omnipotent,
In him we live and have our being;
He hath all love, all blessing sent—
Creator—Father—All-decreeing!
Fear him, and love, and praise, and trust,
Yet have of man no slavish fear;
Remember kings, like thee, are dust,
And at one judgment must appear.
But virtue, and its holy fruits,
The poet’s soul, the sage’s sense,
These are exalted attributes;
And these demand thy reverence.
But, boy, remember this, e’en then
Revere the gifts, but not the men!
Obey thy parents; they are given
To guide our inexperienced youth;
Types are they of the One in heaven,
Chastising but in love and truth!
Keep thyself pure—sin doth efface
The beauty of our spiritual life:
Do good to all men—live in peace
And charity, abhorring strife!
The mental power which God has given,
As I have taught thee, cultivate;
Thou canst not be too wise for heaven,
If thou dost humbly consecrate
Thy soul to God! and ever take
In his good book delight; there lies
The highest knowledge, which will make
Thy soul unto salvation wise!
My little boy, thou canst not know
How strives my spirit fervently,
How my heart’s fountains overflow
With yearning tenderness for thee!
God keep and strengthen thee from sin!
God crown thy life with peace and joy,
And give at last to enter in
The city of his rest!
My boy
Farewell—I have had joy in thee;
I go to higher joy—oh, follow me!
But now farewell!

Boy. Kind sir, good night!

I will return with morning light. [He goes out.

[The Poor Scholar sits for some time as in meditation, then rising and putting away all his books, except the Bible, he sits down again.

Schol. Now, now I need them not, I’ve done with them.

I need not blind philosophy, nor dreams
Of speculating men, entangling truth
In cobweb sophistry, away with them—

One word read by that child is worth them all!

—The business of my life is finished now

With this day’s work. I have dismissed the class

For the last time—I am alone with death!

To-morrow morn, they will inquire for me,

And learn that I have solved the last, great problem.

This pale, attenuate frame they may behold,

But that which loves, and hopes, and speculates,

They will perceive no more. Mysterious being!

Life cannot comprehend thee, though thou showest

Thyself by all the functions of our life—

’Tis death—death only, which is the great teacher!

Awful instructor! he doth enter in
The golden rooms of state, and all perforce
Teach there its proud, reluctant occupant;
He doth inform in miserable dens
The locked-up soul of sordid ignorance
With his sublimest knowledge! He hath stolen
Gently, not unawares, into the chamber
Of the Poor Scholar, like a sober friend
Who doth give time for ample preparation!
He hath dealt kindly with me, giving first
Yearnings for unimaginable good,
Which the world’s pleasure could not satisfy;
And lofty aspiration, that lured on
The ardent soul as the sun lures the eagle;
Next came a drooping of the outward frame,
Paleness and feebleness, and wasted limbs,
Which said, “prepare! thy days are numbered!”

And thus for months had this poor frame declined,

Wasting and wasting; yet the spirit intense
Growing more clear, more hourly confident,
As if its disenthralment had begun!
Oh, I should long to die!
To be among the stars, the glorious stars;
To have no bounds to knowledge; to drink deep
Of living fountains—to behold the wise,
The good, the glorified! to be with God,

And Christ, who passed through death that I might live!

Oh I should long for death, but for one tie,
One lingering tie that binds me to the earth!
My mother! dearest, kindest, best of mothers!
What do I owe her not? all that is great,
All that is pure—all that I have enjoyed
Of outward pleasure, or of spiritual life,
I have derived from her! has she not labored

Early and late for me? first through the years

Of sickly infancy—then by her toil
Maintained the ambitious scholar—overpaid
By what men said of him! Oh thou untired,
True heart of love, for thee I hoped to live;
To pay thee back thy never spent affection;
To fill my father’s place, and make thine age
As joyful as thou mad’st my passing youth!
Alas! it may not be! thou hast to weep—
Thou hast to know that sickness of the heart

Which bows it to the dust, when some unlooked-for,

Some irremediable woe befals!
——Surely ere long thou wilt be at my side,
For I did summon thee, and thy strong love
Brooks not delay! Alas, thou knowest not
It was to die within thy holy arms

That I have asked thy presence! Oh! come, come,

Thou most beloved being, bless thy son,

And take one comfort in his peaceful death!

[A slight knocking is heard at the door, and the Philosopher enters.

Philos. Well, my young friend, I’ve looked in to enquire

After your health. I saw your class depart,

And would have conference with you once again.

Schol. To-night I must decline your friendship, sir.

I am so weak I cannot talk with you
On controversial points ever again.
Besides, my faith brings such a holy joy,

Such large reward of peace, why would you shake it?

Or is it now a time for doubts and fears,
When my soul’s energy should be concentrated
For one great trial? See you not, e’en now,
The spectre death is with me?

Philos. Cheer up, friend.
It is the nature of all sickness thus
To bring death near to the imagination,
Even as a telescope doth show the moon
Just at our finger-ends without decreasing
The actual distance. Come, be not so gloomy;—
You have no business to be solitary;

A cheerful friend will bring back cheerfulness.

Have you perused the books I left with you?

Schol. I have, and like them not!

Philos. Indeed! indeed!
Are they not full of lofty argument
And burning eloquence? For a strong soul,
Baptized in the immortal wells of thought,
They must be glorious food!

Schol. Pardon me, sir,
They are too specious;—they gloss over error
With tinsel covering which is not like truth.
Oh! give them not to young and ardent minds,
They will mislead, and baffle and confound:
Besides, among the sages whom you boast of,
With their proud heathen virtues, can ye find
A purer, loftier, nobler character;

More innocent, and yet more filled with wisdom,

Fuller of high devotion—more heroic

Than the Lord Jesus—dignified yet humble;

Warring ’gainst sin, and yet for sinners dying?

Philos. Well; pass the men, what say you to the morals?

Schol. And where is the Utopian code of morals

Equal to that which a few words set forth
Unto the Christian, “do ye so to others
As ye would they should do unto yourselves.”
And where, among the fables of their poets,
Which you pretend veil the divinest truths,
Find you the penitent prodigal coming back
Unto his father’s bosom; thus to show
God’s love, and our relationship to him?
Where do they teach us in our many needs
To lift up our bowed, broken hearts to God,
And call him “Father?” Leave me as I am!
I am not ignorant, though my learning lie
In this small book—nor do I ask for more!

Philos. But have you read the parchments?

Schol. All of them.

Philos. And what impression might they make upon you?

For knowing as I do your graceful mind,
And your profound research beyond your years,
I am solicitous of your approval.

Schol. I cannot praise—I cannot say one word
In commendation of your misspent labors.
Oh, surely it was not a friendly part
To hold these gorgeous baits before a soul
Just tottering on eternity! Delusion,
’Tis all delusion! while my soul abhorred,
My heart was wounded at the traitorous act!

Philos. Come, come, my friend, this is mere declamation;

You have misunderstood both them and me!

Point out the errors—you shall find me ever

Open unto conviction.

Schol. See my state—
A few short hours, and I must be with God;
And yet you ask me to evolve that long
Entanglement of subtlest sophistry!
This is no friendly part: but I conjure you,
Give not your soul to vain philosophy:
The drooping Christian at the hour of death
Needs other, mightier wisdom than it yields.
Oh, though I am but young, and you are old,
Grant me the privilege of a dying man,
To counsel you in love!

Philos. Enough, enough!

I see that you are spent. I have too long

Trespassed upon your time. But is there nought

That I can serve you in? Aspire you not
To win esteem by study? I will speak
Unto the primest scholars throughout Europe
In your behalf. All universities
Will heap upon you honors at my asking.

Schol. There was a time these things had been a snare;

But the near prospect of eternity

Takes from the gauds of earth their temptingest lure;

No, no—it was a poor unmeet ambition
Which then was hot within me, and, thank God,
Affecteth me no more!

Philos. Nay, but my friend,

For your dear mother’s sake would you not leave

A noble name emblazoned on your tomb?

Schol. Can such poor, empty honors compensate

Unto a childless mother for her son?

You know her not, and me you know not either!

Philos. But think you, my young friend, learning is honored

By every honor paid to its disciples:

Your tomb would be a shrine, to learning sacred.

Schol. There is more comfort, sir, unto my soul

To feel the smallest duty not neglected,
And my day’s work fulfilled, than if I knew
This perishable dust would be interred
In kingly marble, and my name set forth
In pompous blazonry.

Philos. Not to be great—
You do mistake my drift—but greatly useful;
Surely you call not this unmeet ambition!

Schol. Sir, had the will of God ordained a wider,

A nobler sphere of usefulness on earth,

He would have given me strength, and health, and power

For its accomplishment. I murmur not

That little has been done, but rather bless Him

Who has permitted me to do that little;
And die content in his sufficient mercy,
Which has vouchsafed reward beyond my merit.

Philos. Nay, I must serve you! Let me but contribute

Unto your body’s ease. This wretched room,
And its poor pallet—would you not desire
A lighter, airier, more commodious chamber,
Looking out to the hills; and where the shine

Of the great sun might enter—where sweet odours,

And almost spiritual beauty of fair flowers

Might gratify the sense—and you might fall

Gracefully into death, in downy ease?

Speak, and all this is yours!

Schol. Here will I die!
Here have I lived—here from my boyhood lived;
These naked walls are like familiar faces,
And that poor pallet has so oft given rest
To my o’erwearied limbs, there will I die!

Philos. But you do need physicians—here is gold,

I know the scholar’s fee is scant enough!

I will go hence, and send you an attendant.

Schol. I cannot take your gold, I want it not.

My sickness is beyond the aid of man;

And soon, even now, I did expect my mother.

Philos. [affecting sorrow.] My dear young friend, I have to ask your pardon;

The letter that I promised to deliver,

I did forget—indeed I gave it not!

Schol. How have I trusted to a broken reed!

Oh mock me not with offers of your friendship,

Say not that thou would serve me!

Oh my mother—

Poor, broken-hearted one, I shall not see thee!

[He covers his face for a moment, then, rises up with sudden energy.

Whoe’er you are, and for what purpose come,
I know not—you have troubled me too long—
But something in my spirit, from the first,
Told me that you were evil; and my thought
Has often inly uttered the rebuke,
“Get thee behind me, Satan!” Leave me now—
Leave me my lonely chamber to myself,
And let me die in peace!

[The Philosopher goes out, abashed. The scholar falls back into his chair, exhausted; after some time recovering, he faintly raises himself.

’Tis night fall now—and through the uncurtained window

I see the stars; there is no moon to-night.
Here then I light my lamp for the last time;
And ere that feeble flame has spent itself,
A soul will have departed!
Let me now
Close my account with life; and to affection,
And never-cancelled duty, give their rights:

[He opens his Bible and inscribes it.

This I return to thee, my dearest mother,

Thy gift at first, and now my last bequest;

And these poor earnings, dust upon the balance

Compared with the great debt I owe to thee,

Are also thine—would I had more to give!

There lie you, side by side.

[He lays a small sum of money with the Bible.

Thou blessed book,
Full of redeeming knowledge, making wise
Unto salvation, and the holy spring
Of all divine philosophy—and thou poor dust,
For which the soul of man is often sold;
Yet wast thou not by evil traffic won,
Nor got by fraud, nor wrung from poverty—

God blessed the labourer while he toiled for thee,

And may’st thou bless the widow!—lie thou there—

I shall not need you more. I am departing
To the fruition of the hope of one,
And where the other cannot get admittance!
And now a few words will explain the rest:—

[He writes a few words, which he incloses with them, and making all into a packet, seals them up.

God comfort her poor heart, and heal its wounds,

Which will bleed fresh when she shall break this seal.

[Shortly after this is done, he becomes suddenly paler—a convulsive spasm passes over him; when he recovers, he slowly rises, and kneels upon his pallet-bed.

Schol. Almighty God! look down

Upon thy feeble servant! strengthen him!

Give him the victor’s crown,

And let not faith be dim!

Oh, how unworthy of thy grace,

How poor, how needy, stained with sin!

How can I enter in

Thy kingdom, and behold thy face!

Except thou hadst redeemed me, I had gone

Without sustaining knowledge to the grave!

For this I bless thee, oh thou Gracious One,

And thou wilt surely save!

I bless thee for the life which thou hast crowned

With never-ending good;
For pleasures that were found
Like wayside flowers in silent solitude.

I bless thee for the love that watched o’er me

Through the weak years of infancy,
That has been, like thine everlasting truth.
The guide, the guardian-angel of my youth.
Oh, Thou that didst the mother’s heart bestow
Sustain it in its woe,

For mourning give it joy, and praise for heaviness!

[He falls speechless upon the bed. His mother enters hurriedly.

Mother. Alas, my son! and am I come too late?

Oh, Christ! can he be dead?

Schol. [looking up faintly.]. Mother, is’t thou?

It is! who summoned thee, dear mother?

Mother. A little boy, the latest of thy class;

He left these walls at sunset, and came back
With me e’en now. He told me of thy words,
And of thy pallid cheek and trembling hand;—
Sorrowing for all; but sorrowing more because
Thou saidst he would behold thy face no more!

Schol. My soul doth greatly magnify the Lord
For his unmeasured mercies!—and for this
Great comfort, thy dear presence! I am spent—
The hand of death is on me! Ere the sun
Lightens the distant mountains, I shall be
Among the blessed angels! Even now
I see as t’were heaven opened, and a troop
Of beautiful spirits waiting my release!

Mother. My son! my son! and thou so young, so wise,

So well-beloved, alas, must thou depart!

Oh, rest thy precious head within mine arms,

My only one!—Thou wast a son indeed!

Schol. Mother, farewell! I hear the heavenly voices,

They call!—I cannot stay: farewell—farewell!

Choir of Spiritual Voices.

No more sighing,
No more dying,
Come with us, thou pure and bright!
Time is done,
Joy is won,
Come to glory infinite!
Hark! the angel-songs are pealing!
Heavenly mysteries are unsealing,
Come and see, oh come and see!
Here the living waters pour,
Drink and thou shalt thirst no more,
Dweller in eternity!
No more toiling—no more sadness!
Welcome to immortal gladness,
Beauty and unending youth!
Thou that hast been deeply tried,
And like gold been purified,
Come to the eternal truth!
Pilgrim towards eternity,
Tens of thousands wait for thee!
Come, come!

THE SORROW OF TERESA.

PERSONS.

OLAF.
TERESA, HIS WIFE.
PAOLO, THEIR CHILD.
ACHZIB, AS A NORTHERN HUNTER.
HULDA, AN OLD WOMAN.

SCENE I.

A little chapel in a gloomy northern forest—Teresa on her knees before the image of the Virgin.

Ter. Thou, that didst bear a pain that had no healing—

An undivided misery,
Which unto kindred heart knew no appealing,
O, hear thou me!
I tell thee not mine own peculiar woe;
I tell thee not the want that makes me poor,

For thou, dear Mother of God, all this dost know!—

But I beseech thy blessing, and thy aid;
Assure me, where my nature is afraid,
And where I murmur, strengthen to endure!

[She bows her head, kneeling in silence—as she prepares to leave the chapel, enter PAOLO, with a few snow-drops in his hand.

Paol. Mother, in Italy I used to gather
Sweet flowers; the fragrant lily, like a cup
Chiselled in marble, and the rich, red rose,
And carry them, an offering to Our Lady;

Think’st thou she will accept such gifts as these,

For they are not like flowers of Italy—

But they are such, dear mother, as grow here?

Ter. My boy, she will accept them! Gracious Virgin,

She would receive a poorer gift than this;

She would accept the will without the gift,

For she doth know the heart! There on the shrine

Lay them, my boy, and pray if thou have need;

Fear not, for she is gracious,—so is God!

Paol. [laying the flowers at the feet of the Virgin.

I have no prayer, dear mother, save for thee,

And that is in my heart. I cannot speak it,

Thou didst weep so, when last I prayed for thee!

Ter. [kissing him.] It is enough, my boy, the Holy Mother

Knoweth what is within thy inmost heart!

[She again bows herself before the Virgin, then taking the child’s hand, goes out.

SCENE II.

Night—the same forest; the pine trees are old and splintered, and covered with snow; it is a scene of desolation—at a little distance a small house is seen through an opening of the wood.

Enter ACHZIB, as a northern hunter.

Hun. And this is their abode! A mighty change,

From a proud palace on the Arno’s side,
To a poor cabin in a northern wild!
Let me retrace the history of this pair:—

He was Count Spazzi—young and rich, and proud,

Ambitious and determined. Fortune brought
Unto his knowledge fair Teresa Cogni,
The daughter of an exiled chief of Corinth;
Beautiful as her own land, and pure
As her own cloudless heavens. It is a tale
So long, so full of sorrow and of guile,
Of heart-ache and remorseless tyranny,
That now I may not stop to trace it out.
But she was forced to marry that stern man,
After her father’s death had given her
Into his power.—Enough, it was a marriage

Where joy was not; but where the tyrant smiled

Because his pride and will were gratified.

Next followed lawless years of heedless crime;

To those, the desperate strife between us two,

Wherein I made the vow which I have kept,
How, it now matters not. I watched him fall,
Impelled by my fierce hate, until at length
I saw him banished from his native land.
Meantime that gentle partner of his fall,
Bore, with a patience which was not of earth,
All evils of their cruel destiny.
But she was now a mother—and for him,
That docile boy, whose spirit was like hers,
Ever-enduring and so full of kindness,
What mother would not bear all misery
And yet repine not, blessed in the love
Of that confiding spirit! Thus it was.

And they three went forth, exiles from their land:

One with the curse of his own crimes upon him;

Two innocent as doves, and only cursed

In that their lives and fortunes were bound up

With that bad man’s.
He is a hunter now;
And his precarious living earns with toil
And danger, amid natures like his own:
And here I might have left him to live out
The term of his existence, had I not
Seen how the silent virtues of the wife,
And the clear, innocent spirit of the boy,
Have gained ascendance o’er him; and besides,
Sure as I am of Spazzi, ’tis for her,
My seventh victim, that I tread these wilds;
For will she not curse God, if from her sight

Is ta’en that precious child, and hate her husband,

By whom it shall appear the deed is done?

She will, she will—I know this mother’s heart!

And on the morrow, as a skilful hunter,
I shall present myself before her husband,
No more Count Spazzi, but the hunter Olaf.

[He goes farther into the forest.

SCENE III.

The following morning—the interior of the house in the forest—Teresa sitting near the fire—Paolo kneeling upon a footstool at her side.

Paol. And now, dear mother, tell me that old tale,

About the little boy who prayed that Jesus

Might come and play with him.

Ter. I will, my love.

[She sings in a low recitative.

[1]Among green, pleasant meadows,
All in a grove so wild,
Was set a marble image
Of the Virgin and the Child.

[1] A free translation of one of Herder’s beautiful legends.

There oft, on summer evenings,
A lonely boy would rove,
To play beside the image
That sanctified the grove.

Oft sate his mother by him,
Among the shadows dim,
And told how the Lord Jesus
Was once a child, like him.

“And now from highest heaven
He doth look down each day,
And sees what’er thou doest,
And hears what thou dost say!”

Thus spoke his tender mother:
And on an evening bright,
When the red, round sun descended
’Mid clouds of crimson light,

Again the boy was playing,
And earnestly said he,
“Oh beautiful child Jesus,
Come down and play with me!

“I will find thee flowers the fairest,
And weave for thee a crown;
I will get the ripe, red strawberries,
If thou wilt but come down!

“Oh Holy, Holy Mother,
Put him down from off thy knee;
For in these silent meadows
There are none to play with me!”

Thus spoke the boy so lonely,
The while his mother heard,
But on his prayer she pondered,
And spoke to him no word.

That self-same night she dreamed
A lovely dream of joy;
She thought she saw young Jesus
There, playing with the boy.

“And for the fruits and flowers
Which thou hast brought to me,
Rich blessings shall be given
A thousand-fold to thee.

“For in the fields of heaven
Thou shalt roam with me at will,
And of bright fruits, celestial,
Shall have, dear child, thy fill!”

Thus tenderly and kindly
The fair child Jesus spoke;
And full of careful musings,
The anxious mother woke.

And thus it was accomplished
In a short month and a day,
The lonely boy, so gentle,
Upon his death-bed lay.

And thus he spoke in dying:

“Oh mother dear, I see

That beautiful child Jesus

A-coming down to me!

“And in his hand he beareth
Bright flowers as white as snow,
And red and juicy strawberries,—
Dear mother, let me go?”

He died—but that fond mother
Her sorrow did restrain,
For she knew he was with Jesus,
And she asked him not again!

Paol. I wish that I had been that boy, dear mother!

Ter. How so, my, Paolo, did not that boy die,

And leave his mother childless?

Paol. Ah, alas,
I had forgotten that! But, mother dear,
Thou couldst not be so wretched, wanting me,
As I, if thou wert not! It breaks my heart
Only to think of it; and I do pray,

Morning and night, that I may never lose thee!

Ter. My precious child, heaven is so very good,

I do believe it will not sunder us

Who are so dear, so needful to each other!

Paol. Let us not speak of parting! and, indeed,

I will not be a hunter when a man;
I will not leave thee early in a morning,
And keep away from thee for days and days!
I do not love the chase, it frightens me;

The horrid bark of wolves fills me with dread.

I dream of them at night!

Ter. Thou shalt not, love!

And yet, what couldst thou be, if not a hunter,

In these wild regions, Paolo!

Paol. Oh no, mother,
I will be not a hunter! They are fierce,
They have loud angry voices. Dearest mother
I tremble when I hear my father speak;
I wish he was as kind, and spoke as sweetly
As thou dost.

Ter. Hush, my Paolo—say not thus—
Thy father is a bold and skilful hunter,—
A very skilful hunter.

Paol. Yes I know it;
I’ve often heard it said. But tell me why
Men are so stern! If I am e’er a man,
I will be kind and gentle; and the dogs

Shall not start up whene’er they hear my step,

And skulk away from the warm, pleasant hearth.

I will love all things, mother; I will make

All things love me!

Ter. My dearest, gentle boy,

I do believe thou wilt!

Paol. Mother, hast heard
My father goes unto the chase to-day,
And that strange hunter with him!

Ter. Nay, my love,

In this wild storm they will not go to hunt.

Paol. I saw them even now. The sledge is ready,

With the horse harnessed to’t; and, mother dear,

We shall have such a long and quiet day,—
’Twill be so happy! And oh, wilt thou tell me
About thy home at Corinth, and the time
When from the morning to the blessed eve
Thou sangest to the music of thy lute;

Or wander’dst out with kind and merry friends;

Or tendedst thy sweet flowers;—and tell me too

About the bright, blue, restless sea at Corinth—

And sing me songs and hymns in thy Greek tongue,

And hear how I can sing them after thee—

Wilt thou, dear mother?

Ter. I will indeed, my love!

But hark! thy birds are chirping for their meal,

Go, feed them, my sweet boy.

Paol. Yes, I will feed them,
And then there will be nothing all the day
To take me from thy side!

[He goes out.

Ter. Thou dear, dear child!

Thou happy, innocent spirit! ’Tis o’er payment,

A rich o’er payment of my many woes,
To see thee gather up such full enjoyment
Within the narrowed limits of the good

Which thy hard fortune gives thee! And no more

Let me account myself forlorn and stripped,

Whilst I have thee, my boy!

But hark! here comes

My husband!

Enter OLAF, muffled in his hunting dress.

Olaf. Where’s the boy! I hunt to-day.

Ter. Not in this storm, my husband!

Olaf. In this storm.

Where is the boy? I heard him here, just now.

Ter. Why, why the boy? What dost thou want with him?

Olaf. He shall go out with me on this day’s hunt.

Ter. Oh no! not so—he must not go to-day!

Olaf. Why, ’tis a puny, feeble-hearted thing,

Whom thou hast fondled with and fooled, till nought

Of a boy’s spirit is within his heart!

But he shall go with me, and learn to dare

The perils of the forest.

Ter. But this once—

This once, my husband, spare him—and when next

Thou goest to the hunt, he shall go with thee!

Olaf. This day he shall go with me! Thou wouldst teach

The boy rebellion! He shall go with me!

Ter. Nay, say not so—he does not love the chase!

Olaf. ’Tis me he does not love—and for good reason,—

Thou ever keep’st him sitting at thy side,

A caded, dwindled thing that has no spirit!

Look at the other children of the forest;

They are brave, manly boys!

Ter. Alas, my husband,
Thou hast forgotten, ’tis a tender flower
Transplanted to a cold, ungenial clime.

Olaf. Say not another word! Thou hear’st my will!

Enter PAOLO; he runs to his mother’s side.

Ter. Thy father wishes thee to hunt to-day.

Paol. Oh, not to-day, dear mother!

Olaf. And why not?

It ever is the cry, “Oh not to-day!”

I pr’ythee what new fancy’s in thy head,

That thou canst not go with me?

Paol. I besought
My mother to sing me her Corinth songs;
To tell me of the groves and of the flowers,
And of that happy home that was more fair
Than even was ours, in pleasant Italy;

And she has promised that she will, my father.

Olaf. Ha! ha! is’t so?—’Tis even as I thought.

I know wherefore these stories of the past!

Mark me, Teresa, if thou school him thus,

I’ll sunder ye!—Thou need’st not clasp thy hands;

For on my life I’ll do it!

Paol. [weeping.] Father, father,
Part me not from my mother, and indeed
I will go with you.

Ter. [aside to Olaf.] Pray thee, speak him kindly!

Olaf. Come, I’ll be thy companion! I will teach thee

To be a man;—dry up these childish tears!

Ter. My sweet boy, do not weep! Go out this day,

Thy mother prays it of thee, and bring back

A little ermine, we will make it tame;

It shall be thine, my Paolo, and shall love thee.

Paol. I will go, dearest mother—nor will cry

Though the gaunt, hungry wolves bark round about,

[aside.] But, mother dear, will you sit by my side

When we come back, and sing me fast asleep?

I have such horrid dreams of wolves at night.

Ter. I will, indeed I will, my dearest love!

Olaf. Come, come, why all this fondling? We’ll be back

Long ere the night.

Ter. Come, now I’ll put thee on
Thy cloak, and that warm cap of ermine skin
I made for thee last winter! [They go out.

Olaf. How she sways him!

With a sweet word she guides him as she will!

Would that the child loved me but half as well;

Heaven help me! but I am a rough, bad man,

And have deserved neither her love nor his!

But now the sledge is ready.

He goes out.

SCENE IV.

Near sunset—a dreary, desolate region, surrounded with ice-mountains—the Hunter drives a sledge rapidly forward, in the back part of which sit Olaf and Paolo.

Olaf. Where is this wild? I know not where thou drivest!

Hunter. Below our feet lies the eternal ice

Of the great sea!

Olaf. Our prey abides not here!

Hunt. We’ll find enough, anon!

Olaf. Thou dost not know

The track on which thou go’st.—Here only dwells

The gaunt and savage wolf! and hark—even now

I hear their bark!

Paol. Oh, are there wolves a-nigh?

Hunt. Ay, they are nigh, look in that black abysm,

It is a wild wolf’s den!

Olaf. Thou braggart hunter,

Is this thy wondrous skill? Wheel round the sledge

Before the horse is maddened with the cry!

There is no time to lose! Pull in the beast!

Hunt. It will not do—the wolves are now upon us!

Paol. Oh father, save me! save me, dearest father!

Olaf. Let go my cloak—they shall not hurt thee, child!

[to the hunter.] Thou cursed man!—Dost see these savage beasts,

And yet sit grinning there, as thou had’st done

A piece of hunter-craft!

Hunt. You carry arms—
Cannot you fire upon them? They will gorge
Upon each other, and be pacified!

Olaf. If they taste blood, they will be more ferocious—

And thou knowest well, we have not ammunition
For such a strife! yet will I fire upon them,
Their savage barking will bring others down.

[He fires.

Paol. Oh horrid! how they tear each other’s flesh.

Olaf. Now hurry forward, for our only hope

Lies in out-speeding them!

Paol. Let us go home!

Olaf. Again they are upon us—their gaunt jaws

Dropping with blood, which they lick evermore!

Now for another slaughter!

Hunt. ’Tis in vain,

For right and left, yet other packs are coming!

Paol. Oh father, father, they will be upon us!

And I shall never see my mother more!

Hunt. Peace, brawling child!

Olaf. My poor, dear boy, be still.

Paol. I will, I will, dear father!

Olaf. [To the hunter.] Cursed murderer.

His blood will be upon thy head!

Hunt. Indeed!

Who forced him from his mother ’gainst his will?

Olaf. Most strange, inhuman wretch!

Hunt. Nay, use thy gun,

’Twill do thee better service than thy tongue!

Olaf. [aside.] Please heaven I live, I’ll pay thee for this hunt,

Wages thou didst not ask!

[He puts his last charge into his piece.

This is the last—

When this is done, there is no other hope

But in our flight! He fires.

Now heaven must be our helper!

On, on, spare not the thong!

[The horse in dashing forward, breaks from the sledge; the wolves fall upon him instantly.

Olaf. Now must we fly!

Hunt. There is a hut among these icy deserts

Raised by some hunters. While they gorge themselves

We may escape.

Paol. Take, take my hand, dear father!

Olaf. How cold it is, poor boy!

[They turn among the ice-mountains, and soon are out of sight.

SCENE V.

A chaotic wilderness of icebergs.

Enter the HUNTER, and OLAF carrying PAOLO, who appears faint.

Hunt. I hear their bark—we are not much ahead!

Olaf. How far is’t now unto the hunter’s cabin?

Hunt. A half hour it would take us, could we run

At our best speed—but cumbered with the child,

What can we do?

Paol. Dear father, I will run—

I will not cumber thee—I am strong now!

Olaf. My poor dear boy, thou canst not! would to heaven

Thou wert at home!

Paol. How kind thou art, dear father!

I will run on—I will not cumber thee!

Hunt. The wolves are here! Hark, hark! their barking comes

Upon the passing wind!

Paol. Oh, they are here!

Olaf. How can we ’scape from them? I’ll sell my life

Dearly for this child’s sake!

Hunt. Throw them the child!

And while they gorge on him, we can escape.

Olaf. Thou devil of hell!

Paol. Sweet father, do it not!

[The wolves surround them; and the hunter snatching up Paolo throws him among them.

Paol. Oh father, father, save me!

Olaf. My boy! my boy!

Hunt. It is too late—they tear him limb from limb!

Now for escape! Run, run, and we shall reach

A place of safety! [He darts forward.

Olaf. God in heaven! my boy—

My gentle-hearted boy! my murdered boy!

[He dashes among the wolves with his hunting knife, and then springs forward after the hunter.

SCENE VI.

Night—the interior of Olaf’s house—Teresa alone—a bright fire burns on the hearth—refreshments are set out, and clothes hanging by the fire for Olaf and Paolo.

Teresa. How late it is! an hour beyond the midnight!

And bitter cold it is! The icy wind

Even pierces through these walls! Poor little Paolo,

How weary and half-frozen he will be:
But he shall sit upon the bench beside me,
And I will hold his hands, and lay his head
Upon my knee; it is his dear indulgence—

Poor child, and he shall have it all to-night!

[She puts fresh logs on the fire.

And this is the third time I have renewed
The wasting fire! and when I piled at first,
“My Paolo will be here,” I said, “before

These logs shall have burned through!” but, now alas,

I know not what to say, saving the wonder

That he comes not, and even this is grown

A kind of vague despair, that seems to threaten

He will not come at all! Oh, if aught happen

Save good unto the child, like poor old Jacob,

Then should I be bereaved!

Enter HULDA, with a very dejected countenance; she takes down PAOLO’S clothes, and folds them up.

Ter. Nay, how is this?

Huld. He will not need them more?

Ter. Woman, what say’st thou?

Huld. Two hunters from the icebergs are come down—

Ere long thy husband comes.

Ter. And not my boy?

Hulda. [laying the clothes together.] He will not need these more!

Ter. Then he is dead!

Huld. Alas, dear lady, yes!

Ter. Peace, woman! peace!

The earth were less forlorn without the sun,

Than I without my boy! He is not dead!

Huld. Would God he were not!

Ter. Do not say he is!

It is like blasphemy to say he’s dead.

Heaven would not strip me so—O do not say it!

Where are these men? I’ll forth and meet my boy!

Huld. [stopping her.] He is not on the road! No, never more

Will he repass this threshold!

Ter. ’Tis a dream!

Huld. Dear lady, no!—too plainly tell the hunters

All that has happened!

Ter. And, pr’ythee, what has happened?

Huld. A quarrel ’twixt the hunter and our master,

Who now comes wounded home.

Ter. And what of Paolo?

Huld. Oh heavy, heavy news!—The child is missing!

Ter. Nay, then he is not dead!—Oh no, not dead!

I told thee heaven would not so deal with me!

My precious boy will come back on the morrow,—

Hunters are often lost for many days.

These men shall seek for him among the wilds—

I, too, will go myself. Where are the men!

Enter the HUNTER, hastily.

Hunt. Dear lady, woe is me!

Huld. Away, away!

Ter. Where is my boy?

Hunt. Oh wretched, wretched mother!

Ter. Torture me not, but tell me where he is?

Hunt. Lady, forgive me for the news I bring!

Ter. Then he is dead?

Hunt. Most terrible recital!

Lady, thy husband, to preserve himself,

Hath given thy little Paolo to the wolves!

Ter. [with a scream of horror.] Oh no, no, no!

Hunt. He stopped their maws

With thy poor Paolo’s blood!

Ter. He did not so!

Hunt. Poor little one, how he did cry for thee!

Huld. Peace! can’st not hold thy peace. Oh hear it not!

Lady, he is but missing.

Hunt. Poor weak thing!

How he did cling to me, and pray that I

Would save him from his father!

[Teresa clasps her hands, and stands in speechless agony.

I might have snatched a pretty lock of hair;

I wish I had—a pretty curling lock!

Ter. [falling on her knees.] God, of thy mercy strengthen, strengthen me!

Enable me to bear what is thy will!

[She falls insensible to the floor.

Huld. Wretch, why didst tell it her so cruelly—

Besides, the iceberg hunters say not so.

Thou’st killed her by thy tidings!

Hunt. Hark, he comes!

I hear her husband’s voice!

Huld. She must not see him!

[She bears Teresa out.

Hunt. I must off! I’ll not again meet Olaf;

He’s not the facile fool that once he was:

But there’s that damning deed laid to his charge,

Will make Teresa curse both him and heaven!

[He goes out.

SCENE VII.

The following day—the interior of the chapel—Teresa on her knees before the image of the Virgin.

Mother of God, who borest

That cruel pang which made thy spirit bleed!

Who knew’st severest anguish, sorrow sorest,

Hear me in my great need!

My need is great, my woe is like thine own!

I am bereaved of mine only one!

Thou know’st I have no other!

Comfort me, oh my mother!

Kind Saviour, who didst shed
Tears for thy Lazarus dead;
Who raised the widow’s son from off his bier;
Who didst endure all woe
That human hearts can know,
Hear me, O hear!

Thou that art strong to comfort, look on me—
I sit in darkness, and behold no light!
Over my heart the waves of agony

Have gone, and left me faint! Forbear to smite

A bruised and broken reed! Sustain, sustain;

Divinest Comforter, to thee I fly,

Let me not fly in vain!

Support me with thy love, or else I die!

Father, who didst send down thy Well-Beloved,
To suffer shame and death that I might live,
Hear me, in this great sorrow not unmoved,
And if I sin, forgive!
Whate’er I had was thine!
A God of mercy thou hast ever been;
Assist me to resign;
And if I murmur, count it not for sin!

How rich I was, I dare not—dare not think;

How poor I am, thou knowest, who canst see

Into my soul’s unfathomed misery;

Forgive me if I shrink!

Forgive me if I shed these human tears!

That it so hard appears

To yield my will to thine, forgive, forgive!

Father, it is a bitter cup to drink!

[She bows her face, and after a time of silence, rises.

My soul is strengthened! It shall bear
My lot, whatever it may be;
And from the depths of my despair
I will look up, and trust in Thee!

[She goes slowly out.

SCENE VIII.

Many weeks afterwards—a chamber of Olaf’s house—Olaf near death, lying upon his bed—Teresa sits beside him.

Olaf. For years of tyranny I do beseech
Thy pardon!—For thy meekness and thy truth
The unrepining patience, and the beauty
Of thy most holy life, my wife, I bless thee!

Ter. Thank God! affliction has been merciful!

My boy, thy death has saved thy father’s soul!

Olaf. And the great might of virtue in thyself;—

Thy resignation, and thy pitying pardon—

For these, receive my blessing ere I die—

These, which have been the means of my salvation!

Ter. Bless Him, my husband, who is strong to save!

Olaf. I do, I do!—and I rejoice in death;

Though, had my life been spared, I would have been

Both son and husband to thee!—Weep not thou—
We shall all three ere long be united—
I, the poor outcast else, be one with you!

Ter. Out of affliction has arisen joy,

And out of black despair immortal hope!

Olaf. [after a silence of some time.] Give me thy hand, sweet friend;—I fain would sleep;—

And if I wake no more, I still would know

Thou wilt be with me when I pass away!

Ter. May the kind, holy Mother bless thy sleep,—

And bless thy waking, be’t of life or death;

[Olaf remains perfectly quiet, and after some time a light slumber comes over Teresa, during which she hears dream-like voices singing.

Oh human soul, ’tis done,
Past is thy trial; past thy woe and pain;
Nor is there mortal stain
Upon thy spirit-robes, redeemed one!
Spirit, that through a troubled sea
Of sin and passion hast been wildly tost,
And yet not lost,
With songs of triumph do we welcome thee!

Redeemed spirit, come,
Thine is a heavenly home!
Come, freed from human error;
From frailty, that did gird thee as the sea

Engirds the earth; from darkness, doubt and terror,

Which hung around the soul ere the light came;

From these we welcome thee!
Hark, heaven itself, rejoices,
Hark, the celestial voices

Shouting, like trumpet-peals, thy spirit-name!—

Oh gladly enter in,
Thou conqueror of sin,
The eternal city of the holy ones,

Where, brighter far than stars; or moons, or suns,

Thou shalt shine out before the Infinite!—
And see! a heavenly child,
With garments undefiled,
Streaming upon the air like odorous light,
Awaits to welcome thee!
Oh father, clasp thy boy,
Pour out thy soul in joy,
In love, which human frailty held in thrall;—
Boy, clasp thy father now,
Distrust and fear in heaven there cannot be,
For love enfoldeth all!
Oh happy pair, too long divided,
Pour out your souls in one strong sympathy!
Eternal Love your meeting steps hath guided,
Ne’er to be parted through eternity!

Ter. [Waking.] I know that he is dead; but this sweet omen,

These holy voices pealing joy in heaven,

Have taken the sting from death! My dear, dear husband,

I know that thou art blessed—art reunited

Unto our boy!

[She bends over the body for a few moments; then kneeling down and covering her face, she remains in silent prayer.

HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES.

TO
CAROLINE BOWLES,
AN
HONOURED FELLOW-LABOURER,
THIS LITTLE BOOK,
THE DESIGN OF WHICH IS
TO MAKE THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTIANITY
AN ENDEARED AND FAMILIAR
FIRE-SIDE GUEST,
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

L’ENVOI.

I have indited thee with care and love,
My little book; and now I send thee forth
On a good mission like the gentle dove,

Bearing glad tidings with thee o’er the earth.

Thou wast not meant for riot and for jest,
Dear little book, all simple as thou art;
But in sweet homes to be a loving guest;
And find a place in many a guileless heart.

Have not a fear! I know that thou wilt find
Thy journey pleasant as a path of flowers,
For pure and youthful hearts are ever kind,
Glad to be pleased with labour such as ours.

Sit down with little children by the way,
And tell them of sweet Marien how she went
Over the weary world from day to day,

On christian works of love, like thee, intent.

Tell them of Him who framed the sea, the sky;

The glorious earth and all that dwell therein;

And of that Holy One made strong to die,

Sinless himself, to save the world from sin.

And thou hast many a tale of wonder planned

With various art to make thy spirit wise;

These have I given thee that thou may’st command

Glad smiles at will and pitying tears and sighs.

For thus, young, generous spirits would be won;

And I have gifted thee to win them best;
Now go thou forth undaunted, gentle one,
And trust thy cause to every youthful breast.

Go forth, and have thou neither fear nor shame;

Many shall be thy friends, thy foes be few;

And greet thou those who love thee in my name,

Yea, greet them warmly! Little book, adieu!

MARIEN’S PILGRIMAGE.
A FIRE-SIDE STORY.

Christianity, like a child, goes wandering over the world. Fearless in its innocence, it is not abashed before princes, nor confounded by the wisdom of synods. Before it the blood-stained warrior sheathes his sword, and plucks the laurel from his brow;—the midnight murderer turns from his purpose, and, like the heart-smitten disciple, goes out and weeps bitterly. It brings liberty to the captive, joy to the mourner, freedom to the slave, repentance and forgiveness to the sinner, hope to the faint-hearted, and assurance to the dying.

It enters the huts of poor men, and sits down with them and their children; it makes them contented in the midst of privations, and leaves behind an everlasting blessing. It walks through great cities, amid all their pomp and splendour, their unimaginable pride, and their unutterable misery, a purifying, ennobling, correcting, and redeeming angel.

It is alike the beautiful companion of childhood and the comfortable associate of age. It ennobles the noble; gives wisdom to the wise, and new grace to the lovely. The patriot, the priest, the poet, and the eloquent man, all derive their sublime power from its influence.

Thanks be to the Eternal Father, who has made us one with Him through the benign Spirit of Christianity!

PART I.

Through the wide world went Marien
On a holy mission sent,
A little child of tender years,
Throughout the world she went.

And ever, as she went along,
Sweet flowers sprang ’neath her feet;
All flowers that were most beautiful,
Of virtues strong and sweet.

And ever, as she went along,
The desert beasts grew tame;
And man, the savage, dyed with blood,
The merciful became.

Now, if you will attend to me,
I will in order tell
The history of this little child,
And what to her befel.

No friend at all had Marien,
And at the break of day,
In a lonesome place within the world,
In quiet thought she lay.

The stars were lost in coming morn,
The moon was pale and dim,
And the golden sun was rising
Over the ocean’s rim.

With upturned eye lay Marien;—
“And I am alone,” said she,
“Though the blackbird and the nightingale
Sing in the forest-tree:

“Though the weak woodland creatures
Come to me when I call,
And eat their food from out my hand;
And I am loved by all:

“Though sun, and moon, and stars come out,
And flowers of fairest grace,
And whate’er God made beautiful,
Are with me in this place:

“Yet I am all alone, alone,

Alone both night and day!

So I will forth into the world,

And do what good I may:

“For many a heart is sorrowful,
And I that heart may cheer;—
And many a weary captive pines
In dungeons dark and drear;—
And I the iron bonds may loose,—
Then why abide I here?

“And many a spirit dark with crime,
Yet longeth to repent;
And many a grievous wrong is done
To the weak and innocent;—
And I may do the injured right,
May save the penitent!

“Up, I will forth into the world!”

And, thus as she did say,

Sweet Marien from the ground rose up

And went forth on her way.

Through the wood went Marien,

The thick wood and the green!

And not far had she travelled ere

A cruel sight was seen.

Under the green and leafy boughs
Where singing birds were set;
At strife about their heritage,
Two ruffian brothers met.

“Thou shalt not of our father’s land,”

The elder said, “have part!”

The younger brother spoke no word,

But stabbed him to the heart.

Then deep into the forest dark
With desperate speed he ran,
And gentle Marien stood beside
The bleeding, murdered man.

With pitying tears that would not cease,
She washed his wounded side,
And prayed him to have faith in Him
Who for the sinner died.

But no sign made the murdered man,
There stiff in death he lay;—
And Marien through the forest wild
Went mourning on her way.

Ere long, as she went wandering on,
She came to where there sat,
With folded arms upon her breast,
A woman desolate.

Pale was she as the marble stone,
And steadfast was her eye;
She sat enchained, as in a trance,
By her great misery.

“What ails thee, mother?” Marien said,

In a gentle voice and sweet;

“What aileth thee, my mother?”

And knelt down at her feet.

“What aileth thee, my mother?”

Kind Marien still did say;

And those two words, my mother,

To the lone heart found their way.

As one who wakeneth in amaze,

She quickly raised her head;—

And “Who is’t calls me mother?”

Said she, “my child is dead!”

“He was the last of seven sons—
He is dead—I have none other;—
This is the day they bury him;—
Who is it calls me mother?”

“’Tis I,” said gentle Marien,

“Dear soul, be comforted!”

But the woman only wrung her hands,

And cried, “My son is dead!”

“Be comforted,” said Marien,
And then she sweetly spake
Of Jesus Christ, and how he came
The sting from death to take.

She told of all his life-long love,

His soul by suffering tried:

And how at last his mother stood

To see him crucified.

Of the disciples’ broken hearts
She told, of pangs and pain;
Of Mary at the sepulchre,
And Christ arisen again.

“Then sorrow not,” she said, “as though
Thou wert of all bereft;
For still, though they beloved are not,
This blessed faith is left.

“That when thy dream of life is o’er
Thou shalt embrace thy seven,
More beautiful than earthly sons,
With our dear Lord in heaven!”

Down on her knees the woman fell,
And “blessed be God,” said she,
“Who in my sorest need hath sent
This comforter to me!”

PART II.

Now Marien in the woman’s house
Abode a little space,
And comfort to the mother came;
And a dear daughter’s place
Had Marien in the woman’s heart,
Doing the while a daughter’s part.

But now ’twas time that she must go;
For Marien’s duty was not there,
Now grief was past and woe was done;
So, with the rising of the sun,
She rose up forth to fare.

“Nay, bide with me,” the woman said,
“Or, if as thou dost say,
Duty forbids that this may be,
I a day’s journey go with thee,
To speed thee on the way.”

So forth the loving pair set out,
The woman and the child;
And first they crossed the desert heath,
And then the mountains wild.

And in the woman’s arms she lay,
That night within the forest hoar,
And the next morn, with loving heart,
They said farewell, as those who part
To meet on earth no more.

Upon her way went Marien,
From morn till set of day,
And the peace of God that passeth word,
Upon her spirit lay,
And oftimes she sang aloud
As she went on her way.

The joyfulest song sang Marien
That e’er left human tongue;
The very birds were mute to hear
The holy words she sung.

But now the darksome night came on,
And Marien lay her down
Within a little way-side cave,
On mosses green and brown.

And in the deepest hush of night
Rude robbers entered in;
And first they ate and drank, then rose
To do a deed of sin.

For with them was a feeble man,
Whom they had robbed, and they
Here came to foully murder him,
And hide him from the day.

Up from her bed sprang Marien,
With heavenly power endued;
And in her glorious innocence,
Stood ’mong the robbers rude.

“Ye shall not take the life of man!”

Spake Marien low and sweet;

“For this will God take strict account,

Before his judgment seat!”

Out from the cave the robbers fled,
For they believed there stood,
A spirit stern and beautiful,
Not aught of flesh and blood.

And two from out the robber-band
Thenceforward did repent,
And lived two humble Christian men,
On righteous deeds intent.

When from the cave the robber-band
Had fled, the aged man
Rose from the floor where he was laid,
And marvelling much, began.

“Who art thou, child? and those few words
Of might which thou hast spoken,
What may they be? My foes have fled—
And lo! my bonds are broken;
At thy few words my foes have fled,
My rigid bonds have broken!”

Then Marien ’gan to tell him how,
Through her God’s power had wrought;
And him from peril, nigh to death,
Thus wondrously had brought.

She told him how holy Daniel’s faith
The caged beasts disarmed;
How the three righteous children walked
Through raging fire unharmed.

She told how Peter, bound with chains,
Lay in the prison-ward,
How God’s good angel freed him straight,
And the strong prison’s iron gate
Oped of its own accord.

“God knows our wants,” said Marien
“And in our sorest need,
Puts forth his arm to rescue us,
For he is merciful, and thus
It is that thou art freed.”

“Let us go hence!” the old man said,
And o’er the forest sod,
They, hand in hand, with quiet steps,
Went forward praising God.

Ere noontide, to a forest grange
They came, a sylvan place,
Where trooped, no longer fearing man,
The forest’s native race,
The white doe and the antlered stag,
And every beast of chase.

’Twas joy to see them drawing near
The old man as he came;
And this he stroked, and that he called
By some familiar name.

’Twas joy unto the little child
This little pleasant place to see;
“This is my home,” he said, “and here
Thou shalt abide with me.”

“I have no child to be mine heir,
And I am growing old;—
Thou shalt be heir to all my lands,
And heir of all my gold.

“Thou shalt be comfort to mine age,
And here within this wood,
’Mongst faithful, gentle things, shalt thou
Grow up to womanhood!

There dwelt the lovely Marien;
Within the forest wild,
And she unto the lone old man
Was dearer than a child.

There dwelt the lovely Marien,
Yet not long dwelt she there;—
The old man died;—and then came forth
A kinsman for the heir.

A lean and rugged man of pelf,
In wickedness grown old;
From some vile city-den he came
And seized upon the gold;—
He slew the tamed forest-beasts,—
The forest-grange he sold.

And with hard speeches, coarse and rude,
Away the child he sent;
Meek Marien answered not a word,
But through the forest went.

PART III.

Through the wild wood went Marien,

For many a weary day:

Her food the forest-fruits, and on

The forest-turf she lay.

The wildern wood was skirted
By moorlands dry and brown;
And after them came Marien
Into a little town.

At entrance of the little town
A cross stood by the way,
A rude stone cross, and there she knelt
A little prayer to say.

Then on the stone-steps sate her down;
And soon beside her crept,
A pale child with a clasped book,
And all the while he wept.

“Why weep you, child,” asked Marien,

“What troubleth you so sore?”

At these words spoken tenderly,

The child wept more and more.

“I have not heard,” at length he said,
“Kinds words this many a year,
My mother is dead—and my father
Is a hard man and severe.

“I sit in corners of the house
Where none can see me weep;
And in the quiet of the day
’Tis here I often creep.

“The kid leaps by his mother’s side,

The singing birds are glad:

But when I play me in the sun,

My heart is ever sad.

“They say this blessed book can heal
All trouble, and therefore
All day I keep it in my sight;
I lay it ’neath my head at night,
But it doth bring no cure to me:—
I know not what the cause may be,
For I of learning have no store!”

Thereat, like to a broken flower
The child drooped down his head;
Then Marien took the clasped book
And of the Saviour read.

She read of him the humble child
Of poverty and scorn;
How holy angels sang for him
The night that he was born.

How blessed angels came from heaven
To hail the Christmas night,
And shepherd people with their flocks
Beheld the glorious sight.

Then read she how, a growing youth,
His parents he obeyed,
And served with unrepining will
St. Joseph at his trade.

Then how he grew to man’s estate
And wandered up and down,
Preaching upon the lone sea-side,
And in the busy town.

Of all his tenderness, his love,
Page after page she read;
How he made whole the sick, the maimed,
And how he raised the dead.

And how he loved the children small,
Even of low degree;
And how he blessed them o’er and o’er,
And set them on his knee.

When this the little child had heard
He spoke in accents low,
“Would that I had been one with them
To have been blessed so!”

“Thou shalt be blessed, gentle one!”

Said Marien kind and mild,

“Christ, the Great Comforter, doth bless

Thee, even now, poor child!”

So conversed they of holy things
Until the closing day
Then Marien and the little child
Rose up to go their way.

As to the town they came, they passed
An ancient church, and “here
Let us go in!” the pale child said,
“For the organ pealeth over head,
And that sweet strain of holy sound
Like a heavenly vesture wraps me round,
And my heavy heart doth cheer.”

So Marien and the little child
Into the church they stole;
And many voices rich and soft
Rose upward from the organ loft,
And the majestic instrument
Pealed to an anthem that was sent
To soothe a troubled soul.

Anon the voices died away,
The pealing organ ceased,
And through the church’s ancient door
Passed chorister and priest.

And Marien and the little child
Went forward hand in hand
Adown the chancel aisle, and then
At once they made a stand.

Over the altar hung a piece
With holy influence fraught,
A work divine of wondrous skill
By some old painter wrought.

The gracious Saviour breathing love,
Was there like life expressed,
And round his knees the children small
Were thronging to be blessed.

Down dropped the child upon his knees,
And weeping, tenderly
Cried “bless me also, poor and weak,
Or let me go to thee!”

Anon his little head dropped low,
And his white lips ’gan to say,
“Oh kiss me gentle one, for now
Even I am called away—
The blessed mother’s voice I hear,
It calleth me away!”

So died the child;—and Marien laid
His meek arms on his breast,
With the clasped book between his hands:—
Thus God had given him rest!

And Marien, weeping holy tears,
Sate down beside the dead,
And slept that night within the church,
As in a kingly bed.

Scarce from the church had Marien passed,
When came the father there,
As was his wont, though fierce and bad,
To say a morning prayer!

Not seven paces had he gone,
When, heart-struck, he surveyed
Before his feet, that little child
In his dead beauty laid.

At once as by a lightning stroke
His softened soul was torn
With a deep sense of all the wrong
That little child had borne.

And then came back the timid voice
The footstep faint and low,
The many little arts to please,
The look of hopeless woe.
And many a shuddering memory
Of harsh rebuke and blow.

No prayer of self-approving words,
As was his wont, he said,
But humbled, weeping, self-condemned,
He stood before the dead.

PART IV.

Ten long days’ travel Marien went,
O’er woodland and o’er wold,
Teaching and preaching by the way,
Like Jesus Christ of old.

Sometimes within the baron’s hall
A lodging she would find,
And never went she from the door
But blessings staid behind;
Proud foes forgiven, revenge withheld,
And plenteous peace of mind.

With shepherd people on the hills;
With toiling peasant men,
She sate; with women dwelling lone,
On mountain or in glen.

By wayside wells she sate her down,
With pilgrims old and bent;
Or, hand in hand, with children small,
To the village school she went.

She made them spare the singing birds
All in their leafy bowers;
She made them love all living things;
And praise God for the flowers.

But now she came to where there raged

Wild war throughout the land;

She heard the vexed people’s cry;
She saw the ravaged corn-fields lie;
The hamlets smoking to the sky;
And everywhere careering by
The spoiler’s savage band.

All hearts were changed. Like ravening wolves
Men preyed upon each other;
Dead children lay on the bloody mould;
And pitiless had grown, and cold,
The heart of many a mother.

Wild shouts and horrid shrieks around
Filled all the air; the earth
Reeked with the blood that had been spilt;
And man made mockery and mirth
Of agony and mortal woe:—
Yet through all this did Marien go.

Outraged of heart, the child went on,
Weeping upon her way;
And now she soothed a dying wretch;
Then for another ran to fetch
Water; and every day
Did deeds of mercy good and mild:—
Thus journeyed on the pitying child.

On went she,—and as she went on,
Men grew ashamed of blood,
So beautiful did mercy seem;
And the wild soldier rude
Slunk back as slinks a noisome beast;

And to their homes once more
Came mothers with their little ones;
And old men, weak and hoar,
Sate in the sun as they had wont,
Unfearing at the door.

On went the child,—and as she went,
Within the Baron’s hall,
Were hung up helm and mail and sword,
To rust upon the wall.

On went she,—and the poets sung
No longer war’s acclaim,
But holy hymns of love and joy,
To hail her as she came.

On went she, like an angel good;
With bounding steps she went,
Day after day, until she came
To the great Conquerer’s tent.

There sat he, a strong man of blood,
Steel-mailed and scarfed with blue,
Poring o’er charts of distant lands,
For new lands to subdue.

Beside him stood the gentle child;
And now he traced with care,
Measuring from river unto sea,
A fertile region fair.

“’Tis a good land,” said Marien,
“From river unto sea;
And there a quiet people dwell,
Who never heard of thee.

“They feed their flocks and herds in peace;
The fruitful vine they till;
The quiet homes their fathers built
They and their children fill.

“Even now their happy children’s joy

Thee and thy will condemn;

Wherefore should’st thou possess that land?

God gave it unto them!”

Into her face the proud man looked,
Amazed at what he heard;
Then turned unto his charts again,
And answered never a word.

Another land among the hills
He measured with his eye;
“’Tis a stern land,” said Marien,
“A land of liberty!

“There fled the Christians in old time,
And built their churches there;
The bells upon the sabbath morn
Call all that land to prayer.

“Would’st thou God’s people tribulate?

A cursed thing it were

To make that Christian land of love

A bloody sepulchre!”

The proud man turned him round about

And fiercely gazed at her.

“Rivers of blood have flowed for thee!”

Unblenching Marien said,

“And many a Christian land hast thou

With Christian blood made red.

“Up, sin no more! ’Tis coming now,
The day thou canst not flee,
When all the thousands thou hast slain
God will require of thee!

“Thou man of blood, repent, repent,
Repent whilst yet thou may,
And store up deeds of love and peace
Against that awful day!”

Up from his seat the conquerer rose,
And paced the uneasy tent,
And ground his teeth and groaned aloud,
As one that doth repent.

Forth from the tent sped Marien;
And many a summer’s day
Throughout a blessed land of peace
She journeyed on her way.

PART V.

At length, after long travel past,
She came as it grew late,
Along a beaten road, that led
To a vast city gate.

A vast and populous city, where
Rose dome, and tower, and spire,
And many a gilded pinnacle,
Far-seen, as the bright sunset fell,
Like glittering points of fire.

A city vast and populous,
Whose thronging multitude
Sent forth a sound afar-off heard,
Strong as the ocean-flood.

A strong, deep sound of many sounds,
Toil, pleasure, pain, delight,
And traffic, myriad-wheeled, whose din
Ceased not by day or night.

And through the city gate a throng
Passed ever, never spent;
A busy mingling human tide
Of those who came and went.

’Twas a proud city and a rich;
A city fair and old;
Filled with the world’s most costly things,—
Of precious stones and gold;
Of silks, fine woods, and spiceries;
And all that’s bought and sold.

Thither came homeless Marien,
Came there as it grew late,
Foot-sore and weary, friendless, poor,
Unto the city gate.

There found her a poor carpenter
Returning from his trade,
And he, with pitying countenance,
Her weary form surveyed.

“Come!” said he, “thou unto my house,
Shalt go: and of my bread,
And of my cup, thou shalt partake;
Shalt bide with me!” and as he spake
Her weary steps he led.

Unto an humble place that stood
’Mong dwellings of the poor
He brought her; bade her welcome thrice
Unto his lowly door.

The good-wife met her with like cheer,
“And though our fare is scant,
Fear not,” she said, “whilst we have food
It is not thou shall want!”

So dwelt she with this humble pair
In the great city, cherished so,
As parents cherish their first born;
Nor would they let her go.

Thus for a year she dwelt with them;
And that while their abode
Was blessed exceedingly; their store
Grew daily, weekly, more and more;
And peace so multiplied around,
The very hearth seemed holy ground,
As if once more on earth was found
The Paradise of God.

’Twas she that blessed the bread they ate,
’Twas she soothed all their cares;
They knew not that they entertained
An angel unawares.

With simple hearts that had no guile
They of the Saviour heard;
And, weeping tears of joyful faith,
Believed and blessed each word.

No more they marvelled how their board
With plenteous food was spread;
Five barley loaves dispensed by Christ
The famished thousands fed.

With love that would not be repressed,
Their kindling bosoms burned,
And ’mong their neighbours poor they went
To teach what they had learned.

To teach how Christ unto the poor,
The sinner vile, was sent;
How Mary washed his feet with tears,
And wiped them with her golden hairs,
A weeping penitent.

And how the sinful woman stood
Unjudged before his face;
How the poor prodigal sped back
Repentant to his place;

How to the thief upon the cross
He said, thou art forgiven,
And thou shalt be with me this day,
In the paradise of heaven.

So preached the carpenter; and men
Turned from their evil ways,
And Christian prayer was heard around,
And Christian hymns of praise.

Strange seemed these things; and to the rich,
And to the proud, ’twas told,
How many of the meaner sort
Lived like the saints of old.

How holy, blameless, were their lives;
And how poor craftsmen vile,
Amid their fellows, tool in hand,
The gospel preached the while.

’Twas told of Marien; how she came
A wanderer none knew whence;
Friendless and poor, of mind mature,
A Child in innocence;
As thus ’twas told, some blessed God,
But others took offence.

“Why,” said they, “should this simple child,
These men of low degree,
Thus preach and practise? what new faith
Is there, or need there be?

“Bishops have taught a thousand years,
And learned men are they;
These are mad doctrines, false, unfit,
Devised to lead astray.”

Therefore the simple people were
To a full synod brought,
To answer for their altered lives,
And for the faith they taught.

Much marvelled all those learned men
To see them fearless stand,
Calm, unabashed; with ready wit,
And language at command.

And to their taunt of low estate,
They answered, “let alone
All pride of rank; Christ chose the poor,
To make his gospel known.

“And what are we?—Immortal souls,
For whom Christ’s blood was shed;
Children of one great sire, with ye,
Co-heirs of Immortality;
Alike you both in birth and death;
Alone our lot so differeth,
As God shall judge the dead!”

Then were they questioned of old creeds,
By sophistries perplexed;
So that their artless lore might fail,
There simple souls be vexed.

But they were steadfast in the faith
As taught the holy book;
And thence it was adjudged a crime
Upon its page to look.

And the grave synod rose in wrath,
And they were judged blasphemers dire,
And doomed, their daring heresies
To expiate in fire.

PART VI.

So perished for their faith in Christ,
This righteous couple; for their foes
Beseeching pardon; blessing God
That they were reckoned among those
Worthy to die for Christ, whose place
Is with the Holiest face to face.

Beside the pile stood Marien
Weeping sad human tears,
Yet strengthening, comforting the while,
And soothing all their fears.

And as she spoke, her countenance
With heavenly lustre beamed,
And all around her youthful form
Celestial beauty streamed.

Men looked on her with wondering awe,
As on an angel’s face,
And pity, and love, and sweet remorse,
In every heart had place.

Throughout the city rang the tale
Of this divinest child;
And for her sake unto her faith
Many were reconciled.

Unto the synod came these things;
And “here let her be brought,
To answer for herself,” they said,
“And suffer as she ought.”

As Christ among the doctors stood,
So she among these men,
Stern, rugged-browed, and deeply versed
In parchment and in pen;
Meekly she stood; when they reviled,
Reviling not again.

Yet with sweet words and argument,
Rather of love than lore,
She pleaded for the faith, as ne’er
Pled youthful tongue before.

All were amazed who heard her words;
And straightway spoke each one
Unto his neighbor, “Through this child
May mighty things be done!”

Then threatning words anon grew soft,
“And thou with us shalt go,”
They said, “and with the poor and vile,
No longer suffer woe.

“Thou shalt be clothed in purple robes,
In gold and linen fine;
Shalt eat the daintiest food; shalt drink
The spirit-gladdening wine.

“And with us in proud palaces,
A crowned queen shalt be;
Leave but these men, for they are poor,
And can do nought for thee!

“Behold the stake at which they burn—
The iron rack behold—
Are these the men to make thee rich
With silver and with gold.

“Come with us, glorious Marien,
And in our places high,
We will exalt thee as a queen,
Will deck thee royally!”

“Nay,” said sweet Marien, “as a queen
It is not I may bide;
I am not won with power nor gold,
Nor aught of human pride.

“Who clothes the lilies of the field,
Will cloth me, even as they;
Who hears the ravens when they cry,
Will feed me day by day!”

But still the tempters kept with her;
And “come away,” they said,
And she unto a sumptous dome
With royal pomp was led.

They showed her all that palace proud;
They showed her store of gold;
They told her of a hundred realms,
And wealth a hundred-fold.

“And all this shall be thine,” they said,
“All this be thine, and more,
So thou wilt bind thyself to us,
And leave the weak and poor!

“Thou that art weak and poor thyself,
A crowned queen shalt be!”
Said Marien, “In the wilderness
The Tempter came, and he
Offered to Jesus Christ such gifts
As now ye offer me!”

Those rugged brows grew dark, “Come now
With us,” they fiercely said,
“And see what never daylight saw,
The halls of dool and dread!”

Then unto chambers hidden, vast,
Mysterious, far from view,
They led her; there was set the rack,
The knotted cord, the screw,
And many a horrid instrument,
Whose dark ensanguined hue
Told of their purpose, “These,” said they,
“Many strange wonders do!

“Look well; could’st thou endure these things?

Strong men have died ere now
Under their torment; men were they,
A little child art thou!”

Then Marien meekly answered, “What
God suffereth you to dare,
He, to whom darkness is as light,
Will strengthen me to bear!”

“Come onward yet,” they said; and down
Damp, broken stairs they went;
Down, down to hidden vaults of stone,
Through vapours pestilent.

And then with sullen iron keys
They opened doors of stone;
And heavy chained captives there
They showed her, one by one.

Old, white-haired men; men middle-aged,
That had been strong of limb;
But each, now pallid, hollow-eyed,
Like spectres worn and dim.

And many, as the dull door oped,
Ne’er lifted up the head;—
Heart-broken victims of long pain,
Whose very hope was dead.

Others with feverish restlessness
Sprang up, and with quick cry,
That thrilled the hearer to the soul,
Demanded liberty.

With bleeding heart went Marien on;
And her conductors spake,
“These are our victims; these await
The rack, the cord, the stake.

“And as these are, so shalt thou be
If thou our will gainsay;
Accept our service, pride, and power;
Or, on this very day,
Racked, prisoned, poor, and miserable,
Thou shalt be, even as they!”

Down on the floor sank Marien,
And, “Oh, dear Lord!” she cried,
“Assist thy poor and trembling one
This awful hour to bide;
Let me be strong to do thy will,
Like him who bowed, and died!”

“They took her:—of that prison house
The secrets who may say?—
Racked, fettered, captived, in their power,
The gentle Marien lay;
Captive within their torture-halls
A long night and a day!

PART VII.

Then forth they brought her; gave her wine
And pleasant food to eat;
And “rest thee, Marien, in our arms,”
Sung syren voices sweet.

“Rest thee within our arms; refresh
Thy fainting soul with wine;
Eat and be glad; forget the past,
And make all pleasure thine!”

“Tempt me not!” said the feeble child,
“Take hence your spiced bowl;
Is’t not enough to rack my limbs,
But you must vex my soul?

“Look at my flesh, which ye have torn;
Look at your bloody rack;—
Take hence your gifts, and let me go
To my own people back.

“To my own people let me go,
A bruised and broken reed;
I for your purpose am unmeet;
Let me go hence with speed.”

So, in her weakness, prayed the child;
But those remorseless men,
More dead than living, bore her back
Unto their prison-den.

Into a noisome prison-house,
With iron-doors made fast,
’Mong felons and ’mong murderers,
Was gentle Marien cast.

Upon the hard, cold prison-floor
Sick unto death she lay,
As if God had forsaken her,
For many a weary day.

She thought of her sweet forest life,
And of those creatures small,
Weak, woodland creatures, tamed by love,
That came unto her call.

She thought of him, the forest-lord,
And of the forest-grange;
Of the delicious life she led,
With liberty to range.

And as she thought, even as a child’s,
The ceaseless tears did flow,
For torturing pain and misery
Had brought her spirit low.

When one from out the felon-band

Came softly to her side,

And “do not weep, thou little child!”

With pitying voice, he cried.

“At sight of thee, I know not why,
My softened heart doth burn,
And the gone tenderness of youth
Doth to my soul return.

“I think upon my early days,
Like unto days of heaven;
And I, that have not wept for years,
Even as a child, shed ceaseless tears,
And pray to be forgiven!”

“Blessed be God!” said Marien,

And rose up from the floor;

“I was not hither brought in vain!

His mercy I adore,

Who out of darkness brought forth light!”

And thus she wept no more.

But ever of the Saviour taught;
How he came down to win,
With love, and suffering manifold,
The sinner from his sin.

How, not to kings and mighty men
He came, nor to the wise,
But to the thief and murderer,
And those whom men despise.

And how, throughout the host of heaven
Goes yet a louder praise
O’er one poor sinner who doth turn
From his unrighteous ways,
Than o’er a hundred godly men,
Who sin not all their days.

Thus with the felons she abode,
And that barred prison rude
Was as if angels dwelt therein,
And not fierce men of blood;
For God had her captivity
Turned into means of good.

Now all this while sweet Marien’s friends,
Who in the town remained,
Of her took painful thought, resolved
Her freedom should be gained.

And at the last they compassed it,
With labour long and great;
And through the night they hurried her
Unto the city-gate.

There many a mother stood, and child,
Weeping with friendly woe,
Thus, thus to meet, as ’twere from death,
And then to bid her go.

To bid her go, whom so they loved,
Nor once more see her face;
To bid her go; to speed her forth
To some more friendly place.

Thus, amid blessings, prayers, and tears
About the break of day,
She left the city, praising God
For her release; and swiftly trod
Upon her unknown way.

PART VIII.

A bow-shot from the city-gate
Turned Marien from the plain,
Intent by unfrequented ways
The mountain-land to gain.

With bounding step she onward went,
Over the moorland fells;
O’er fragrant tracks of purple thyme,
And crimson heather-bells.

Joyful in her release she went,
Still onward yet, and higher;
Up many a mossy, stony steep,
Through many a flock of mountain sheep,
By the hill-tarns so dark and deep,
As if she could not tire.

Onward and upward still she went
Among the breezy hills,
Singing for very joyfulness
Unto the singing rills.

The days of her captivity,
The days of fear and pain,
Were past, and now through shade and shine,
She wandered free again.

Free, like the breezes of the hill,
Free, like the waters wild;
And in her fullness of delight,
Unceasingly from height to height
Went on the blessed child.

And ever when she needed food,
Some wanderer of the hill
Drew forth the morsel from his scrip,
And bade her eat her fill.

For He who fed by Cherith-brook
The prophet in his need,
Of this his wandering little one
Unceasingly had heed.

And ever when she needed rest,
Some little cove she found,
So green, so sheltered, and so still,
Upon the bosom of the hill,
As angels girt it round.

Thus hidden ’mong the quiet hills
Alone, yet wanting nought,
She dwelt secure, until her foes
For her no longer sought.

Then forth she journeyed. Soon the hills
Were of more smooth descent;
And downward now, and onward still,
Toward the sea she went.

Toward the great sea for many days;
And now she heard its roar;
Had sunlit glimpses of it now,
And now she trod the shore.

A rugged shore of broken cliffs,
And barren wave-washed sand,
Where only the dry sea-wheat grew
By patches on the strand.

A weary way walked Marien
Beside the booming sea,
Nor boat, nor hut, nor fisherman
Throughout the day saw she.

A weary, solitary way;
And as the day declined
Over the dark and troubled sea
Arose a stormy wind.

The heavy waves came roaring in
With the strong coming tide;
The rain poured down, and deep dark night
Closed in on every side.

There stood the homeless Marien
With bare, unsandaled feet;
And on her form, with pitiless force,
The raging tempest beat.

Clasping her hands, she stood forlorn,

“In tempest, and in night:”

She cried, “Oh Lord, I trust in thee,

And thou wilt lead me right!”

Now underneath a shelving bank
Of sea-driving sand, there stood
A miserable hut, the home
Of a poor fisher good,

Whose loving wife but yesternight
Died in his arms, and he,
Since that day’s noon, alone had been
Casting his nets at sea.

At noon he kissed his little ones,
And would be back, he said,
Long ere night closed; but with the night
Arose that tempest dread.

It was an old and crazy boat,
Wherein the man was set,
And soon ’twas laden heavily
With many a laden net.

“Oh sorrow, sorrow!” groaned he forth,
As rose the sudden squall,
Thinking upon the mother dead,
And on his children small.

“Oh sorrow, sorrow!” loud he cried,
As the helm flew from his hand,
And he knew that the boat was sinking
But half a league from land.

“Oh sorrow, sorrow!” as he sank
Was still his wailing cry;
And Marien heard amid the storm,
That voice of misery.

Now all this while the children small
Kept in their dreary place,
Troubled and sad, and half afear’d
Of their dead mother’s face.

And when, to while the time, they played
With shells beside the door,
They found they had not hearts for mirth,
And so they played no more.

Yet keeping up with forced content
Their hearts as best they might,
Still wishing afternoon were gone,
And it was only night.

But when, hour after hour went on,
And the night tempest black
Raged o’er the stormy sea, and still
The father came not back;

It would have touched a heart of stone
To see their looks of fear—
So young and so forlorn;—their words
Of counsel small to hear.

And now they shouted through the storm;
And then with bitter wit,
As they had seen their mother do,
A fire of wood they lit,
That he might see the light afar
And steer his boat by it.

Unto this light came Marien;
And ere her weary feet
Had reached the floor, the children ran
With eager arms to meet
Their loving father, as they thought,
And give him welcome sweet.

Alas! the father even then
Had run his mortal race;
But God had sent his Comforter
To fill his earthly place.

PART IX.

Woe’s me, what secret tears are shed,
What wounded spirits bleed;
What loving hearts are sundered,
And yet man takes no heed!

He goeth on his daily course,
Made fat with oil and wine,
And pitieth not the weary souls
That in his bondage pine;
That turn for him the mazy wheel;
That delve for him the mine.

And pitieth not the children small,
In noisy factories dim,
That all day long, lean, pale, and faint,
Do heavy tasks for him!

To him they are but as the stones

Beneath his feet that lie:

It entereth not his thoughts that they

From him claim sympathy.

It entereth not his thoughts that God
Heareth the sufferer’s groan,
That in his righteous eye, their life
Is precious as his own.

This moves him not. But let us now
Unto the fisher’s shed,
Where sat his weeping little ones
Three days beside the dead.

It was a solitary waste
Of barren sand, which bore
No sign of human dwelling-place
For miles along the shore.

Yet to the scattered dwellers there
Sped Marien, and besought
That of the living and the dead
They would take Christian thought.

So in the churchyard by the sea,

The senseless dead was laid:

“And now what will become of us!”

The weeping children said.

“For who will give us bread to eat?

The neighbors are so poor!

And he, our kinsman in the town,

Would drive us from his door.

“For he is rich and pitiless,

With heart as cold as stone!

Who will be parents to us now

That ours are dead and gone?”

“Weep not,” said faithful Marien,
“Man’s heart is not so hard,
But it your friendless misery
Will tenderly regard!

“And I with you will still abide,
Your friendless souls to cheer,
Be father and mother both to you;
For this God sent me here.

“And to your kinsman in the town,
Who hath such store of gold,
I will convey you: God can change
His spirit stern and cold.

“And ye, like angels of sweet love,

From earth his soul may win.

Fear not; and we with morning light

The journey will begin.”

They took their little worldly store;
And at the break of day,
Leaving the lonesome sea-side shed,
Set out upon their way.

’Mong sandy hills their way they wound;
O’er sea-grass dusk and harsh;
By many a land-mark lone and still;
Through many a salt-sea marsh.

And thus for twice seven days they went
A little roving band,
Walking along their weary way;
Like angels, hand in hand.

And everywhere kind Christian folks
They found, as Marien said,
Who gave them lodging for the night,
And gave them daily bread.

And thus they pilgrimed, day by day,
Alone yet not cast down,
Strengthened by Marien’s company,
Unto the sea-port town.

A busy town beside the sea,
Where men were all a stir,
Buying and selling; eager-eyed,
Two different races, yet allied,—
Merchant and mariner.

A place of ships, whose name was known
Far oft, beyond the main;
A busy place of trade, where nought
Was in repute but gain.

Thither they came, those children poor,
About the eventide,
And where dwelt he, their kinsman rich,
They asked on every side.

After long asking, one they found,
An old man and a poor,
Who undertook to lead them straight
Unto the kinsman’s door.

But ever as he went along
He to himself did say,
Low broken sentences, as thus,
“Their kinsman!—well-a-way!”

All through a lybrinth of walls
Blackened with cloudy smoke,
He led them, where was heard the forge
And the strong hammer’s stroke.

And beneath lofty windows dim
In many a doleful row,
Whence came the jangle of quicklooms,
Down to the courts below.

Still on the children, terrified,
With wildered spirits passed;
Until of these great mammon halls,
They reached the heart at last,—
A little chamber hot and dim,
With iron bars made fast.

There sate the kinsman, shrunk and lean,
And leaden-eyed and old,
Busied before a lighted lamp
In sealing bags of gold.

The moment that they entered in,
He clutched with pallid fear
His heavy bags, as if he thought
That sudden thieves were near.

“Rich man!” said Marien, “ope thy bags
And of thy gold be free,
Make gladsome cheer, for Heaven hath sent
A blessing unto thee!”
“What!” said the miser, “is there news
Of my lost argosy?”

“Better than gold, or merchant-ships,
Is that which thou shalt win,”
Said Marien, “thine immortal soul
From its black load of sin.”

“Look at these children, thine own blood,”
And then their name she told;
“Open thine heart to do them good,
To love them more than gold;—
And what thou givest will come back
To thee, a thousand-fold!”

“Ah,” said the miser, “even these
Some gainful work may do,
My looms stand still; of youthful hands
I have not half enow;
I shall have profit in their toil;
Yes, child, thy words are true!”

“Thou fool!” said Marien, “still for gain,

To cast thy soul away!

The Lord be judge ’twixt these and thee

Upon his reckoning day!

“These little ones are fatherless,—
He sees them day and night;
And as thou doest unto them,
On thee he will requite!”

“Gave I not alms upon a time?”

Said he, with anger thrilled;

“And when I die, give I not gold,

A stately church to build?

“What wouldst thou more? my flesh and blood
I seek not to gainsay,
But what I give, is it unmeet
Their labour should repay!”

So saying, in an iron chest,
He locked his bags of gold,
And bade the children follow him,
In accents harsh and cold.

PART X.

“Oh leave us not sweet Marien!”

The little children spake;

“For if thou leave us here, alone,

Our wretched hearts will break.”

She left them not—kind Marien!

And in a noisome room,

Day after day, week after week,

They laboured at the loom.

The while they thought with longing souls
Upon the breezy strand,
The flying shuttles, to and fro,
Passed through each little hand.

The while they thought with aching hearts,
Upon their parents dear,
The growing web was watered,
With many a bitter tear.

And the sweet memory of the past,—
The white sands stretching wide;
Their father’s boat wherein they played,
Upon the rocking tide;

The sandy shells; the sew-mew’s scream;
The ocean’s ceaseless boom;
Came to them like a troubling dream,
Within the noisy loom.

Wo-worth those children, hard bested,
A weary life they knew;
Their hands were thin’ their cheeks pale,
That were of rosy hue.

The miser kinsman in and out
Passed ever and anon;
Nor ever did he speak a word,
Except to urge them on.

Wo-worth those children, hard bested
They worked the livelong day;
Nor was there one, save Marien,
A soothing word to say:—
So, amid toil and pain of heart,
The long months wore away.

The long, the weary months passed on,
And the hard kinsman, told
Over his profits; every loom
Increased the hoard of gold;
“Tis well!” said he, “let more be spun
That more may yet be sold!”

So passed the time; and with the toil
Of children weak and poor,
The sordid kinsman’s treasure-hoards
Increased more and more.

But ere a year was come and gone,
The spirit of the boy
Was changed; with natures fierce and rude
He found his chiefest joy.

The hardness of the kinsman’s soul
Wrought on him like a spell,
Exciting in his outraged heart,
Revenge and hatred fell;
The will impatient to control;
The spirit to rebel.

Hence was there warfare ’twixt the two,
The weak against the strong;—
A hopeless, miserable strife
That could not last for long;
How can the young, the poor, contend
Against the rich man’s wrong!

The tender trouble of his eye,
Was gone; his brow was cold;
His speech, like that of desperate men,
Was reckless, fierce, and bold.

No more he kissed his sister’s cheek;
Nor soothed her as she wept;
No more he said at Marien’s knee
His prayers before he slept.

But they, the solitary pair,
Like pitying angels poured
Tears for the sinner; and with groans
His evil life deplored.

Man knew not of that secret grief,
Which in their bosoms lay;
And for their sinful brother’s sin,
Yet harder doom had they.

But God, who trieth hearts; who knows
The springs of human will;
Who is a juster judge than man,
Of mortal good and ill;

He saw those poor despised ones,

And willed them still to mourn:

He saw the wandering prodigal,

Yet bade him not return.

In his good time that weak one’s woe,
Would do its work of grace;
And the poor prodigal, himself,
Would seek the father’s face;—
Meantime man’s judgment censured them,
As abject, mean, and base.

The erring brother was away,
And none could tell his fate;
And the young sister at the loom
Sate drooping, desolate.

She mourned not for her parents dead,

Nor for the breezy shore:

And now the weary, jangling loom

Distracted her no more.

Like one that worketh in a dream,
So worked she day by day,
Intent upon the loving grief,
Which on her spirit lay;
And as she worked and as she grieved
Her young life wore away.

And they who saw her come and go,
Oft said, with pitying tongue,
“Alas, that labour is the doom
Of aught so weak and young!”

Alone the kinsman pitied not;
He chid her, that no more
The frame was strong, the hand was swift,
As it had been before.

—All for the child was dark on earth,
When holy angels bright
Unbarred the golden gates of heaven
For her one winter’s night.

Within a chamber poor and low,
Upon a pallet bed,
She lay, and “hold my hand, sweet friend,”
With feeble voice she said.

“Oh hold my hand, sweet Marien,”
The dying child spake low;
“And let me hear thy blessed voice,
To cheer me as I go!

“’Tis darksome all—Oh, drearly dark!

When will this gloom pass by?

Is there no comfort for the poor,

And for the young who die!”

Down by her side knelt Marien,
And kissed her fading cheek,
Then of the loving Saviour,
In low tones ’gan to speak.

She told of Lazarus, how he lay,
A beggar mean and poor,
And died, in misery and want,
Beside the rich man’s door.

Yet how the blessed angels came,
To bear his soul on high,
Within the glorious courts of heaven;
On Abraham’s breast to lie.

She told how children, when they die,

Yet higher glory win.

And see the Father face to face,

Unsoiled by tainting sin.

“Blessed be God!” the child began,
“I doubt not, neither fear,
All round about the bed, behold,
The angel-bands appear!

“I go!—yet still, dear Marien,
One last boon let me win!—
Seek out the poor lost prodigal,
And bring him back from sin!

“I go! I go!” and angels bright,
The spirit bare away:—
On earth ’twas darksome, dreary night,
In heaven ’twas endless day!

—And now, upon that selfsame night,
Within a carved bed,
Lay the rich kinsman wrapt in lawn,
With pillows ’neath his head.

Scheming deep schemes of gold, he lay
All in that lordly room;
Blessing himself that he had stores
For many years to come.

Just then an awful form spake low,

A form that none might see:

“Thou fool, this very night, thy soul

Shall be required of thee!”

And when into that chamber fair
Stole in the morning-ray,
A lifeless corpse, upon his bed,
The miser kinsman lay.

—Beside his door stood solemn mutes;
And chambers high and dim,
Where hung was pall, and mourning lights
Made show of grief for him.

Full fifty muffled mourners stood,
Around the scutcheoned bed,
That held the corse, as if, indeed,
A righteous man were dead.

Within a tomb, which he had built,
Of costly marble-stone,
They buried him, and plates of brass
His name and wealth made known.

A coffin of the meanest wood,
The little child received;
And o’er her humble, nameless grave,
No hooded mourner grieved.

Only kind Marien wept such tears,
As the dear Saviour shed,
When in the house of Bethany
He mourned for Lazarus dead.

PART XI.

Now from the miser kinsman’s house
Came many a jovial sound;
And lavish heirs had spent his gold,
Ere twelve months had gone round.

That while within the busy town
Dwelt Marien; and each day,
In some good deed of Christian love
And mercy, passed away.

For many an abject dweller there,
Grief-bowed and labour-spent,
Groaned forth, amid his little ones,
To heaven his sad lament;
And unto such, to raise, to cheer,
The sent of God, she went.

But she who, even as they, was poor,
Failed not of daily bread;
A stranger, many took her in,
And warmed, and clothed, and fed.

And when a sickness sore befel,
And nigh to death she lay,
Kind hearts there were who came to her,
And watched her night and day.

And afterwards, when evil men
Doomed her in bonds to lie,
Many a true, noble friend arose,
Willing for her to die.

Oh, blessed Christian hearts, who thus
Unto this little one
Did deeds of love; for as to Christ
These righteous works were done!
And they who blessed her, for themselves
A tenfold blessing won!

Thus dwelt sweet Marien in the town

For many a passing year;

Yet of the poor, lost prodigal.

No tidings could she hear.

She found him not; but yet she found
Others who, even as he,
Had gone astray and pined forlorn
In hopeless misery.

To these repentant, outcast ones,
She spake kind words of grace,
And led them back, with yearning hearts
To seek the father’s face;
To find forgiveness in His heart,
And love in His embrace.

Oh blessed, blessed Marien!

—But let us now recall

Whate’er had happed of change and woe

Unto the prodigal.

He saw his little sister pine;
He saw her silent woe;
He saw her strength decline, yet still
Her weary labour grow.

As this he saw, yet more and more
He hated that hard man,
With whom their cheerless misery,
Their daily tasks began.

And even to true Marien,
He bare an altered mind;—
Alas, that injuries should make
Else loving hearts unkind!

But so it is! and when the twain
To cheer his spirit strove,
His wrath arose, and he repelled
Their patient deeds of love.

Then evil men assailed his youth;
And he who was so frail
In suffering, ’gainst the tempter’s might
Was feeble to prevail.

He was their easy prey; their tool;
And bravely clothed and fed,
In desperate scenes, ’mid desperate men,
A lawless life he led.

Yet often to his soul came back
Sweet memory of the time,
When he, a happy, thoughtless child,
Had knowledge of no crime.

And like a heavier, wearier woe,
Than labour night and day,
The consciousness of evil deeds
Upon his spirit lay.

He thought of slighted Marien,
And of the sister meek;
Of the thin hands that plied the loom,
And of the fading cheek;
Yet how he had deserted them,
The faithful and the weak!

He heard his loving parent’s voice
Reproach him in his sleep;
And conscience, that stern bosom-guest,
Ceaseless upbraidings keep.

Yet, for the hated kinsman’s sake,
Neither would he regard;
And, because man was hard to him,
Made his own nature hard.

Thus doing outrage to his soul,
By chance he went one day
Through the brown trodden churchyard, where
The little sister lay.

A sexton there at work he found;
And why he turned the mould
So carefully, he asked, since there
No name the tenant told.

Replied he, “in this wide church-yard
I know each separate mound;
Yet unto me that little grave
Alone seems holy ground.”

And then he told of Marien,
And how she there had wept
Over the child, that ’neath the mould,
In dreamless quiet slept.

“A little, friendless pauper child,
She lieth here,” said he;
“Yet not a grave in all the ground
Like this affecteth me!”

Saying this, he wiped a tear aside,
And turned from the place;
And, in the skirts of his rich robe,
The brother hid his face.

—He left the town; and in a ship,
Bound for a far-off strand,
He took his voyage; but distress
Pursued her from the land.

At first disease was ’mong her men;
And suffering long and sore,
In midst of joyless, suffering mates,
Forlorn and sad he bore.

Next mutiny brake forth; and then
That miserable ship,
As if there were no port for her,
Without a wind the sails to stir,
Lay moveless on the deep.

As Jonah, fleeing from the Lord,
The soul-struck penitent
Lay self-condemned, believing all
On his account were sent.

Anon a tempest rose, and drove
The ship before the gale,
For three long days; and bore away
Her rudder, mast, and sail.

On the fourth night dark land appeared,
And the strained vessel bore
Right on the rocky reef, and lay
A wreck upon the shore.

At day-break only he remained
To note the vessel’s fate:—
The Crusoe of a desert isle,
Abject and desolate.

—The world went on as it was wont
And in the city street,
And in the busy market-place,
Did thronging thousands meet.

Upon the hearths of poor men’s homes
Good neighbors met at night;
And kindness and companionship
Made woe and labour light.

The loneliest hut among the hills
To human hearts was known;
And even in kingly palaces
Men might not dwell alone.

The world went on as it was wont;
And no man knew the while
Of that poor lonely prodigal,
Upon his lonely isle.

He clomb the cliffs to look afar
Over the distant sea;
If, please God, for his rescuing
A coming sail might be.

He lit his beacon fires at night;
He hoisted signals high;—
But the world went on as it was wont,
And not a ship sailed by.

He was not missed among his kind,—
Man had forgot his name;
But unto Him who cares for all,
Who sees the little sparrow fall,
His lonely misery came.

God saw him; saw his broken heart,
His cheerless solitude,
Saw how his human pride was gone,
His human will subdued.

Saw him and loved him. Broken heart,
Look up! the Father’s voice
Calleth thee from thy depths of woe,
And biddeth thee rejoice!

—Now Marien from the trading town
Had voyaged; sent of Heaven
She knew not whither; and the ship,
Which with long storm had striven,
At length upon a glorious isle
Amid the seas was driven;

Where dwelt a gentle race at rest
Amid their flowery wilds,
Unknown to all the world, with hearts
As simple as a child’s.

With them abode sweet Marien:
But now it chanced one day,
As in a slender carved boat
Upon the shore she lay,
A strong wind came, and filled the sail,
And bare her thence away.

She had no fear, true Marien;—
That God was good, she knew,
And even then had sent her forth
Some work of love to do.

The prodigal upon his rock
Was kneeling, and his prayer
For confidence in heaven, arose
Upon the evening air,
Just as the little boat approached
The island bleak and bare.

The boat ran up a creek, as if,
’Twere steered by angels good;
And ere the evening prayer was done
Beside the youth she stood.

The chiefest joy it hath not words
Its deep excess to say;
And as if he had seen a sprite,
His spirit died away.

Then with clasped hands, and broken speech,
And tears that ceaseless flowed;
He poured forth from his full heart
A fervent praise of God.

PART XII.

“But let us hence,” said Marien;
And with the earliest morn,
Within the slender carved boat,
They left the isle forlorn.

A light breeze from the desert shore
Over the waters blew,
And the little boat sailed on before,
Till the isle was out of view.

As friends long parted, met once more,
They sat; and of times gone,
And of the blessed dead conversed,
As the slender boat sailed on.

And as they sailed, sweet Marien
Over the Gospel bent,
And read of joy that is in heaven
O’er sinners that repent;

And of the weary prodigal
Returning bowed with shame,
And the good father hastening forth
To meet him as he came;

And how he bade the fairest robe
Be brought; the golden ring;
Shoes for the feet; and music sweet,
As if to hail a king.

“For this, my son,” said he, “was dead,
And is alive; is found,
Who was long lost: ’tis meet, therefore,
That stintless joy abound!”

“Oh, child of woe,” said Marien,
“Look up, for thou art he;
And round about the father’s throne
Many rejoice for thee!”

“Oh Lord, I bless thee,” said the youth,
“That of thy mercy great,
Thou hast vouchsafed to rescue me
From my forlorn estate!
And henceforth, to thy work of love
Myself I dedicate!

“The meanest of thy creatures, low
I bend before thy throne,
And offer my poor self to make
Thy loving-kindness known!

“Oh father, give me words of power,
The stony hearts to move;
Give me prevailing eloquence,
To publish forth thy love!

“Thy love which wearieth not; which like
Thy sun, on all doth shine!
Oh Father, let me worship Thee
Through life, by gladly serving Thee!
I love not life; I ask not wealth;
My heart and soul, my youth and health,
My life, oh Lord, are thine!”

So spake the youth; but now the boat
The glorious island neared,
Which, like a cloudland realm of bliss,
Above the sea appeared.

Skyward rose sunny peaks, pale-hued
As if of opal glow;
And crested palms, broad-leaved and tall,
In valleys grew below.

A lovely land of flowers, as fair
As Paradise, ere sin
And sorrow, that corrupting pair,
With death had entered in.

A lovely land!—“And even now,”
Cried Marien, “see they come,
Children of love, my brother, now
To bid thee welcome home!

“For these, God kept thee in the wild,

From sinful men apart!

For these, his people, through distress

Made pure thy trusting heart!

“Thy work is here! Go forth, ’mid these
Meek children of the sun,
Oh servant of the Lord, and tell
What He for thee hath done!”

Down to the shore the thousands came,
A joyous, peaceful host,
To welcome Marien back, whom they
Had sorrowed for as lost.

“And welcome to thee, little child!”

They sang forth sweet and clear;

“And welcome to the stranger poor,

Who cometh with thee here!”

And then they brought him silken cloth,
Since he was meanly dressed;
And juicy, mellow fruits to eat,
And perfumed waters for his feet,
And mats whereon to rest.

And ever as they served him,
They sang forth sweet and low,
“Would this repose might solace thee,
These apples cure thy woe!”

And though the twain knew not their speech
Yet well they understood
The looks of love that welcomed them,
Their actions kind and good.

With them for many a year abode
The youth, and learned their tongue;
And with the sound of Christian praise
The hills and valleys rung.

Oh beautiful beyond all lands
That lay beneath the moon,
Was that fair isle of Christian love
Of Christian virtues boon.

A joyful people there they dwelt,
Unsuffering from their birth;
Of simplest life; benignly wise;
As angels on the earth.

And with them dwelt the holy youth,
Their chief, their priest, their friend,
Beloved and loving, for their sakes
Willing himself to spend.

Like to some ancient church of Christ,
From worldly taint kept free,
Lay this delicious isle of love
Amid its summer sea.

But now the work he had to do
Was done; and ere his day
Approached its noon, his strength, his life,
Was wearing fast away.

They saw his cheek grow thin and pale;
His loving eye grow dim;
And with surpassing tenderness
They sorrowed over him.

Old men, and youths, and women meek,
And children wild and young,
Followed his steps with watchful care,
And weeping round him hung.

In flowery thickets of the hills
Sad mourners knelt in prayer,
That God this servant so revered,
This friend beloved would spare.

And round about his feet they sat,
Observant, meek, and still,
To gather up his latest words,
To do his slightest will.

Now all this while good Marien
Had wandered far and wide,
Through divers realms, for many a year,
The hand of Heaven her guide.

And now unto the glorious isle
She came; but on the shore
She saw no wandering company,
As she had seen before.

’Twas Sabbath eve, and o’er the isle
A solemn stillness lay;
A stillness, how unlike the calm
Of many a Sabbath day;

A hush, as of suspended breath,
Ere some great grief began;
For the mournful people silently
Stood round the dying man.

Through the still vales went Marien,
And came at length to where,
’Mid flowering trees, knelt many a one
In agony of prayer.

Onward she went, not many steps,
With heart of mournful ruth,
When, like a dying angel laid,
She saw the holy youth.

With closed eyes and pallid lips
He lay, as one whose life
Meeteth with death, yet waiteth still
The last conflicting strife.

Beside him knelt she on the turf,
And spoke in accents low
Words of strong love, which like new life
Seemed through the frame to go.

He raised himself, and blessing God,
That He of him had care,
And now in his dark trial-hour,
Had sent his angel there;

With low-toned voice, more musical
Than softest lute could make,
Looking upon his weeping friends
With fervent love, he spake.

“Oh friends, beloved friends! weep not,
Nor be oppressed with woe;
’Tis of His will, who doeth right,
That I am called to go!

“Fain would I tarry, but the cry
Hath sounded in mine ear,
‘Haste to depart, the Lord hath need
Of thee no longer here!’

“Even like the Master whom I serve,
I pray ye not to grieve;
But as ye have believed in me,
Also in Him believe!

“I go, but leave you not forlorn,
As sheep without a guide;—
For Christ the unfailing Comforter
Shall still with you abide!

“Oh weep not, friends; a better home
Awaits me, and I go,
But to that home which is prepared
For ye who love me so!
Farewell, farewell! Unto my God,
And unto yours, I go!”

The Sabbath sun went down amid
A golden, cloudless sky;
And the freed spirit, cleansed from sin,
Arose to God on high.

Beneath the trees where he had died,
They buried him, and there
Enwove the flowery boughs to form
A quiet house of prayer.

Long time with them dwelt Marien,
Until she was sent forth,
At the Lord’s bidding to perform
New service on the earth.

Good speed to thee, thou blessed child,
May angels guide thy bark,
’Mid slumbrous calm, ’mid tempests wild,
And o’er the waters dark!

Good speed to thee, thou blessed child—
The angel of the poor—
And win from sorrow and from sin
The world from shore to shore!

OLD CHRISTMAS.

Now he who knows old Christmas,
He knows a carle of worth;
For he is as good a fellow,
As any upon the earth.

He comes warm cloaked and coated,
And buttoned up to the chin,
And soon as he comes a-nigh the door,
We open and let him in.

We know that he will not fail us,
So we sweep the hearth up clean;
We set him the old armed chair,
And a cushion whereon to lean.

And with sprigs of holly and ivy
We make the house look gay,
Just out of an old regard to him,—
For it was his ancient way.

We broach the strong ale barrel,
And bring out wine and meat;
And thus have all things ready,
Our dear old friend to greet.

And soon as the time wears round,
The good old carle we see,
Coming a-near;—for a creditor
Less punctual is than he!

He comes with a cordial voice
That does one good to hear;
He shakes one heartily by the hand,
As he hath done many a year.

And after the little children
He asks in a cheerful tone,
Jack, Kate, and little Annie,—
He remembers them every one!

What a fine old fellow he is,
With his faculties all as clear,
And his heart as warm and light
As a man’s in his fortieth year!

What a fine old fellow, in troth!

Not one of your griping elves,

Who, with plenty of money to spare,

Think only about themselves!

Not he! for he loveth the children;
And holiday begs for all;
And comes with his pockets full of gifts,
For the great ones and the small!

With a present for every servant;—
For in giving he doth not tire;—
From the red-faced, jovial butler,
To the girl by the kitchen-fire.

And he tells us witty old stories,
And singeth with might and main;
And we talk of the old man’s visit
Till the day that he comes again!

Oh he is a kind old fellow,
For though that beef be dear,
He giveth the parish paupers
A good dinner once a year!

And all the workhouse children
He sets them down in a row,
And giveth them rare plum-pudding,
And two-pence a piece also.

Oh, could you have seen those paupers,
Have heard those children young,
You would wish with them that Christmas
Came oft and tarried long!

He must be a rich old fellow,—

What money he gives away!

There is not a lord in England

Could equal him any day!

Good luck unto old Christmas,
And long life, let us sing,
For he doth more good unto the poor
Than many a crowned king!

THE TWELFTH HOUR.

My friends, the spirit is at peace;
Oh do not trouble me with tears;
Petition rather my release,
Nor covet for me length of years,
Which are but weariness and woe;
Resign me friends, before I go!

I know how strong are human ties;
I know how strong is human fear!
But visions open to mine eyes,
And words of power are in mine ear;
My friends, my friends, can ye not see,
Nor hear what voices speak to me?

“Thou human soul,” they seem to say,
“We are commissioned from above,
Through the dark portal to convey
Thee to the paradise of love;

Thou needest not shrink, thou need’st not fear;

We, thy sure help, are gathered near!

“Thy weakness on our strength confide;
Thy doubt upon our steadfast trust;
And rise up, pure and glorified,
From thine infirm and sinful dust,
Rise up, rise up! the eternal day
Begins to dawn—why wilt thou stay?

“Look forth—the day begins to dawn;
The future openeth to thy view;
The veil of mystery is undrawn;
The old things are becoming new;
The night of time is passing by:
Poor trembler, do not fear to die!

“Come, come! the gates of pearl unfold:

The eternal glory shines on thee;

Body, relax thy lingering hold,

And set the struggling spirit free!”

’Tis done, ’tis done!—before my sight

Opens the awful infinite:

I see, I hear, I live anew!

Oh friends, dear friends,—adieu, adieu!

THE BLIND BOY AND HIS SISTER.

“Oh brother,” said fair Annie,
To the blind boy at her side:
“Would thou could’st see the sunshine lie
On hill and valley, and the sky
Hung like a glorious canopy
O’er all things far and wide!

“Would thou could’st see the waters
In many a distant glen;
The mountain flocks that gaze around;
Nay, even this patch of stony ground,
These crags, with silver lichen crowned,
I would that thou could’st ken!

“Would thou could’st see my face, brother,
As well as I see thine;
For always what I cannot see
It is but half a joy to me.
Brother, I often weep for thee,
Yet thou dost ne’er repine!”

“And why should I repine, Annie?”

Said the blind boy with a smile;

“I ken the blue sky and the grey;

The sunny and the misty day:

The moorland valley stretched away

For many and many a mile!

“I ken the night and day, Annie,
For all ye may believe;
And often in my spirit lies
A clear light as of mid-day skies;
And splendours on my vision rise,
Like gorgeous hues of eve.

“I sit upon the stone, Annie,
Beside our cottage door,
And people say, ‘that boy is blind,’
And pity me, although I find
A world of beauty in my mind,
A never-ceasing store.

“I hear you talk of mountains,
The beautiful, the grand;
Of splintered peaks so grey and tall;
Of lake, and glen, and waterfall;
Of flowers and trees;—I ken them all;—
Their difference understand.

“The harebell and the gowan
Are not alike to me,
Are different as the herd and flock,
The blasted pine-tree of the rock,
The waving birch, the broad, green oak,
The river and the sea.

“And oh, the heavenly music,
That as I sit alone,
Comes to mine inward sense as clear
As if the angel voices were
Singing to harp and dulcimer
Before the mighty throne!

“It is not as of outward sound,
Of breeze, or singing bird;
But wondrous melody refined;
A gift of God unto the blind;
An inward harmony of mind,
By inward senses heard!

“And all the old-world stories
That neighbours tell o’ nights;
Of fairies on the fairy mound,
Of brownies dwelling under ground,
Of elves careering round and round,
Of fays and water-sprites;

“All this to me is pleasantness,—
Is all a merry show;
I see the antic people play,—
Brownie and kelpie, elf and fay,
In a sweet country far away,
Yet where I seem to go.

“But better far than this, Annie,
Is when thou read’st to me
Of the dear Saviour meek and kind,
And how he healed the lame and blind.
Am I not healed!—for in my mind
His blessed form I see?

“Oh, love is not of sight, Annie,
Is not of outward things;
For, in my inmost soul I know,
His pity for all mortal woe;
His words of love, spoke long ago,
Unseal its deepest springs!

“Then do not mourn for me, Annie,
Because that I am blind;—
The beauty of all outward sight;
The wondrous shows of day and night;
All love, all faith, and all delight,
Are strong in heart and mind!”

THE POOR CHILD’S HYMN.

We are poor and lowly born;
With the poor we bide;
Labour is our heritage,
Care and want beside.
What of this? our blessed Lord
Was of lowly birth,
And poor, toiling fishermen
Were his friends on earth!

We are ignorant and young;
Simple children all;
Gifted with but humble powers,
And of learning small.
What of this? our blessed Lord
Loved such as we;—
How he blessed the little ones
Sitting on his knee!

THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE.
AN OLD SEAMAN’S STORY.

PART I.

I’ll tell ye, if ye hearken now,
A thing that chanced to me—
It must be fifty years agone—
Upon the southern sea.

First-mate was I of the Nancy,
A tight ship and a sound;
We had made a prosperous voyage,
And then were homeward bound.

We were sailing on the Tropic seas,
Before the trade-wind’s power;
Day after day, without delay,
Full thirteen knots an hour.

The sea was as a glassy lake,
By a steady gale impressed;
There was nought for any man to do
But just what liked him best.

And yet the calm was wearisome;
The dull days idly sped;
And sometimes on a flute I played,
Or else a book I read.

And dallying thus one afternoon,
I stood upon the deck;
When far off, to the leeward,
I saw a faintish speck.

Whether ’twas rock, or fish, or cloud,
At first I did not know;
So I called unto a seaman,
That he might look also.

And as it neared, I saw for sure
That it must be a boat;
But my fellow swore it was not so,
But a large bamboo afloat.

We called a third unto us then,
That he the sight might see;
Then came a fourth, a fifth, a sixth;
But no two could agree.

“Nay, ’tis a little boat,” I said,

“And it roweth with an oar!”

But none of them could see it so,

All differing as before.

“It cometh on; I see it plain;
It is a boat!” I cried,
“A little boat o’erlaid with pearl,
And a little child to guide!”

And sure enough, a boat it was,
And worked with an oar;
But such a boat as ’twas, no man
Had ever seen before.

Within in it sate a little child,
The fairest e’er was seen;
His robes were like the amethyst,
His mantle of sea-green.

No covering wore he on his head,
And the hair that on it grew
Showered down in thick and wavy locks
Of the sunniest golden hue.

The rudest man on board our ship
Blest God that sight to see;
For me I could do nought but weep,
Such power had it on me.

There sat he in his pretty boat,
Like an angel from the sky,
Regarding us in our great ship,
With wonder in his eye.

The little oar slid from his hand;
His sweet lips were apart;
Within my soul I felt his joy;
His wonder in my heart.

And as we tokened him to come,
His little boat he neared,
And smiled at all our friendly words,
Nor seemed the least afeared.

“Come hither a-board!” the captain said!

And without fear of ill,

He sprang into the lordly ship,

With frank and free good will.

He was no son of the merman;
No syren full of guile;
But a creature like the cherubim,
From some unknown-of isle.

And strange to tell, his pleasant speech
Was English, every word;
And yet such English, sweet and pure,
As his I never heard.

There were three, he said, who dwelt with him
Within a tamarind-grove;
His parents and his sister young,—
A family of love.

His father, he said, had made his boat
From out a large sea-shell;
“And what a wondrous tale,” said he,
“I shall this evening tell!”

His robes, he said, his mother had wove

From roots of an Indian-tree;

And he laughed at the clothes the seamen wore,

With the merriest mockery.

When the little child had stayed with us,
May-be an hour or so,
He smiled farewell to all on board,
And said that he would go.

“For I must be back again,” said he,
“For me they all will wait;
I must be back again,” quoth he,
“Or ever the day be late!”

“He shall not go!” the captain said;

“Haul up his boat and oar!

The pretty boy shall sail with us

To the famous English shore!

“Thou shalt with me, my pretty boy;
I’ll find thee a new mother;—
I’ve children three at home, and thou
To them shalt be a brother!”

“Nay, nay, I shall go back!” he said;
“For thee I do not know;—
I must be back again,” he cried,
“Before the sun be low!”
Then sprang unto the vessel’s side,
And made as he would go.

The captain was a strong, stern man;
None liked him overwell;
And to a seaman standing near,
Said he, with voice and look austere,
“Haul up yon cockle-shell!
And you, my boy, content you,
In this good ship to dwell!”

As one who gladly would believe
Some awful threat a joke,
So heard the child, with half a smile,
The words the captain spoke.

But when he saw them seize his boat,
And put his oar away,
The smile was gone, and o’er his face
Quick passed a pale dismay.

And then a passion seized his frame,
As if he were possessed;
He stamped his little feet in rage,
And smote upon his breast,

’Twas a wicked deed as e’er was done—
I longed to set him free;
And the impotence of his great grief
Was a grievous sight to me.

At length, when rage had spent itself
His lofty heart gave way,
And, falling on his pretty knees,
At the captain’s feet he lay.

“Oh take me back again!” he cried,
“Let me not tarry here,
And I’ll give thee sea-apples,
And honey rich and clear;

“And fetch thee heavy pearl-stones
From deep sea-caves below;
And red tree-gold and coral-tree,
If thou wilt let me go!

“Or if I must abide with thee,—
In thy great ship to dwell,
Let me but just go back again,
To bid them all farewell!”

And at the word “farewell” he wept,
As if his heart would break;
The very memory of his tears
Sore sad my heart doth make.

The captain’s self was almost moved
To hear his woful cry;
And there was not within the ship
One man whose eyes were dry.

When the captain saw the seamen’s grief,
An angry man was he,
And shut his heart against the child,
For our great sympathy.

Down from the deck he took him

To his cabin all alone:

We saw him not for many a day,

But only heard his moan.

PART II.

It was a wicked deed, and Heaven
All wickedness doth hate;
And vengeance on the oppressor,
It cometh soon or late,—

As you will see. There something was,
Even from the very night
Whereon the captain stole the child,
On board that was not right.

From out the cabin evermore,
Where they were all alone,
We heard, oh piteous sounds to hear,
A low and quiet moan;
And now and then cries sad enough
To move a heart of stone.

The captain had a conscious look,
Like one who doeth wrong,
And yet who striveth all the time
Against a conscience strong.

The seamen did not work at all
With a good will or a free;
And the ship, as she were sullen too,
Went slowly over the sea,
’Twas then the captain from below
Sent down in haste for me.

I found him lying on his bed,
Oppressed with fever-pain;
And by his death-struck face, I saw
That he would not rise again,—
That he, so lately hale and strong,
Would never rise again.

“I have done wickedly,” said he,
“And Christ doth me condemn;—
I have children three on land,” groaned he,
“And woe will come to them!

“I have been weighed, and wanting found;
I’ve done an evil deed!—
I pray thee, mate, ’tis not too late,
Take back this child with speed!

“I have children three,” again groaned he,
“And I pray that this be done!—
Thou wilt have order of the ship
When I am dead and gone:—
I pray thee do the thing I ask,
That mercy may be won!”

I vowed to do the thing he asked,
Upon the Testament;
And true enough, that very day
To his account he went.

I took the little child away,
And set him on my knee,
In the free fresh air upon the deck,
But he spoke no word to me.

I feared at first that all his grief
Had robbed him of his speech,
And that I ne’er by word or look,
His sunken soul could reach.

At length he woke from that dead woe,
Like one that long hath slept,
And cast his arms about my neck,
And long and freely wept,

I clasped him close unto my breast,
Yet knew not what to say,
To wile him from the misery
That on his spirit lay.

At length I did bethink me
Of Jesus Christ; and spake
To that poor lamb of all the woe
He suffered for our sake.

“For me and thee, dear child,” I said,
“He suffered, and be sure
He will not lay a pang on thee
Without he give the cure!”

Like as the heavy clouds of night
Pass from the coming day,
So cleared the sullen weight of woe
From his dear soul away.

Oh happy hours of converse sweet;—
The Christian’s hope he knew,
And with an eager heart he gained
That knowledge sweet and new.

And ever by my side he kept,
Loving, and meek, and still:
But never more to him returned
His bold and wayward will:—
He had been tried and purified
From every taint of ill.

PART III.

The eve whereon the captain died
I turned the ship about,
And said unto the seamen good,
“We’ll find the island out.”

So back unto the place we came,
Where we the child had found;
And two full days with anxious watch,
We sailed it all around.

And on the third, at break of day,
A far-off peak was seen;
And then the low-lands rose to view,
All woody, rich, and green.

Down on his knees the child he fell,
When the mountains came in view,
And tears ran streaming from his eyes,—
For his own isle he knew.

And, with a wildly-piercing tone,

He cried, “Oh mother dear,

Weep not,—I come, my mother!”

Long, long ere she could hear.

And soon we saw a mountain-top
Whereon a beacon burned;
Then as the good ship neared the land,
An answer was returned.

“Oh give to me my boat!” he cried,

“And give to me mine oar!”

Just then we saw another boat

Pushed from the island-shore.

A carved boat of sandal-wood,
Its sail a silken mat,
All richly wrought in rainbow-dyes,
And three within her sat.

Down from the ship into the sea
The little boy he sprung;
And the mother gave a scream of joy,
With which the island rung.

Like some sea-creature beautiful
He swam the ocean-tide,
And ere we wondered at his skill
He clomb the shallop’s side.

Next moment in his mother’s arms

He lay, O sweet embrace!

Looking from her dear bosom up

Into her loving face.

The happiest and the sweetest sight
That e’er mine eyes will see,
Was the coming back of this poor child
Unto his family!

—Now wot ye of his parentage?

Sometime I’ll tell you it;

Of meaner matter many a time

Has many a book been writ.

’Twould make a pleasant history
Of joy scarce touched by woe,
Of innocence and love; but now
This only must you know.

His mother was of English birth,
Well-born, and young, and fair;
In the wreck of an East-Indiaman
She had been saved there.

His father was the island’s chief,
Goodly as man can be;
Adam, methinks, in Paradise
Was such a one as he.

’Tis not for my weak speech to tell
The joy so sweet and good,
Of these kind, simple islanders,
Nor all their gratitude.

Whate’er the island held they gave;
Delicious fruits and vines,
Rich-tinted shells from out the sea,
And ore from out their mines.

But I might not stay; and that same day
Again we turned about,
And, with the wind that changed then
Went from the harbour out.

—’Tis joy to do an upright deed;
’Tis joy to do a kind;
And the best rewards of virtuous deeds
Is the peace of one’s own mind.

But a blessing great went with the ship,
And with the frieght she bore;
The pearl-shells turned to great account,
So did the island’s ore;—
But I someway lost my reckoning,
Nor found the island more.

And how the child became a man,
Or what to him befel,
As I never trod the island more;
Is not for me to tell.

EASTER HYMNS.

HYMN I.
THE TWO MARYS.

Oh dark day of sorrow,
Amazement and pain;
When the promise was blighted
The given was ta’en!

When the master no longer
A refuge should prove;
And evil was stronger
Than mercy and love!

Oh dark day of sorrow,
Abasement and dread,
When the Master beloved
Was one with the dead!

We sate in our anguish
Afar off to see,
For we surely believed not
This sorrow could be!

But the trust of our spirits
Was all overthrown;
And we wept, in our anguish,
Astonished, alone!

At even they laid him
With aloes and myrrh,
In fine linen wound, in
A new sepulchre.

There, there will we seek him:

Will wash him with care;

Anoint him with spices:

And mourn for him there.

Oh strangest of sorrow!

Oh vision of fear!

New grief is around us—

The Lord is not here!

HYMN II.
THE ANGEL.

Women, why shrink ye
With wonder and dread?—
Seek not the living
Where slumbers the dead!

Weep not, nor tremble;

And be not dismayed;

The Lord hath arisen!

See where he was laid!

The grave-clothes, behold them;
The spices; the bier;
The napkin that bound him;
But he is not here!

Death could not hold him;
The grave is a prison
That keeps not the living;
The Christ has arisen!

HYMN III.
THE LORD JESUS.

Why are ye troubled?

Why weep ye and grieve?

What the prophets have written

Why slowly believe?

’Tis I, be not doubtful!

Why ponder ye so?

Behold in my body

The marks of my woe!

The willing hath suffered;

The chosen been slain;

The end is accomplished!

Behold me again!

Death has been conquered—
The grave has been riven—
For sin a remission
Hath freely been given!

Fearless in spirit,
Yet meek as the dove,
Go preach to the nations
This gospel of love.

For the might of the mighty
Shall o’er you be cast;
And I will be with you,
My friends, to the last.

I go to the Father,
But I will prepare
Your mansions of glory,
And welcome you there.

There life never-ending;
There bliss that endures;
There love never changing,
My friends, shall be yours!

But the hour is accomplished!

My children, we sever—

But be ye not troubled,

I am with you forever!

HYMN IV.
THE ELEVEN.

The Lord is ascending!—

Rich welcomes to give him:

See, angels descending!—

The heavens receive him!

See, angels, archangels
Bend down to adore!—
The Lord hath ascended,
We see him no more!

The Master is taken;
The friend hath departed;
Yet we are not forsaken,
Nor desolate-hearted!

The Master is taken;
The holy, the kind;
But the joy of his presence,
Remaineth behind!

Our hearts burned within us
To hear but the word
Which he spake, ere our spirits
Acknowledged the Lord!

The Lord hath ascended!
Our hope is secure,
We trusted not lightly;—
The promise is sure;

The Lord hath ascended;
And we his true-hearted,
Go forth with rejoicing,
Though he hath departed!

THE TWO ESTATES.

The children of the rich old man no carking care they know,

Like lilies in the sunshine how beautiful they grow!

And well may they be beautiful; in raiment of the best,

In velvet, gold, and ermine, their little forms are drest.

With a hat and jaunty feather set lightly on their head,

And golden hair, like angels’ locks, over their shoulders spread.

And well may they be beautiful; they toil not, neither spin,

Nor dig, nor delve, nor do they ought their daily bread to win.

They eat from gold and silver all luxuries wealth can buy;

They sleep on beds of softest down, in chambers rich and high.

They dwell in lordly houses, with gardens round about,

And servants to attend them if they go in or out.

They have music for the hearing, and pictures for the eye,

And exquisite and costly things each sense to gratify.

No wonder they are beautiful! and if they chanceto die,

Among dead lords and ladies, in the chancel vault they lie.

With marble tablets on the wall inscribed, that all may know,

The children of the rich man are mouldering below.

The children of the poor man, around the humble doors

They throng of city alleys and solitary moors.

In hot and noisy factories they turn the ceaseless wheel,

And eat with feeble appetite their coarse and joyless meal.

They rise up in the morning, ne’er dreaming of delight;

And weary, spent, and heart-sore, they go to bed at night.

They have no brave apparel, with golden clasp and gem;

So their clothes keep out the weather they’re good enough for them.

Their hands are broad and horny; they hunger, and are cold;

They learn what toil and sorrow mean ere they are five years old.

—The poor man’s child must step aside if the rich man’s child go by;

And scarcely aught may minister to his little vanity.

And of what could he be vain?—his most beautiful array

Is what the rich man’s children have worn and cast away.

The finely spun, the many-hued, the new, are not for him,

He must clothe himself, with thankfulness, in garments soiled and dim.

He sees the children of the rich in chariots gay go by,

And “what a heavenly life is their’s,” he sayeth with a sigh.

Then straightway to his work he goeth, for feeble though he be,

His daily toil must still be done to help the family.

Thus live the poor man’s children; and if they chance to die,

In plain, uncostly coffins, ’mong common graves they lie;

Nor monument nor head-stone their humble names declare:—

But thou, O God, wilt not forget the poor man’s children there!

LIFE’S MATINS.

At that sweet hour of even,
When nightingales awake,
Low bending o’er her first-born son,
An anxious mother spake.

“Thou child of prayer and blessing,
Would that my soul could know,
What the unending future holds
For thee of joy or woe.

“Thy life, will it be gladness,
A sunny path of flowers;—
Or strift, with sorrow dark as death,
Through weary, wintry hours?

“Oh child of love and blessing,
Young blossom of life’s tree—
My spirit trembles but to think
What time may make of thee!

“Yet of the unveiled future

Would knowledge might be given!”

Then voices of the unseen ones

Made answer back from heaven.

FIRST VOICE.

“Tears he must shed unnumbered;

And he must strive with care,

As strives in war the armed men:

And human woe must bear.

“Must learn that joy is mockery;
That man doth mask his heart;
Must prove the trusted faithless;
And see the loved depart!

“Must feel himself alone, alone;
Must weep when none can see;
Then lock his grief, like treasure up,
For lack of sympathy.

“Must prove all human knowledge
A burden, a deceit;
And many a flattering friendship find
A dark and hollow cheat.

“Well may’st thou weep, fond mother;—
For what can life bequeath,
But tears and sighs unnumbered,
But watching, change, and death!”

SECOND VOICE.

“Rejoice, rejoice, fond mother,
Thou hast given birth,
To this immortal being,
To this sweet child of earth!

“The pearl within the ocean,
The gold within the mine,
Have not a thousandth part the worth
Of this fair child of thine!

“Oh fond and anxious mother,
Look up with joyful eyes,
For a boundless wealth of love and power
In that young spirit lies!

“Love to enfold all natures
In one benign embrace;
Power to diffuse a blessing wide
O’er all the human race!

“Bless God both night and morning;
Be thine a joyful heart;
For the child of mortal parents hath
With the Eternal part.

“The stars shall dim their brightness;
And as a parched scroll
The earth shall fade, but ne’er shall fade
The undying human soul!

“Oh then rejoice fond mother,
That thou hast given birth
To this immortal being,
To this fair child of earth?”

A LIFE’S SORROW.
AN OLD MAN’S NARRATIVE.

My life hath had its curse; and I will tell
To you its dark and troubled history.
Brethren you are; oh then as brethren dwell,
Linked soul to soul in blessed unity;
Like the rejoicing branches of a tree,
All braving storm, all sharing sunny weather,

All putting on their leaves, and withering all together.

I had a brother. As a spring of joy
Was he unto the gladness of my youth;
And in our guileless confidence, each boy,
Vowed a sweet vow of everlasting truth,
All sympathetic love, all generous ruth;
Alas! that years the noble heart should tame,
And the boy’s virtue put the man to shame!

I was the elder; and as years passed on
Men paid invidious homage to the heir;
And pride, which was the sin of angels, won

Our human hearts; their guilt I will not spare;

If I was proud, the boy began to wear
A lip of scorn, and paid me back my pride,
With arrowy wit that wounded and defied.

Still he was dear to me, and I would gaze
With yearning heart upon him as he went
Past me in silent pride, and inly praised
His godlike form, and the fair lineament
Of his fine countenance, as eloquent
As if it breathed forth music; and his voice
Oh how its tones could soften and rejoice!

Strange was it, that a brother, thus my pride,

Grew to my friendship so estranged and cold;
Strange was it, that kind spirits erst allied
By kindred fellowship, so proved of old,
Were sundered and to separate interests sold!
I know not how it was! but pride was strong
In either breast, and did the other wrong.

There was another cause—we fiercely strove
In an ambitious race;—but worse than all
We met, two rival combatants in love;
My brother was the victor, and my fall,

Maddening my jealous pride, turned love to gall,

There was no lingering kindness more. We parted,

Each on his separate way, the severed-hearted.

For years we met not: met not till we stood,
Silent and moody, by our father’s bed,
Each with his hatred seemingly subdued
Whilst in the presence of that reverend head:
Surely our steadfast rancour might have fled

When that good father joined our hands and smiled,

And died believing we were reconciled!

And so we might have been; but there were those

Who found advantage in our longer hate;

Who stepped between our hearts and kept us foes,

And taught that hatred was inviolate:—
Fools to be duped by such! But ah, too late
True knowledge and repentance come; and back
I look in woe upon life’s blighted track!

We were the victims of the arts we scorned;
We were like clay within the potter’s hand:
And so again we parted. He adorned
The courtly world: his wit and manners bland
The hearts of men and women could command.

I too ran folly’s round, till tired of pleasure,

I sought repose in tranquil, rural leisure.

Ere long he left his native land, and went

Into the East with pomp and power girt round.

And so years past: the morn of life was spent,

And manhood’s noon advanced with splendour crowned;

They said ’mid kingly luxury without bound,

He dwelt in joy; and that his blessing ever

Flowed like that land’s unmeasured, bounteous river.

And the world worshipped him, for he was great—

Great in the council, greater in the field,
And I too had my blessings, for I sate
Amid my little ones: the fount unsealed

Of my heart’s wronged affections seemed to yield

A tenfold current: and my babes, like light

Unto the captive’s gaze, rejoiced my sight.

I dwelt within my home an altered man;
Again all tenderness and love was sweet,
’Twas as if fresh existence had began,

Since pleasant welcomes were sent forth to greet

My coming, and the sound of little feet
Was on my floor, and bright and loving eyes
Beamed on me without feigning a disguise.

As the chill snows of winter melt away
Before the genial spring, so from my heart
Passed hatred and revenge; and I could pray

For pardon, pardoning all; my soul was blessed

With answered love, and hopes whereon to rest
My joy in years to come; I asked no more,
The cup of that rich blessedness ran o’er.

Alas! even then the brightness of my life
Again grew dim; my fount of joy was dried;
My soul was doomed to bear a heavier strife
Than it had borne!—my children at my side

In their meek, loving beauty, drooped and died—

First they, and then their mother! Did I weep?

No, tears are not for griefs intense and deep!

Ah me! those weary days, those painful nights,

When voices from the dead were in mine ear,
And I had visions of my lost delights,
And saw the lovely and the loving near,
Then woke and knew my home so dim and drear!
What marvel if I prayed that I might die,
In my soul’s great, unchastened misery!

I had known sorrow, and remorse, and shame,
But never knew I misery till that time;
And in my soul sprang up the torturing blame,
That they had died for my unpardoned crime!
Then madness followed; and my manhood’s prime
Passed like a dark and hideous dream away,
Without a memory left of night or day.

I dwelt within my childhood’s home, and yet
I wist not of each dear familiar place;
My soul was in a gloomy darkness set,
Engulphed in deadness for a season’s space.

At length light beamed; a ray of heavenly grace

Upon my bowed and darkened spirit lay,

Healing its wounds and giving power to pray.

I rose a sorrowing man, and yet renewed;

Resigned, although abashed to the dust;

I felt that God was righteous, true, and good,

And though severe in awful judgment, just;
Therefore in him I put undoubting trust,
And walked once more among my fellow-men,
Yet in their vain joys mingling not again.

My home was still a solitude; none sought

Nor found in me companion; yet I pined

For something which might win my weary thought

From its deep anguish; some strong, generous mind,

Round which my lorn affections might be twined:

Some truthful heart on which mine own might lean,

And still from life some scattered comfort glean.

The dead, alas! I sorrowed for the dead,
Until well-nigh my madness had returned;
Till memory of them grew a thing of dread,

And therefore towards a living friend I yearned,

My brother! then my soul unto thee turned;

Then pined I for thy spirit’s buoyant play,

Like the chained captive for the light of day!

The kindness of his youth came back to me;
I saw his form in visions of the night;
I seemed to hear his footsteps light and free
Upon my floors; the memoried delight

Of his rich voice came back with sweeter might!

Perchance ’twas madness—so I often thought,

For with insatiate zeal in me it wrought.

“I will arise,” I cried, like him of yore,
“The conscience-stricken prodigal, and lay
Myself, as in the dust, his face before,
And, ‘I have sinned, my brother!’ I will say—

‘Forgive, forgive!’ The clouds shall pass away,

And I will banquet on his love; and rest

My weary soul on his sustaining breast!”

I gathered up my strength; I asked of none
Council or aid; I crossed the desert sea;
The purpose of my soul, to all unknown,
Was yet supporting energy to me.
I was like one from cruel bonds set free,
Who walks exulting on, yet telleth not
The all-sufficing gladness of his lot.

Through the great cities of the East I passed
Into the kingdom where he reigned supreme;
I came unto a gorgeous palace, vast
As the creation of a poet’s dream:—
My strength gave way, how little did I seem!
I felt like Joseph’s brethren, mean and base,
I turned aside and dared not meet his face.

Hard by there was a grove of cypress trees;
A place, as if for mourning spirits made;
Thither I sped, my burdened heart to ease,
And weep unseen within the secret shade,—
A mighty woe that cypress grove displayed!
Oh let me weep! you will not say that tears

Wrung by that sorrow can be stanched by years.

There was a tomb; a tomb as of a king;
A gorgeous palace of the unconscious dead.
My heart died in me, like the failing wing
Of the struck bird, as on that wall I read
My brother’s name! Feeling and memory fled;
The flood-gates of my misery gave way,
And senseless on the marble floor I lay.

I lay for hours; and when my sense returned
The day was o’er; no moon was in the sky,
But the thick-strewn, eternal planets burned
In their celestial beauty steadfastly;—
It seemed each star was as a heavenly eye
Looking upon my sorrow;—thus I deemed,
And sate within the tomb till morning beamed.

—For this I crossed the sea; in those far wilds,

Through perils numberless, for this I went!
What followed next I tell not; as a child’s
Again my soul was feeble; too much spent
To suffer as of old, or to lament,
I came back to the scenes where life began,
By griefs, not years, a bowed and aged man.

I murmur not; but with submissive will
Resign to woe the evening of my day;
On the great morrow love will have its fill;
God will forgive our poor repentant clay,
Nor thrust us from his paradise away!
But brethren, be ye warned! Oh do not sever

Your kindred hearts, which should be linked For ever!

THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW.

My old friend, he was a good old friend,
And I thought, like a fool, his face to mend;
I got another; but ah! to my cost.
I found him unlike the one I had lost!
I and my friend, we were bred together:—
He had a smile like the summer weather;
A kind warm heart; and a hand as free:—
My friend, he was all the world to me!

I could sit with him and crack many a joke,
And talk of old times and the village folk;
He had been with us at the Christmas time;
He knew every tree we used to climb;
And where we played; and what befell,
My dear old friend remembered well.
It did me good but to see his face;
And I’ve put another friend in his place!
I wonder how such a thing could be,
For my old friend would not have slighted me!

Oh my fine new friend, he is smooth and bland,

With a jewelled ring or two on his hand;
He visits my lord and my lady fair;
He hums the last new opera air.
He takes not the children on his knee;
My faithful hound reproacheth me,

For he snarls when my new friend draweth near,

But my good old friend to the brute was dear!

I wonder how I such a thing could do,

As change the old friend for the new!

My rare old friend, he read the plays,

That were written in Master Shakspeare’s days;

He found in them wit and moral good:—
My new friend thinks them coarse and rude:—
And many a pleasant song he sung,
Because they were made when we were young;
He was not too grand, not he, to know
The merry old songs made long ago.
He writ his name on the window-pane;—

It was cracked by my new friend’s riding-cane!

My good old friend, “he tirled at the pin,”
He opened the door and entered in;
We all were glad to see his face
As he took at the fire his ’customed place,
And the little children, loud in glee,
They welcomed him as they welcomed me.
He knew our griefs, our joys he shared;
There cannot be friend with him compared;
We had tried him long, had found him true!
Why changed I the old friend for the new?

My new friend cometh in lordly state;

He peals a startling ring at the gate;

There’s hurry and pomp, there’s pride and din,

And my new friend bravely entereth in.
I bring out the noblest wines for cheer,
I make him a feast that costeth dear;
But he knows not what in my heart lies deep;—
He may laugh with me, but never shall weep,
For there is no bond between us twain;
And I sigh for my dear old friend again;
And thus, too late, I bitterly rue
That I changed the old friend for the new!

MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.
A STORY OF THE OLDEN TIME.

PART I.

“Arise, my maiden, Mabel,”
The mother said, “arise,
For the golden sun of Midsummer
Is shining in the skies.

“Arise, my little maiden,
For thou must speed away,
To wait upon thy grandmother
This livelong summer day.

“And thou must carry with thee
This wheaten cake so fine;
This new-made pat of butter;
This little flask of wine!

“And tell the dear old body,
This day I cannot come,
For the good man went out yester-morn,
And he is not come home.

“And more than this, poor Amy
Upon my knee doth lie;
I fear me, with this fever-pain
That little child will die!

“And thou can’st help thy grandmother;
The table thou can’st spread;
Can’st feed the little dog and bird,
And thou can’st make her bed.

“And thou can’st fetch the water,
From the lady-well hard by;
And thou can’st gather from the wood
The fagots brown and dry.

“Can’st go down to the lonesome glen,
To milk the mother-ewe;
This is the work, my Mabel,
That thou wilt have to do.

“But listen now, my Mabel,
This is Midsummer-day,
When all the fairy people
From elf-land come away.

“And when thou art in lonesome glen,
Keep by the running burn,
And do not pluck the strawberry flower,
Nor break the lady-fern.

“But think not of the fairy folk,
Lest mischief should befall;
Think only of poor Amy,
And how thou lov’st us all.

“Yet keep good heart, my Mabel,
If thou the fairies see,
And give them kindly answer
If they should speak to thee.

“And when into the fir-wood
Thou go’st for fagots brown,
Do not, like idle children,
Go wandering up and down.

“But, fill thy little apron,
My child, with earnest speed;
And that thou break no living bough
Within the wood, take heed.

“For they are spiteful brownies
Who in the wood abide,
So be thou careful of this thing,
Lest evil should betide.

“But think not, little Mabel,
Whilst thou art in the wood,
Of dwarfish, wilful brownies,
But of the Father good.

“And when thou goest to the spring,
To fetch the water thence,
Do not disturb the little stream,
Lest this should give offence.

“For the queen of all the fairies
She loves that water bright;
I’ve seen her drinking there myself
On many a summer night.

“But she’s a gracious lady,
And her thou need’st not fear;
Only disturb thou not the stream,
Nor spill the water clear!”

“Now all this I will heed, mother,
Will no word disobey,
And wait upon the grandmother
This livelong summer day!”

PART II.

Away tripped little Mabel,
With the wheaten cake so fine;
With the new-made pat of butter,
And the little flask of wine.

And long before the sun was hot,
And morning mists had cleared,
Beside the good old grandmother
The willing child appeared.

And all her mother’s message
She told with right good-will,
How that the father was away,
And the little child was ill.

And then she swept the hearth up clean,
And then the table spread;
And next she fed the dog and bird;
And then she made the bed.

“And go now,” said the grandmother,
“Ten paces down the dell,
And bring in water for the day;
Thou know’st the lady-well!”

The first time that good Mabel went,
Nothing at all saw she,
Except a bird—a sky-blue bird—
That sate upon a tree.

The next time that good Mabel went,
There sate a lady bright
Beside the well,—a lady small,
All clothed in green and white.

A curtsey low made Mabel,
And then she stooped to fill
Her pitcher at the sparkling spring,
But no drop did she spill.

“Thou art a handy maiden,”
The fairy lady said;
“Thou hast not spilled a drop, nor yet
The fair spring troubled!

“And for this thing which thou hast done,
Yet may’st not understand,
I give to thee a better gift
Than houses or than land.

“Thou shalt do well, whate’er thou dost,
As thou hast done this day;
Shalt have the will and power to please,
And shalt be loved alway!”

Thus having said, she passed from sight,
And nought could Mabel see,
But the little bird, the sky-blue bird,
Upon the leafy tree.

—“And now go,” said the grandmother,
“And fetch in fagots dry;
All in the neigbouring fir-wood,
Beneath the trees they lie.”

Away went kind, good Mabel,
Into the fir-wood near,
Where all the ground was dry and brown,
And the grass grew thin and sere.

She did not wander up and down,
Nor yet a live branch pull,
But steadily, of the fallen boughs
She picked her apron full.

And when the wild-wood brownies
Came sliding to her mind,
She drove them thence, as she was told,
With home-thoughts sweet and kind.

But all that while the brownies
Within the fir-wood still,
They watched her how she picked the wood,
And strove to do no ill.

“And oh, but she is small and neat,”
Said one, “’twere shame to spite
A creature so demure and meek,
A creature harmless quite!”

“Look only,” said another,
“At her little gown of blue;
At the kerchief pinned about her head,
And at her little shoe!”

“Oh, but she is a comely child,”
Said a third, “and we will lay
A good-luck-penny in her path,
A boon for her this day,—
Seeing she broke no living wood;
No live thing did affray,”

With that the smallest penny,
Of the finest silver ore,
Upon the dry and slippery path,
Lay Mabel’s feet before.

With joy she picked the penny up,
The fairy penny good;
And with her fagots dry and brown
Went wondering from the wood.

“Now she has that,” said the brownies,
“Let flax be ever so dear,
Will buy her clothes of the very best
For many and many a year!”

—“And go, now,” said the grandmother,
“Since falling is the dew,
Go down unto the lonesome glen,
And milk the mother-ewe!”

All down into the lonesome glen,

Through copses thick and wild;

Through moist, rank grass, by trickling streams,

Went on the willing child,

And when she came to lonesome glen,
She kept beside the burn,
And neither plucked the strawberry-flower,
Nor broke the lady-fern.

And while she milked the mother-ewe
Within the lonesome glen,
She wished that little Amy
Were strong and well again.

And soon as she had thought this thought,
She heard a coming sound,
As if a thousand fairy-folk
Were gathering all around.

And then she heard a little voice,
Shrill as the midge’s wing,
That spake aloud, “a human child
Is here—yet mark this thing!

“The lady-fern is all unbroke,

The strawberry-flower unta’en!

What shall be done for her, who still

From mischief can refrain?”

“Give her a fairy-cake!” said one,
“Grant her a wish!” said three;
“The latest wish that she hath wished,”
Said all, “whate’er it be!”

—Kind Mabel heard the words they spake,
And from the lonesome glen,
Unto the good old grandmother
Went gladly back again.

Thus happened it to Mabel
On that midsummer-day,
And these three fairy-blessings
She took with her away.

—’Tis good to make all duty sweet,

To be alert and kind:

’Tis good, like little Mabel,

To have a willing mind!

BIRDS AND FLOWERS
AND OTHER
COUNTRY THINGS.

THE STORMY PETEREL.

O stormy, stormy, Peterel,
Come rest thee, bird, awhile;
There is no storm, believe me,
Anigh this summer isle.

Come, rest thy waving pinions;
Alight thee down by me;
And tell me somewhat of the lore
Thou learnest on the sea!

Dost hear beneath the ocean

The gathering tempest form?

See’st thou afar the little cloud

That grows into the storm?

How is it in the billowy depths—

Doth sea-weed heave and swell?

And is a sound of coming woe

Rung from each caverned shell?

Dost watch the stormy sunset
In tempests of the west;
And see the old moon riding slow
With the new moon on her breast?

Dost mark the billows heaving
Before the coming gale;
And scream for joy of every sound
That turns the seaman pale?

Are gusty tempests mirth to thee?

Lov’st thou the lightning’s flash;

The booming of the mountain waves—

The thunder’s deafening crash?

O stormy, stormy Peterel,

Thou art a bird of woe!

Yet would I thou could’st tell me half

Of the misery thou dost know!

There was a ship went down last night,—
A good ship and a fair;
A costly freight within her lay,
And many a soul was there!

The night-black storm was over her,

And ’neath the caverned wave:

In all her strength she perished,

Nor skill of man could save.

The cry of her great agony
Went upward to the sky;
She perished in her strength and pride,
Nor human aid was nigh.

But thou, O stormy Peterel,
Went’st screaming o’er the foam;—
Are there no tidings from that ship
Which thou canst carry home?

Yes! He who raised the tempest up,
Sustained each drooping one;
And God was present in the storm,
Though human aid was none!

THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN.

Ah yes, the poor man’s garden!

It is great joy to me,

This little, precious piece of ground

Before his door to see!

The rich man has his gardeners,—
His gardeners young and old;
He never takes a spade in hand,
Nor worketh in the mould.

It is not with the poor man so,—
Wealth, servants, he has none;
And all the work that’s done for him
Must by himself be done.

All day upon some weary task
He toileth with good will;
And back he comes, at set of sun,
His garden-plot to till.

The rich man in his garden walks,
And ’neath his garden trees;
Wrapped in a dream of other things,
He seems to take his ease.

One moment he beholds his flowers,

The next they are forgot:

He eateth of his rarest fruits

As though he ate them not.

It is not with the poor man so:—
He knows each inch of ground,
And every single plant and flower
That grows within its bound.

He knows where grow his wall-flowers,
And when they will be out;
His moss-rose, and convolulus
That twines his pales about.

He knows his red sweet-williams;
And the stocks that cost him dear,—
That well-set row of crimson stocks,
For he bought the seed last year.

And though unto the rich man
The cost of flowers is nought,
A sixpence to a poor man
Is toil, and care, and thought.

And here is his potatoe-bed,
All well-grown, strong, and green;
How could a rich man’s heart leap up
At anything so mean!

But he, the poor man, sees his crop,
And a thankful man is he,
For he thinks all through the winter
How rich his board will be.

And how his merry little ones
Beside the fire will stand,
Each with a large potatoe
In a round and rosy hand.

The rich man has his wall-fruits,

And his delicious vines;

His fruit for every season!

His melons and his pines.

The poor man has his gooseberries;
His currants white and red;
His apple and his damson tree,
And a little strawberry-bed.

A happy man he thinks himself,
A man that’s passing well,—
To have some fruit for the children,
And some besides to sell.

Around the rich man’s trellissed bower
Gay, costly creepers run;
The poor man has his scarlet-beans
To screen him from the sun.

And there before the little bench,
O’ershadowed by the bower,
Grow southern-wood and lemon-thyme,
Sweet-pea and gilliflower;

And pinks and clove-carnations,
Rich-scented side by side;
And at each end a holly-hock,
With an edge of London-pride.

And here comes the old grandmother,
When her day’s work is done;
And here they bring the sickly babe
To cheer it in the sun.

And here, on Sabbath-mornings,
The good man comes to get
His Sunday nosegay, moss-rose bud,
White pink, and mignonette.

And here, on Sabbath-evenings,
Until the stars are out,
With a little one in either hand,
He walketh all about.

For though his garden-plot is small,
Him doth it satisfy;
For there’s no inch of all his ground
That does not fill his eye.

It is not with the rich man thus;
For though his grounds are wide,
He looks beyond, and yet beyond,
With soul unsatisfied.

Yes! in the poor man’s garden grow
Far more than herbs and flowers;—
Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind,
And joy for weary hours.

THE OAK-TREE.

Sing for the Oak-Tree,
The monarch of the wood;
Sing for the Oak-Tree,
That groweth green and good;
That groweth broad and branching
Within the forest shade;
That groweth now, and yet shall grow
When we are lowly laid!

The Oak-Tree was an acorn once,
And fell upon the earth;
And sun and showers nourished it,
And gave the Oak-Tree birth.
The little sprouting Oak-Tree!
Two leaves it had at first,
Till sun and showers had nourished it,
Then out the branches burst.

The little sapling Oak-Tree!
Its root was like a thread,
Till the kindly earth had nourished it,
Then out it freely spread:
On this side and on that side
It grappled with the ground;
And in the ancient, rifted rock
Its firmest footing found.

The winds came, and the rain fell;
The gusty tempest blew;
All, all were friends to the Oak-Tree,
And stronger yet it grew.
The boy that saw the acorn fall,
He feeble grew and grey;
But the Oak was still a thriving tree,
And strengthened every day!

Four centuries grows the Oak-Tree
Nor doth its verdue fail;
Its heart is like the iron-wood,
Its bark like plated mail.
Now, cut us down the Oak-Tree,
The monarch of the wood;
And of its timbers stout and strong
We’ll build a vessel good!

The Oak-Tree of the forest
Both east and west shall fly;
And the blessings of a thousand lands
Upon our ship shall lie!
For she shall not be a man-of-war,
Nor a pirate shall she be:—
But a noble, Christian merchant-ship
To sail upon the sea.

Then sing for the Oak-Tree,
The monarch of the wood;
Sing for the Oak-Tree,
That groweth green and good;
That groweth broad and branching
Within the forest shade;
That groweth now, and yet shall grow,
When we are lowly laid!

THE CAROLINA PARROT.

Parrots, with all their cleverness, are not capable of keeping up a dialogue; otherwise we might suppose something like the following to be in character with their humour and experience.

Poll’s Mistress.

I’ve heard of imp, I’ve heard of sprite;
Of fays and fairies of the night;
Of that renowned fiend Hobgoblin,
Running, racing, jumping, hobbling;
Of Puck, brimful of fun; also
Of roguish Robin Goodfellow.
I’ve seen a hearth where, as is told,
Came Hobthrush in the days of old,
To make the butter, mend the linen,
And keep the housewife’s wheel a-spinning.
I’ve heard of pigmies, pixies, lares,
Shoirim, gemedim, and fairies:—
And, Parrot, on my honest word,
I hardly think thou art a bird;—
Thou art so pixy, quaint and queer;
Thou art not canny, Poll, I fear!
Look at that impish leer of thine!
List to thy scream, thy shout, thy whine,
And none will doubt but thou must be
A creature of the faery.
Or tell me, Poll, art thou not kin
To Jack o’ lanthern? Come, begin!
Answer me, Poll, was’t ’mong the fairies
Thou learnt thy many strange vagaries?
Speak, pretty Poll!

Poll.

Well, I don’t care if I tell you all.

You’ve got some company, I see; a short gentleman and a tall;

Many ladies, too, altogether two or three dozen,

I should not wonder if they are some of you uncles and cousins!

Pray am I not a very fine bird,

Green, and yellow, and scarlet?—

Upon my word!

That man has a coat on like our Captain!

Captain.

Poll, how do you do, my dear?

You look well; it’s fine living here!

Poll.

Ha, Captain, how do you do?—Captain, your health, I say;

Captain, I’ll have the pleasure of drinking your health to-day! ha! ha! ha!

I’m very glad to see you!—You remember, perhaps,

That wood in Carolina, the guns and all the traps;—

To be sure you do!—Ladies, I’m a Carolina bird,—

Some come from the East Indies, from the Cape too, I have heard;

But I’m of Carolina—to the Big-bone lick I’ve been,—

Now in that country there is something to be seen!

Our Captain knows that! Ay, Captain, I say,

Do you remember crossing the Cedar Swamp one particular day,

When I got out of your pocket and flew away?

Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! How it makes me laugh!

You’d a pretty chase after me!—ha! ha! a pretty chase!

And I sat in the hickory trees, laughing in your face!

Ha! ha! ha! how I did laugh.

What cypress-berries, cockel-burs, and beach-nuts grew there!

You many look all this country over, and find none anywhere.

And what fun it was—me, and a thousand beside,

To fly in the merry sunshine through those forests wide,

And build our nests—Oh, what nests we had?—

Did you ever see one of our nests—Captain? Eh, my lad?

Captain.

I’ve heard of nests of cinnamon,
With the great Phœnix set thereon;
And swallows’ nests, so rich and sweet
Of which the Chinese people eat;
But of your nests I never heard,
What kind are they, I pray thee, bird?

Parrot.

Nests! ha! ha! ha! what sort of nests should they be?

You may fancy if you please, but you’ll never know from me!

I never blab, not I! What sort of nest is built?

Ha! ha! ha! with sheets and blankets and a fine Marseilles quilt! ha! ha! ha!

Put it down in your little book,—a four-post bed, I say,

With damask moreen hangings, and made every day! ha! ha! ha!

Oh, how it makes me laugh! ha! ha! ha!

I shall split my sides with laughing some of these days! ha! ha! ha!

Captain.

Come, now, you silly prate-a-pace
Tell us about the Big-bone place,
Where our acquaintance first began;
And of those swamps, untrode by man,
Where you came, impudent and merry,
For cockle-burr and hackle-berry,

Parrot.

Of the Big-bone lick, did you say?—Ay, we used to go there,

A Parrot’s very fond of salt! I really declare

I’ve seen ten thousand of us there altogether,—

A beautiful sight it was, in fine summer weather,

Like a grand velvet carpet, of orange, green and yellow,

Covering the ground! Ah, Captain! my good fellow,

I had reason to rue the day you came there with your gun!

I would laugh if I could, but to me it was no fun—heigh-ho!

No fun at all, Captain, heigh-ho!

Captain.

Nay, Poll, cheer up, you’re better here

Than at the Big-bone lick, my dear!

Parrot.

Captain, how you talk! we Parrots love each other—

There you shot dozens of us,—my father and my mother,—

I shall not forget it in a hurry,—what wailing and crying,—

What flying round and round there was! What comforting the dying!

You, yourself, laid down your gun,—overcome by the sight,

And said you would not shoot again, at least that night!

Heigh-ho! I am just ready to cry! And I think I shall cry before I have done!

(She cries like a child.)

There, now, I am better! but my throat is quite hot;

Can’t I have a glass of water?—(She coughs.) Bless me, what a cold I’ve got!

Do, shut that window, Jenny, or we shall all die of cold;

And mend the fire, can’t you, as you already have been told!

And let’s have a cup of tea, for I’m just tired to death.

What a shocking cold it is! and I’m so short of breath!—(She coughs again.)

(She speaks in another voice.)

Tea’s ready, if you please. Ready is it? With the water in the pot?

Yes, ma’am: Well, then, I’ll go and have my tea, while the muffin’s hot!

Exit Poll.

MORNING THOUGHTS.

The summer sun is shining
Upon a world so bright!
The dew upon each grassy blade;
The golden light, the depth of shade,
All seem as they were only made
To minister delight.

From giant trees, strong branched,
And all their veined leaves;
From little birds that madly sing;
From insects fluttering on the wing;
Ay, from the very meanest thing
My spirit joy receives.

I think of angel voices
When the birds’ songs I hear;
Of that celestial city, bright
With jacinth, gold, and chrysolite,
When, with its blazing pomp of light,
The morning doth appear!

I think of that great River
That from the Throne flows free;
Of weary pilgrims on its brink,
Who, thirsting, have come down to drink;
Of that unfailing Stream I think,
When earthly streams I see!

I think of pain and dying,
As that which is but nought,
When glorious morning, warm and bright,
With all its voices of delight,
From the chill darkness of the night,
Like a new life, is brought.

I think of human sorrow
But as of clouds that brood
Upon the bosom of the day,
And the next moment pass away;
And with a trusting heart I say
Thank God, all things are good!

HARVEST-FIELD FLOWERS.

Come down into the harvest-fields
This autumn morn with me;
For in the pleasant autumn-fields
There’s much to hear and see;
On yellow slopes of waving corn
The autumn sun shines clearly;
And ’t is joy to walk, on days like this,
Among the bearded barley.

Within the sunny harvest-fields
We’ll gather flowers enow;
The poppy red, the marigold,
The bugles brightly blue;
We’ll gather the white convolvulus
That opes in the morning early;
With a cluster of nuts, an ear of wheat,
And an ear of the bearded barley.

Bright over the golden fields of corn
Doth shine the autumn sky;
So let’s be merry while we may,
For time goes hurrying by.
They took down the sickle from the wall
When morning dew shone pearly;
And the mower whets the ringing scythe
To cut the bearded barley.

Come then into the harvest-fields;
The robin sings his song;
The corn stands yellow on the hills,
And autumn stays not long.
They’ll carry the sheaves of corn away;
They carried to-day so early,
Along the lanes, with a rustling sound,
Their loads of the bearded barley.

SUMMER WOODS.

Come ye into the summer-woods;
There entereth no annoy;
All greenly wave the chesnut leaves,
And the earth is full of joy.

I cannot tell you half the sights
Of beauty you may see,
The bursts of golden sunshine,
And many a shady tree.

There, lightly swung, in bowery glades,
The honey-suckles twine;
There blooms the rose-red campion,
And the dark-blue columbine.

There grows the four-leaved plant “true love,”

In some dusk woodland spot;
There grows the enchanter’s night-shade,
And the wood forget-me-not.

And many a merry bird is there,
Unscared by lawless men;
The blue-winged jay, the wood-pecker,
And the golden-crested wren.

Come down and ye shall see them all,
The timid and the bold;
For their sweet life of pleasantness,
It is not to be told.

And far within that summer-wood,
Among the leaves so green,
There flows a little gurgling brook,
The brightest e’er was seen.

There comes the little gentle birds,
Without a fear of ill;
Down to the murmuring water’s edge,
And freely drink their fill!

And dash about and splash about,

The merry little things:

And look askance with bright black eyes,

And flirt their dripping wings.

I’ve seen the freakish squirrel drop
Down from their leafy tree,
The little squirrels with the old,—
Great joy it was to me!

And down unto the running brook;
I’ve seen them nimbly go;
And the bright water seemed to speak
A welcome kind and low.

The nodding plants they bowed their heads,
As if, in heartsome cheer,
They spake unto those little things,
“Tis merry living here!”

Oh, how my heart ran o’er with joy!

I saw that all was good,

And how we might glean up delight

All round us, if we would!

And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there,
Beneath the old wood-shade,
And all day long has work to do,
Nor is, of aught, afraid.

The green shoots grow above their heads,
And roots so fresh and fine,
Beneath their feet, nor is there strife
’Mong them for mine and thine.

There is enough for every one,
And they lovingly agree;
We might learn a lesson, all of us,
Beneath the green-wood tree!

THE CUCKOO.

“Pee! pee! pee!” says the merry Pee-Bird;

And as soon as the children hear it,

“The Cuckoo’s a-coming,” they say, “for I heard,

Up in his tree the merry Pee-Bird,
And he’ll come in three days, or near it!”
The days go on, one, two, three;
And the little bird singeth “pee! pee! pee!”
Then on the morrow, ’tis very true,
They hear the note of the old Cuckoo;
Up in the elm-tree, through the day,
Just as in gone years, shouting away;
“Cuckoo,” the Cuckoo doth cry,
And the little boys mock him as they go by.

The wood-pecker laughs to hear the strain,
And says “the old fellow is come back again;
He sitteth again on the very same tree,
And he talks of himself again!—he! he! he!”
The stock-doves together begin to coo
When they hear the voice of the old cuckoo;
“Ho! ho!” say they, “he did not find
Those far-away countries quite to his mind,
So he’s come again to see what he can do
With sucking small birds’ eggs, coo-coo!”

The black-bird, and throstle, and loud missel-cock,

They sing altogether, the Cuckoo to mock;

“What want we with him? let him stay over sea!”

Sings the bold, piping reed-sparrow, “want him? not we!”

“Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo shouts still,

“I care not for you, let you rave as you will!”

“Cuckoo!” the cuckoo doth cry,

And the little boys mock him as they go by.

“Hark! hark!” sings the chiff-chaff, “hark! hark!” says the lark,

And the white-throats and buntings all twitter “hark! hark!”

The wren and the hedge-sparrow hear it anon,

And “hark! hark!” in a moment shouts every one.

“Hark! hark!—that’s the Cuckoo there, shouting amain!

Bless our lives! why that egg-sucker’s come back again!”

“Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo shouts still,

“I shall taste of your eggs, let you rave as you will!”

“Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo doth cry,

And the little boys mock him as they go by.

The water-hens hear it, the rail and the smew,

And they say,—“Why on land there’s a pretty to-do!

Sure the Cuckoo’s come back, what else can be the matter?

The pyes and the jays are all making a clatter!”

“Hark! hark!” says the woodcock, “I hear him myself,

Shouting up in the elm-tree, the comical elf!”

“Hark! hark!” cries the widgeon, “and I hear him too,

Shouting loudly as ever, that self-same Cuckoo!”

“Well, well,” says the wild duck, “what is it to us;

I’ve no spite ’gainst the Cuckoo; why make such a fuss?

Let him shout as he listeth—he comes over sea—

And his French may be French, ’t is no matter to me;

I have no spite against him, my soul’s not so narrow,

I leave all such whims to the tomtit and sparrow!”

“Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo shouts still,

“You may all hold your peace, I shall do as I will!”

“Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo doth cry,

And the little boys mock him as they go by.

THE USE OF FLOWERS.

God might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,
The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,
Without a flower at all.

We might have had enough, enough
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine and toil,
And yet have had no flowers.

The ore within the mountain mine
Requireth none to grow;
Nor doth it need the lotus-flower
To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain;
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drunk them all.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow-light,
All fashioned with supremest grace
Upspringing day and night:—

Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains high,
And in the silent wilderness
Where no man passes by?

Our outward life requires them not—
Then wherefore had they birth?—
To minister delight to man,
To beautify the earth;

To comfort man—to whisper hope,
Whene’er his faith is dim,
For who so careth for the flowers
Will much more care for him!

SUNSHINE.

I love the sunshine everywhere,—
In wood and field and glen;
I love it in the busy haunts
Of town-imprisoned men.

I love it when it streameth in
The humble cottage door,
And casts the chequered casement shade
Upon the red-brick floor.

I love it where the children lie
Deep in the clovery grass,
To watch among the twining roots
The gold-green beetles pass.

I love it on the breezy sea,
To glance on sail and oar,
While the great waves, like molten glass,
Come leaping to the shore.

I love it on the mountain-tops,
Where lies the thawless snow,
And half a kingdom, bathed in light,
Lies stretching out below.

And when it shines in forest-glades,
Hidden, and green, and cool,
Through mossy boughs and veined leaves
How is it beautiful!

How beautiful on little stream,
When sun and shade at play,
Make silvery meshes, while the brook
Goes singing on its way.

How beautiful, where dragon-flies
Are wondrous to behold,
With rainbow wings of gauzy pearl,
And bodies blue and gold!

How beautiful, on harvest slopes,
To see the sunshine lie;
Or on the paler reaped fields,
Where yellow shocks stand high!

Oh, yes! I love the sunshine!

Like kindness or like mirth,

Upon a human countenance,

Is sunshine on the earth!

Upon the earth; upon the sea;
And through the crystal air,
Or piled-up cloud; the gracious sun
Is glorious everywhere!

SUMMER.

They may boast of the spring-time when flowers are the fairest,

And birds sing by thousands on every green tree;

They may call it the loveliest, the greenest, the rarest;—

But the summer’s the season that’s dearest to me!

For the brightness of sunshine; the depth of the shadows;

The crystal of waters; the fulness of green,

And the rich flowery growth of the old pasture meadows,

In the glory of summer can only be seen.

Oh, the joy of the green-wood! I love to be in it,

And list to the hum of the never-still bees,

And to hear the sweet voice of the old mother linnet,

Calling unto her young ’mong the leaves of the trees?

To see the red squirrel frisk hither and thither,

And the water-rat plunging about in his mirth;

And the thousand small lives that the warm summer weather,

Calls forth to rejoice on the bountiful earth!

Then the mountains, how fair! to the blue vault of heaven

Towering up in the sunshine, and drinking the light,

While adown their deep chasms, all splintered and riven,

Fall the far-gleaming cataracts silvery white!

And where are the flowers that in beauty are glowing

In the garden and fields of the young, merry spring,

Like the mountain-side wilds of the yellow broom blowing,

And the old forest pride, the red wastes of the ling?

Then the garden, no longer ’tis leafless and chilly,

But warm with the sunshine and bright with the sheen

Of rich flowers, the moss rose and the bright tiger-lily,

Barbaric in pomp as an Ethiop Queen.

Oh, the beautiful flowers, all colours combining,

The larkspur, the pink, and the sweet mignionette,

And the blue fleur-de-lis, in the warm sunlight shining,

As if grains of gold in its petals were set!

Yes, the summer,—the radiant summer’s the fairest,

For green-woods and mountains, for meadows and bowers,

For waters, and fruits, and for flowers the rarest,

And for bright shining butterflies, lovely as flowers!

THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS.

Put up thy work, dear mother;
Dear mother come with me,
For I’ve found within the garden,
The beautiful sweet-pea!

And rows of stately hollyhocks
Down by the garden-wall,
All yellow, white, and crimson,
So many-hued and tall!

And bending on their stalks, mother,
Are roses white and red;
And pale-stemmed balsams all a-blow,
On every garden-bed.

Put up thy work, I pray thee,

And come out, mother dear!

We used to buy these flowers,

But they are growing here!

Oh, mother! little Amy
Would have loved these flowers to see;—
Dost remember how we tried to get
For her a pink sweet-pea?

Dost remember how she loved

Those rose-leaves pale and sere?

I wish she had but lived to see

The lovely roses here!

Put up thy work, dear mother,

And wipe those tears away!

And come into the garden

Before ’tis set of day!

CHILDHOOD.

Oh, when I was a little child,
My life was full of pleasure;
I had four-and-twenty living things,
And many another treasure.

But chiefest was my sister dear,

Oh, how I loved my sister!

I never played at all with joy,

If from my side I missed her.

I can remember many a time,
Up in the morning early,—
Up in the morn by break of day,
When summer dews hung pearly;

Out in the fields what joy it was,
While the cowslip yet was bending,
To see the large round moon grow dim,
And the early lark ascending!

I can remember too, we rose
When the winter stars shone brightly;
’Twas an easy thing to shake off sleep,
From spirits strong and sprightly.

How beautiful were those winter skies,
All frosty-bright and unclouded,
And the garden-trees, like cypresses,
Looked black, in the darkness shrouded!

Then the deep, deep snows were beautiful,
That fell through the long night stilly,
When behold, at morn, like a silent plain,
Lay the country wild and hilly!

And the fir-trees down by the garden side,
In their blackness towered more stately;
And the lower trees were feathered with snow,
That were bare and brown so lately.

And then, when the rare hoar-frost would come,

’Twas all like a dream of wonder,
When over us grew the crystal trees,
And the crystal plants grew under!

The garden all was enchanted land;
All silent and without motion,
Like a sudden growth of the stalactite,
Or the corallines of ocean!

’Twas all like a fairy forest then,
Where the diamond trees were growing,
And within each branch the emerald green
And the ruby red were glowing.

I remember many a day we spent
In the bright hay-harvest meadow;
The glimmering heat of the noonday ground,
And the hazy depth of shadow.

I can remember, as to-day,
The corn-field and the reaping,
The rustling of the harvest-sheaves,
And the harvest-wain’s upheaping:

I can feel this hour as if I lay
Adown ’neath the hazel bushes,
And as if we wove, for pastime wild,
Our grenadier-caps of rushes.

And every flower within that field
To my memory’s eye comes flitting,
The chiccory-flower, like a blue cockade,
For a fairy-knight befitting.

The willow-herb by the water side,
With its fruit-like scent so mellow;
The gentian blue on the marly hill,
And the snap-dragon white and yellow.

I know where the hawthorn groweth red;
Where pink grows the way-side yarrow;
I remember the wastes of woad and broom,
And the shrubs of the red rest-harrow.

I know where the blue geranium grows,
And the stork’s-bill small and musky;
Where the rich osmunda groweth brown,
And the wormwood white and dusky.

There was a forest a-nigh our home,—
A forest so old and hoary,
How we loved in its ancient glooms to be,
And remember its bygone story!

We sate in the shade of its mighty trees,
When the summer noon was glowing,
And heard in the depths of its undergrowth
The pebbly waters flowing.

We quenched our thirst at the forest-well;
We ate of the forest berry;
And the time we spent in the good green-wood,
Like the times of song, were merry.

We had no crosses then, no cares;
We were children like yourselves then;
And we danced and sang, and made us mirth,
Like the dancing moonlight elves then!

L’ENVOI.

Go, little book, and to the young and kind,

Speak thou of pleasant hours and lovely things;

Of fields and woods; of sunshine; dew and wind;

Of mountains; valleys, and of river-springs;

Speak thou of every little bird that sings;

Of every bright, sweet-scented flower that blows;

But chiefest speak of Him whose mercy flings

Beauty and love abroad, and who bestows

Light to the sun alike, with odour to the rose.

My little book that hast been unto me,
Even as a flower reared in a pleasant place,
This is the task that I impose on thee;—

Go forth; with serious style or playful grace,

Winning young, gentle hearts; and bid them trace

With thee, the spirit of Love through earth and air;

On beast and bird, and on our mortal race,

So, do thy gracious work; and onward fare,

Leaving, like angel-guest, a blessing everywhere!

SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY.

TO
ANNA MARY AND ALFRED WILLIAM HOWITT,
THESE SKETCHES,
ORIGINALLY WRITTEN FOR THEIR AMUSEMENT, ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY.

THE COOT.

Oh Coot! oh bold, adventurous Coot,
I pray thee tell to me,
The perils of that stormy time
That bore thee to the sea!

I saw thee on the river fair,
Within thy sedgy screen;
Around thee grew the bulrush tall,
And reeds so strong and green.

The kingfisher came back again
To view thy fairy place;
The stately swan sailed statelier by,
As if thy home to grace.

But soon the mountain-flood came down,
And bowed the bulrush strong;
And far above those tall green reeds,
The waters poured along.

“And where is she, the Water-Coot,”

I cried, “that creature good?”

But then I saw thee in thine ark,

Regardless of the flood.

Amid the foaming waves thou sat’st,
And steer’dst thy little boat;
Thy nest of rush and water-reed
So bravely set afloat.

And on it went, and safely on
That wild and stormy tide;
And there thou sat’st, a mother bird,
Thy young ones at thy side.

Oh Coot! oh bold, adventurous Coot,
I pray thee tell to me,
The perils of that stormy voyage
That bore thee to the sea!

Hadst thou no fear, as night came down
Upon thy watery way,
Of enemies, and dangers dire
That round about thee lay?

Didst thou not see the falcon grim

Swoop down as thou passed by?

And ’mong the waving water flags

The lurking otter lie?

The eagle’s scream came wildly near,

Yet, caused it no alarm?

Nor man, who seeing thee, weak thing,

Did strive to do thee harm?

And down the foaming waterfall,
As thou wast borne along,
Hadst thou no dread? Oh daring bird,
Thou hadst a spirit strong!

Yes, thou hadst fear. But He who sees
The sparrows when they fall;
He saw thee, bird, and gave thee strength
To brave thy perils all.

He kept thy little ark afloat;
He watched o’er thine and thee;
And safely through the foaming flood
Hath brought thee to the sea.”

THE EAGLE.

No, not in the meadow, and not on the shore;

And not on the wide heath with furze covered o’er,

Where the cry of the Plover, the hum of the bee,

Give a feeling of joyful security:

And not in the woods, where the nightingale’s song,

From the chesnut and orange pours all the day long;

And not where the Martin has built in the eaves,

And the Red-breast e’er covered the children with leaves,

Shall ye find the proud Eagle! O no, come away;

I will show you his dwelling, and point out his prey!

Away! let us go where the mountains are high,

With tall splintered peak towering into the sky;

Where old ruined castles are dreary and lone,

And seem as if built for a world that is gone;

There, up on the topmost tower, black as the night,

Sits the old monarch Eagle in full blaze of light:

He is king of these mountains: save him and his mate,

No Eagle dwells there; he is lonely and great!

Look, look how he sits! with his keen glancing eye,

And his proud head thrown back, looking into the sky;

And hark to the rush of his out-spreading wings,

Like the coming of tempest, as upward he springs,

And now how the echoing mountains are stirred,

For that was the cry of the Eagle you heard!

Now, see how he soars! like a speck in the height

Of the blue vaulted sky, and now lost in the light!

And now downward he wheels as a shaft from a bow

By a strong archer sent, to the valleys below!

And that is the bleat of a lamb of the flock;—

One moment, and he re-ascends to the rock.—

Yes, see how the conqueror is winging his way

And his terrible talons are holding their prey!

Great bird of the wilderness! lonely and proud,

With a spirit unbroken, a neck never bowed,
With an eye of defiance, august and severe,
Who scorn’st an inferior, and hatest a peer,
What is it that giveth thee beauty and worth?

Thou wast made for the desolate places of earth;

To mate with the tempest; to match with the sea;

And God showed his power in the Lion and thee!

THE GARDEN.

I had a Garden when a child;
I kept it all in order;
’Twas full of flowers as it could be,
And London-pride was its border.

And soon as came the pleasant Spring,
The singing birds built in it;
The Blackbird and the Throstle-cock,
The Woodlark and the Linnet.

And all within my Garden ran
A labyrinth-walk so mazy;
In the middle there grew a yellow Rose;
At each end a Michaelmas Daisy.

I had a tree of Southern Wood,
And two of bright Mezereon;
A Peony root, a snow-white Phlox,
And a bunch of red Valerian;

A Lilac tree, and a Guelder-Rose;
A Broom, and a Tiger-lily;
And I walked a dozen miles to find
The true wild Daffodilly.

I had Columbines, both pink and blue,

And Thalictrum like a feather;

And the bright Goat’s-beard, that shuts its leaves

Before a change of weather.

I had Marigolds, and Gilliflowers,
And Pinks all Pinks exceeding;
I’d a noble root of Love-in-a-mist,
And plenty of Love-lies-bleeding.

I’d Jacob’s Ladder, Aaron’s Rod,
And the Peacock-Gentianella;
I had Asters, more than I can tell,
And Lupins blue and yellow.

I set a grain of Indian Corn,
One day in an idle humour,
And the grain sprung up six feet or more,
My glory for a summer.

I found far off in the pleasant fields,
More flowers than I can mention;
I found the English Asphodel,
And the spring and autumn Gentian.

I found the Orchis, fly and bee,
And the Cistus of the mountain;
And the Money-wort, and the Adder’s tongue
Beside an old wood fountain.

I found within another wood,

The rare Pyrola blowing:

For wherever there was a curious flower

I was sure to find it growing.

I set them in my garden beds,
Those beds I loved so dearly,
Where I laboured after set of sun,
And in summer mornings early.

O my pleasant garden-plot!—
A shrubbery was beside it,
And an old and mossy Apple-tree,
With a Woodbine wreathed to hide it.

There was a bower in my garden-plot,
A Spiræa grew before it;
Behind it was a Laburnum tree,
And a wild Hop clambered o’er it.

Ofttimes I sat within my bower,
Like a king in all his glory;
Ofttimes I read, and read for hours,
Some pleasant, wondrous story.

I read of Gardens in old times,
Old, stately Gardens, kingly,
Where people walked in gorgeous crowds,
Or for silent musing, singly.

I raised up visions in my brain,
The noblest and the fairest;
But still I loved my Garden best,
And thought it far the rarest.

And all among my flowers I walked,
Like a miser ’mid his treasure;
For that pleasant plot of Garden ground
Was a world of endless pleasure.

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.
AN APOLOGUE.
A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STORY.

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly.

“Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I’ve many curious things to show when you are there,”

“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain,

For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”

“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;

Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly.

“There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,

And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in!”

“Oh, no, no,” said the little Fly, “for I’ve often heard it said,

They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!”

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, “Dear friend, what can I do,

To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?

I have within my pantry, good store of all that’s nice;

I’m sure you’re very welcome—will you please to take a slice?”

“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “kind sir, that cannot be,

I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!”

“Sweet creature!” said the Spider, “you’re witty and you’re wise,

How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!

I’ve a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,

If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”

“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you’re pleased to say,

And bidding you good morning now, I’ll call another day.”

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,

For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:

So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,

And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.

Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,

“Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;

Your robes are green and purple—there’s a crest upon your head;

Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!”

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,

Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue—

Thinking only of her crested head—poor foolish thing! At last,

Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,

Within his little parlour—but she ne’er came out again!

And now, dear little children, who may this story read,

To idle, silly, nattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed;

Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,

And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

TALES IN VERSE.

ANDREW LEE.
THE FISHER BOY.

Ah! Fisher Boy, I well know thee,
Brother thou art to Marion Lee!
What! didst thou think I knew thee not,
Couldst thou believe I had forgot?
For shame, for shame! what? I forget
The treasures of thy laden net!
And how we went one day together,
One day of showery summer weather,
Up the sea-shore, and for an hour
Stood sheltering from a pelting shower,
Within an upturned, ancient boat,
That had not been for years afloat!
No, no, my boy! I liked too well
The old sea-stories thou didst tell;
I liked too well thy rougish eye—
Thy merry speech—thy laughter sly;
Thy old sea-jacket, to forget,—
And then the treasures of thy net!

Oh, Andrew! thou hast not forgot,
I’m very sure that thou hast not,
All that we talked about that day,
Of famous countries far away!
Of Crusoes in their islands lone,
That never were, nor will be known,
And yet this very moment stand
Upon some point of mountain land,
Looking out o’er the desert sea,
If chance some coming ship there be.
Thou know’st we talked of this—thou know’st
We talked about a ship-boy’s ghost—
A wretched little orphan lad
Who served a master stern and bad,
And had no friend to take his part,
And perished of a broken heart;
Or by his master’s blows, some said,
For in the boat they found him dead,
And the boat’s side was stained and red!

And then we talked of many a heap
Of ancient treasure in the deep,
And the great serpent that some men,
In far-off seas, meet now and then;
Of grand sea-palaces that shine
Through forests of old coralline;
And wondrous creatures that may dwell
In many a crimson Indian shell;
Till I shook hands with thee, to see
Thou wast a poet—Andrew Lee!
Though thou wast guiltless all the time
Of putting any thoughts in rhyme;
Ah, little fisher boy! since then,
Ladies I’ve seen and learned men,
All clever, and some great and wise,
Who study all things, earth and skies,
Who much have seen, and much have read,
And famous things have writ and said;
But Andrew, never have I heard
One who so much my spirit stirred,
As he who sate with me an hour,
Screened from the pelting thunder-shower—
Now laughing in his merry wit;
Now talking in a serious fit,
In speech that poured like water free;
And that was thou—poor Andrew Lee!

Then shame to think I knew thee not—
Thou hast not, nor have I forgot;
And long ’twill be ere I forget
How thou took’st up thy laden net,
And gave me all that it contained,
Because I too thy heart had gained!

THE WANDERER’S RETURN.

There was a girl of fair Provence,
Fresh as a flower in May,
Who ’neath a spreading plane-tree sate,
Upon a summer-day,
And thus unto a mourner young,
In a low voice did say.

“And said I, I shall dance no more;
For though but young in years,
I knew what makes men wise and sad,—
Affection’s ceaseless fears,
And that dull aching of the heart,
Which is not eased by tears.

“But sorrow will not always last,
Heaven keeps our griefs in view;
Mine is a simple tale, dear friend,
Yet I will tell it you;
A simple tale of household grief
And household gladness too.

“My father in the battle died,
And left young children three;
My brother Marc, a noble lad,
With spirit bold and free,
More kind than common brothers are;
And Isabel and me.

“When Marc was sixteen summers old,
A tall youth and a strong,
Said he, ‘I am a worthless drone,
I do my mother wrong—
I’ll hence and win the bread I eat,
I’ve burdened you too long!’

“Oh! many tears my mother shed;
And earnestly did pray,
That he would still abide with us,
And be the house’s stay;
And be like morning to her eyes,
As he had been alway.

“But Marc he had a steadfast will,
A purpose fixed and good,
And calmly still and manfully
Her prayers he long withstood;
Until at length she gave consent,
Less willing than subdued.

“Twas on a shining morn in June,
He rose up to depart;
I dared not to my mother show
The sadness of my heart;
We said farewell, and yet farewell.
As if we could not part.

“There seemed a gloom within the house,
Although the bright sun shone;
There was a want within our hearts—
For he, the dearest one,
Had said farewell that morn of June,
And from our sight was gone.

“At length most doleful tidings came,
Sad tidings of dismay;
The plague was in the distant town,
And hundreds died each day;
We thought, in truth, poor Marc would die,
’Mid strangers far away.

“Weeks passed, and months, and not a word
Came from him to dispel
The almost certainty of death
Which o’er our spirits fell;
My mother drooped from fear, which grew
Each day more terrible.

“At length she said, ‘I’ll see my son
In life if yet he be,
Or else the turf that covers him!’
When sank she on her knee,
And clasped her hands in silent prayer
And wept most piteously.

“She went into the distant town,
Still asking everywhere
For tidings of her long lost son:—
In vain she made her prayer;
All were so full of woe themselves,
No pity had they to spare.

“To hear her tell that tale would move
The sternest heart to bleed;
She was a stranger in that place,
Yet none of her took heed;
And broken-hearted she came back,
A bowed and bruised reed.

“I marked her cheek yet paler grow,
More sunken yet her eye;
And to my soul assurance came
That she was near to die,
And hourly was my earnest prayer
Put up for her on high.

“Oh, what a woe seemed then to us,
The friendless orphan’s fate!
I dared not picture to my mind,
How drear, how desolate—
But, like a frightened thing, my heart
Shrunk from a pang so great!

“We rarely left my mother’s side,
’Twas joy to touch her hand,
And with unwearying, patient love,
Beside her couch to stand,
To wait on her, and every wish
Unspoke to understand.

“At length, oh joy beyond all joys!
When we believed him dead,
One calm and sunny afternoon,
As she lay on her bed
In quiet sleep, methought below
I heard my brother’s tread.

“I rose, and on the chamber stair,
I met himself—no other—
More beautiful than ere before,
My tall and manly brother!
I should have swooned, but for the thought
Of my poor sleeping mother.

“I cannot tell you how we met;—
I could not speak for weeping;
Nor had I words enough for joy,—
My heart within seemed leaping,
I should have screamed, but for the thought
Of her who there lay sleeping!

“That Marc returned in joy to us,
My mother dreamed e’en then,
And that prepared her for the bliss
Of meeting him again;—
To tell how great that bliss, would need
The tongue of wisest men!

“His lightest tone, his very step,
More power had they to win
My drooping mother back to life,
Than every medicine;
She rose again, like one revived
From death where he had been!

“The story that my brother told
Was long, and full of joy;
Scarce to the city had he come,
A poor and friendless boy,
Than he chanced to meet a merchant good,
From whom he asked employ.

“The merchant was a childless man;
And in my brother’s face,
Something he saw that moved his heart
To such unusual grace;
‘My son,’ said he, ‘is dead, wilt thou
Supply to me his place?’

“Even then, bound to the golden East,
His ship before him lay;
And this new bond of love was formed
There, standing on the quay;
My brother went on board with him,
And sailed that very day!

“The letter that he wrote to us,
It never reached our hand;
And while we drooped with anxious love,
He gained the Indian strand,
And saw a thousand wondrous things,
In that old, famous land.

“And many rich and curious things,
Bright bird and pearly shell;
He brought as if to realize
The tales he had to tell;
My mother smiled, and wept, and smiled,
And listened, and grew well.

“The merchant loved him more and more,
And did a father’s part;
And blessed my brother for the love
That healed his wounded heart;
He was a friend that heaven had sent
Kind mercy to impart.

“So do not droop, my gentle friend,
Though grief may burden sore;
Look up to God, for he hath love
And comfort in great store,
And ofttimes moveth human hearts
To bless us o’er and o’er.”

A SWINGING SONG.

Merry it is on a summer’s day,
All through the meadows to wend away;
To watch the brooks glide fast or slow,
And the little fish twinkle down below;
To hear the lark in the blue sky sing,
Oh, sure enough, ’tis a merry thing—But
’tis merrier far to swing—to swing!

Merry it is on a winter’s night,
To listen to tales of elf and sprite,
Of caves and castles so dim and old,—
The dismallest tales that ever were told;—
And then to laugh, and then to sing,
You may take my word is a merry thing,—
But ’tis merrier far to swing—to swing!

Down with the hoop upon the green;

Down with the ringing tambourine;—

Little heed we for this or for that;

Off with the bonnet, off with the hat!

Away we go like birds on the wing!

Higher yet! higher yet! “Now for the King!”

This is the way we swing—we swing!

Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is so light,

Mount up behind him—there, that is right!

Down bends the branch now;—swing him away;

Higher yet—higher yet—higher I say!

Oh, what a joy it is! Now let us sing

“A pear for the Queen—an apple for the King!”

And shake the old tree as we swing—we swing!

ELLEN MORE.

“Sweet Ellen More,” said I, “come forth

Beneath the sunny sky;

Why stand you musing all alone,

With such an anxious eye?

What is it, child, that aileth you?”

And thus she made reply:

“The fields are green, the skies are bright,
The leaves are on the tree,
And ’mong the sweet flowers of the thyme
Far flies the honey-bee;
And the lark hath sung since morning prime,
And merrily singeth he.

“Yet not for this shall I go forth
On the open hills to play,
There’s not a bird that singeth now,
Would tempt me hence to stray;—
I would not leave our cottage door
For a thousand flowers to-day!”

“And why?” said I, “what is there here
Beside your cottage door,
To make a merry girl like you
Thus idly stand to pore?
There is a mystery in this thing,—
Now tell me, Ellen More!”

The fair girl looked into my face,
With her dark and serious eye;
Silently awhile she looked,
Then heaved a quiet sigh;
And, with a half-reluctant will,
Again she made reply.

“Three years ago, unknown to us,
When nuts were on the tree,
Even in the pleasant harvest-time,
My brother went to sea—
Unknown to us, to sea he went,
And a woful house were we.

“That winter was a weary time,
A long, dark time of woe;
For we knew not in what ship he sailed
And vainly sought to know;
And day and night the loud, wild winds
Seemed evermore to blow.

“My mother lay upon her bed,
Her spirit sorely tossed
With dismal thoughts of storm and wreck
Upon some savage coast,
But morn and eve we prayed to Heaven
That he might not be lost.

“And when the pleasant spring came on,
And fields again were green,
He sent a letter full of news,
Of the wonders he had seen;
Praying us to think him dutiful
As he afore had been.

“The tidings that came next were from
A sailor old and gray,
Who saw his ship at anchor lie
In the harbor at Bombay;
But he said my brother pined for home,
And wished he were away.

“Again he wrote a letter long,
Without a word of gloom;
And soon, and very soon he said,
He should again come home;
I watched, as now, beside the door,
And yet he did not come.

“I watched and watched, but I knew not then
It would be all in vain;
For very sick he lay the while,
In a hospital in Spain.—
Ah, me! I fear my brother dear
Will ne’er come home again!

“And now I watch—for we have heard
That he is on his way,
And the letter said, in very truth,
He would be here to-day.
Oh! there’s no bird that singeth now
Could tempt me hence away!”

—That self-same eve I wandered down
Unto the busy strand,
Just as a little boat came in
With people to the land;
And ’mongst them was a sailor-boy
Who leaped upon the sand.

I knew him by his dark blue eyes,
And by his features fair;
And as he leaped ashore he sang
A simple Scottish air,—
“There’s nae place like our ain dear hame
To be met wi’ onywhere!”

A DAY OF DISASTERS.
A CONVERSATION BETWEEN PETER AND ZEDEKIAH.

Peter.—Zedekiah, come here!

Zedekiah.—Well now, what’s the matter?

Peter.—Look at my hat; the more I set it right, it only gets the flatter.

Zedekiah.—Why, Peter, what’s come to your hat? I never saw such a thing.

Peter.—I’ve had nothing but ill-luck to-day; I did this with the swing;

I’ve been tossed into the apple-tree just as if I was a ball,

And though I caught hold of a bough, I’ve had a terrible fall;

I’m sure I should have cracked my scull, had it not been for my hat.

You may see what a fall it was, for the crown’s quite flat;

And it never will take its shape again, do all that ever I may!

Zedekiah.—Never mind it, Peter! Put it on your head, and come along, I say!

Peter.—Nay, I shall not. I shall sit down under this tree;

I’ve had nothing but ill-luck to-day. Come, sit down by me,

And I’ll tell you all, Zedekiah, for I feel quite forlorn;

Oh dear! oh dear! I’m lamed now!—I’ve sate down upon a thorn!

Zedekiah.—Goodness’ sake! Peter be still—what a terrible bellow—

One would think you’d sate on a hornet’s nest; sit down, my good fellow.

Peter.—I’ll be sure there are no more thorns here, before I set down;

Pretty well of one thorn at a time, Master Zedekiah Brown!

There, now, I think this seat is safe and easy—so now you must know

I was fast asleep at breakfast time; and you’ll always find it so,

That if you begin a day ill, it will be ill all the day.

Well, when I woke, the breakfast-things were clattering all away:

And I know they had eggs and fowl, and all sort of good things;

But then none may partake who are in bed when the morning bell rings;

So, sadly vexed as I was, I rolled myself round in bed,

And, “as breakfast is over, I’ll not hurry myself,” I said,

So I just got into a nice little doze, when in came my mother;

And “for shame, Peter,” she said, “to be a-bed now! well, you can’t go with your brother!”

Then out of the door she went, without another word;

And just then a sound of wheels, and of pawing horses’ hoofs I heard;

So I jumped up to the window to see what it was, and I declare

There was a grand party of fine folks setting off somewhere:

There was my brother, mounted on the pony so sleek and brown;

And Bell in her white frock, and my mother in her satin gown;

And my father in his best, and two gentlemen beside;

And I had never heard a word about it, either of drive or ride!

I really think it was very queer of them to set off in that way—

If I’d only known over-night, I’d have been up by break of day!

As you may think, I was sadly vexed, but I did not choose to show it,

So I whistled as I came down stairs, that the servants might not know it;

Then I went into the yard, and called the dog by his name,

For I thought if they were gone, he and I might have a good game;

But I called and called, and there was no dog either in this place or th’ other;

And Thomas said, “Master Peter, Neptune’s gone with your brother.”

Well, as there was no dog, I went to look for the fox,

And sure enough the chain was broke, and there was no creature in the box;

But where the fellow had gone nobody could say,

He had broken loose himself, I suppose, and so had slipped away;

I would give anything I have but to find the fox again—

And was it not provoking, Zedekiah, to lose him just then?

Zedekiah.—Provoking enough! Well, Peter, and what happened next?

Peter.—Why, when I think of it now, it makes me quite vexed;

I went into the garden, just to look about

To see, if the green peas were ready, or the scarlet-lychnis come out;

And there, what should I clap my eyes on but the old sow,

And seven little pigs, making a pretty row!

And of all places in the world, as if for very spite,

They had gone into my garden, and spoiled and ruined it quite!

The old sow, she had grubbed up my rosemary and old-man by the root,

And my phlox and my sunflowers, and my hollyhocks that were as black as soot;

And every flower that I set store on was ruined for ever;

I never was so mortified in all my life—never!

Zedekiah.—You sent them off, I should think, with a famous swither!

Peter.—Grunting and tumbling one over the other, I cared not whither.

Well, as I was just then standing, grieving over the ruin,

I heard Thomas call, “Master Peter, come and see what the rats have been doing—

They’ve eaten all the guinea-pigs’ heads off!”

Zedekiah.—Oh, Peter, was it true?

Peter.—Away I ran, not knowing what in the world to do!—

And there—I declare it makes me quite shudder to the bone—

Lay all my pretty little guinea-pigs as dead as a stone!

“It’s no matter of use,” says Thomas, “setting traps; for you see

They no more care for a trap, than I do for a pea;

I’ll lay my life on’t, there are twenty rats now down in that hole,

And we can no more reach ’em, than an underground mole!”

I declare, Zedekiah, I never passed such a day before—not I;

It makes me quite low-spirited, till I’m ready to cry.

All those pretty guinea-pigs! and I’ve nothing left at all,

Only the hawk, and I’ve just set his cage on the wall.

Zedekiah.—Hush! hush, now! for Thomas is saying something there,

Peter.—What d’ye say, Thomas?

Thomas.—The hawk’s soaring in the air! The cage-door was open, and he’s flown clean away!

Peter.—There now, Zedekiah, is it not an unfortunate day?

I’ve lost all my favourites—I’ve nothing left at all,

And my garden is spoiled, and I’ve had such a dreadful fall!

I wish I had been up this morning as early as the sun,

And then I should have gone to Canonley, nor have had all this mischief done!

I’m sure its quite enough to make me cry for a year—

Let’s go into the house, Zedekiah; what’s the use of sitting here?

THE YOUNG MOURNER.

Leaving her sports, in pensive tone,
’Twas thus a fair young mourner said,
“How sad we are now we’re alone,—
I wish my mother were not dead!

“I can remember she was fair;
And how she kindly looked and smiled,
When she would fondly stroke my hair,
And call me her beloved child.

“Before my mother went away,
You never sighed as now you do;
You used to join us at our play,
And be our merriest playmate too.

“Father, I can remember when
I first observed her sunken eye,
And her pale, hollow cheek; and then
I told my brother she would die!

“And the next morn they did not speak,
But led us to her silent bed;
They bade us kiss her icy cheek,
And told us she indeed was dead!

“Oh, then I thought how she was kind,

My own beloved and gentle mother!

And calling all I knew to mind,

I thought there ne’er was such another!

“Poor little Charles, and I! that day
We sate within our silent room;
But we could neither read nor play,—
The very walls seemed full of gloom.

“I wish my mother had not died,

We never have been glad since then!

They say, and is it true,” she cried,

“That she can never come again?”

The father checked his tears, and thus
He spake, “My child, they do not err,
Who say she cannot come to us;
But you and I may go to her.

“Remember your dear mother still,
And the pure precepts she has given;
Like her, be humble, free from ill,
And you shall see her face in heaven!”

THE SOLDIER’S STORY.

“Heaven bless the boys!” the old man said,
“I hear their distant drumming,—
Young Arthur Bruce is at their head,
And down the street they’re coming.

“And a very noble standard too
He carries in the van;
By the faith of an old soldier, he
Is born to make a man!”

A glow of pride passed o’er his cheek,

A tear came to his eye;

“Hurra, hurra! my gallant men!”

Cried he, as they came nigh.

“It seems to me but yesterday
Since I was one like ye,
And now my years are seventy-two,—
Come here, and talk with me!”

They made a halt, those merry boys,
Before the aged man;
And “tell us now some story wild,”
Young Arthur Bruce began;

“Of battle and of victory

Tell us some stirring thing!”

The old man raised his arm aloft,

And cried, “God save the King!

“A soldier’s is a life of fame,
A life that hath its meed—
They write his wars in printed books,
That every man may read.

“And if you’d hear a story wild,
Of war and battle done,
I am the man to tell such tales,
And you shall now have one.

“In every quarter of the globe
I’ve fought—by sea, by land;
And scarce for five and fifty years
Was the musket from my hand.

“But the bloodiest wars, and fiercest too,
That were waged on any shore,
Were those in which my strength were spent,
In the country of Mysore.

“And oh! what a fearful, deadly clime
Is that of the Indian land,
Where the burning sun shines fiercely down
On the hot and fiery sand!

“The life of man seems little worth,
And his arm hath little power
His very soul within him dies,
As dies a broken flower.

“Yet spite of this, was India made
As for a kingly throne;
There gold is plentiful as dust,
As sand the diamond stone;

“And like a temple is each house,
Silk-curtained from the sun;
And every man has twenty slaves,
Who at his bidding run.

“He rides on the lordly elephant,
In solemn pomp;—and there
They hunt the gold-striped tiger,
As here they hunt the hare.

“Yet it is a dreadful clime! and we
Up in the country far
Were sent,—we were two thousand men,
In a disastrous war.

“The soldiers died in the companies
As if the plague had been;
And soon in every twenty men,
The dead were seventeen.

“We went to storm a fort of mud—
And yet the place was strong—
Three thousand men were guarding it,
And they had kept it long.

“We were in all three hundred souls,
Feeble and worn and wan;
Like walking spectres of the tomb,
Was every living man.

“Yet Arthur Bruce, now standing there,
With the ensign of his band,
Reminds me of a gallant youth,
Who fought at my right hand.

“Scarce five and twenty years of age,
And feeble as the rest,
Yet with the bearing of a king,
That noble soul expressed.

“But a silent grief was in his eye,
And oft his noble frame
Shook like a quivering aspen leaf,
And his colour went and came.

“He marched by my side for seven days,
Most patient of our band;
And night and day he ever kept
Our standard in his hand.

“They fought with us like tigers,
Before that fort of mud;
And all around the burning sands
Were as a marsh with blood.

“We watched that young man,—he to us
Was as a kindling hope;
We saw him pressing on and on,
Bearing the standard up.

“At length it for a moment veered—
A ball had struck his hand,
But he seized the banner with his left,
Without a moment’s stand.

“He mounted upward to the wall;
He waved the standard high,—
But then another smote him!—
And the captain standing by

“Said, ‘Of this gallant youth take care,

He hath won for us the day!’

I and my comrades took him up,

And bore him thence away.

“There was no tree about the place,
So ’neath the fortress shade
We carried him, and carefully
Upon the red sand laid.

“I took the feather from my cap,
To fan his burning cheek;
I gave him water, drop by drop,
And prayed that he would speak.

“At length he said, ‘mine hour is come!

My soldier-name is bright;

But a pang there is within my soul,

That hath wrung me day and night:

“‘I left my mother’s home without
Her blessing;—she doth mourn,
Doth weep for me with bitter tears,—
I never can return!

“‘This bowed my eagle-spirit down,
This robbed mine eye of rest;
I left her widowed and alone:—
Oh that I had been blessed!’

“No more he said,—he closed his eyes.

And yet he died not then;

He lived till the morrow morning came,

But he never spoke again.”

This tale the veteran soldier told,
Upon a summer’s day;—
The boys came merrily down the street,
But they all went sad away.

THE CHILD’S LAMENT.

I like it not—this noisy street
I never liked, nor can I now—
I love to feel the pleasant breeze
On the free hills, and see the trees,
With birds upon the bough!

Oh, I remember long ago,—
So long ago, ’tis like a dream—
My home was on a green-hill side,
By flowery meadows, still and wide,
’Mong trees, and by a stream.

Three happy brothers I had then,

My merry playmates every day—

I’ve looked and looked through street and square,

But never chanced I, anywhere,

To see such boys as they.

We all had gardens of our own—
Four little gardens in a row,—
And there we set our twining peas;
And rows of cress; and real trees,
And real flowers to grow.

My father I remember too,
And even now his face can see;
And the gray horse he used to ride,
And the old dog that at his side
Went barking joyfully!

He used to fly my brothers’ kites,
And build them up a man of snow,
And sail their boats, and with them race;
And carry me from place to place;
Just as I liked to go.

I’m sure he was a pleasant man,
And people must have loved him well!
Oh, I remember that sad day
When they bore him in a hearse away,
And tolled his funeral bell!

Thy mother comes each night to kiss
Thee, in thy little quiet bed—
So came my mother years ago;
And I loved her—oh! I loved her so,
’Twas joy to hear her tread!

It must be many, many years
Since then, and yet I can recall
Her very tone—her look—her dress,
Her pleasant smile and gentleness,
That had kind words for all.

She told us tales, she sang us songs,
And in our pastimes took delight,
And joined us in our summer glee,
And sat with us beneath the tree!
Nor wearied of our company,
Whole days, from morn till night.

Alas! I know that she is dead,
And in the cold, cold grave is hid;
I saw her in her coffin lie,
With the grim mourners standing by;
And silent people solemnly
Closed down the coffin lid.

My brothers were not there—ah me!
I know not where they went; some said
With a rich man beyond the sea
That they were dwelling pleasantly—
And some that they were dead.

I cannot think that it is so,
I never saw them pale and thin,
And the last time their voice I heard,
Merry were they as a summer-bird,
Singing its bowers within.

I wish that I could see their faces,
Or know at least that they were near;
Ah! gladly would I cross the sea,
So that with them I might but be,
For now my days pass wearily,
And all are strangers here.

A DAY OF HARD WORK.
A CONVERSATION BETWEEN HARRY AND KITTY.

Kitty.—Well, now you’ve been running about so, pray can’t you sit still?

I want to have some talk with you, and I certainly will:

I’ve got all this unpicking to do, for while I talk I must work;

You boys can run about idling—I sit stitching like a Turk,

Come, now tell me, can’t you, something about the farm-yard?

How many eggs has the turkey laid—and is that muddy place dry and hard?

Come, tell me in a minute, I haven’t patience to wait;

And till you begin, sir, there’s a thimble-pie for you on the top of your pate.

Harry.—Oh Kitty! you’ve knocked me so, I’ll tell my mother, that I will!

If you do so, miss, nobody will like you, so you’d better be still.

Kitty.—Well, then, tell me something! why should I be still and nobody talking?

Harry.—Oh! I’m tired with this running about, and this riding, and this walking;

I wish there was no such thing as running or walking at all;

And I wish every horse were in the fields, or else tied up in its stall!

What’s your work, Kitty? sitting still in the house at ease;

You’ve nothing to do but to sit down, and get up again, just as you please;

And yet you talk of your work, as if ’twas the hardest that e’er was done,

Why compare it with mine, child, and I’m sure it’s nothing but fun!

Kitty.—Child! I’m no more child than you; I’m but younger by a year,

I desire you to speak respectfully to me, now, sir,—do you hear?

Harry.—Yes, yes, I hear! But I really am so tired, as I was just now saying;

I wish you’d get your work done, and let’s begin playing!

You can’t believe, I’m sure, all the work I’ve done this day—

I’ve weeded two carrot beds, and the onions— and carried all the weeds away;

And I’ve been down to Thomas Jackson’s to tell him to get the horse shod;

And in coming back there was a great, big, rusty nail, upon which I trod,

And it lamed me so, I don’t believe I shall walk for a week,

At least as I ought to do, for my ancle has quite a creak!

Kitty.—Oh dear, let me look at it! Why, I’m sure it is quite shocking—

See, there’s a hole as large as my thimble in the ancle of your stocking!

Harry.—Oh no, ’tis the other foot—that I tore with a bramble;

And that reminds me, Jack Smith and I had such a terrible scramble!

We were catching the pony that I might ride down to the mill,

To bid him bring the flour home, for I declare he has it still;

And we shan’t have a bit of white bread in the house, nor a pudding, nor a pie,

If he don’t bring it home—every one says he’s shamefully idle, and so do I.

Well, but I haven’t told you after all, what a deal of work I’ve done;

And I’m sure if you knew what weeding was, you would not call it fun;

It makes one’s back ache so, stooping to weed all day,

I shall be famously glad when it’s done!

Kitty.—But are you quite ready for play?

I’ve but a little bit to do—I shall have done in half a quarter of an hour;

And as you’ve nothing to do, just run and see if that lavender’s in flower—

There’s a good Harry, do; I’ll do seven times as much for you;

You know I sewed, yesterday, that old clasp in your shoe.

Harry.—I’d go, if I thought you’d have done by the time I come back:

Kitty.—To be sure I shall!—I wish you would not waste so much time with your clack!

Harry.—Well, just let me pull up my shoe, and put by this peacock’s feather,

Kitty.—Nay, you may as well stay now; I’ve just done, and we’ll both go together;

For I want to show you something like a magpie’s nest up in a tree,

Only I don’t think it is a magpie’s nest, and I can’t think what it can be;

And it is just by the lavender bush, and ’twill save us going there twice:—

There, now I’ve done my work! and I shall be ready in a trice!

Harry.—Well, then let us begone; we shall have two whole hours for play;

I didn’t think we should have had so much time, and I’ been working all day!

THE OLD MAN AND THE CARRION CROW.

There was a man and his name was Jack,
Crabbed and lean, and his looks were black—
His temper was sour, his thoughts were bad;
His heart was hard when he was a lad.
And now he followed a dismal trade,
Old horses he bought and killed and flayed,
Their flesh he sold for the dogs to eat;
You would not have liked this man to meet.
He lived in a low mud-house on a moor,
Without any garden before the door.

There was one little hovel behind, that stood,

Where he used to do his work of blood;

I never could bear to see the place,

It was stained and darkened with many a trace;

A trace of what I will not tell—

And then there was such an unchristian smell!

Now this old man did come and go,
Through the wood that grew in the dell below;
It was scant a mile from his own door-stone,
Darksome and dense, and overgrown;
And down in the drearest nook of the wood,
A tall and splintered fir-tree stood;
Half-way up, where the boughs outspread,
A carrion crow his nest had made,
Of sticks and reeds in the dark fir-tree,
Where lay his mate and his nestlings three;
And whenever he saw the man come by,
“Dead horse! dead horse!” he was sure to cry,
“Croak, croak!” if he went or came,
The cry of the crow was just the same,
Jack looked up as grim as could be,

And says, “what’s my trade to the like of thee!”

“Dead horse! dead horse! croak, croak! croak, croak!”

As plain as words to his ear it spoke.
Old Jack stooped down and picked up a stone,
A stout, thick stick, and dry cow’s bone,
And one and the other all three did throw,
So angry was he, at the carrion crow;

But none of the three reached him or his nest,

Where his three young crows lay warm at rest;
And “Croak, croak! dead horse! croak, croak!”
In his solemn way again he spoke;
Old Jack was angry as he could be,

And says he, “On the morrow, I’ll fell thy tree,—

I’ll teach thee, old fellow, to rail at me!”

As soon as t’was light, if there you had been,

Old Jack at his work you might have seen;

I would you’d been there to see old Jack,

And to hear the strokes as they came “thwack! thwack!”

And then you’d have seen how the croaking bird

Flew round as the axe’s stroke he heard,
Flew round as he saw the shaking blow,
That came to his nest from the root below,
One after the other, stroke upon stroke;

“Thwack! thwack!” said the axe, said the crow, “Croak! croak!”

Old Jack looked up with a leer in his eye,

And “I’ll hew it down!” says he, “by and bye!

I’ll teach thee to rail, my old fellow, at me!”

So he spit on his hands, and says, “have at the tree!”

“Thwack!” says the axe, as the bark it clove;
“Thwack!” as into the wood it drove;
“Croak!” says the crow in a great dismay,
“Croak!” as he slowly flew away.

Flap, flap went his wings over hedge and ditch,

Till he came to a field of burning twitch;
The boy with a lighted lantern there,
As he stood on the furrow brown and bare,
He saw the old crow hop hither and thither,
Then fly with a burning sod somewhither.

Away flew the crow to the house on the moor,
A poor, old horse was tied to the door;
The burning sod on the roof he dropped,
Then upon the chimney stone he hopped,
And down he peeped that he might see,
How many there were in family—
There was a mother and children three.
“Croak! croak!” the old crow did say.
As from the roof he flew away,
As he flew away to the tree, to watch
The burning sod and the dry grey thatch,
He stayed not long till he saw it smoke,

Then he flapped his wings, and cried, “Croak, croak!”

Away to the wood again, flew he,

And soon he espied the slanting tree,

And Jack, who stood laughing with all his might,

His axe in his hand—he laughed for spite;
In triumph he laughed, and took up a stone,
And hammered his axe-head faster on;
“Croak, croak!” came the carrion crow,
Flapping his wings with a motion slow;
“Thwack, thwack!” the spiteful man,
When he heard his cry, with his axe began;
“Thwack, thwack!” stroke upon stroke;
The crow flew by with a “Croak, croak!”
With a “Croak, croak!” again he came,
Just as the house burst into flame.

With a splitting crash, and a crackling sound,

Down came the tree unto the ground;
The old’s crow’s nest afar was swung;
And the young ones here and there were flung;
And just at that moment came up a cry,
“Oh Jack, make haste, or else we die;
The house is on fire, consuming all,

Make haste, make haste, ere the roof tree fall!”

The young crows every one were dead;
But the old crow croaked above his head;
And the mother-crow on Jack she springs,
And flaps in his face her great, black wings;
And all the while he hears a wail,
That turns his cheek from red to pale—
’Twas wife and children standing there
Wringing their hands and tearing their hair!
“Oh woe, our house is burnt to cinder,
Bedding and clothes all turned to tinder;
Down to the very hearth-stone clean,
Such a dismal ruin ne’er was seen:
What shall we do?—where must we go?”
“Croak, croak!” says the carrion crow.

Now ye who read this story through,
Heed well the moral—’tis for you;—
Strife brings forth strife; be meek and kind
See all things with a loving mind;
Nor e’er by passion be misled,—
Jack by himself was punished.

THE LITTLE MARINER.

Ay, sitting on your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee,

How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea!

My father was a mariner, and from my earliest years,

I can remember, night and day, my mother’s prayers and tears.

I can remember how she sighed when blew the stormy gale;

And how for days she stood to watch the long-expected sail:

Hers was a silent, patient grief; but fears and long delay,

And wakeful nights and anxious days were wearing her away.

And when the gusty winds were loud, and autumn leaves were red,

I watched, with heavy heart, beside my mother’s dying bed;

Just when her voice was feeblest, the neighbors came to say,

The ship was hailed an hour before, and then was in the bay.

Alas! too late the ship returned, too late her life to save;

My father closed her dying eyes, and laid her in the grave.

He was a man of ardent hopes, who never knew dismay;

And, spite of grief, the winter time wore cheerfully away.

He had crossed the equinoctial line, full seven times or more,

And sailing northward, had been wrecked on icy Labrador:

He knew the Spicy-isles, every one, where the clove and nutmeg grow,

And the aloe towers a stately tree with clustering bells of snow.

He had gone the length of Hindostan, down Ganges’ holy flood;

Through Persia, where the peacock broods a wild bird of the wood;

And, in the forests of the West, had seen the red-deer chased,

And dwelt beneath the piny woods, a hunter of the waste.

Oh! pleasant were the tales he told of lands so strange and new;

And, in my ignorance I vowed, I’d be a sailor too:

My father heard my vow with joy,—so in the early May,

We went on board a merchant-man, bound for Honduras’ bay.

Right merrily, right merrily, we sailed before the wind,

With a briskly heaving sea before, and the landsman’s cheer behind.

There was joy for me in every league, delight on every strand,

And I sate for days on the high fore-top, on the long look-out for land.

There was joy for me in the nightly watch, on the burning Tropic seas,

To mark the waves, like living fires, leap up to the freshening breeze.

Right merrily, right merrily, our gallant ship went free,

Until we neared the rocky shoals within the Western sea.

Yet still none thought of danger near, till in the silent night,

The helmsman gave the dreadful word of “breakers to the right!”

The moment that his voice was heard, was felt the awful shock;

The ship sprang forward with a bound, and struck upon a rock.

“All hands aloft!” our captain cried;—in terror and dismay

They threw the cargo overboard, and cut the masts away;

’Twas all in vain, ’twas all in vain! the sea rushed o’er the deck,

And shattered with the beating surf, down went the parting wreck.

The moment that the wreck went down, my father seized me fast,

And leaping ’mid the thundering waves, seized on the broken mast:

I know not how he bore me up, my senses seemed to swim,

A shuddering horror chilled my brain, and stiffened every limb.

What next I knew, was how at morn, on a bleak barren shore,

Out of a hundred mariners, were living only four.

I looked around, like one who wakes from dreams of fierce alarm,

And round my body still I felt, firm locked, my father’s arm.

And with a rigid, dying grasp, he closely held me fast,

Even as he held me when he seized, at midnight on the mast.

With humbled hearts and streaming eyes, down knelt the little band,

Praying Him who had preserved their lives, to lend his guiding hand.

And day by day, though burning thirst and pining hunger came,

His mercy, through our misery, preserved each drooping frame:

And after months of weary woe, sickness, and travel sore,

He sent the blessed English ship that took us from that shore.

And now, without a home or friend, I wander far and near,

And tell my miserable tale to all who lend an ear.

Thus sitting by your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee,

How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea!

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB OF THE COTTAGE.

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, ’tis full of grief and pain,

It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain,

It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain!

The children of the rich man have not their bread to win:

They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin;

Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin.

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear;

In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share;

They walk among life’s pleasant ways, and never know a care.

The children of the poor man—though they be young, each one,

Early in the morning they rise up before the rising sun,

And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task is done.

Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride,—

The sunshine of the summer’s day, the flowers on the highway side,

Or their own free companionship, on the heathy common wide.

Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three;

But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty:—

It may not have one thing to love, how small soe’er it be.

A thousand flocks were on the hills—a thousand flocks, and more,—

Feeding in sunshine pleasantly,—they were the rich man’s store;

There was the while, one little lamb, beside a cottage door;

A little lamb that did lie down with the children ’neath the tree;

That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled on their knee;

That had a place within their hearts, as one of the family.

But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed,

The father laboured all day long, that his children might be fed;

And, one by one, their household things, were sold to buy them bread.

That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,

Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued;

“What is the creature’s life to us?” said he, “’twill buy us food!

“Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head

Each does his small craft mournfully!—the hungry must be fed;

And that which has a price to bring, must go, to buy us bread!”

It went—oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring,

But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,

With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing!

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,

Most sorrowful to hear them plead for their pet so piteously;—

“Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?

“Let’s take him to the broad, green hills,” in his impotent despair,

Said one strong boy, “let’s take him off, the hills are wide and fair;

I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there!”

’Twas vain!—they took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down,

With a strong cord they tied him fast;—and o’er the common brown,

And o’er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.

The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow

From everything about the house a mournful thought did borrow;

The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow!—

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, ’tis full of grief and pain—

It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain;

It maketh even the little child, with heavy sighs complain!

AMERICA.
A STORY OF THE INDIAN WAR.

“I was at William Penn’s country-house, called Pensbury, in Pennsylvania, where I staid some days. Much of my time I spent in seeing William Penn, and many of the chief men among the Indians, in council concerning their former covenant, now renewed on his going away for England. To pass by several particulars, I may mention the following: ‘They never broke covenant with any people,’ said one of their great chiefs; and, smiting his hand upon his head, he said, ‘they made not their covenants there, but here,’ said he, smiting on his breast three times.

“I, being walking in the woods, espied several wigwams, and drew towards them. The love of God filled my heart; and I felt it right to look for an interpreter, which I did. Then I signified that I was come from a far country with a message from the Great Spirit (as they call God,) and my message was to endeavour to persuade them that they should not be drunkards, nor steal, nor kill one another, nor fight, nor put away their wives for small faults; for if they did these things, the Great Spirit would be angry with them, and would not prosper them, but bring trouble on them. On the contrary, if they were careful to refrain from these evils, then would he love them, and prosper them, and speak peace to them. And when the interpreter expressed these things to them in their own language, they wept till tears ran down their naked bodies.

“They manifested much love towards me in their way, as they did mostly to upright, plain-dealing Friends; and whilst I was amongst them my spirit was very easy: nor did I feel that power of darkness to oppress me, as I had done in many places amongst people calling themselves Christians.”—Journal of John Richardson, one of the early Friends.

They read of rapine, war, and woe,
A party by an English fire,—
Of Indian warfare in the wood,
Of stern and ruthless ire.

They read of torture worse than death—
Of treachery dark—of natures base—
Of women savage as the beast—
Of the red Indian race.

“Hold!” said the matron of the hearth,
A woman beautiful in age;
“And let me of the Indian speak;
Close, close that faithless page!

“My father was the youngest born
In an old rural English hall;
The youngest out of five stout sons,
With patrimony small.

“His boyhood was in greenwood spent;
His youth was all a sylvan dream;
He tracked the game upon the hills;
He angled in the stream.

“Quiet was he, and well content,
With naught to fret, and none to chide;
For all that his young heart desired
The woods and streams supplied.

“Small knowledge had a youth so trained,
College or school ne’er knew his face;
And yet as he grew up, he grew
Superior to his race.

“His brethren were of sordid sort,
Men with coarse minds, and without range;
He grew adventurous and bold,
Inquisitive of change.

“And, as he grew, he took to books,
And read what’er the hall supplied;
Histories of admirals, voyages old,
And travels far and wide.

“He read of settlers, who went forth
To the far west, and pitched their tent
Within the woods, and grew, ere long,
To a great, prosperous settlement.

“He read of the bold lives they led,
Full of adventure, hardy, free;
Of the wild creatures they pursued,
Of game in every tree.

“And how the Indians, quaintly gay,
Came down in wampum-belt and feather,
To welcome them with courteous grace;
How they and the free forest race
Hunted and dwelt together.

“And how they and their chosen mates

Led lives so sweet and primitive:

Oh! in such land, with one dear heart,

What joy it were to live!

“So thought he, and such life it were
As suited well his turn of mind;
For what within his father’s house
Was there to lure or bind?

“Four needy brothers, coarse and dull;
A patrimony, quite outspent;
A mother, long since in her grave;
A father, weak and indolent!

“At twenty he had ta’en a mate,
A creature gentle, kind, and fair;
Poor, like himself, but well content
The forest-life to share.

“She left an old white-headed sire;
A mother loving, thoughtful, good;
She left a home of love, to live
For him, within the wood.

“And that old couple did provide,
Out of their need, for many a want
Else unforseen; their daughter’s dower
In gifts of love, not scant.

“His father with cold scorn received
So dowered a daughter, without name;
Nor could his purposed exile win
Either assent or blame.

“All was a chill of indifference;
And from his father’s gate he went,
As from a place where none for him
Had kindred sentiment.

“And in the westren world they dwelt;
Life, like a joyous summer morn,
Each hope fulfilled; and in the wild
To them were children born.

“All that his youth had dreamed he found
In that life’s freshness; peril strange;
Adventure; freedom; sylvan wealth;
And ceaseless, blameless change.

“And there he, and his heart’s true mate,
Essay’d and found how sweet to live,
’Mid nature’s store, with health and love,
That life so primitive!

“But that sweet life came to an end.—
As falls the golden-eared corn
Before the sickle, earthly bliss
In human hearts is shorn.

“Sickness—bereavement—widowhood—
Oh, these three awful words embrace
A weight of mortal woe that fell
Upon our sylvan dwelling place!

“It matters not to tell of pangs,
Of the heart broken, the bereft;
I will pass over death and tears,
I will pass on to other years,
When only two were left!

“I and a sister; long had passed
The anguish of that time, and we
Were living in a home of love,
Though in a stranger’s family.

“Still in the wilderness we dwelt,
And were grown up towards womanhood;
When our sweet life of peace was stirred
By tales of civil feud.

“By rumors of approaching war,
Of battle done, of armed bands;
Of horrid deeds of blood and fire,
Achieved by Indian hands.

“We heard it first with disbelief:

And long time after, when had spread

Wild war throughout the land, we dwelt

All unassailed by dread.

“For they with whom our lot was cast,
Were people of that Christian creed
Who will not fight, but trust in God
For help in time of need.

“The forest round was like a camp,
And men were armed day and night;
And every morning brought fresh news
To heighten their affright.

“Through the green forest rose the smoke
Of places burn’d the night before;
And from their victims, the red scalp
The excited Indian tore.

“This was around us, yet we dwelt
In peace upon the forest bound;
Without defence, without annoy,
The Indian camp’d all round.

“The door was never barr’d by night,
The door was never closed by day;
And there the Indians came and went,
As they had done alway.

“For ‘these of Onas are the sons,’

Said they, ‘the upright peaceful men!’

Nor was harm done to those who held

The faith of William Penn.

“But I this while thought less of peace,
Than of the camp and battle stir;
For I had given my young heart’s love
Unto a British officer.

“Near us, within the forest-fort,
He lay, the leader of a band
Of fierce young spirits, sworn to sweep
The Indian from the land—

“The native Indian from his woods—
I deem’d it cowardly and base;
And, with a righteous zeal I pled
For the free forest-race.

“But he, to whom I pled, preferr’d
Sweet pleading of another sort;
And we met ever ’neath the wood
Outside the forest-fort.

“The Indian passed us in the wood,
Or glared upon us from the brake;
But he, disguised, with me was safe,
For Father Onas’ sake.

“At length the crisis of the war
Approach’d, and he, my soul’s beloved,
With his hot band, impatient grown,
Yet further west removed.

“There he was taken by the foe,
Ambush’d like tigers ’mid the trees:
You know what death severe and dread
The Indian to his foe decrees

“A death of torture and of fire—
Protracted death; I knew too well,
Outraged and anger’d, as of late
Had been the Indian spirit, fell
Would be their vengeance, and, to him,
Their hate implacable.

“When first to me his fate was told,
I stood amazed, confounded, dumb;
Then wildly wept and wrung my hands,
By anguish overcome.

“‘Wait, wait!’ the peaceful people said;
‘Be still and wait, the Lord is good!’
But when they bade me trust and wait,
I went forth in my anguish great,
To hide me in the wood.

“I had no fear; the Indian race
To me were as my early kin:
And then the thought came to my brain,
To go forth, and from death and pain,
My best beloved to win.

“With me my fair, young sister went,

Long journeying on through wood and swamp:

Three long days’ travel, ere we came

To the great Indian camp.

“We saw the Indians as we went,
Hid ’mong the grass with tiger ken;
But we were safe, they would not harm
The daughters of the peaceful men.

“In thickets of the woods at length
We came to a savannah green;
And there, beneath the open day,
The Indian camp was seen.

“I turned me from that scene of war,
And from the solemn council-talk,
Where stood the warriors, stern, and cold,
War-crested, and with bearing bold,
Listening unto a sachem old,
Who held aloft a tomahawk.

“I knew they were athirst for blood;
That they had pity none to spare;—
Besides, bound to a tree, I saw
An English captive there.

“I saw his war plume, soil’d and torn;
I knew that he was doom’d to die;
Pale, wounded, feeble, there he stood;
The ground was crimson’d with his blood;
Yet stood he as a soldier should—
Erect, with calm, determined eye.

“I would not he should see me then,—
The sight his courage had betray’d;
Therefore unseen we stepp’d aside,
Into the forest-glade.

“An Indian woman there was set,
We knew her, and to her were known;
The wife of a great chief was she,
Deck’d in her Indian bravery;
Yet there she sat alone.

“‘Woman,’ I said, the silence breaking,
‘Thou know’st us—know’st that we belong
To peaceful people, who have ne’er
Done to thy nation wrong.

‘Thou know’st that ye have dwelt with us,
As friend upon the hearth of friend;—
When have ye ask’d and been denied,
That this good faith should end?’

“The Indian did not raise her head,
As she replied in accents low,
‘Why come ye hither unto me,
When I am sitting in my woe?’

“‘Woman,’ I said, ‘I ask for life—
For life, which in your hands doth lie;
Go bid thy tribe release the bands
Of him now doomed to die!

“‘Go, Indian woman, and do this,

For thou art mighty with thy race!’

The Indian made me no reply,

But looked into my face.

“‘Mighty! said’st thou?’ at length she spoke,
‘Mighty!—to one no longer wife!
The hatchet and the tomahawk
Lie by me on the forest-walk;
The great chief in my hut lies low,
The ruthless pale-face struck the blow—
And yet thou com’st to me for life!’

“‘By that chief’s memory,’ I cried,
‘Whom ne’er the peaceful men gainsaid;
To whom the peaceful men were dear;
Rise, though thou stricken be, and aid!

“‘Crave not REVENGE,’ and with my words
My tears flow’d fast, though hers were dry;
‘But look upon this pictured face,
And say if such a one shall die!’

“Long looked she on the pictured face,
Which from my neck I took and gave;
Long looked she ere a word was spoke,
And then she slowly silence broke,
‘The hatchet is not buried yet;
The tomahawk with blood is wet;
And the great chief is in his grave!

“‘Yet for the father Onas’ sake—
For their sakes who no blood have shed,
We will not by his sons be blamed
For taking life which they have claimed;—
The red man can avenge his dead!’

“So saying, with her broken heart—
She went forth to the council-stone;
And when the captive was brought out,
’Mid savage war-cry, taunt and shout,
She stepp’d into the fierce array,
As the bereaved Indian may,
And claim’d the victim for her own.

“He was restored. What need of more
To tell the joy that thence ensued!
But sickness followed long and sore,
And he for a twelvemonth or more,
With our good, peaceful friends abode.

“But we, two plighted hearts, were wed;
A merry marriage ye may wis;—
And guess ye me a happy life—
In England here, an honoured wife,—
Sweet friends, ye have not guess’d amiss!

“But never more let it be said,
The red man is of nature base;
Nor let the crimes that have been taught,
Be by the crafty teachers brought
As blame against the Indian race!”

MOURNING ON EARTH.

She lay down in her poverty,
Toil-stricken, though so young;
And the words of human sorrow
Fell trembling from her tongue.

There were palace-houses round her;
And pomp and pride swept by
The walls of that poor chamber,
Where she lay down to die.

Two were abiding with her,
The lowly of the earth,—
Her feeble, weeping sister,
And she who gave her birth.

She lay down in her poverty,
Toil-stricken, though so young;
And the words of human sorrow
Fell from her trembling tongue.

“Oh, Lord, thick clouds of darkness
About my soul are spread,
And the waters of affliction
Have gathered o’er my head!

“Yet what is life? A desert,
Whose cheering springs are dry,
A weary, barren wilderness!—
Still it is hard to die!

“For love, the clinging, deathless,
Is with my life entwined;
And the yearning spirit doth rebel
To leave the weak behind!

“Oh Saviour, who didst drain the dregs
Of human woe and pain,
In this, the fiercest trial-hour,
My doubting soul sustain!

“I sink, I sink! support me;

Deep waters round me roll!

I fear! I faint! O Saviour,

Sustain my sinking soul!”

REJOICING IN HEAVEN.

“Oh spirit, freed from bondage,

Rejoice, thy work is done!

The weary world is ’neath thy feet,

Thou brighter than the sun!

“Arise, put on the garments

Which the redeemed wore!

Now sorrow hath no part in thee,

Thou sanctified from sin!

“Awake and breathe the living air

Of our celestial clime!

Awake to love which knows no change,

Thou, who hast done with time!

“Awake, lift up thy joyful eyes,
See, all heaven’s host appears;
And be thou glad exceedingly,
Thou, who hast done with tears!

“Awake! ascend! Thou art not now
With those of mortal birth,—
The living God hath touch’d thy lips,
Thou who hast done with earth!”

AN ENGLISH GRAVE AT MUSSOOREE.

Mussooree, the site of a station which is now one of the chief resorts of the visiters from the plains, stands at an elevation of seven thousand five hundred feet above the level of the sea, and is situated on the southern face of the ridge called the Landour Range, and overlooking the village of that name, which has been chosen for the establishment of a military sanitarium, for those officers and privates belonging to the Bengal army, who have lost their health in the plains.

Nothing can be imagined more delicious to an invalid, half dying under the burning sun of India, than the being removed into the fine, bracing, and cool atmosphere of this station. All round him are the most sublime natural objects—the most stupendous rivers and mountains of the world, but all subdued into a character of astonishing beauty; while the growth of the hills, and of the very ground under his feet, must transport him back into his native Britain.

“Tell me about my son, dear friend, for I can bear to know,

Now that my heart is stayed by prayer, that history of woe!

But whence was it, of seven sons, all men of strength and pride,

This only one—the gentlest one—forsook his mother’s side!

“That he in whom a flower, a star, a love-inspired word,

The poet’s heart, all tenderness, even from his boyhood stirred;

Who was my dearest counsellor, in his dead father’s place;

Who was a daughter unto me, who ne’er did one embrace.

“How was it that he only left his home, his native land,

He only, kindest, gentlest, and youngest of my band?

That he whom I had looked to close mine eyes—to lay me low,

Died first, and far away! Oh God, thy counsels who shall know!

“But murmuring thus, I sin! Dear friend, forgive a mother’s grief,

And tell me of my son; thy words will bring assured relief:

Tell me of each minutest look—even of his sufferings tell,

My heart takes comfort from thy voice, for thou didst love him well!”

“I loved him well, oh, passing well! all he had been to thee—

Friend, counsellor, the spirit’s life—so had he been to me!

Yet murmur not, thou broken heart, our vision fails to show

The scope of that mysterious good whose base is human woe!

“Thy best-beloved murmured not, his faith was never dim,

And that strong love which was his life, sprang everywhere for him,

We saw him droop, and many a one, else scarce to love beguiled,

Watched him, as tender parents watch a favourite drooping child.

“For the hot plains where he had lain, by cureless wounds oppressed,

We bore him to the northern hills, to a sweet land of rest.

Oh, what a joy it was to him to feel the cool winds blow,

To see the golden morning light array the peaks of snow!

“What joy to see familiar things where’er his footsteps trod;

The oak-tree in the mountain-cleft; the daisy on the sod;

The primrose and the violet; the green moss of the rill;

The crimson wild-briar rose, and the strawberry of the hill!

“How often these sweet living flowers were bathed in blissful tears,

For then his loving spirit drank the joy of bygone years;

And sitting ’mong those giant hills, his boyhood round him lay—

That sunny time of careless peace, so long since past away.

“He told me of his English home; I knew it well before:

Mine eyes had seen its trees, or ere my shadow crossed the door;

The very sun-dial on the green, I knew its face again;

And the small summer parlour with its jasmine-wreathed pane.

“And thou! all thou hadst been to him, he told me; bade me seek

Thy face, and to thy broken heart dear words of comfort speak:

Oh, mother of the blessed dead, weep not; sweet thoughts of thee,

Like ministering angels at the last, the joyous soul set free!

“Oh, mother of the dead, weep not as if that far-off grave

Possessed thy spirit’s best beloved—‘thy beautiful, thy brave;’

The gifted, living soul lies not beneath that Eastern sod,

All thou hast cherished liveth still, and calleth thee to God!”

A FOREST SCENE
IN THE DAYS OF WICKLIFFE.

A little child she read a book
Beside an open door;
And, as she read page after page,
She wonder’d more and more.

Her little finger carefully
Went pointing out the place;—
Her golden locks hung drooping down,
And shadow’d half her face.

The open book lay on her knee,
Her eyes on it were bent;
And as she read page after page,
The colour came and went.

She sate upon a mossy stone
An open door beside;
And round, for miles on every hand,
Stretch’d out a forest wide.

The summer sun shone on the trees,
The deer lay in the shade;
And overhead the singing birds
Their pleasant clamour made.

There was no garden round the house.

And it was low and small,—

The forest sward grew to the door;

The lichens on the wall.

There was no garden round about,
Yet flowers were growing free,
The cowslip and the daffodil,
Upon the forest-lea.

The butterfly went flitting by,
The bees were in the flowers;
But the little child sate steadfastly,
As she had sate for hours.

“Why sit you here, my little maid?”

An aged pilgrim spake;

The little child look’d upward from her book,

Like one but just awake.

Back fell her locks of golden hair,
And solemn was her look,
And thus she answer’d, witlessly,
“Oh, sir, I read this book!”

“And what is there within that book
To win a child like thee?—
Up! join thy mates, the merry birds,
And frolic with the bee!”

“Nay, sir, I cannot leave this book,
I love it more than play;—
I’ve read all legends, but this one
Ne’er saw I till this day.

“And there is something in this book
That makes all care be gone,—
And yet I weep, I know not why,
As I go reading on!”

“Who art thou, child, that thou shouldst read
A book with mickle heed?—
Books are for clerks—the King himself
Hath much ado to read!”

“My father is a forrester—
A bowman keen and good;
He keeps the deer within their bound,
And worketh in the wood.

“My mother died in Candlemas,—
The flowers are all in blow
Upon her grave at Allonby
Down in the dale below.”

This said, unto her book she turned,
As steadfast as before;
“Nay,” said the pilgrim, “nay, not yet,
And you must tell me more.

“Who was it taught you thus to read?”
“Ah, sir, it was my mother,—
She taught me both to read and spell—
And so she taught my brother;

“My brother dwells at Allonby
With the good monks alway;—
And this new book he brought to me,
But only for one day.

“Oh, sir, it is a wondrous book,
Better than Charlemagne,—
And, be you pleased to leave me now,
I’ll read in it again!”

“Nay, read to me,” the pilgrim said;
And the little child went on,
To read of Christ, as was set forth
In the Gospel of St. John.

On, on she read, and gentle tears
Adown her cheeks did slide;
The pilgrim sate, with bended head,
And he wept at her side.

“I’ve heard,” said he, “the Archbishop,
I’ve heard the Pope of Rome,
But never did their spoken words
Thus to my spirit come!

“The book, it is a blessed book!

Its name, what may it be?”

Said she, “They are the words of Christ

That I have read to thee;

Now done into the English tongue

For folks unlearn’d as we!”

“Sancta Marie!” said the man,
Our canons have decreed
That this is an unholy book
For simple folks to read!

“Sancta Maria! Bless’d be God!

Had this good book been mine,

I need not have gone on pilgrimage

To holy Palestine!

“Give me the book, and let me read!

My soul is strangely stirr’d;—

They are such words of love and truth

As ne’er before I heard!”

The little girl gave up the book,
And the pilgrim, old and brown,
With reverent lips did kiss the page,
Then on the stone sat down.

And aye he read page after page;
Page after page he turn’d;
And as he read their blessed words
His heart within him burn’d.

Still, still the book the old man read,
As he would ne’er have done;
From the hour of noon he read the book,
Unto the set of sun.

The little child she brought him out
A cake of wheaten bread;
But it lay unbroke at eventide;
Nor did he raise his head
Until he every written page
Within the book had read.

Then came the sturdy forester
Along the homeward track,
Whistling aloud a hunting tune,
With a slain deer on his back.

Loud greeting gave the forester
Unto the pilgrim poor;
The old man rose with thoughtful brow,
And enter’d at the door.

The two had sate them down to meat,
And the pilgrim ’gan to tell
How he had eaten on Olivet,
And drank at Jacob’s well.

And then he told how he had knelt
Where’er our Lord had pray’d;
How he had in the Garden been,
And the tomb where he was laid;—

And then he turned unto the book,
And read, in English plain,
How Christ had died on Calvary;
How he had risen again;

And all his comfortable words,
His deeds of mercy all,
He read, and of the widow’s mite,
And the poor prodigal.

As water to the parched soil,
As to the hungry, bread,
So fell upon the woodman’s soul
Each word the pilgrim read.

Thus through the midnight did they read,
Until the dawn of day;
And then came in the woodman’s son
To fetch the book away.

All quick and troubled was his speech,
His face was pale with dread,
For he said, “The King hath made a law
That the book must not be read,—
For it was such a fearful heresy,
The holy Abbot said.”

THE END.

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious punctuation mistakes have been corrected.

Page 10: “better caculated” changed to “better calculated”

Page 42: “ice-montains” changed to “ice-mountains”

Page 71: “hung a peice” changed to “hung a piece”

Page 129: “trees were” changed to “trees where”

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Table of Contents

THE POEMS OF MARY HOWITT. WITH A MEMOIR.

CONTENTS.

MEMOIR OF MARY HOWITT.

THE POOR SCHOLAR.

- PERSONS.

THE SORROW OF TERESA.

- PERSONS.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- SCENE VII.

- SCENE VIII.

HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES.

- L’ENVOI.

- MARIEN’S PILGRIMAGE. A FIRE-SIDE STORY.

- PART I.

- PART II.

- PART III.

- PART IV.

- PART V.

- PART VI.

- PART VII.

- PART VIII.

- PART IX.

- PART X.

- PART XI.

- PART XII.

- OLD CHRISTMAS.

- THE TWELFTH HOUR.

- THE BLIND BOY AND HIS SISTER.

- THE POOR CHILD’S HYMN.

- THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. AN OLD SEAMAN’S STORY.

- PART I.

- PART II.

- PART III.

- EASTER HYMNS.

- HYMN I. THE TWO MARYS.

- HYMN II. THE ANGEL.

- HYMN III. THE LORD JESUS.

- HYMN IV. THE ELEVEN.

- THE TWO ESTATES.

- LIFE’S MATINS.

- FIRST VOICE.

- SECOND VOICE.

- A LIFE’S SORROW. AN OLD MAN’S NARRATIVE.

- THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW.

- MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY. A STORY OF THE OLDEN TIME.

- PART I.

- PART II.

BIRDS AND FLOWERS AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS.

- THE STORMY PETEREL.

- THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN.

- THE OAK-TREE.

- THE CAROLINA PARROT.

- MORNING THOUGHTS.

- HARVEST-FIELD FLOWERS.

- SUMMER WOODS.

- THE CUCKOO.

- THE USE OF FLOWERS.

- SUNSHINE.

- SUMMER.

- THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS.

- CHILDHOOD.

- L’ENVOI.

SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY.

SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY.

- THE COOT.

- THE EAGLE.

- THE GARDEN.

- THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. AN APOLOGUE. A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STORY.

TALES IN VERSE.

- ANDREW LEE. THE FISHER BOY.

- THE WANDERER’S RETURN.

- A SWINGING SONG.

- ELLEN MORE.

- A DAY OF DISASTERS. A CONVERSATION BETWEEN PETER AND ZEDEKIAH.

- THE YOUNG MOURNER.

- THE SOLDIER’S STORY.

- THE CHILD’S LAMENT.

- A DAY OF HARD WORK. A CONVERSATION BETWEEN HARRY AND KITTY.

- THE OLD MAN AND THE CARRION CROW.

- THE LITTLE MARINER.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

- THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB OF THE COTTAGE.

- AMERICA. A STORY OF THE INDIAN WAR.

- MOURNING ON EARTH.

- REJOICING IN HEAVEN.

- AN ENGLISH GRAVE AT MUSSOOREE.

- A FOREST SCENE IN THE DAYS OF WICKLIFFE.

Transcriber’s Notes

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