AULD LANG SYNE.
SELECTIONS FROM THE PAPERS
OF THE
“PEN AND PENCIL CLUB.”
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min’,
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne!”Burns.
PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION.
1877.
CHISWICK PRESS:—C. WHITTINGHAM, TOOKS COURT,
CHANCERY LANE.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Cradle
Feb. 1864
Mentia Taylor
1
Bells
March, 1864
Marian James
3
Mirror
June, 1864
Lewis Morris
4
Shadows
Nov. 1864
Catherine Taylor
5
Shadows
Nov. 1864
Lewis Sergeant
6
Organ Boys
Dec. 1864
Frances Power Cobbe
7
Organ Boys
Dec. 1864
Lewis Morris
9
Stumbling Blocks
March, 1865
Professor Seeley
16
Witchcraft
May, 1865
Mentia Taylor
19
Chivalry
Feb. 1866
Marian James
22
Castles in the Air
March, 1866
Annie Keary
26
Autumn Leaves
May, 1866
Arthur Munby
28
Silence
June, 1866
Mentia Taylor
30
Lights and Shadows
Dec. 1866
Lewis Morris
31
Echoes
Feb. 1867
M. D. Conway
36
Expediency
March, 1867
Professor Seeley
40
Rest
April, 1867
Joseph Mazzini
43
Rest
April, 1867
Alice Malleson
45
Rest
April, 1867
Edwin Arnold
46
Gossip
Nov. 1867
Catherine Taylor
49
Chips
May, 1868
54
Chips
May, 1868
Joseph Biggs
57
Transformation
Dec. 1868
Caroline Biggs
62
Transformation
Dec. 1868
Eliza Keary
67
Surprise
March, 1869
Edwin Arnold
75
The Gloaming
March, 1869
Henry Fellowes
78
Sketches
April, 1869
Lewis Sergeant
83
Sketches
April, 1869
Annie Keary
84
Sketches
April, 1869
Austin Dobson
92
Things Gone By
May, 1869
Sheldon Amos
97
Things Gone By
May, 1869
P. A. Taylor
99
Things Gone By
May, 1869
Arthur Munby
102
No; or, the Little Goose Girl
May, 1869
Eliza Keary
103
Exile
Jan. 1870
Caroline Biggs
108
Exile
Jan. 1870
Joseph Biggs
111
Tradition
Feb. 1870
H. W. Higgins
115
Regret
March, 1870
A. D. Atkinson
117
Realities
Dec. 1870
P. A. Taylor
118
Realities
Dec. 1870
Lewis Sergeant
125
Bark
Feb. 1871
Lewis Sergeant
128
Smoke
April, 1871
J. S. Babb
130
Wherefore
Nov. 1871
H. W. Higgins
132
Voices
Nov. 1871
M. J. Ronniger
134
Return of the Swallows
March, 1874
Agnes Macdonell
Return of the Swallows
March, 1874
William Allingham
137
Return of the Swallows
March, 1874
Edmund Gosse
142
Auld Lang Syne
March, 1874
Thomas Webster
144
Auld Lang Syne
March, 1874
Augusta Webster
149
River
April, 1874
Austin Dobson
151
River
April, 1874
Adelaide Manning
156
Footpath
April, 1874
Ashurst Biggs
158
Footpath
April, 1874
C. E. Maurice
162
Footpath
April, 1874
Edward Carpenter
164
Footpath
April, 1874
Edmund Gosse
165
Footpath
April, 1874
Austin Dobson
170
Turn of the Tide
May, 1874
Caroline Biggs
171
Turn of the Tide
May, 1874
A. M. Stoddart
173
Turn of the Tide
May, 1874
G. A. Simcox
174
Compromise
May, 1874
Thomas Webster
175
Farewell
Mentia Taylor
176
CRADLE.
The human heart is cradle of deep love,
Which growing and expanding from its birth,
Ever finds space within that living cot;
Howe’er remotely o’er this beauteous earth
Its subtle influences may joy impart,
Whilst nestling in the human heart.
The human mind is cradle of high thought,
Ever aspiring to extend its sphere,
To penetrate those mysteries of life
Philosophy has fail’d to render clear.
Howe’er expansive, thought will ever find
Its cradle in the human mind.
The human soul is cradle of deep faith,
Of aspirations, and of purpose strong,
To kindle into life the seeds of truth—
Eradicate the germs of vice and wrong.
Howe’er these seeds develop and increase,
Within man’s soul they’ll find their place.
Three living cradles in one living form,
Expanding ever from their early birth;
High thought and sweet affection in ye dwell,
And Faith which hallows all things on this earth.
Each human being in himself may find
Three living cradles—soul, heart, mind.
THE SOUND OF BELLS.
O HAPPY bells that thrill the air
Of tranquil English summer-eves,
When stirless hang the aspen leaves,
And Silence listens everywhere.
And sinks and swells the tender chime,
Sad, as regret for buried fears,
Sweet, as repentant yearning tears—
The fit voice of the holy time.
We listen, and our thoughts aspire
Like spiritual flame, from fire
That idly smoulders on the ground.
Forgotten longings have new birth
For better, purer, nobler life,
Lifted above the noisy strife
That drowns the music of this earth.
And human sorrow seems to be
A link unto diviner things,
The budding of the spirit’s wings
That only thus can soar—and see.
The twilight fades—the sweet bells cease,
The common world’s come back again,
But for a little space, its pain
And weariness are steep’d in peace.
MIRROR.
I SEE myself reflected in thine eyes,
The dainty mirrors set in golden frame
Of eyelash, quiver with a sweet surprise,
And most ingenuous shame.
Like Eve, who hid her from the dread command
Deep in the dewy blooms of paradise;
So thy shy soul, love calling, fears to stand
Discover’d at thine eyes.
Or, like a tender little fawn, which lies
Asleep amid the fern, and waking, hears
Some careless footstep drawing near, and flies,
Yet knows not what she fears.
So shrinks thy soul, but, dearest, shrink not so;
Look thou into mine eyes as I in thine,
So our reflected souls shall meet and grow,
And each with each combine
In something nobler; as when one has laid
Opposite mirrors on a cottage wall;
And lo! the never-ending colonnade,
The vast palatial hall.
So our twin souls, by one sweet suicide,
Shall fade into an essence more sublime;
Living through death, and dying glorified,
Beyond the reach of time.
SHADOWS.
Shadow gives to sunshine brightness,
And it gives to joy its lightness;
Shadow gives to honour meekness,
And imparts its strength to weakness;
Shadow deepens human kindness,
Draws the veil from mental blindness;
Shadow sweetens love’s own sweetness,
And gives to life its deep intenseness;
Shadow is earth’s sacredness,
And the heaven’s loveliness;
Shadow is day’s tenderness,
And the night’s calm holiness;
Shadow’s deepest night of darkness
Will break in day’s eternal brightness.
SHADOWS.
In the band of noble workers,
Seems no place for such as I—
They have faith, where I have yearning,
They can speak where I but sigh,
They can point the way distinctly
Where for me the shadows lie.
Lofty purpose, strong endeavour,
These are not ordain’d for me—
Wayside flower might strive for ever,
Never could it grow a tree—
Yet a child may laugh to gather,
Or a sick man smile to see.
So I too in God’s creation
Have my own peculiar part,
He must have some purpose surely
For weak hand and timid heart,
Transient joys for my diffusing,
For my healing transient smart.
Just to fling a moment’s brightness
Over dreary down-trod ways,
Just to fan a better impulse
By a full and ready praise—
Pitying where I may not succour,
Loving where I cannot raise.
ORGAN-BOYS.
A LEGEND OF LONDON.
By Thomas Ingoldsby, Minor.
In days—not old—a Demon lived,
And a terrible Fiend was he,
For he ground and he ground
All London around,
A huge barrel-organ of hideous sound,
Incessantly!
From morning’s light
Till the deep midnight,
In all sorts of streets and all sorts of squares.
Up the cul-de-sacs—down the thoroughfares,
Where Thames rolls his waters from Greenwich to Kew,
Not a lane could you find that he didn’t go through.
You heard him at all times when most unaware,
In quiet back-parlours up five flights of stair;
When you ate, when you drank, when you read morning prayer,
Or sat dozing awhile in an easy armchair,
Or read a new novel—or talk’d to a friend,
Or endeavour’d to settle accounts without end,
Or when grief (or champagne), caused an ache in your head,
Or you promised yourself to lie latish in bed,
It was all the same
That Demon came,
Grind! grind!
Peace there was none,
Under the sun;
That odious organ never had done.
Sick, sad, or sorry,
No end to the worry.
No sort of grief
Brought the slightest relief;
You might send out to say you were dying or dead,
The organ ground on as if nothing were said!
Grind! grind!
Till you lost your mind.
No use to scold, or draw down the blind,
The fiend only ground more loud and more fast,
Till you had to give him a shilling at last.
So that having tormented you madly that day,
He would surely next morning come round the same way,
And grind and grind—till in frenzy of pain,
You should bribe him once more—just to come back again!
Know ye, my friends, who this Fiend may be?
Here is the key to the mystery—
It is Tubal Cain! who—the Bible says—
Invented organs in very old days,
And for that dread crime, so atrocious and black,
Was sentenced thenceforth to bear one on his back,
A heavier fate (as was justly his due),
Than befell his Papa when poor Abel he slew:
For Cain, killing one man, was let off quite cheap—
Tubal murdered us all—at least “murder’d our sleep.”
THE ORGAN-BOY.
Great brown eyes,
Thick plumes of hair,
Old corduroys
The worse for wear.
A button’d jacket,
And peeping out
An ape’s grave poll,
Or a guinea-pig’s snout.
A sun-kiss’d face
And a dimpled mouth,
With the white flashing teeth,
And soft smile of the south.
A young back bent,
Not with age or care,
But the load of poor music
’Tis fated to bear.
But a common-place picture
To common-place eyes,
Yet full of a charm
Which the thinker will prize.
They were stern, cold rulers,
Those Romans of old,
Scorning art and letters
For conquest and gold;
Yet leavening mankind,
In mind and tongue,
With the laws that they made
And the songs that they sung.
Sitting, rose-crown’d,
With pleasure-choked breath,
As the nude young limbs crimson’d,
Then stiffen’d in death.
Piling up monuments
Greater than praise,
Thoughts and deeds that shall live
To the latest of days.
Adding province to province,
And sea to sea,
Till the idol fell down
And the world rose up free.
And this is the
This vagabond child
With that statue-like face
And eyes soft and mild;
This creature so humble,
So gay, yet so meek,
Whose sole strength is only
The strength of the weak.
Of those long cruel ages
Of lust and of guile,
Nought left us to-day
But an innocent smile.
For the labour’d appeal
Of the orator’s art,
A few foolish accents
That reach to the heart.
For those stern legions speeding
O’er sea and o’er land,
But a pitiful glance
And a suppliant hand.
I could moralize still
But the organ begins,
And the tired ape swings downward,
And capers and grins,
And away flies romance.
And yet, time after time,
As I dwell on days spent
In a sunnier clime,
Of blue lakes deep set
In the olive-clad mountains,
Of gleaming white palaces
Girt with cool fountains,
Of minsters where every
Carved stone is a treasure,
Of sweet music hovering
’Twixt pain and ’twixt pleasure;
Of chambers enrich’d
On all sides, overhead,
With the deathless creations
Of hands that are dead;
Of still cloisters holy,
And twilight arcade,
Where the lovers still saunter
Thro’ chequers of shade;
Of tomb and of temple,
Arena and column,
’Mid to-day’s garish splendours,
Sombre and solemn;
Of the marvellous town
With the salt-flowing street,
Where colour burns deepest,
And music most sweet;
Of her the great mother,
Who centuries sate
’Neath a black shadow blotting
The days she was great;
Who was plunged in such shame—
She, our source and our home—
That a foul spectre only
Was left us of Rome;
She who, seeming to sleep
Through all ages to be,
Was the priest’s, is mankind’s,—
Was a slave, and is free!
I turn with grave thought
To this child of the ages,
And to all that is writ
In Time’s hidden pages.
Shall young Howards or Guelphs,
In the days that shall come,
Wander forth, seeking bread,
Far from England and home?
Shall they sail to new continents,
English no more,
Or turn—strange reverse—
To the old classic shore?
Shall fair locks and blue eyes,
And the rose on the cheek,
Find a language of pity
The tongue cannot speak—
“Not English, but angels?”
Shall this tale be told
Of Romans to be
As of Romans of old?
Shall they too have monkeys
And music? Will any
Try their luck with an engine
Or toy spinning-jenny?
Shall we too be led
By that mirage of Art
Which saps the true strength
Of the national heart?
The sensuous glamour,
The dreamland of grace,
Which rot the strong manhood
They fail to replace;
Which at once are the glory,
The ruin, the shame,
Of the beautiful lands
And ripe souls whence they came?
Oh, my England! oh, Mother
Of Freemen! oh, sweet,
Sad toiler majestic,
With labour-worn feet!
Brave worker, girt round,
Inexpugnable, free,
With tumultuous sound
And salt spume of the sea,
Fenced off from the clamour
Of alien mankind
By the surf on the rock,
And the shriek of the wind,
Tho’ the hot Gaul shall envy,
The cold German flout thee,
Thy far children scorn thee,
Still thou shalt be great,
Still march on uncaring,
Thy perils unsharing,
Alone, and yet daring
Thy infinite fate.
Yet ever remembering
The precepts of gold
That were written in part
For the great ones of old—
“Let other hands fashion
The marvels of art;
To thee fate has given
A loftier part,
To rule the wide peoples,
To bind them to thee.”
By the sole bond of loving,
That bindeth the free,
To hold thy own place,
Neither lawless nor slave;
Not driven by the despot,
Nor trick’d by the knave.
But these thoughts are too solemn.
So play, my child, play,
Never heeding the connoisseur
Over the way,
The last dances of course;
Then with scant pause between,
“Home, sweet Home,” the “Old Hundredth,”
And “God Save the Queen.”
See the poor children swarm
From dark court and dull street,
As the gay music quickens
The lightsome young feet.
See them now whirl away,
Now insidiously come,
With a coy grace which conquers
The squalor of home.
See the pallid cheeks flushing
With innocent pleasure
At the hurry and haste
Of the quick-footed measure.
See the dull eyes now bright,
And now happily dim,
For some soft-dying cadence
Of love-song or hymn.
Dear souls, little joy
Of their young lives have they,
So thro’ hymn-tune and song-tune
Play on, my child, play.
For though dull pedants chatter
Of musical taste,
Talk of hindered researches
And hours run to waste;
Though they tell us of thoughts
To ennoble mankind,
Which your poor measures chase
From the labouring mind;
While your music rejoices
One joyless young heart,
Perish bookworms and books,
Perish learning and art—
Of my vagabond fancies
I’ll even take my fill.
“Qualche cosa, signor?”
Yes, my child, that I will.
STUMBLING-BLOCKS.
Think when you blame the present age, my friends,
This age has one redeeming point—it mends.
With many monstrous ills we’re forced to cope;
But we have life and movement, we have hope.
Oh! this is much! Thrice pitiable they
Whose lot is cast in ages of decay,
Who watch a waning light, an ebbing tide,
Decline of energy and fall of pride,
Old glories disappearing unreplaced,
Receding culture and encroaching waste,
Art grown pedantic, manners waxing coarse,
The good thing still succeeded by the worse.
We see not what those latest Romans saw,
When o’er Italian cities, Latin law,
Greek beauty, swept the barbarizing tide,
And all fair things in slow succession died.
’Tis much that such defeat and blank despair,
Whate’er our trials, ’tis not ours to bear,
Much that the mass of foul abuse grows less,
Much that the injured have sometimes redress,
Wealth grows less haughty, misery less resigned,
That policy grows just, religion kind,
That all worst things towards some better tend,
And long endurance nears at last its end;
The ponderous cloud grows thin and pierced with bright,
And its wild edge is fused in blinding light.
Yet disappointment still with hope appears,
And with desires that strengthen, strengthen fears,
’Tis the swift-sailing ship that dreads the rocks,
The active foot must ’ware of stumbling-blocks.
Alas! along the way towards social good,
How many stones of dire offence lie strew’d.
Whence frequent failure, many shrewd mishaps
And dismal pause or helpless backward lapse.
Such was the hard reverse that Milton mourn’d,
An old man, when he saw the King returned
With right divine, and that fantastic train
Of banished fopperies come back
Thus France, too wildly clutching happiness.
Stumbled perplexed, and paid in long distress,
In carnage, where the bloody conduit runs,
And one whole generation of her sons
Devoted to the Power of Fratricide
For one great year, one eager onward stride.
From all these stumbling-blocks that strew the way
What wisest cautions may ensure us, say.
Cling to the present good with steadfast grip,
And for no fancied better let it slip,
Whether thy fancy in the future live
Or yearn to make the buried past revive.
The past is dead,—let the dead have his dues,
Remembrance of historian and of Muse;
But try no lawless magic on the urn,
It shocks to see the brightest past return.
Some good things linger when their date is fled,
These honour as you do the hoary head,
And treat them tenderly for what they were,
But dream not to detain them always there.
The living good the present moments bring
To this devote thyself and chiefly cling;
And for the novel schemes that round thee rise,
Watch them with hopeful and indulgent eyes,
Treat them as children, love them, mark their ways,
And blame their faults and dole out cautious praise,
And give them space, yet limit them with rule,
And hold them down and keep them long at school:
Yet know in these is life most fresh and strong,
And that to these at last shall all belong.
Be proved and present good thy safe-guard still,
And thy one quarrel be with present ill.
Learn by degrees a steady onward stride
With sleepless circumspection for thy guide.
And since so thick the stumbling-blocks are placed,
You are not safe but in renouncing haste;
Permit not so your zeal to be repressed,
But make the loss up by renouncing rest.
WITCHCRAFT.
I SPOSE ’tis I—and yet, so strange
I feel, I doubt if I’m all right.
Only since Tuesday last this change,
And this is Friday night.
On Monday, life was very drear,
My missus was so cross,
’Cos how I’d spilt a jug of beer—
She, who calls money dross.
She thinks herself a very saint,
‘Cos she reads prayers to us;
But Sal the cook, and I, we ain’t
Imposed on by her fuss.
’Tis not the prayers I think is bad,
But those who are so good
Should act as if they feelings had
Towards we—who are flesh and blood.
But now if missus ’gins to scold
I do not care a straw,
For Tom, on Tuesday morning, told
Me not to mind her jaw.
I now can dance, and laugh, and sing,
Altho’ I work all day.
Surely it is a funny thing,
I’m all at once so gay.
All ’cos Tom’s in love with me,
And I’m sure he says what’s true.
He says love’s a mystery
Which in Eden’s garden grew.
I call love witchcraft, that I do;
It’s made me quite another;
Instead of being Mary Roe,
I may be any other.
Missus thinks I’m going mad,
I work with such good glee;
’Tis only that my heart is glad
’Cos Tom’s in love with me.
I wish some man would missus love;
She might be kinder then.
She says her ’fections are above,
’Cos sinful are all men.
If she but had the chance, I b’lieve,
She’d ’cept the first with glee,
And would not any longer grieve
O’er man’s depravity.
She’d be as different as I—
Oh, laws! what fun ’twould be;
For missus is a very guy,
’Twixt you and Tom and me.
P’rhaps love would make her young once more,
And change her temper too,
For certain, love has witchcraft’s power,
All things he likes, to do.
Tom says so, and so ’tis true,
Tom never tells a lie;
And what Tom bids I’ll always do,
Until at last I die.
CHIVALRY.
Chivalry, ho yes, I have heerd of such a thing, but I don’t mind owning—not allus having a Tomson’s Dixonary aside o’ me—as I never rightly unnerstood the full meanin’ o’ the word until this very day, when the subjick was suggested and my opinion arxed, which, why should I deny, I had supposed it strictly limited to the man in Brass ninth o’ November Lord Mayor’s Show, as they says it is to be abolished in future times, and a great loss I’m sure to the rising generation, though apt to be mostly all mud and squeeging and more pains than profit to grownups, and likewise in Christmas pantomines and bur-lesks at theayters I have seen Alls of Chivalry most georgius to beeold with young ladies in uncountless troops coming out o’ shells and flowers and bells and stars as made the rime of infancy seem quite reesnable, though why slugs and snails only for the other sect is more than I can explain, and I don’t blush to own free and frank as I believed the time for it in reel life was past and gone these ages, though efforts made many a year back at the Eglintown Turnamount rung through the country, and well I remember seeing picters of queens o’ beauty and gentlemen done up in harmer and a hossback as looked when once they was hup it was more than they could do to save their lives to get down again without most competent assistance, and far from comfortable or easy I should say them mettal dresses was, as it stands to reesin, man being of a active character, was never intended by nature to go about with a shell outside of him like snails, which is both slow and useless, I should say, unless making your palings slimy and nibbling at your cabbage sprouts is useful acts, which much I doubt, though how I’ve got from Chivalry to snails is most surpriging, only the workings of the huming mind is so surpriging as no one never need be surpriged at nothing of the sort,—where was I, ho at harmer which, if you arx my opinion, I do consider such a ill-conwenience as there ought to be a deal to make up for it, and if you can’t have Chivalry without harmer I must say I think we’re better as we are, fur what with crinnerlin the world’s ardly big enough as it is, and if these coats of male was to come in, made of steel likewise, you couldn’t walk in London, excep in Portland Place, praps, and in quiet distrix like Islington and Upper Baker Street, while as for omnibuses, my belief is they’re only kep going as it is by the lightness and tightness of manly figgers and costoom, and if they took to harmer there’d be an end of twelve inside, much less of thirteen out, and pit seats would have to be enlarged, as also pews in church, and especially pulpits, likewise the Houses of Parliament and the Corts of Lor, and everythink would be deranged together fur no particklar good that I can see, but Mrs. Jones she ses it’s not the harmer, it’s not the outside man as needs a haltering in this year age of ourn, it’s not the costoom she ses, it’s the manners, she ses, which in ancient times was so much superior to any think we know on in the presint day, she ses, fur in them distant days there was galliant knights
CHILDHOOD’S CASTLES IN THE AIR.
Gently, no pushing; there’s room to sit
All three without grumbling,
One in front, two behind, well you fit,
And mamma to hold you from tumbling.
Rock, rock, old rocking chair,
You’ll last us a long time with care,
And still without balking
Of us four any one,
From rocking and talking—
That is what we call fun.
Curtains drawn, and no candles lit,
Great red caves in the fire,
This is the time for us four to sit
Rocking and talking all till we tire.
Rock, rock, old rocking chair,
How the fire-light glows up there,
Red on the white ceiling;
The shadows every one
Might be giants, reeling
On their great heads, for fun.
Shall we call this a boat out at sea,
We, four sailors rowing?
Can you fancy it well? As for me
I feel the salt wind blowing.
Up, up and down, lazy boat,
On the top of a wave we float,
Down we go with a rush;
Far off I see a strand
Glimmer; our boat we’ll push
Ashore on Fairy-land.
The fairy people come running
To meet us down on the sand,
Each holding out toward us the very thing
We’ve long wished for, held in his hand.
Up, up again; one wave more
Holds us back from the fairy shore;
Let’s pull all together,
Then with it, up we’ll climb,
To the always fine weather
That makes up fairy time.
Come to us through the dark, children,
Hark! the fairy people call,
But a step between us and you, children,
And in Fairy-land room for us all.
Climb the main and you will be
Landed safe in gay Fairie,
Sporting, feasting, both night and noon,
No pause in fairy pleasures;
Silver ships that sail to the moon,
Magic toys for treasures.
Ah! the tide sweeps us out of our track,
The glimmer dies in the fire,
There’s no climbing the wave that holds back
Just the things that we all most desire!
Never mind, rock, rocking-chair;
While there’s room for us four there,
To sit by fire-light swinging,
Till some one open the door,
Birds in their own nest singing
Ain’t happier than we four.
AUTUMN LEAVES.
I.
Who cares to think of autumn leaves in spring?
When the birds sing,
And buds are new, and every tree is seen
Veil’d in a mist of tender gradual green;
And every bole and bough
Makes ready for the soft low-brooding wings
Of nested ones to settle there and prove
How sweet is love;
Alas, who then will notice or avow
Such bygone things?
II.
For, hath not spring the promise of the year?
Is she not always dear
To those who can look forward and forget?
Her woods do nurse the violet;
With cowslips fair her fragrant fields are set;
And freckled butterflies
Gleam in her gleaming skies;
And life looks larger, as each lengthening day
Withdraws the shadow, and drinks up the tear:
Youth shall be youth for ever; and the gay
High-hearted summer with her pomps is near.
III.
Yes; but the soul that meditates and grieves,
And guards a precious past,
And feels that neither joy nor loveliness can last—
To her, the fervid flutter of our Spring
Is like the warmth of that barbarian hall
To the scared bird, whose wet and wearied wing
Shot through it once, and came not back at all.
Poor shrunken soul! she knows her fate too well;
Too surely she can tell
That each most delicate toy her fancy made,
And she herself, and what she prized and knew,
And all her loved ones too,
Shall soon lie low, forgotten and decay’d,
Like autumn leaves.
SILENCE.
(OF A DEAF PERSON.)
I SEE
And know the sweet notes they are softly singing;
I see the green leaves trembling in the breeze,
And know the rustling that such breeze is bringing;
I see the waters rippling as they flow,
And know the soothing murmur of their noise;
I see the children in the fire-light’s glow,
Laughing and playing with their varied toys;
I see the signs of merriment and mirth;
I see the music of God’s lovely earth;
I see the earnest talk of friend with friend,
And wish my earnest thoughts with theirs could blend;
But oh! to my deaf ears there comes no sound,
I live a life of silence most profound.
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.
Dear heart! what a little time it is, since Francis and I used to walk
From church in the still June evenings together, busy with loving talk;
And now he is gone far away over seas, to some strange foreign country,—and I
Shall never rise from my bed any more, till the day when I come to die.
I tried not to think of him during the prayers; but when his dear voice I heard
I fail’d to take part in the hymns, for my heart flutter’d up to my throat like a bird;
And scarcely a word of the sermon I caught. I doubt ’twas a grievous sin;
But ’twas only one poor little hour in the week that I had to be happy in.
When the blessing was given, and we left the dim aisles for the light of the evening star,
Though I durst not lift up my eyes from the ground, yet I knew that he was not far;
And I hurried on, though I fain would have stayed, till I heard his footstep draw near,
And love rising up in my breast like a flame, cast out every shadow of fear.
Ah me! ’twas a pleasant pathway home, a pleasant pathway and sweet,
Ankle deep through the purple clover, breast high ’mid the blossoming wheat:
I can hear the landrails call through the dew, and the night-jars’ tremulous thrill,
And the nightingale pouring her passionate song from the hawthorn under the hill.
One day, when we came to the wicket gate, ’neath the elms, where we used to part,
His voice began to falter and break as he told me I had his heart;
And I whisper’d that mine was his; we knew what we felt long ago:
Six weeks are as long as a lifetime almost when you love each other so.
So we put up the banns, and were man and wife in the sweet fading time of the year,
And till Christmas was over and past I knew neither sorrow nor fear.
It seems like a dream already, a sweet dream vanished and gone;
So hurried and brief while passing away, so long to look back upon.
I had only had him three months, and the world lay frozen and dead,
When the summons came which we feared and hoped, and he sail’d over sea for our bread.
Ah well! it is fine to be wealthy and grand, and never to need to part;
But ’tis better to love and be poor, than be rich with an empty heart.
Though I thought ’twould have kill’d me to lose him at first, yet was he not going for me?
So I hid all the grief in my breast which I knew it would pain him to see.
He’d be back by the autumn, he said; and since his last passionate kiss
He has scarcely been out of my thoughts, day or night, for a moment, from that day to this.
When I wrote to him how I thought it would be, and he answered so full of love;
Ah! there was no angel happier than I, in all the bright chorus above;
And I seem’d to be lonely no longer, the days slipp’d so swiftly away;
And the March winds died, and the sweet April showers gave place to the blossoms of May.
And then came the sad summer eve, when I sat with the little frock in the sun,
And Annie ran in with the news of the ship. Ah, well! may His will be done!
They said that all hands were lost, and I swoon’d away like a stone,
And another life came ere I knew he was safe, and that mine was over and gone.
So now I lie helpless here, and shall never rise up again,
I grow weaker and weaker, day by day, till my weakness itself is a pain.
Every morning the creeping dawn, every evening I see from my bed
The orange-gold fade into lifeless grey, and the old evening star overhead.
Sometimes in the twilight dim, or the awful birth of the day,
As I lie, not asleep nor awake, my soul seems to flutter away,
And I seem to be floating beyond the stars, till I thrill with an exquisite pain,
And the feeble touch of a tiny hand recalls me to life again.
And the doctor says she will live. Ah! ’tis hard to leave her alone,
And to think she will never know in the world the love of the mother who’s gone!
He will tell her of me, by and by,—she will shed me a childish tear;
But if I should stoop to her bed in the night, she would start with a horrible fear.
She will grow into girlhood, I trust, and will bask in the light of love,
And I, if I see her at all, shall only look on from above—
I shall see her, and cannot help, though she fall into evil and woe.
Ah! how can the angels find heart to rejoice when they think of their loved ones below?
And Francis, he too, will forget me, and will go on the journey of life,
And I hope, though I dare not think of it yet, will take him another wife.
It will scarcely be Annie, I think, though she liked him in days gone by;
Was that why she came?—but what thoughts are these for one who is going to die?
I hope he will come ere I go, though I feel no longer the thirst
For the sound of his voice, and the light of his eye, that I used to feel at first:
’Tis not that I love him less, but death dries, like a whirlwind of fire,
The tender springs of innocent love, and the torrents of strong desire.
And I know we shall meet again. I have done many things that are wrong,
But, surely, the Lord of Life and of Love, cannot bear to be angry long.
I am only a girl of eighteen, and have had no teacher but love;
And, it may be, the sorrow and pain I have known will be counted for me, above;
For I doubt if the minister knows all the depths of the goodness of God,
When he says He is jealous of earthly love, and bids me bow down ’neath the rod.
He is learnèd and wise, I know, but, somehow, to dying eyes
God opens the secret doors of the shrine that are closed to the learnèd and wise.
So now I am ready to go, for I know He will do what is best,
Though he call me away while the sun is on high, like a child sent early to rest.
I should like to see Francis look on our child, though the longing is over and past—
But what is that footstep upon the stair? Oh! my darling—at last! at last!