IV.

"Mewn cof anwyl." As roses, crusht and dead, in silence leave Their precious heritage of perfume rare, So the good name our dear departed bear Reflects in cheering light on those who grieve; And memory, brooding o'er the love thus left, In tender fancy crowns the dream with tears, Till, as the hue that on bright rain appears, Peace comes to comfort lonely hearts bereft.

(_a_) In loving memory.

ELEGIAC.

'Tis not with rude, irreverent feet, I tread where sacred sorrows lie; But gently raise, in accents meet, My voice in earnest sympathy: In sympathy with one bereaved, Who mourns a loss which all deplore: Whose grief by Hope is unrelieved-- For tears bring back the Past no more.

'Tis not in words the wound to heal Which tenderest ties, when broken, make; 'Tis not in language to conceal The griefs which snapped affection's wake But sorrows, stinging though they be, In sympathy some sweetness find, Which may assuage, though slenderly, The grief that clouds a manly mind.

IN MEMORIAM.

The blameless life of her whose grave I strew With flow'rs of thought deep gathered from the heart Of heavenliest things was formed the greater part: No sentiment but love her bosom knew.

Her influence, like the sunlight from on high, That flames with splendour every opening flower, Stole o'er us silently: yet O, the power! Charming our household world resplendently.

And little hearts tow'rds that sweet influence yearned; And little voices loved to lisp her name; For when, to them, the world was dark, she came, Love-bright, and so their lives in beauty burned.

In beauty burned with pure and happy glow; Their joys were her's. In thought I see her now, Love prompted, sitting with a dreamy brow, Planning the pleasures she might never know.

Her's was the hand that wreathed so daintily With flow'rs each fissure Circumstance had formed, And, by its touch, like snows by sunsets warmed, Each rigid thought was softened rosily.

Her's was the heart, by noblest impulse moved, That beat with earnest fondness all divine; That filled life's cup of joy with rarest wine, For those who proudly felt they were beloved.

But soft! God's edict 'twas, that, from above, Laden with anguish, came with cruel blow. 'Twas Heaven's gain: the grief those only know Who lost her just as they had learnt to love.

Ah, me: the cost to be to Heaven akin: The harvest ripens round the Eternal gate: The pure in soul and saintliest-hearted wait: The Reaper comes and plucks the nearest in.

Ah, me: the cost life's fairest flower to be: Petal and spray all elegance and grace: Each blossom beauteous as an angel's face; And yet, alas! the first to drop and die.

Ah, me: the cost life's tenderest chords to wake, With sweet enchantment breaking up the air; To know each tone will call forth many a tear: Each tender touch a heart or spirit-ache.

Ah, me: the cost for human hearts to claim Where God before His perfect seal had set, Like mortals straying into Heaven unlet, We perish gazing on celestial flame.

TO CLARA.

'Twas a short decade that thou and I Walked hand-in-hand through the world together; When the cruel clouds obscured our sky, And bitter and bleak was life's daily weather. But a brave little heart was thine--and so, Though it might have been lighter had fortune willed it, It battled, in boundless faith I know, And just as the sunshine 'gan to grow The hand of Death reached forth--and chilled it.

The blow was unkind; but Heaven knows best: I felt that my loss was to thee a blessing; For I knew, when I laid thee down to rest, I was giving an angel to angels' caressing: Thy love to my heart was ever dear, With thy gentle voice and thy brave endeavour; Though briefly we wandered together here, Two souls were cemented with smile and tear, That, one on earth, will be one for ever.

E. H. R.

DIED NOVEMBER 30TH, 1867.

She came in beauty like the sun, And flusht with hope each heart and eye, As roses redden into life When Summer passes by.

And like the sun she calmly set, With love's own golden glory crown'd, In light whose rays for evermore In mem'ry will abound.

A. R.

DIED APRIL 21ST, 1865.

In silent grief the blow we'll bear: Though gone, with us she'll still abide. Her name a shape of love will wear, In viewless influence by our side.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

VENUS AND ASTERY

A LEGEND OF THE GODS. (_a_)

Ah! hapless nymph! Doomed for a time to bear The badge which none but fickle lives should wear. How oft the envious tongue creates the dart That cleaves the saintly soul and breaks the heart: How oft the hasty ear full credence gives To words in which no grain of truth survives: Were Juno just, her heart would now delight Turning thy dappled wings to waxen white, Where jealous Venus and her envious train By falsehood fixed an undeservëd stain.

(_a_) Astery, one of the most beautiful of Venus's nymphs, and, as Spenser says,

"Excelling all the crew In courteous usage and unstained hue,"

Is said to have been instructed "on a day" by her mistress to go forth with her companions gathering flowers with which to adorn her forehead. She did so, and being more industrious than the rest, gathered more flowers than any of them. On being praised by Venus, her companions, being envious of her, told the goddess that Astery had been assisted by Cupid, Venus's son, in culling the blossoms. For this supposed offence she was immediately turned by Venus into a butterfly, and her wings, which before were white, were stained with the colours of all the flowers she had gathered, "for memory of her pretended crime, though crime none were."--_Spenser's "Muiopotmos"_, 1576.

TO A ROYAL MOURNER.

1864.

'Twere wise, O Queen, to let thy features shine Upon thy faithful people once again; As Summer comes to light the paths of men, So would thy presence round our hearts entwine.

It is not meet our Queen of Queens should stay Lifelong and tearful in the sombre glade, Whither, to hide the wound which Heaven made, She shrank, as shrinks the stricken deer away.

We do not ask thy heart to let us in With all the freeness of an early day: Nor hope to bear thy greatest grief away, As though, with thee, that grief had never been.

But, as the silent chancel leaves the sun To shine through mellowing windows on the floor, So would we enter thy great heart once more, Subdued, in reverence of the sainted one.

We wept with thee when throbbed the passing-bell, And felt thy great affliction from afar: We mourned that such a grief thy life should mar, And loved thee more for loving him so well.

One pearly thought surrounds that sombre time; One golden hope enframes the past regret: We thank our Father thou art with us yet, The more majestic for thy grief sublime.

BEAUTIFUL WALES.

There is a little history attached to the following lines. Twenty years ago, my friend, Mr. Arthur J. Morris, at that time an accountant at the Llwydcoed Ironworks, Aberdare, and subsequently manager at the Plymouth Ironworks, Merthyr Tydfil, but now deceased, asked me to write a song in praise of Wales. I did so, and wrote and sent him the words of "Beautiful Wales," a Welsh translation of which was made and forwarded to me by Mr. Daniel Morgan (Daniel ap Gwilym), of Aberaman, Aberdare. A short time afterwards I received a request from Mr. R. Andrews, of Manchester (whom I never saw and do not know) for permission to set the words to music, which permission I gave, and the song (English version) was published by Robert Cocks and Co., London. It has long since been out of print. I found, on receiving some copies of the music, that the tune was merely an adaptation of a well-known dance tune, and some years ago I wrote to Mr. Brinley Richards on the subject, who regretted that the words had not been wedded to more suitable music. The matter, however, was lost sight of by myself, and I was under the impression that the song had been forgotten. To my surprise it suddenly cropped up as a great favourite of the Sunday schools, and I have myself heard it sung at school anniversaries to various tunes. It would seem, therefore, that after playing the vagrant for goodness knows how long, it became a reformed character, was taken in hand by school children, and by them adopted as a pet and made a favourite of.

BEAUTIFUL WALES.

I know a land whose sunny shore The sea's wild waves embrace, Whose heart is full of mystic lore That flashes from its face; A land where cloud-kissed mountains are, And green and flowery vales, Where Poesy lingers like a star: That land is sunny Wales.

Wales, the wild--the beautiful, The beautiful--the free; My heart and hand are thine, O land Of magic minstrelsy.

And in this mystic land of mine What dainty maids there be, Whose faces shine with love divine, Like sunlight on the sea. The boasted fair of other climes That live in songs and tales Will never be more fair to me Than those of sunny Wales.

Wales, the wild--the beautiful, The beautiful--the free; My heart and hand are thine, O land Of magic minstrelsy.

GWALIA DEG.

Mi wn am wlad, a'i garw draeth Gofleidir gan y don, Sy'n orlawn o gyfrinawl ddysg 'R hwn draetha'i gwyneb llon: Gwlad yw lle mae mynyddoedd ban, A glynoedd gwyrdd eu lliw; Lle'r erys awenyddiaeth glaer: Hoff Walia heulawg yw.

Gwalia wyllt, wyt decaf wlad; Wyt decaf wlad--wlad rydd! Dy eiddo i gyd wyf fi, O dud Y swynawl gerdd ddiludd.

Ac yn y wlad gyfrinawl hon, Ceir merched uchel fri, Sydd a'u gwynebau'n t'w'nu fel Goleuni haul uwch lli. Prydferthwch ffrostiawl gwledydd pell, Sy'n byw yn ngerddi'r byd, Nis byddant byth brydferthach im Na rhai fy heulawg dud.

Gwalia wyllt, wyt decaf wlad; Wyt decaf wlad--wlad rydd! Dy eiddo i gyd wyf fi, O dud Y swynawl gerdd ddiludd.

THE WELSH LANGUAGE.

My bardic friend "Caradawc," of Abergavenny, sent me the following Englyn, with a request that I would write an English translation:

ENGLYN I'R IAITH GYMRAEG.

Iaith anwyl y Brythoniaid;--Iaith gywrain-- Iaith gara fy Enaid; Iaith gry, iaith bery heb baid, Gorenwog Iaith Gwroniaid.

IOAN DAFYDD A'I CANT.

To which was written and forwarded the following reply;

ON THE WELSH LANGUAGE.

A language to love--when our tongues in love speak it; A language to hate--when 'tis spoken by fools; A language to live--when the pure in life seek it, A language to die--when the lying tongue rules; A blessing--when blessings lead men to enjoy it; A curse--when for cursing 'tis used as a rod; The language of Satan--when devils employ it; When angels indite it--the language of God.

A FOOLISH BIRD.

An ostrich o'er the desert wide, With upturned beak and jaunty stride, In stately, self-sufficient pride, One day was gently roaming. When--dreadful sound to ostrich ears, To ostrich mind the worst of fears-- Our desert champion thinks he hears The dreaded hunter coming. Ill-fated bird! He might have fled: Those legs of his would soon have sped That flossy tail--that lofty head-- Far, far away from danger. But--fatal error of his race-- In sandy bank he hid his face, And thought by this to evade the chase Of the ostrich-bagging ranger. So he who, like the ostrich vain, Is ign'rant, and would so remain, Of what folks do, it's very plain In folly's road he's walking. For if in sand you hide your head Just to escape that which you dread, And, seeing not, say danger's fled: 'Tis worse than childish talking.

"I'D CHOOSE TO BE A NIGHTINGALE."

Answer to a Poem which appeared in a daily paper, with the above title, signed "Mary" (Llandovery.)

Gentle Mary! Do you know What it is you crave? Listen! As the flowers grow O'er the dismal grave, So, when sweetest sings the bird Thou would'st like to be, When in twilight's hour is heard The magic melody, Harshly comes the cruel thorn Against the songster's breast, And melting music thus is born Of pain and sad unrest (_a_) So if like Philomel thou'dst sing, And happiness impart, Thy breast must bear the cruel sting That haunts the songster's heart.

(_a_) There is a poetic legend, which says that when the Nightingale sings the sweetest, it presses its breast against a thorn.

TRUE PHILANTHROPY.

Written on hearing that J. D. Llewelyn, Esq., of Penllergare, had refused a public Testimonial, the offer of which was evoked by his unbounded charity and unostentatious acts of philanthropy, which recognition it was desired to inaugurate in the shape of a statue of himself, placed in front of the Swansea hospital--an institution which owes so much to his munificent liberality.

MARCH 6th, 1876.

Friend of the poor, for whom thy ceaseless thought Is as the sun, that warms the earthy clod Into a flush of blossom beauty-fraught, Waking in hearts by poverty distraught Glimpses in life of Heaven and of God.

And as the sun sends forth his golden beams In silence, all unweeting of their worth, So from thy life in silent beauty streams That Heaven-born charity which never seems To know itself--and blushes at its birth.

No sculptor's art thy goodness need proclaim: The knowledge lives in hearts that feel its power-- A love more lasting than a marbled fame: Brooding in silence o'er thy cherished name, As light is worshipped by the voiceless flower.

DISRAELI.

O'er the Present proudly striding Like Colossus o'er the wave, And a beacon-light high holding, While the tempests loudly rave: Laying bare in truthful teaching Treach'rous breakers round the bay, That the good old barque of England May in safety sail away: Though the tongue of fiercest Faction In its Folly may deride, Still he stands in lofty learning Like a giant o'er the tide, While the murmuring wavelets passing Far beneath his kingly hand, Looking upward, blindly babble Where they cannot understand.

When his country's proudest sceptre He was called upon to sway, Ruled he with a noble purpose That will never pass away: So, the Future, of his striving With its trumpet-tongue shall tell: How he battled for the Bible; How he loved old England well: How his nature, though not faultless (Human nature may not be), Bore the never-dying impress Of life's truest chivalry, How they wrote upon the marble, Where he lay beneath the sod: "Faithfully he served his country," "Truthfully he served his God."

DOWN IN THE DARK.

A RECOLLECTION OF THE FERNDALE COLLIERY EXPLOSION. NOVEMBER, 1867.

Down in the dark--in the blinding dark; Away from the sunshine bright above: Away from the gaze of those they love, They are lying stony and stark.

Down in the dark--deep down in the dark, With the terror of death in each sightless eye, Which tells how hard 'tis to burn and die Down--down in the poisonous dark.

Up in the light--in the broad noon-light-- Poor hearts are breaking: hot tears are shed, As, tenderly shrouding each cinder-like head, It is hid from the aching sight.

Up in the light--in the soft gas-light Of the draperied room, in luxurious guise; In our comfort forgetting who plods and plies Far down in eternal night.

Up in the light--further up in the light; In the pure clear light of a Queenly crown, A widowed monarch is looking down Tow'rds the dark, with compassion bedight.

Up in the light--further up in the light-- From the dazzling light of a Maker's throne-- The angel of Pity came down to zone Human hearts through that dreadful night.

DAISY MAY.

A STORY OF CHRISTMASTIDE LONG AGO.

PART THE FIRST.

"Don't bolt the door, John," said the Dame, Who sat esconced in oaken chair, The good man paused, and back he came, Silent, and with a troubled air.

"To night 'tis just a year ago Since Daisy left," the mother sighed. "Don't blame the child, I loved her so; But better had our darling died."

The father spake not. Glistening bright A tear stole down the mother's cheek. "A year to-night! A year to-night! I sometimes think my heart will break."

'Tis Christmas-eve, and in that cot The good old couple grieve and yearn For one, though absent, ne'er forgot: "Don't bolt the door, she may return."

"She may return." The midnight chime With mystic music fills the air, And bears the news, "'Tis Christmas time," In sobbing wavelets everywhere.

PART THE SECOND

Our village pride was Daisy May; A fairy being, all too good For earthly thought--as bright as day-- Just blooming into womanhood.

The low, sweet music of her voice, Was like the sound of rippling rills; It bade the listening heart rejoice, And won as with enchanting spells.

Her eyes, like violets dipt in dew, The soul enthralled with tender glance, That gave to things a brighter hue, And fringed our lives with new romance.

And from her forehead, white as pearl, There hung a cloud of golden hair, Whose lustre threw around the girl A halo such as angels wear.

"Ah, me!" sighed many a village swain, "Her love what bliss 'twould be to win He whom the beauteous prize shall gain Will open Heaven and enter in."

And as she passed with girlish grace She met the glance of every eye, Till blushes fluttered o'er her face Like roses when the sun goes by.

But while in virgin life she walkt; While sunlight round her footsteps played, Abroad unbridled Passion stalked: She loved, and, trusting, was betrayed.

And in the city, 'mongst the gay, Far, far from friends who mourned her fate, She flung Love's precious pearls away, And woke, but woke, alas, too late.

She woke to find herself alone, Save baby sleeping at her breast: In that vast city all unknown, Unloved, unpitied, and unblest.

Unloved by one who swore to love; Unpitied by the cruel crowd; Unblest by all save Him above, To whom she prayed in grief aloud.

In fitful dreams she saw, and oft, That humble cottage by the burn; And heard a voice, so sweet and soft: "Don't bolt the door, she may return."

"She may return." Delicious dream. "Then mother loves me still," she sighed. Ah! little knew she of the stream Of tears that mother shed and dried.

Of weary watches in the night; Of aching heart throughout the day; Of darkened hours that once were bright, Made glad by her now far away.

And when, in unforgiving mood, The father urged his tenets stern, How oft that mother tearful stood: "Don't bolt the door, she may return."

PART THE THIRD.

'Tis Christmas Eve: the midnight chime With mystic music fills the air, And bears the news, "'Tis Christmas time," In sobbing wavelets everywhere.

Without, the weird wind whistles by; Clothed is the ground with drifting snow; Within, the yule logs, piled on high, Their cheery warmth and comfort throw.

And in that cottage by the moor, Where father, mother, mourning dwell. The fire is bright, where hearts are sore The chime to them a mournful knell.

"What's that?" the mother faintly said: "Methought I heard a weary sigh." The father sadly shook his head: "Tis but the wind that wanders by."

Again the Dame, with drowsy start-- "It is no dream--I heard a groan." Oh, the misgivings of her heart! "'Tis but the music's murmuring moan."

They little thought, while thus they sighed, That at their threshold, fainting, lay The child for whom they would have died, For whom they prayed both night and day.

'Twas bitter chill! The snowy fall Came drifting slowly through the air, And gently clothed with ghostly pall The wasted form that slumbered there.

And all the live-long night she slept, While breaking hearts within grew sore; While father, mother, mourned and wept, She lay in silence at the door.

Till, in the morning, all aglow, The sun, in looking o'er the hill, Like sculptured marble in the snow, Saw Daisy, stony, stark, and still.

Then tenderly, in coffined state, The hapless girl they grave-ward bore, And, as they mourned her cruel fate, Her tomb with flowers scattered o'er.

Leaving the broken-hearted child To sleep in peace beneath the sod, And he who first her heart beguiled To cope with conscience and his God.

LINES:

ACCOMPANYING A PURSE GIVEN TO A FRIEND ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

The Purse I send to you, my friend, Is empty, but if wishes warm Could fill it, 'twould be brimming o'er With handfuls of the golden charm. The only wealth I have to give Are words which may be worth a thought. Be sure, as you would prosperous live, While earning sixpence spend a groat: Your purse will then grow slowly full, A friend in need you'll always find, And comforts, which can only flow From plenty and a peaceful mind.

FORSAKEN.

'Twas a white water-lily I saw that day, With its leaves looking up to the sky, And baring its breast to the sportive play Of the wavelets dancing by. And O for the music the streamlet made, As it floated in ripples along; Round the beautiful blossom it eddied and played With a voice full of silvery song.

So all through the Summer the lily laughed, And with glances of loving and light Drank in fresher beauty with each dainty draught Of the water so playful and bright. "And is it for ever," the floweret sighed, "That thy vows of affection will last?" "For ever and ever!" the streamlet replied, And, embracing her, hurried past.

The Summer days vanished--the Winter came: Ah! where could the lily be? The sun still warmed with its golden flame; But the streamlet had gone to the sea. And the blossom that once, with its bosom of white, Like a star from the heavens shone, Lay frozen and dead. Ah, sorrowful plight! It had died in the dark alone.

CHRISTMAS IS COMING.

Christmas is coming with merry laugh, With a merry laugh and a joyful shout, And the tidings are flung with an iron tongue From a thousand steeples pealing out; Hang up the holly--the mistletoe hang; Bedeck every nook round the old fireside; Make bright every hearth--let the joy-bells clang With a warm-hearted welcome to Christmas-tide.

Christmas is coming! But some will see By the old fireside a vacant place; And a vision will flit through the festive glee Of an absent--a never-returning face; And a voice that was music itself last year Will be mournfully missed in the even-song; And children will speak, with a gathering tear, Of the virtues which now to the dead belong.

Christmas is coming! Look back o'er the past: Is there nought to forgive? Is there nought to forget? Have we seized all the chances of life that were placed In our path: or in this have we nought to regret? Have we fought on life's battle-ground manfully--true, While success, like a butterfly, flew from our reach? Have we pressed in pursuit of the prize as it flew? Has the Past, in its dying, no lesson to teach?

Christmas is coming! But who shall say That at Christmas-time they again may meet? For graves lie thick in the crowded way; And we elbow Death in the open street Let Folly embitter the festival hour With a tongue that would injure--a heart that would hate! True wisdom is blest with a nobler dower: In another year it may be too late.

Christmas is coming! The wealthy will sit In purple, fine linen, and sumptuous state; 'Twere well in their plenty they should not forget The poor that stand meek at the outer gate. For who can foreshadow the changes of life? See! yesterday's King is an outcast to-day; Success comes in time to the strong in the strife; And Fortune's a game at which paupers can play.

Christmas is coming? The trader will quail Over ledgers unsquared--and accounts overdue: And his pen fain would tell all the sorrowful tale Which his heart, full of fear, has not courage to do! Had he all that is owing, how happy his heart; How buoyant his footstep--how joyous his face; But his debtors from gold as their life's blood will part; And their hoard lies untouched o'er a brother's disgrace.

But Christmas is coming with merry laugh, Amid pain, amid pleasure, with joyful shout, And the tidings are flung with an iron tongue From a thousand steeples pealing out. Hang up the holly--the mistletoe hang; Bedeck every nook round the old fireside: Let us bury our care: let the joy-bells clang With a warm-hearted welcome to Christmas-tide.

HEART LINKS.

The mist that rises from the river, Evermore--evermore, Tells how hearts are born to sever As of yore--as of yore. But the silvery mist returneth Sparkling dew and blessed rain; So the loving heart, though distant, Comes again--comes again.

The stars that shine in brightness o'er us In the sky--in the sky, Speak of loved ones gone before us Born to die--born to die, Who, in days of earthly sadness, O'er us watch with tender love, As the starlight falls around us From above--from above.

The rose that gives, before it leaves us, Fragrance rare--fragrance rare, Links of love in absence weaves us Sweet to wear--sweet to wear; So true hearts in love united Bound by pure affection's chain, Though in life or death divided, Meet again--meet again.

THE OAK TO THE IVY.

'Twas in my Spring of palmy gladness First I met thee, Ivy wife; Then my brow, untouched by sadness, Bloomed with regal-foliaged life; Proud my arms hung forth in blessing O'er thy trustful spirit dear, And my heart, 'neath thy caressing, Wore a Spring-dress all the year! Time wings on: my strength is fleeing, And my leafy beauties too; Still thou clings't around my being, Changeless--ever true.

Churlish Autumn hath uncrowned me, Still I feel thy fond embrace; Winter sad throws gloom around me: Sweet! thou smil'st up in my face; Spring arrives with flowery treasures, Summer skips by, sun-caressed; Yet thou, envying not their pleasures, Bloom'st upon my rugged breast. Time wings on: my strength is fleeing, And my leafy beauties too; Still thou cling'st around my being, Changeless--ever true.

Though my limbs grow old and weary, Trembling in the wintry air; And my life be dark and dreary-- Still I feel that thou art near; Stripped of all my blossoms golden, 'Reft of stalwart forest pride-- Sere and sallow, leafless, olden; Yet remain'st thou by my side. Time wings on: my strength is fleeing, And my leafy beauties too; Life-long cling'st thou round my being, Changeless--ever true.

EPIGRAM

ON A WELSHWOMAN'S HAT.

"O changeful woman! Constant man!" Has been the theme for buried ages. But here's the truth: say "No" who can-- Ye bards, philosophers, and sages: Men buy their Hats all kinds of shapes; Our own Welshwomen change their's never; 'Tis with their Hats as with their loves-- Where fancy rests the heart approves, And, loving once, they love for ever!

SHADOWS IN THE FIRE.

She sat and she gazed in the fire: In the fire with a dreamy look: And she seemed as though she could never tire Of reading the fiery book.

She saw, midst the embers bright, A figure both manly and fair, Blue eyes that shone with a loving light: And showers of nut-brown hair.

She saw her own image stand By that form on a sunny day: One kiss of the lip: one grasp of the hand: And her heart was borne away.

She saw, through the flickering flame, A bier in a darkened room: And a coffin that bore her idol's name Was hurried away to the tomb.

She saw, from a distant strand, A missive sent over the main: The letter was writ by a stranger's hand: And she sighed for her lover in vain.

So she sat and she gazed in the fire: In the fire, with a dreamy look: And she seemed as though she could never tire Of reading the fiery book.

THE BELFRY OLD.

On a New Year's Eve, by a belfry old, With a sea of solemn graves around, While the grim grey tower of the village church Kept silent ward o'er each grassy mound, With a cloak of ivy about it grown, Fringed round, like fur, with a snowy fray; On a New Year's Eve I watched alone The life of the last year ebbing away.

Anon there came from the belfry out A strange wild sound as of pleasure and pain; For the birth of the new a jubilant shout: For the death of the old a sad refrain. And the voice went throbbingly through the air, Went sobbing and sighing, with laughter blent; All the echoes awakening everywhere; A guest that was welcomed wherever, it went.

I thought, as the sound of each babbling bell Came gushing away from the belfry old, That stories such as the dying tell Were up in that belfry being told: As the words men mutter in life's last fear Seem to shrink from Eternity back to Time, So it seemed to me that each echo clear Came back from the grave with a lesson sublime.

"Yet another year!" it seemed to say; Gone one more year in the battle of life; With its yearnings in gloom for the coming day, Its pantings for peace 'mid the daily strife; Clay lips that kissed but a year ago With the fervent warmth of life and love; Dear eyes that gladdened bright homes below In one short year with the stars above.

Gone one more year, with its masses that prayed For the daily bread that so seldom came; With its lives whom sinning could never degrade, Till the canker of want brought guilt and shame. Gone one more year, with its noble souls Who raised up the weary in hours of need; With its crowds that started for wished-for goals, And drooped by the way, broken-hearted indeed.

Gone one more year, with its wearisome woes; Its pleasures hoped for--never seen: Its swallow-winged friends: its fair-faced foes: Its sorrow which happiness might have been: Its cant and its cunning: its craft and crime: Its loves and its hates: its hopes and fears: Its lives that, reaching tow'rds heights sublime, Fell short of the mark in a sea of tears.

Gone one more year, to tell all the rest How wise the old world had gotten of late: How fools still flourish, by wealth caressed: How the noble of mind meet a pauper's fate; How the infidel heart, accursed, defies All hopes of Heaven--all fears of hell: How the saintly preach from the book of lies, And scoff at the truths which Saviours tell.

How the pious who poison the poor man's food In shoddy and shop grow golden and grand: How the rent-roll harbours the stolen rood-- The emblazoned escutcheon the bloody hand: How women and men to the altar hie, And swear to the promise they rarely keep; How Vice, a shameless and living lie, Gets honours which Virtue never can reap.

Gone one more year: there is no return. Press onward, still onward, for weal or woe. Beat heart: throb brain: hot eyelids burn: Man's troubles and trials who cares to know? Birth, marriage, and death: death, marriage, and birth, Are the treadmill steps of this wheel of strife; Cloak, draught, and a crust--then a hole in the earth: And the struggle for these is the story of life.

So sang the bells in the belfry old, Or so it seemed to me they sang; And the year died out as the moments rolled, Still o'er its bier the joy-bells rang: 'Twas mourning an instant, merriment then, And the ghastly shroud where the old year lay-- How like is the humour of bells and men-- Became swaddling-clothes for the New Year's Day.

BEAUTIFUL BARBARA.

Beautiful Barbara--Barbara bright, As bright and as fresh as the dainty dawn, What is it disturbeth her bosom white, As the breeze into billows kisseth the corn?

Beautiful Barbara--silent and shy, Shy as the dove, as the dove as fond, What a dreaminess lives in her hazel eye, As she looketh away through the valley beyond.

Through the valley beyond, where the daisies blush, Where the woodbines bloom and the rivulets run; Through the valley beyond, where, in evening's hush, Beautiful Barbara's heart was won.

And the maiden Barbara, fair and forlorn, The grass-green meadow looketh along; The morrow was fixed for her wedding morn, And she vieweth in vision the bridal throng.

She looketh, and weepeth, and looketh in vain: Her heart was trustful; his heart was untrue; And beautiful Barbara mingleth amain Her tears with the daisies and the dew.

And the harvest moon sat silent and pale, Silent and pale o'er the far-off hill: And the sun in the morning flushing the vale Saw beautiful Barbara stark and still.

Stark and still, with a forehead of white, Round which the dew-drop coronal shone; And the sunbeams came with their laughing light, But beautiful Barbara sleepeth on.

'Twas a trying path for her dainty feet, For such dainty feet as her's to tread. So her trampled heart 'gainst its bars had beat, Till it bravely broke and heavenward fled.

SONG OF THE SILKEN SHROUD.

Out in Babylon yonder, By the gas-lights' dull red glare, In a stifling room--a living tomb, With never a breath of air, A slender girl is sitting; At her feet a silken cloud, Which music makes, while her young heart aches, As she stitches the rustling shroud. And this is the song the glistening silk Sings, out in the work-room yonder:

"Quick! quick! quick! "My lady is waiting to roam. "If you wish to die, the needle ply; "You can die when you reach your home."

And while the gas-lights flicker and play The life of the sempstress ebbs away In the West End work-room yonder.

Out in Babylon yonder, In the blaze of the ball-room gay, My lady sits; while round her flits A skeleton slender and grey. And the ghastly spectre standeth By the side of my lady fair So mournfully bland, and with bony hand It plays with her costume rare. And this is the song the ghostly guest Sings, out in the ball-room yonder:

"Look! look! look! "Sit ye scornful and proud. "Your boddice a hearse; every stitch a curse; "Your skirt a silken shroud."

For while the gas-lights flickered in play The life of the sempstress ebbed away In the West End work-room yonder.

A UNIVERSITY FOR WALES.

WRITTEN IN 1867, AND INSCRIBED TO THOSE WHO WERE THEN ENGAGED IN THE NOBLE AND PATRIOTIC WORK OF PROVIDING ONE.

In the cause of Education Let us raise the standard high, And in tones of exultation "Upward--onward!" be the cry. Let us rear this Fane of Learning-- Beauteous Temple of the Mind; Where true hearts, for knowledge yearning, May the priceless jewel find.

In the cause of Education Let the glorious altar stand, As a bulwark of the nation, As a blessing in the land. Let an unsectarian fabric Grow in grandeur from the sod, As a crown upon our manhood, As a monument to God.

In the cause of Education Let the wealth which Wisdom owns Be out-scattered open-handed To uprear this Throne of Thrones: And, like bread upon the waters, Hearts that give from store of gold Will, in never-dying blessings, Richly reap a thousand-fold.

In the cause of Education, In the search for simple Truth, In the proud Confederation Which ennobles striving youth, Let each heart's best pulses quicken, Patriotic souls up-leap, Till, mind-freighted, sails the fabric Like an ark upon the deep.

GRIEFS UNTOLD.

In silence blooms the Summer rose, With damask cheek and odorous breath, And ne'er a ruddy leaf that blows Whispers of canker or of death: But sweetly smiles the lovely flower All through the sunshine warm and gay, And tells not of the canker-dower That eats its inmost heart away.

In gladness rolls the river bright Down through the meadow grassy-green, With ripples full of laughing light That wake with joy the sunny scene. From morn till morn, with cheery tread, The stream walks on with ne'er a sigh, Nor tells of pebbles hard and dead That deep below the surface lie.

"I WILL."

It is Christmas Eve, and the dance is o'er: "Good night--good night all round!" And the red light streams through the open door, Like a sprite on the snowy ground. And faces peer down the glowing dell From the cottage warm and bright, To see the last of the village belle Who stands in the pale moonlight. And waving her hand with a last farewell, Is lost from their yearning sight. But not alone is that maiden fair Of the pearl-white face and the golden hair.

"Thou knowest I love thee, Blanche," he said, Who walked by the maiden's side, And her cheeks flushed up with a sweeter red When he asked her to be his bride. Though humble, their love was pure as light-- As pure as the snow they trod; And the peal from the belfry woke the night Like a voice from the Throne of God: Or plaudits of angels glad with delight At their Maker's approving nod. Through a manly bosom it sent a thrill, For it came with the bells did the girl's "I will."

DAWN AND DEATH.

The sobbing winds of winter Lingered sadly round the door, Then ran in mystic meanings Through the dark across the moor; The window panes were streaming With the tears which heaven wept, And a mother sat a-dreaming O'er an infant as it slept: Its little hands were folded; And its little eyes of blue Were clothed in alabaster With the azure peeping through: Its face, so still and star-like, Was as white as maiden snow: And it breathed in faintest ripples, As the wavelets come and go.

The morn in golden beauty Through the lattice gaily peept, But muffled was the window Of the room where darling slept: The mother's heart was breaking Into tears like Summer cloud, For a starry face was circled With a little lily shroud; And a soul from sunny features Like a beam of light had fled: Before her, like a snowdrop, Her miracle lay dead! Ah! 'Twas cruel thus to chasten, Though her loss was darling's gain: And her heart would rifle Heaven Could she clasp her babe again.

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

Autumn's sun was brightly blazing Like a suit of golden mail; Flocks along the mead were grazing; Lambkins frollicked through the vale. Brooklets gossipped o'er their beauty; Leaves came down in whisp'ring showers; And the vine-trees, lush and fruity, Climbed and clung in am'rous bowers:

Beauty--gladness-- Floated round me everywhere; Still in sadness Built I castles in the air-- In the soft and dreamy air.

Far above me, like a spirit, Rose an alp in proud array, And my heart so yearned to near it As I in the valley lay. Ah, thought I, yon summit seemeth Like a throne, so pure and bright; Lo! how grandly-great it gleameth, Crown'd with everlasting light!

Then I started From the valley calm and fair, Hopeful-hearted, Tow'rds the castle in the air-- High up in the dreamy air.

Many a tortuous path and winding Rid my soul embattle through; Many a thorn of bitter finding Choked my way with perils new: Upward still, footsore and bleeding, On with lonesome heart I pressed; And I heard the chimes receding In the vale so calm and blest.

Still I wandered Up the pathway rough and drear, Till I pondered By the castle in the air-- Like a spirit in the air.

I had reached the lofty glory; I had gained the alpine peak; Lowly lay the world before me-- Yet my heart was like to break! Where I stood 'twas cold and dreary--- Crown'd with white and glistening snow: "Ah," I sighed, with heart a-weary-- "Distance lent the golden glow!"

Thus Fame ever Woos men from earth's valleys fair, Oft to shiver Near life's castles in the air-- In the far-off wintry air.

THE WITHERED ROSE.

I had a silver chalice once Of exquisite design, In shape 'twas like the human heart This little vase of mine. I plucked a rose and placed the flow'r Within the shiny cup, And drank the incense hour by hour The rosebud offered up. And as it opened leaf by leaf Its beauties spreading wide, I saw no blossom such as mine In all the world beside.

The sunlight came, but came in vain, And day succeeded day, But leaf by leaf my rosebud drooped, Until it passed away. And thus in life we look for love From other loves apart-- A gift from Heavenly hand above-- And plant it near the heart; But Death comes forth with chilly touch; The blossom droops and dies; And breaking hearts are filled alone With fragrant memories.

WRECKS OF LIFE.

I sat upon the shingly Beach One sunny Summer-day, A-listening to the mystic speech Of a million waves at play. And as I watched the flowing flood I saw a little child, Who near a mimic fabric stood Of shells his hands had piled. And as he turned to go away, He said, with look of sorrow: "Build up I cannot more to-day-- "I'll come again to-morrow!"

The morrow came--he thither hied-- Looked for his castle gay; But while he'd slept the cruel tide Had washt it all away. And thus in life we gaily build Shell castles in the air; Our hopes the fairy fabrics gild With colours bright and rare: But the dark flood of human strife Rolls onward while we sleep, And o'er the wrecks, where waves ran rife, We waken but to weep.

ELEANOR:

DIED ON HER WEDDING DAY.

Scarce nineteen Summers had breathed their bloom, Had breathed their bloom on her dainty cheek, When they bore her away to the voiceless tomb With hearts so full they were like to break. And down in the churchyard old and green, In the churchyard green where the yew-tree waves, A dark little mound of earth is seen-- One billow more to the sea of graves.

Dear heart! How sad, in the gorgeous light, In the gorgeous light of a purple dawn, With life so hopeful of pure delight, Away from the world to be rudely torn! To be rudely torn in the tender hour, In the tender hour when her heart was young; While the virgin dew on the opening flower With a trembling joy like a jewel hung.

Ere the budding soul, so sweetly shy, Had opened its core to the coming kiss Of an earthly love that was born to die Ere it filled her heart with its hallowed bliss. So down in the churchyard old and green, In the churchyard green where the yew-tree waves, A dark little mound of earth is seen-- One billow more to the sea of graves.

Scarce nineteen Summers had breathed their bloom, Had breathed their bloom on her dainty cheek, And they bore her away to the voiceless tomb With hearts so full they were like to break: With hearts so full even this belief Dispelled not a tear from their aching eyes-- Though they saw their beloved through clouds of grief An angel beyond in the golden skies.

NEW YEAR'S BELLS.

Hearest thou that peal a-telling Night-noon stories to the Sky; Hark! each wave of sound comes welling Like a scolded angel's cry; And the voice the belfry flingeth Sobbing from its brazen breast, Like a god in trouble singeth, Waking half the world from rest; Now it wails in murmuring sadness, As a child at words unkind; Now it comes with merry gladness, Floating weirdly on the wind. Ah! 'tis sad;---yet sprightly-hearted; Song of Birth and gloomy Bier; Death-dirge for the Days departed; Carol for the coming Year. Is it that the voice reminds thee Of the wasted moments past? Saith it that the New Year finds thee Where it left thee last?

Doth the merry music taunt thee, How the Palace love had reared Mocks with echoes now, that haunt thee Where thou dream'dst they would have cheered? Moan the bells with thee in sorrow O'er a little mound of green, Rising up from graveyard furrow Bleakly blank upon the scene? Doth the tender language, stealing O'er the soul with soothing swell, Waken thoughts from sweet concealing: Joyous tale for chimes to tell; Reviving dainty hours of gladness, Fresh as daisies in the spring, As birds in summer, void of sadness, Songs, heart-buried, wake and sing? Doth the sea of music bear thee Back again upon the Past, To show thee that the New Year finds thee Happier than the last?

Doth it tell of plans laid glowing On the anvil of thy heart; Times thou'st raised thy hand for throwing In life's battle many a dart? How each plan unstricken lingered Till the mouldful heat was gone? How each dart was faintly fingered, Resting in the end unthrown; Of the Faith thou pawn'dst for Fancies-- Substance for a fadeful beam? Doth it taunt with bartered chances-- Sterling strength for drowsy dream? Doth it brand thee apathetic? Twit with lost days many a one? Doth it chant in words emphatic "Gone for aye; for ever gone?" Is it that the voice reminds thee Of the wasted moments past? Saith it that the New Year finds thee. Wiser than the last?

'Tis not so!--and still, as ever, Time's a jewel in its loss; But, possessed in plenty, never Held as ought but worthless dross. Like lost truant-boys we linger Whimpering in Life's mazy wood, Heedless of the silent finger Ever pointing for our good; Each, in plodding darkness groping, Clothes his day in dreamy night, 'Stead of boldly climbing, hoping, Up the steeps towards the light, Where, as metal plucks the lightning Flashing from the lofty sky, Sturdy purpose, ever heightening, Grasps an Immortality. Let not future peals remind thee, Then, of wasted moments passed; Let not future New Years find thee Where each left thee last.

THE VASE AND THE WEED:

A PLEA FOR THE BIBLE.

I had a vase of classic beauty, Rare in richly-carved design; Memento of an ancient splendour Was this peerless vase of mine. A master-hand of old had graved it: Hand for many a year inurned: And out from every line and tracing Germs of genuine genius yearned. I took the gem and proudly placed it On a pillar 'mongst the flowers, And watcht how radiance round it hovered, Bathed with sunlight and with showers. A little weed-like plant grew near it, And anon crept o'er its face; Until at length, with stealth insidious, It quite obscured its classic grace, And where was once a noble picture Of the Beauteous and the True, There hung a mass of straggling herbage Flecked with blooms of sickly hue. The Summer passed: the plant had flourished, As every weed in Summer will; When Winter came and struck the straggler To the heart with bitter chill. It died: the winds of March played round it, Laughing at its wretched plight. Then blew it from its slender holding, Like a feather out of sight. But still in undimmed freshness standing, Reared the vase its classic face; Rare in its old, eternal beauty, Majestic in its pride of place.

A RIDDLE.

A riddle of riddles: Who'll give it a name? A portrait of God in a worm-eaten frame. A mount in his own eye--in others' a mite; The foot-boy of Wrong, and the headsman of Right; A vaunter of Virtue--yet dallies with Vice; From the cope to the basement bought up at a price; A vane in his friendship--in folly a rock; In custom a time-piece--in manners a mock; A fib under fashion--a fool under form; In charity chilly--in wealth-making warm: In hatred satanic--a lambkin in love; A hawk in religion with coo of a dove; A riddle unravelled--a story untold; A worm deemed an idol if covered with gold. A dog in a gutter--a God on a throne: In slander electric--in justice a drone: A parrot in promise, and frail as a shade; A hooded immortal in life's masquerade; A sham-lacquered bauble, a bubble, a breath: A boaster in life-time--a coward in death.

TO A FLY:

BURNED BY A GAS-LIGHT.

Poor prostrate speck! Thou round and round With wildering limp dost come and go; Thy tale to me, devoid of sound, Bears the mute majesty of woe. In bounding pride of revelry, Seared by the cruel, burning blast, Thy fall instructive is to me As fall of States and Empires vast.

No sounding theme from lips of fire, No marvel of the immortal quill, Can teach a moral, sterner--higher, Than thou, so helpless and so still. Reft as thou art by blistering burn-- Blinded and shorn--poor stricken Fly! The wise may stoop and lessons learn From thy unmeasured agony.

It tells how maid, in guileless youth, Flies tow'rds her Love with trusting wing, Bruises her heart 'gainst broken truth, And falls, like thee, a crippled thing. How man in bacchanalian sphere Soars to the heat of Pleasure's sun, Then, by gradations dark and drear, Sinks low as thee, poor wingless one: How hearts from proud Ambition's height Have drooped to darkest, lowest hell-- From blazing noon to pitchy night, With pangs a demon-tongue may tell: How aspirations glory-fraught Have gained the goal in dark despair; How golden hopes have come to nought But wailings in the midnight air.

There! and the life I ne'er could give In pitying tenderness I've ta'en; Far better thus to die, than live A life of helpless, hopeless pain. Ambitious hearts--high-vaulting pow'rs-- That aim to grasp life's distant sky, See through the spirit-blinding hours What wrought the fall of yonder Fly.

TO A FRIEND.

I fear to name thee. If I were To do so, I could never tell What virtues crown thy nature rare; 'Twould pain thy heart--I know it well.

Thou dost not ask for thy reward In words that all the world may hear, For thoughtful acts and kind regard By thee for others everywhere.

Thou seek'st alone for grateful thought From those to whom thy worth is known; So for much good thine heart hath wrought Find gratitude within mine own.

RETRIBUTION.

A spider once wove a right marvellous net, Whose equal no human hand ever wove yet, So complete in design was each beautiful fret, And finished in every particular. And the wily old architect, proud of his craft, Ensconced in a snug little sanctum abaft, Laid wait for the flies; and he chuckled and laughed, As he pricked up his organs auricular.

A week had elapsed, and the spider still wrought Fell ruin on all the frail flies that he caught; All right rules of decency set he at nought: Each meal made him much more rapacious. But his foot got entangled one horrible hour, As he rushed forth a poor screaming fly to devour, And to get his leg free was far out of his pow'r, Secure was our spider sagacious.

Where now is the beautiful fabric of gauze? Behold! in the centre, by one of his claws, A dead spider is hanging surrounded by flaws And many a struggle-made fracture. 'Twas hard, in the height of his fly-killing fun, And sad, in the light of a Summer-day sun, To die all alone, as that spider had done, In a mesh of his own manufacture.

THE THREE GRACES.