III.

Her hair--what mind I the tint of her hair, When her eyes are the tenderest blue; And her loving face bears many a grace Lit up with a sunny hue? When I find--O I find, that her heart is kind-- That she goes not abroad to see The World--or be seen. Her love, I ween, Is the love that was made for me.

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

Where now is the Summer's last Rose, That reigned like a queen on the briar? 'T is faded! and o'er its grave glows The glad warmth of Winter's first fire.

We welcome the Flame with delight, As we welcomed the Rose in the Spring: But the blossom's as nought in our sight 'Mid pleasures which Firesides bring.

And so with life's swallow-winged friends: The Rose is adored in its day; But when its prosperity ends 'T is cast like a puppet away.

THE STARLING AND THE GOOSE.

A FABLE.

A silly bird of waddling gait On a common once was bred, And brainless was his addle pate As the stubble on which he fed; Ambition-fired once on a day He took himself to flight, And in a castle all decay He nestled out of sight. "O why," said he, "should mind like mine "Midst gosling-flock be lost? "In learning I was meant to shine!" And up his bill he tossed. "I'll hide," said he, "and in the dark "I'll like an owl cry out ("In wisdom owls are birds of mark), "And none shall find me out!" And so from turret hooted he At all he saw and heard; Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo! What melody! And what a silly bird! At length a Starling which had flown Down on the Castle wall Thus spake: "Why what a simple drone "You are to sit and bawl! "Though _you_ presume _an Owl_ to be, "It's not a bit of use! "Your body though folks cannot see "They know the diff'rence--pardon me! "Betwixt the screech of Owl up tree "And the cackling of a Goose!"

THE HEROES OF ALMA.

OCTOBER, 1854.

Heaven speed you, Braves! Undaunted lion-hearts Well have you thus redeemed a solemn trust, And added, by your bright heroic deeds, Another lustrous ray to deck the brow, Of this the good Old Land, whose gladdened heart Leaps forth for very joy and thankfulness, Proud of the gallant sons she calls her own; Right nobly have you ta'en the gauntlet up Ambition flung before the world, and fought 'Gainst Evil, Might, and hated Despot-law; Bled, conquered, clipped the wings of soaring Pride, And earned in Serf-land such a brilliant name Time's breath can never dim. But list!--a wail Of sorrowing sadness sweeps across the Land, With which the up-sent jubilant psalm is blent. 'Reft orphans' cries, in mournful cadence soft, Sobs wrung from widows' broken, bleeding hearts; And fond hoar-headed parents' sighs and tears, Commingling all, merge in a requiem sad For those brave hearts that fell in Freedom's cause. Then let us plant Fame's laurels o'er their graves, And keep them green with tears of gratitude.

A KIND WORD, A SMILE, OR A KISS.

There's a word, softly spoken, which leadeth The erring from darkness and night; There's an effortless action that sheddeth A sun-world of gladdening light; There's a sweet something-nothing which bringeth A fore-taste of Paradise bliss: Full and large is the love that up-springeth From kind words, a smile, or a kiss.

Eyes a-plenty with tears have been blinded, Hearts legion in sadness have bled, And many of earth's angel-minded In grief have gone down to the dead, And the world, with its bright laughing gladness, Oft changed to a frowning abyss, By vain mortals refusing, in madness, A kind word, a smile, or a kiss.

DEAR MOTHER I'M THINKING OF THEE.

NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1855.

In the hush of night, when the pale starlight Through my casement silently steals; When the Moon walks on to the bower of the Sun, And her beautiful face reveals: When tranquil's the scene, and the mist on the green Lies calm as a slumbering sea, From my lattice I peep, 'ere I lay down to sleep, And whisper a prayer for thee: Mother! Dear Mother! O, blessings on thee! From my lattice I peep, 'ere I lay down to sleep, And think, dear Mother, of thee.

When the dew goes up from the white lily cup In rose-coloured clouds to the sky; When the voice of the Lark trembles out from the dark, And the winds kiss the flowers with a sigh; When the King of Dawn, like a world new-born, Scatters love-light over the lea; From my lattice I peep, when I wake from sleep, And whisper a prayer for thee: Mother! Dear Mother! O, blessings on thee! From my lattice I peep, when I wake from sleep, And think, dear Mother, of thee.

THE HERON AND THE WEATHER-VANE.

A FABLE.

A weather-vane on steeple top Had stood for many a day, And every year a coat of gold Increased his aspect gay. Subservient to the changing air, Each puff he'd quickly learn To obey with sycophantic twist And never-failing turn.

A Heron once, from lowly fen, Soared up in stately flight; But, striking 'gainst the gilded vane, He fell in sorry plight: And as, with wounded wing, he lay Down in the marsh below, He thus addressed the glittering thing, The cause of all his woe:

"Vain upstart! 'tis from such as thee That Merit, lowly born, In striving oft to win a name, Wins nought but bitter scorn: But for such treacherous knaves as thou, What crowds of souls would soar With lofty swoop, that now, like me, Will mount, Ah! never more!

It fits thee well, that lacquer suit, Base flunkey as thou art! Though bright, it never covered brain; Though gilded, ne'er a heart! Rather than wear upon my back Such livery as thine, I'd earn an honest crust, and make The scullion's calling mine."

THE THREE MIRRORS.

A FABLE.

Three mirrors of the usual sort Were gifted once with power of thought; And as they hung against the wall They felt that they were prophets all. The first, a plate-glass o'er the fire; The next, a concave, standing higher; A portly convex 'tother side Made up the three; and as he eyed His brother mirrors, brilliant each, Thus gave to thought the rein of speech: "Such power as mine who ever saw? If in my face without a flaw Men chance to gaze, they taller seem Than what they are: delightful scheme! I like to elongate the truth; What else but flattery pleases youth? A boy who in my face should scan Will grow as tall as any man!" Says convex; "That is not the case With me; for those who in _my_ face Should chance to look, themselves will find Turned into things of dwarfish kind. To praise mankind is what I hate: What says our neighbour, Master Plate?" The plate-glass then essayed to speak; Said he: "My friends, I never seek So to distort the things I see That none can tell what things they be. I find it more convenient far To show mankind just what they are!" A table the dispute had heard, And asked for leave to say a word. "Agreed," rejoined the glassy crowd: When thus the table spoke aloud: "The virtues which you each would claim As yours, are virtues but in name. You, Concave, lessen what you see, Though well you know 't should larger be. While Convex, aye to flattery prove, Makes mounts of what are mites alone. Plain-spoken Plate, in wrong the least, Would tell a beast it _was_ a beast, Forgetting 'tis not always right To judge from what appears in sight. Your faces ought to blush for shame, And yet you think you're not to blame! You know that men are slow to think, And will of _any_ fountain drink; Who fear their brain's behest to do, So frame their faith from such as you! Judged by the simplest human rules, You are the knaves--and they the fools."

THE TWO CLOCKS.

A FABLE.

A country dame, to early-rising prone, Two clocks possessed: the one, a rattling Dutch, Seldom aright, though noisy in its tone, With naughty knack of striking two too much. The other was a steady, stately piece, That rang the hour true as the finger told: For many a year 't had kept its corner place; The owner said 'twas worth its weight in gold! One washing-eve, the Dame, to rise at four, Sought early rest, and, capped and gowned, did droop Fast as a church, to judge from nasal snore, That broke the silence with a hoarse hor-hoop: When all at once with fitful start she woke; For that same tinkling Dutchman on the stair Had told the hour of four with clattering stroke, And waked the sleeper ere she was aware. "Odd drat the clock!" she sighed; but, knowing well The cackling thing struck two at least a-head, She turned; and back to such deep slumber fell, But for her snore you might have thought her dead. And so she slept till four o'clock was due, When t'other time-piece truly told the tale; Straightway the drowsy dame to labour flew, And soon the suds went flirting round the pail.

MORAL.

Whoe'er breaks faith in petty ways Will never hold a friend; While he who ne'er a trust betrays Gets trusted to the end.

SACRIFICIAL.

WRITTEN AFTER WITNESSING THE EXECUTION OF TWO GREEK SAILORS AT SWANSEA, MARCH, 1859.

The morning broke fair, with a florid light, And the lark fluttered upward in musical flight, As the sun stept over the distant height In mantle purple and golden. The blue bounding billows in waltzing play Lookt up in the face of the coming day, And sang, as they danced o'er the sandy bay, Their sea-songs mystic and olden.

High up, on the gable of yonder jail, The workmen are plying with hammer and nail, And the slow-rising framework hinteth a tale Of mournful and sombre seeming. 'Tis the gibbet that rears its brow on high, And the morn-breezes pass it with many a sigh, As it stands gazing up to the fair blue sky Like a spectre dumbly dreaming.

Through lane and alley: through alley and street The echoes are startled by hurrying feet; And thousands, in action fitful and fleet, Press on to the execution. The squalid-faced mother her baby bears; And the father his boy on his shoulder rears: The frail and the sinning emerge in pairs From darkness and destitution.

Aloft on the gibbet two beings stand, Whose foreheads are smirched with the murder-brand, Whose lives, by the lawgivers bungling and bland, Declared are to justice forfeit. Below, like a statue stark and still, A legion of faces, in brutish will, Gaze up to the gallows with many a thrill, And thirst for the coming surfeit.

But one more look at the silvery sea: One thought of the lark in its musical glee; One breath of the sweet breeze, balmy and free; One prayer from two hearts that falter; And Lo! in reply to a mortal's nod, From the gibbet-tree dangle two pieces of clod, Their souls standing face-to-face with their God, Each wearing a hangman's halter.

Ah! shrink from the murderer; quaint, wise world Yea: shudder at sight of him; sanctified world! Go: plume him up deftly; clever old world! Till he shines like a gilded excrescence: Then strangle him dog-like--a civilised plan! Quick! trample his life out: he's not of the clan: He stinks in the nostrils of saintly man, Though fit for the Infinite's presence!

WALES TO "PUNCH."

On his milking the amende honourable to Wales and the Welsh, in some verses, the last of which was the following:

"And _Punch_--incarnate justice, Intends henceforth to lick All who shall scorn and sneer at you: You jolly little brick."

I'm glad, old friend, that you your error see, Of sneering where you cannot understand: You've owned your fault: let by-gones by-gones be; Past blows from _Punch_ forgetting--there's my hand. Lick whom you list--creation if you please: Let those who choose laugh at me: let them sneer; I earn, before I eat, my bread and cheese; I love my language; and I like my beer. Content with what I have, so that it come Through honest sources: happy at my lot, I seek not--wish not--for a fairer home. Hard work: my Bible: children: wife: a cot: These are my birthright, these I'll strive to keep, And round my humble hearth affection bind: From Eisteddfodau untold pleasures reap; And try to live at peace with all mankind. Then glad am I that you your error see, Of sneering where you cannot understand: You've owned your fault: let by-gones by-gones be; Past blows from _Punch_ forgetting--there's my hand.

WELCOME!

The following was written as a Prologue, to be read at the opening of the Wrexham National Eisteddfod, 1876. It was not successful in taking the offered prize, but as the adjudicator who made the award was pleased to say it was "above the average," I have thought its publication here will not be out of place.

Welcome! thrice welcome--one and all, To this our Nation's Festival; Be 't Peer or peasant; old or young: Welcome! thrice welcome, friends among. If Peer--no title that he bears-- No decoration that he wears-- Can the proud name of Bard excel, Or pale the badge he loves so well. If Peasant--he may here be taught That none are poor who, rich in thought, Possess in Mind's high utterings A nobler heritage than kings. If old--what once you were you'll see: If young--what p'rhaps one day you'll be-- For youth yearns upward to the sage; And childhood's joy delighteth age. Come rich--come poor--come old and young, And join our Feast of Art and Song. What forms our banquet all shall know, And hungry homeward none must go. We boast not here of knife or platter; Our feast is of the mind--not matter, Along our festive board observe No crystal fruit--no rare preserve: No choice exotic here and there, With wine cup sparkling everywhere: No toothsome dish--no morsel sweet-- Such savoury things as people eat; So if for these you yearn--refrain! For these you'll look and long in vain. Our Feast's composed of dainty dishes-- To suit far daintier tastes and wishes. While for the splendour of our wine-- I've oftimes heard it called divine: For who that drinks of Music's stream, Or quaffs of Art's inspiring theme, Shall say that both are things of earth-- That both are not of heavenly birth? While gathered blossoms fade away, The Poet's thoughts for ever stay-- E'en as the rose's perfumed breath Survives the faded flow'ret's death. No pleasure human hand can give Is lasting--all things briefly live. But sounds which flow from Minstrelsy Vibrate through all eternity! Then welcome! welcome! one and all, To this, our Nation's Festival. Come rich--come poor: come old and young And join our Feast of Art and Song!

CHANGE.

In the Summer golden, When the forests olden Shook their rich tresses gaily in the morn; And the lark upflew, Sprinkling silver dew Down from its light wing o'er the yellow corn; When every blessing Seem'd the earth caressing, As though 'twere fondled by some love sublime, Strong in her youthful hope, Upon the sunny slope A maid sat, dreaming o'er the happy time-- Dreaming what blissful heights were hers to climb.

In the Winter dreary, When the willow, weary, Hung sad and silent o'er the frozen stream; And the trembling lark Murmur'd, cold and stark, In wailful pathos o'er its vanish'd dream; When the bleak winds linger'd And dead flowerets finger'd, When all earth's graces, pale and coffin'd, slept, With joys for ever flown, In the wide world alone, Over a broken faith a maiden wept-- Yet, with unswerving love, true vigil kept.

FALSE AS FAIR.

My heart was like the rosebud That woos the Summer's glance, And trembles 'neath its magic touch As breeze-kisst lilies dance: So, like the faithless Summer, She kissed me with a sigh, And woke my life to gladness, Then passed in beauty by. My heart was like the blossom That blooms beside the brook, And revels in its silvery laugh, Its bright and sunny look: So, like the graceful streamlet, She kissed me with a sigh, And woke my life to gladness, Then passed in beauty by.

HEADS AND HEARTS.

The Head fell in love one day, As young heads will oftentimes do; What it felt I cannot say: That is nothing to me nor to you: But this much I know, It made a great show And told every friend it came near If its idol should rove It could ne'er again love, No being on earth was so dear.

So Time, the fleet-footed, moved on, And the Head knew not what to believe; A whole fortnight its Love had been gone, And it felt no desire to grieve. Its passion so hot In a month was forgot; And in six weeks no trace could be found; While, in two months, the Head, Which should then have been dead, For another was looking around.

The Heart fell in love one day: The mischief was very soon done! It tried all it could to be gay; But loving, it found, was not fun. For hours it would sit In a moping fit, And could only throb lively and free When that one was near Which it felt was so dear, And when that one was absent--Ah, me!

So the days and the nights hurried on; And the Heart nursed in silence its thought: To a distance its idol had gone, Then it felt how completely 'twas caught: Other hearts came to sue: To the absent 'twas true-- Loving better the longer apart: Thus while Love in the head Is very soon dead, It is deathless when once in the heart.

FALL OF SEBASTOPOL.

1855.

"Advance!" was the cry that shot up to the sky When the dawn of the day had begun; And the steel glistened bright in the glad golden light Of a glorious Eastern sun. And the words rang clear, with no trembling fear-- "Brave Britons! on you I rely!" And the answer pealed out with a mighty shout-- "Sebastopol falls, or we die!" Advance!--Advance!--Men of England and France! "Sebastopol falls, or we die!" Now the death-storm pours, and the smoke up-soars, And the battle rages with furious might, And the red blood streams, and the fire-flash gleams, And the writhing thousands--God! God! what a sight. The hoarse-throated cannon belch fiery breath, And hurl forth the murderous rain, Which dances along on its message of death, And sings o'er the dying and slain! Crash! Crash! Then a leap and a dash! Hand to hand--face to face, goes the fight; The bayonets plunge, and the red streams plash, And up goes a shout of delight-- "The enemy runs!--Men flinch from their guns! On! Forward! For God and for Right! Advance!--Advance!--Men of England and France! Press forward, for Freedom and Right! On--On--On! Hurrah! the goal's won; See! the old colours flutter and dance, And proudly they wave over Tyranny's grave: Well done! Men of England and France--Hurrah! Hurrah! for old England and France!"

TO LORD DERBY.

1877.

As the monarch that grows in the forest, and rears Its brow ever green to the firmament bright, So, stedfast and sturdy, thy proud form appears, Of patriots the hope, and thy country's delight.

Through thy heart, firm and true as the oak trees that stand In the soil of Old England--in which _thou_ hast grown, There runs the same life which _they_ draw from the land, And the heart of thy country 's the life of thine own.

With the seal of Nobility set by thy Sire, Thou tread'st in his steps as thou bearest his name; And the glow that he added to Albion's fire Reflects through the Past and enhances thy fame.

Where Freedom is free'st, thou takest thy stand: Where Tyranny threatens, thy misson is told; And thy tongue, which we hail as the Voice of the Land, Speaks the wish of a nation heroic and bold.

And bright will the name be of England, as long As safe in thy keeping her honour remains-- 'Twill stand 'mongst the noblest in story and song, And be worthy the purest and loftiest strains.

UNREQUITED.

A beautiful Streamlet went dancing along, With its bright brow fretted with flow'rs, And it leapt o'er the woodland with many a song, And laughed through the sunny hours. Away and away! All the blue Summer day, The streamlet went laughing away.

A willow Tree grew near the light-hearted brook, And hung o'er the Beauty in pride: And he yearned night and day for a kiss or a look From the streamlet that flowed at his side. But away and away, All the blue Summer day, The streamlet went laughing away.

All his leaves and his blossom he shower'd on her head, And would gladly have given his life: But to all this affection the streamlet was dead, And she laughed at the willow's heart-strife. And away--away, All the blue Summer day, The streamlet went laughing away.

"Ah, me," quoth the willow: "how false was the dream!" And, drooping, heart-broken he died; While his last leaf in love he let fall on the stream That so coldly flowed on at his side. And away--away, All the blue Summer day, The streamlet went laughing away.

THE HOUSEHOLD SPIRIT.

A spirit stealeth up and down the stairs Noiseless as thistle-down upon the wind: So calm--so sweetly calm--the look it wears: Meltful as music is its voice--and kind. Like lustrous violets full of twinkling life Two orbs of beauty light its face divine: And o'er its cheeks a dainty red runs rife, Like languid lilies flusht with rosy wine. Its velvet touch doth soothe where dwells a pain; Its glance doth angelize each angry thought; And, like a rainbow-picture in the rain, Where tears fall thick its voice is comfort-fraught. How like a seraph bright it threads along Each room erewhile so desolate and dark, Waking their slumbering echoes into song As laughs the Morn when uproused by the lark. Methinks a home doth wear its heavenliest light When haunted by so good, so fair a sprite.

HAD I A HEART.

Had I a heart to give away As when, in days that now are o'er, We watcht the bright blue billows play, Roaming along the sounding shore; When joys like Summer blossoms bloom'd, When love and hope were all our own; I'd bring that heart--to sadness doomed-- And let it beat for thee alone.

Had I a heart to give away, Its daily thought in life would be, Like yonder bird, with trembling lay, To sing sweet songs, dear love, of thee. But, ah! the heart that once was mine Is mine, alas! no more to give; And joys that once were joys divine In mem'ry now alone can live.

A BRIDAL SIMILE.

Adown the world two grand historic streams With stately flow moved on through widening ways, Rich with the glory of life's noblest dreams, Bright with the halo of life's sunniest days. Out from their depths two blithesome streamlets ran, O'er which the smiles of Heaven hourly shone; Till, meeting: Ah! then life afresh began, For both, embracing, mingled into one.

From yonder rose two crystal dewdrops hung But yestermorn. The sun came forth and kissed The gems that to the perfumed blossom clung, And clothed them with a robe of purple mist. The soft warm wind of Heaven gently breathed Upon the twain: they hung no more apart; But, with the sweetness of a rosebud wreathed, Blent soul with soul and mingled heart with heart.

Live on, united pair: with love so blest Your pathway ought but sunny may not be. Live on, united pair: and be the breast Of thornless roses yours unceasingly. And as the river to the ocean flies Be yours to pass as gently from life's shore: Then, like sweet fragrance when the blossom dies, Leave names to live in mem'ry evermore.

SONG.

They tell me thou art faithless, Love! That vows thy lips have sworn-- The smiles which light thy lovely face-- Are false as April morn; My brightest dreams of happiness They wish me to forget: But, No! the spell that won my love Doth bind my spirit yet.

They tell me thou art faithless, Love! And changeful as a dream: They say thou'rt frail as drifts of sand That kiss the laughing stream; They whisper if I wed thee, Sweet! My heart will know regret: But, No! the spell that won my love Doth bind my spirit yet.

I WOULD MY LOVE.

I would my Love were not so fair In sweet external beauty: And dreamt less of her charms so rare, And more of homely duty. The rose that blooms in pudent pride When pluckt will pout most sorely; P'rhaps she I'm wooing for my bride Will grow more self-willed hourly. Her form might shame the graceful fay's; Her face wears all life's graces: But wayward thoughts and wayward ways Make far from pretty faces.

I would my Love were not so fair (I mean it when I breathe it): What though each hair be golden hair, If temper ill dwells 'neath it? Her lips would make the red rose blush, Her voice trolls graceful phrases, Her brow is calm as Evening's hush, Her teeth as white as daises. Her cheeks are fresh as infant Day's, Round which cling Beauty's traces: But wayward thoughts and wayward ways Make far from pretty faces.

DEATH IN LIFE:

A TRUE STORY.

The following simple narrative is founded on fact. A young village couple married, and soon after their marriage went to live in London. Success did not follow the honest-hearted husband in his search for employment, and he and his young wife were reduced to actual want. In their wretchedness a child was born to them, which died in the midst of the desolate circumstances by which the young mother was surrounded. For three years the mother was deprived of reason--a gloomy period of Death in Life--and passionately mourned the loss of her first-born. An eminent London practitioner, to whom her case became known, was of opinion that reason would return should a second child be born to the disconsolate mother. This proved to be correct; and after three years of mental aberration the sufferer woke as from a dream. For many months after the awakening she was under the impression that her second child was her first-born, and only became aware of the true state of the case when it was gently broken to her by her husband.