VI.

Reader! 'tis no idle fiction: Once a lovely, laughing maiden-- Lovely as a Summer morning, Lived and loved, as I have told thee; Lost her babe, as I have told thee; And a mental night came o'er her Like a ghastly, gaping fissure, Like a chasm of empty darkness. As a new-made grave in Summer Bulges up dark and unsightly, With the bright blue sky above it, And the daisies smiling round it, So, with all its doleful darkness, Fell the dream of that fair suff'rer O'er her mind with inward canker, Like a slug upon the rose-leaf! Then she woke, as I have told thee, After three years' trance-like sleeping, Knowing not she had been sleeping; And for months she never doubted That the child she loved and fondled Was lier long-dead darling first-born! Happy hearts all feared to tell her: Death in Life again they dreaded.

Now no Death in Life they fear; Blanche is happy all the year.

SONG OF THE STRIKE.

1874.

With features haggard and worn; With a child in its coffin--dead; With a wife and sons o'er a fireless hearth, In a hovel with never a bed; While the wind through lattice and door Is driving the sleet and rain, A workman strong, with sinews of steel, Sits singing this dismal refrain: Strike! Strike! Strike! Let the bright wheels of Industry rust: Let us earn in our shame A pauper's name, Or eat of a criminal crust.

Ah! What though the little ones die, And women sink weary and weak; And the paths of life, with suffering rife, Be paved with the hearts that break? While souls, famine-smitten and crusht, Seek food in the skies away, This workman strong, with sinews of steel, Sits singing his terrible lay: Strike! Strike! Strike! Let the bright wheels of Industry rust: Let us earn in our shame A pauper's name, Or eat of a criminal crust.

And while the dark workhouse gate Is besieged by a famishing crowd, Forge, hammer, and mine, with their mission divine, Lie dumb, like a corpse in a shroud. And Plenty, with beckon and smile, Points up at the golden rain That is ready to fall to beautify all, But is checked by the dread refrain: Strike! Strike! Strike! Let the bright wheels of Industry rust: Let us earn in our shame A pauper's name, Or eat of a criminal crust.

Alas! That a spirit so brave, That a heart so loyal and true, Should crouch in the dust with a sightless trust At the nod of a selfish few. Alas! That the olden ties-- The links binding Master and Man-- (_a_) Should be broken in twain, and this ghostly refrain Cloud all with its shadowy ban: Strike! Strike! Strike! Let the bright wheels of Industry rust: Let us earn in our shame A pauper's name, Or eat of a criminal crust.

(_a_) In a recent address to his workmen, Mr. Robert Crawshay, the extensive ironmaster, of Cyfarthfa Castle, said: "The happy time has passed, and black times have come. You threw your old master overboard, and took to strangers, and broke the tie between yourselves and me. When the deputation came up to me at the Castle, and I asked them to give me a fortnight to work off an old order of rails, and they refused, I then told them the old tie was broken; and from that day to this it has."

NATURE'S HEROES.

DEDICATED TO THE WELSH MINERS WHO BRAVELY RESCUED THEIR FELLOWS AT THE INUNDATION OF THE TYNEWYDD COLLIERY.

FRIDAY, APRIL 20TH, 1877. (_a_)

Hero from instinct, and by nature brave, Is he who risks his life a life to save; Who sees no peril, be it e'er so great, Where helpless human lives for succour wait; Who looks on death with selfless disregard; Whose sense of duty brings its own reward. Such are the Braves who now inspire my pen: Pride of the gods--and heroes among men. The warrior who, on glorious battle plain, Falls bravely fighting--dies to live again In fame hereafter: this he, falling, knows; And painless hence are War's most painful blows. This is the hope that buoys his latest breath, Stanches the wound, and plucks the sting from death. But humbler hearts that sally forth to fight 'Gainst foes unseen, in realms of pitchy night, Ne'er dreaming that the chivalrous affray Will e'er be heard of--more than heroes they, And more deserving they their country's praise Than nobler names that wear their country's bays. Duty, which glistens in the garish beam That makes it beautiful--as jewels gleam When sunlight pours upon them--lacks the pow'r, The grandeur, which, in dark and secret hour, Crowns lowly brows with bravery more bright Than fame achieved in Glory's dazzling light. Nature's heroics need but suns to shine To show the world their origin divine: And as the plant in darksome cave will grow Whether warm sunshine bless its face or no, A secret impulse yearning day and night In hourly striving tow'rds the unseen light, So lives the hero-germ in every heart-- Of earthy life the bright, the heavenly part: The pow'r that brings the blossom from the sod, And gives to man an attribute of God.

(_a_) Four men and a boy were entombed for nine days, from noon on Wednesday, April 11th, to mid-day on Friday, April 20th, in the Tynewydd Pit, Rhondda Valley. They were at length rescued by the almost super-human efforts of a band of brave workers, who, at the risk of their lives, cut through 38 yards of the solid coal-rock in order to get at their companions, working day and night, and, at times, regarding every stroke a prelude to almost certain death. Their heroic exertions were crowned with success, and they received the recorded thanks of their Queen and country, having the further honour bestowed upon them of being the first recipients of the Albert medal, given by Her Majesty for acts of exceptional bravery.

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE CHILD.

He came: As red-lipt rosebuds in the Summer come: A tiny angel, let from Heav'n to roam, With laughing love to clothe our childless home The God-sent cherub came.

He lived One little hour; What bliss was in the space! Our lives that day were fringed with fresher grace And in the casket of our darling's face What honeyed hopes were hived.

He droopt: And o'er our souls a mighty sorrow swept, With many fears the night-long watch we kept, Tearful and sad: Yet even as we wept Our star-faced beauty droopt.

He died: And darksome grew our life's bright morning sun. Gloomy the day so radiantly begun. What joy, what joy, without our darling one, Is all the world beside?

Tis past: The perfumed rosebud of our life is dead: Helpless we bend, and mourn the cherub fled, Even as the bruisëd reed bends low its head Before the cruel blast.

MAGDALENE.

Penitent! Penniless! Where can she go? Her poor heart is aching With many a woe. Repentant--though sinning: Remorseful and sad, She weeps in the moonlight While others are glad. Shrink not away from her, Stained though she be: She once, as the purest, Was sinless and free: And penitence bringeth A shroud for her shame: Hide it forgetfully; Pity--nor blame.

Penniless! Penitent! Gone every hope: Warm lights are gleaming From basement to cope. Plenty surroundeth her: Starving and stark, Lonely she pleadeth Out in the dark. The cold moon above her, The black stream below, No friendly voice near her: Where can she go? Turned every face from her Closed every door: Plash in the moonlight! She pleadeth no more.

LOVE WALKS WITH HUMANITY YET.

Though toilers for gold stain their souls in a strife That enslaves them to Avarice grim, Though Tyranny's hand fills the wine cup of life With gall, surging over the brim; Though Might in dark hatefulness reigns for a time, And Right by Wrong's frownings be met; Love lives--a guest-angel from heaven's far clime, And walks with humanity yet.

And still the world, Balaam-like, blind as the night, Sees not the fair seraph stand by That beckons it onward to Morning and Light, Lark-like, from the sod to the sky; Love, slighted, smiles on, as the Thorn-crown'd of old, Sun-featured and Godlike in might, Its magic touch changing life's dross into gold, Earth's darkness to Paradise bright.

As gems on Death's fingers flash up from the tomb And rays o'er its loneliness shed; As flowerets in early Spring tremblingly bloom Ere Winter's cold ice-breath has fled; So Love, rainbow-like, smiles through sadness and tears, Bridging up from the earth to the sky; The grave 'neath its glance a bright blossom-robe wears, As the Night smiles when Morn dances by.

The rich mellow sunshine that kisses the earth, The flow'rs that laugh up from the sod, The song-birds that psalm out their jubilant mirth Heart-rapt in the presence of God, The sweet purling brooklet, with voice soft and low, The sea-shouts, like peals from above, The sky-kissing mountains, the valleys below, All tell us to live and to love.

THE TWO TREES.

A FABLE.

Two trees once grew beside a running brook: An Alder, one, of unassuming mien: His mate, a Poplar, who, with lofty look, Wore, with a rustling flirt, his robe of green. With pompous front the Poplar mounted high, And curried converse with each swelling breeze; While Alder seemed content to live and die A lowly shrub among surrounding trees.

And many a little ragged urchin came And plucked the juicy berries from the bough Of teeming Alder, trading with the same, Thus earning oft an honest meal, I trow: But stuck-up Poplar glanced with pride supreme At such low doings--such plebeian ties-- Cocked up his nose, and thought--oh! fatal dream!-- To grow, and grow, until he reached the skies.

Each Autumn Alder brought forth berries bright, And freely gave to all who chose to take: Each Summer, Poplar added to his height, And wore his robe with loftier, prouder shake, One day the woodman, axe on shoulder, came, And laid our soaring Poplar 'mongst the dead, Stripped off his robe, and sent him--O the shame!-- To prop the gable of a donkey shed.

MORAL.

Whoe'er, like Alder, strives to aid The lowly where he can, Shall win respect from every soul That bears the stamp of man: But he who, Poplar-like, o'er-rides Poor mortals as they pass, Will well be used if used to prop A stable for an ass.

STANZAS:

WRITTEN IN THE SHADOW OF A VERY DARK CLOUD.

"Never saw I the righteous forsaken," Once sang the good Psalmist of old; "Nor his seed for a crust humbly begging." How oft has the story been told! But the story would ne'er have been written, Had the writer but lived in our day, When thousands with hunger are smitten-- No matter how plead they or pray.

They may say there's a lining of silver To the darkest--the dreariest cloud: That garniture, white fringe, and flowers, Grace the black pall, the coffin, and shroud. But the lining at best is but vapour; Silk and lacquer to nothingness fade After hearts in their sorrow have broken O'er the wrecks which Adversity made.

They may say that the box of Pandora Holds reward in the bottom at last For those who strive on in the searching. And forget the fierce blows of the Past. But late comes the voice of approval, And worthless the cup and the crust, When, in striving, by Death overtaken, We lie lone and low in the dust.

They may say that right-living and thinking Will keep the grim wolf from the door; But how many Saints are there sinking Whose crime is to live and be poor! Let the knave promulgate the deception, And dress the world's wounds with such salve; It is false--while rank Villainy prospers, And Virtue 's permitted to starve.

They may say--but mankind is a fiction That puzzles the wisest to read; And life is a vast contradiction-- A fable--a folly indeed. He happy in heart is who careth No jot for mankind or its ways, To defy the world's frown he who dareth, Unconscious of blame or of praise.

VERSES:

WRITTEN AFTER READING A BIOGRAPHY OF HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BEAUFORT, TO WHOM THESE LINES ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.

1877.

Like a Sea with its source in the distance belost, That upholds on its breast and contains in its heart Countless treasures and gems of which none know the cost-- All the brightest achievements of Science and Art:

So the proud race of Somerset flows down the Past, With its Statesmen and Warriors--kinsmen of Kings: With its learning and culture--its heritage vast-- And its virtues which inborn Nobility brings.

In the Wars of the Roses three Somersets gave Up their lives for their Monarch in danger's dark hour, And the rain of their hearts'-blood that watered each grave Brought a still brighter flush to their Destiny's flow'r.

And when men the fair features of Liberty smeared With the stain of Licentiousness through the dark Past, 'Twas a Somerset England's proud Standard upreared O'er the stronghold of Raglan--and bled to the last:

A stronghold whose name once a Warrior bore Who with courage undaunted chivalrously led The brave soldiers of England through carnage and gore; Where a Czar bade defiance--a Somerset bled.

Long the foremost in loyalty, forum, and field; Where the sword wins renown or where politics grace: Always first to be doing--the latest to yield: All these are the virtues, the pride of thy race.

In the face of thy life like a mirror we see All the lives of true Englishmen shaped as thine own, For the tastes and pursuits which form nature in thee Are the food from whose sustenance Britons have grown.

When Philanthropy leads, in its fights for the Poor, No sincerer heart follows more keenly than thine; For there's nought else in life hath more pow'r to allure, Where the soul takes delight in the mission divine.

All the ages the wild storms of Faction have raved, Though alluring the paths in which traitors have trod, Not a moment hast thou or thine ancestors waived In your love for Old England, its Throne, and its God.

A SIMILE.

In early Morning, tall and gaunt, Our shadows reach across the street; Like giant sprites they seem to haunt The things we meet.

But at noon-tide more dwarfed they fall Around about each sun-crown'd thing; Yet lengthen out, and grow more tall, Towards evening.

And thus Dependence among men Is largely seen in Childhood's stage; At Mid-life hides; but comes again With hoary age.

THE TWO SPARROWS.

A FABLE.

Two Sparrows, prisoned in a room, Kept, every now and then, Dashing against the window-panes, Which threw them back again: And many a time, with trembling heart, They flew towards the light, But something which they could not see Still stopped them in their flight:

A-tired they hopped about the floor, And watched the sunshine gay, And each one asked within himself "Why ca'nt I get away?" Another try: another dash, As though with heart and soul; And one, by chance, the barrier broke, And bounded through the hole.

His comrade heard the merry chirp He gave till out of sight, Then, fluttering round, to free himself He tried with all his might. But at that moment Puss came in, And on him cast an eye, Then took the trembler in her claws And taught him how to die.

MORAL.

How oft in life, though never meant, Men gain their point by Accident, Or Chance--that foe to 'stablished rules; The guiding-star of knaves and fools.

FLOATING AWAY.

A maiden sat musingly down by the side Of Life's river that flowed at her feet, And she watcht the dark stream 'neath the willows glide In its voiceless and stately retreat. 'Twas a solemn tide-- Deep, dark, and wide, And fringed with a sedgy fray: In the morning--at night-- Through darkness and light, It floated--floated away.

The maid was light-hearted, with features as fair As the sunbeams that played o'er her face, And her bosom was garnisht with flowerets rare That gave to it many a grace: And she playfully sung, As she plucked and flung Each blossom as bright as the day From her breast to the stream That like a drear dream Went floating--floating away.

The sun in its brightness illumined the sky; The lark loudly carolled aloft; The breezes swept onward with many a sigh, And kissed with caresses soft. Still, still the fair maid By the dark river strayed, And flung forth in thoughtless play Each bud from her breast In wilful unrest, And laught as it floated away.

Up the tall pine trees clomb the shadows of eve To welcome the coming night; And the recreant bird in the twilight was heard Wending nest-ward in plaintive plight; When, too long delay'd, In haste rose the maid Heart-tired of her flirting play. And she saw the last gleam Of her flow'rs down the stream Floating--floating away.

The blossoms so chaste that had made her more fair With their sweetness, their perfume, and light, Were gone--and her bosom, now cheerless and bare, Grew cold in the dewy night. Thus they who, in youth, Mistake flirting for truth, And fritter their love but in play, Will behold, like the maid, All their brightest charms fade, And floating for ever away.

A FLORAL FABLE.

A sweet geranium once, in pride of place 'Mongst rare exotics in a Palace lived; With watchful care from tender hands it thrived, Standing in lofty sphere with odorous grace.

The smiling Sun, each morning making call, Such tender looks and such sweet kisses gave, That in a little time, true as I live, He to the tender flow'r was all in all.

But true love's course, 'tis said, ne'er smooth did run: The pretty flower was sent, now here, now there, Until at length she found more humble sphere, Far, far removed from kisses of the sun.

Here, with dejected look, she pined anew, Placed in the lattice of a lowly cot, In pent-up alley, fever-fraught and hot, And wore from day to day a sicklier hue.

No blessed sunlight flusht her dainty cheek, No cooling breeze refreshed her pallid brow, Droopful she stood--methinks I see her now, Nursing the grief of which she might not speak.

A blinding wall shut out her darling sun, Tow'rds which, with prayerful arm, she hourly reached In mute appeal; and lovingly beseeched, As 'twere, to gaze upon the worshipped one.

No soul e'er panted its dear love to see With dreams more tender than the dying plant-- Hoping and yearning, with a hungering want, Sun-ward in all her heart's idolatry.

But Ah! the fickle sun, from flow'r to flow'r, In lusty love did revel all the day, Nor thought of her, now dying far away, Whom he had kissed through many a rosy hour.

In dead of night, when great hearts die, the storm Swept down the barrier that blocked out the light, And in the morn, refreshing, pure, and bright, The sun came leaping in, so soft and warm.

But sunshine came too late. The blossom brave, While yearning for dear light and warmth, had died. As men will sometimes die waiting the tide That flows at length to eddy round--a grave.

"RING DOWN THE CURTAIN."

"Ring down the Curtain" were the last dying words of a young and beautiful American actress, who died of consumption when in the zenith of her popularity.

Ring down the curtain; So ends the play! Night-time is coming; Past is the day. Sang I in sadness Adorned with a smile; Pourtraying gladness And dying the while! How my brow burneth-- With fever oppressed: How my heart yearneth For silence and rest. Soothe me to slumber: Why should ye sigh? Ring down the curtain; 'Tis pleasant to die!

Ring down the curtain: Critics depart! The end of your blaming-- A wearisome heart: Fame which your praise brought-- A Summer-day cloud: Fruit of my toiling-- A coffin and shroud! Light though, and fitful, The dreams of my life, My soul like a vessel From ocean of strife Calmly and peaceful To her haven doth fly: Ring down the curtain-- 'Tis pleasant to die!

THE TELEGRAPH POST.

A FABLE.

A telegraph post by the roadside stood In a village humble and fair, And he raised his head, did this column of wood, As high as he could in the air: "Oh, Oh!" quoth he, as along the wire The news from the wide world through Hurried backwards and forwards in words of fire, Breathing promises fair, or threatenings dire, Never heeding the post as they flew.

"Oh, Oh!" quoth he: "That I should stand here "And bear on my shoulders high "Such an upstart lot, who no manners have got "To pass _me_, who upraises them, by! "I'll stand it no longer,"--and thinking, no doubt, To bring down the wires in his fall, He stumbled: but no! for above and below The other posts stood--the wires wouldn't let go: And our post couldn't tumble at all.

And there he hung like a helpless thing, Till his place by another was ta'en; And the foolish post with dry sticks a host On the firewood stack was lain. "You ignorant dolt!" said a Raven wise Who sat on the wall bright in feather-- "You must have been blind. When to tumble inclined "You should with your neighbouring posts have combined And have all stood or fallen together."

MORAL.

Units, as units, are helpless things In the soul-stirring struggles of life; But Success is the laurel which Unity brings To crown the true heart in the strife.

BREAKING ON THE SHORE.

I saw the sunbeams dancing o'er the ocean One Summer-time. Bright was each laughing wave; I felt a thrill to see their sweet emotion, Each happy in the kiss the other gave: But Winter came with all its storm and sadness, And every wave that kissed and smiled before Bid long farewell to dreams of sunny gladness And broke its heart upon the stony shore.

So like the Summer crown'd with many a blessing She dawn'd upon this lonely heart of mine: And life grew lovely with her sweet caressing As blooms the thorn claspt by the bright woodbine: But now, Alas! in churchyard bleak she's lying, And dearest joys are gone to come no more: Like yonder wave, for absent sunbeam sighing, My heart with grief is breaking on life's shore.

HURRAH FOR THE RIFLE CORPS

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED IN 1856.

The fair Knights of old, with trappings of gold, And falchions that gleamed by their side, Went forth to the fight with hearts gay and light To war 'gainst Oppression and Pride: And though long since dead, it must not be said That the proud reign of Chivalry 's o'er-- There are many as bold as the brave Knights of old To be found in the Rifle Corps. Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps; May they ever be ready to stand In defence of the Right, and be willing to fight For the Queen and their native land.

Old England intends with the world to be friends, While Honour with Peace is combined; But the moment her foe lifts his hand for a blow, All friendship she flings to the wind. Should an enemy dare e'en as much as prepare To bring War's alarms to our shore, He will find every coast bristling o'er with a host Of the brave-hearted Rifle Corps. Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps; May they ever be ready to stand In defence of the Right, and be willing to fight For the Queen and their native land.

Let the wine goblet brim with red wine to the rim-- Let Beauty look on all the while, As with eyes that approve in the language of love She crowns the proud toast with a smile: May each Rifle be seen round the Throne and the Queen Should danger e'er threaten our shore: And with many a shout let the echo ring out-- Three cheers for the Rifle Corps! Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps; May they ever be ready to stand In defence of the Right, and be willing to fight For the Queen and their native land.

CAREFUL WHEN YOU FIND A FRIEND.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

O if in life you'd friends obtain, Be careful how you choose them; For real friends are hard to gain, And trifling things may lose them. Hold out your hand to every palm That reaches forth to greet you; But keep your heart for those alone Who with pure friendship meet you. Then if in life a friend you'd find, Be careful how you choose one; True friends are scarce among mankind: A trifling thing may lose one.

A friend your heart may now relieve, And one day want relieving; So if from others you'd receive Ne'er shrink from wisely giving. Be grateful when you find a friend-- The heart that's thankless--spurn it; Let conscience guide you to the end-- Take friendship and return it. Then if in life a friend you'd find, Be careful how you choose one; True friends are scarce among mankind: A trifling thing may lose one.

When days grow cold the swallow flies, Till sunshine bright returneth; When life grows dark false friendship dies: True friendship brighter burneth. An angel fair, twin-born of Love, It lights life's pathway for us; And like the stars that shine above, At night beams brighter o'er us. Then if in life a friend you'd find, Be careful how you choose one; True friends are scarce among mankind: A trifling thing may lose one.

BROTHERLY LOVE.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

There's a place in this world, free from trouble and strife, Which the wise try their hardest to find, Where the heart that encounters the sharp thorns of life Will meet nought that's harsh or unkind; Where each tries his best to make joy for the rest-- In sunshine or shadow the same; Where all who assemble in Friendship's behest Are Brothers in heart and in name. Let brotherly love continue-- Let the flag of the Craft be unfurled; We 'll join hand-in-hand While united we stand: 'Tis the way to get on in the world.

There's a pleasure in life go wherever we may, 'Tis one of all pleasures the best-- To meet as we travel by night or by day One friend that's more true than the rest. Whose heart beats responsive to Friendship and Love, In Faith, Hope, and Charity's call; Who, blind to our follies, is slow to reprove, And friendly whate'er may befal. Let brotherly love continue-- Let the flag of the Craft be unfurled; We 'll join hand-in-hand While united we stand: 'Tis the way to get on in the world.

Then let us, my brothers, through life's busy scene, Should sadness or sorrow appear, Be true to our promise, as others have been, And strive the dark pathway to cheer. Our stay is but short in this valley below; On all sides we troubles may scan; Let us help one another wherever we go, And make them as light as we can. Let brotherly love continue-- Let the flag of the Craft be unfurled; We 'll join hand-in-hand While united we stand: 'Tis the way to get on in the world.

ENGLAND AND FRANCE.

WRITTEN DURING THE CRIMEAN WAR.

(FOR MUSIC.)

Let the proud Russian boast of his granite-bound coast, And his armies that challenge the world; Let him stand in his might against Freedom and Right, With his flag of Oppression unfurled: Old England and France hand-in-hand will advance In the wide path of Progress and Glory, That will win them a name on the bright scroll of Fame, Everlasting in song and in story. Old England and France, then, for ever; Brave France and Old England for ever; And while the world stands may the glorious Twin-lands Be united in friendship together.

Both by land and by sea this land of the free-- Britannia, the Queen of the wave, Proudly stands side by-side, and in Friendship allied, With France, the gallant and the brave: Whilst the stern Tyrant raves at his nobles and slaves, Old England and France frown defiance, And both bravely press on till the goal shall be won-- Then Hurrah! for the glorious alliance! Old England and France, then, for ever; Brave France and Old England for ever; And while the world stands may the glorious Twin-lands Be united in friendship together.

AGAINST THE STREAM.

(FOR MUSIC.)

How oft, in life's rough battle, we, Struck down by hard adversity, In saddest hour of trial see No friend with helping hand. Then in despair beneath the wave We sink, with none to help or save. When if we 'd been both bold and brave We might have reached the land. Should things go wrong this is the plan; Forget the past as best you can, Then turn your sleeves up like a man And pull against the stream.

Yes, pull against the stream, my friends; That lane is long which never ends; That bow ne'er made which never bends To shoot its arrow home. If twenty times you miss your aim, Or ten times twenty lose the game, Keep up your spirits all the same-- Your turn is sure to come. Should things go wrong this is the plan; Forget the past as best you can, Then turn your sleeves up like a man And pull against the stream.

In love or pleasure, work or play, Men cannot always win the day, For mixed among life's prizes gay What hosts of blanks are found. Though skies to-day be overcast-- Though bitter blows the wintry blast-- The Summer days will come at last With hope and sunshine crown'd. Should things go wrong this is the plan; Forget the past as best you can, Then turn your sleeves up like a man, And pull against the stream.

WRECKED IN SIGHT OF HOME.

(FOR MUSIC.)

The ship through the sunshine sails over the sea, From many a distant clime comes she, Freighted with treasure, see how she flies Cheerily over the foam. Hearts are all happy, cheeks are all bright, The long-absent land appears in sight; Little they dream that the beautiful prize Will be wrecked in sight of home!

The storm breaks above them, the thunders roll, The ship gets aground on the hidden shoal, And the turbulent waters dash over the barque, And cries from the doomed ship come. Till nothing is left the tale to tell, But the angry roar of the surging swell; So the grand old vessel goes down in the dark-- Wrecked in sight of home.

And thus as we wander through life's rugged way, Fighting its battles as best we may, Seeking in fancy a far-distant spot To rest when we've ceased to roam: And just as the haven of comfort appears, Our hopes are all turned into sadness and tears, We droop near the threshold--ne'er enter the cot-- Wrecked in sight of home.

SONNET.

I could not love thee more, if life depended On one more link being fixed to Affection's chain; Nor cease to love thee--save my passion ended With life; for love and life were blanks if twain! I could not love thee less; the flame, full-statured Leaps from the soul, and knows no infancy; But like the sun--majestic, golden-featured, Soars like a heav'n of beauty from life's sea. I would not love thee for thy radiant tresses, Rich budding mouth, and eyes twin-born of Light. No: Charms less fadeful thy dear heart possesses-- Gems that will flash through life's noontide and night. But simple words fall short of what I'll prove: Accept them but as lispings of my love.

SEBASTOPOL IS WON.

1855.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

Dance on! ye vaulting joy-bells, shout In spirit-gladdening notes, Whilst mimic thunders bellow out From cannons' brazen throats: "Tyrant! awake ye, tremblingly; The advent has begun: Hark! to the mighty jubilant cry-- "Sebastopol is won!" Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands, Shout, patriots, everyone! A burst of joy let rend the sky: Sebastopol is won!

No dream of brilliant conquest 'twas, Nor selfish hope of gain, That sent the blood mad-rushing through And through each Briton's vein; No! such was not the spell that nerved Old England for the fight, Her war cry with her brother braves' Was "Freedom, God, and Right!" Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands, Shout, patriots, everyone! A burst of joy let rend the sky: Sebastopol is won!

Shame! shame! upon the craven souls Of those who trembling stood, And would not--dare not--lend a hand To stay this feast of blood! Whose cringing spirits lowly bowed Before the despot-glance Of him whose star now pales before Brave England! Mighty France! Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands, Shout, patriots, everyone! A burst of joy let rend the sky; Sebastopol is won!

Tho' hoary grows the mother-land Her enemies may learn That 'neath her smile so queenly-grand There lives a purpose stern! Then Britons chant exulting paeans, Long pent-up joy release; From yonder flaming pile upsoars The Morning Sun of Peace! (_a_) Ring out, rejoice, and clap your hands, Shout, patriots, everyone! A burst of joy let rend the sky: Sebastopol is won!

(_a_) I am sorry to find that the aspiration here embodied has been falsified. War is now raging (1877), and from precisely the same causes as those which led to the Crimean war, nearly a quarter of a century ago.

HOLD YOUR TONGUE.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

I've often thought, as through the world I've travelled to and fro, How many folks about me--above me and below-- Might make this life more happy, if old as well as young Would bear in mind the maxim which bids them hold their tongue. Hold your tongue--hold your tongue--you'll ne'er be thought a dunce: Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once: Hold your tongue--for quiet folks are oft reputed wise: Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.

How oft we find that words unkind unhappy lives will make; That loving hearts through idle words will bleed and sometimes break; What mischief have we scattered all our bosom friends among, Which might have been avoided had we only held our tongue. Hold your tongue--hold your tongue: you'll ne'er be thought a dunce: Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once: Hold your tongue--for quiet folks are oft reputed wise: Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.

The kindly deeds men do in life their own reward will bring; But where they come with trumpet-words, their sweetness bears a sting: The silent giver 's most beloved right-thinking folks among; So when you do a kindly thing, be sure you hold your tongue. Hold your tongue--hold your tongue: you'll ne'er be thought a dunce: Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once: Hold your tongue--for quiet folks are oft reputed wise: Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.

Yes: hold your tongue, except in life when days of sorrow come; Then speak to raise a drooping heart, or cheer a darksome home. If none of these--let silence be the burden of your song: He holds his own, nor hurts his friend, who learns to hold his tongue. Hold your tongue--hold your tongue; you'll ne'er be thought a dunce: Hold your tongue and think twice before you loose it once: Hold your tongue--for quiet folks are oft reputed wise: Hold your tongue, but open wide your ears and your eyes.

MY MOTHER'S PORTRAIT.

SET TO MUSIC AND PUBLISHED.

Ah! Well can I remember: "She'll come no more," they said. Her last sweet words, they told me, Were blessings on my head. Ah! Well can I remember What sadness all things wore In childhood, when they told me "She'll come--she'll come no more!" Awake or asleep, Sweet prize above all other; Close to my heart I'll keep The likeness of my mother.

Ah! Well can I remember, Those eyes were filled with tears-- The face that smiled upon me Seemed sad with many fears: "Who'll care for thee, my sweet one?" "Who'll love thee now?" she cried: Then from her arms they bore me-- 'Twas then, they said, she died. Awake or asleep, Sweet prize above all other: Close to my heart I'll keep The likeness of my mother.

What though, through cloud and sunshine, Bright thoughts around me cling: Though friends in kindness greet me, No mother's love they bring. I see her form before me; I see the sad, sweet smile; And yet my heart is lonely, So lonely, all the while. Awake or asleep, Sweet prize above all other: Close to my heart I'll keep The likeness of my mother.

NEVER MORE.

FOR MUSIC.

A tear-drop glistened on her cheek, Then died upon the sand. With aching heart, as though 'twould break, She waved her trembling hand. And as the vessel cleft the foam And fled the rocky shore, She sought alone her cottage home And murmur'd "Never more!"

He ne'er returned. She droopt for him With all her girlish love; And oft her thoughts would lightly skim The sea, like Noah's dove. But every wave that danced along Like silver to the shore Brought back the burden of her song, And murmur'd "Never more!"

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. CANON JENKINS, VICAR OF ABERDARE.

If the great heart of Lifetime in unison beats With Eternity's throb through Infinity's space, Then our thoughts of thy goodness, which love oft repeats, May vibrate in thy bosom, though lost be thy face.

Thy life was a martyrdom: noble the part Of self-abnegation thou playd'st for the Poor; Whose gratitude fixes thy name in each heart, Where in Memory's shrine 'twill for ever endure.

FILIAL INGRATITUDE.

A FABLE.

An oak tree falling on the mead, By woodman's stroke laid low, Saw, as a handle to the axe Which wrought the fatal blow, A bough that once upon his breast Drew nurture from his heart, And as a tender, helpless shoot, Grew of his life a part. "Woe! woe!" he sighed, as on the earth He drew expiring breath: "That what I nurtured at its birth "Should rend my heart in death!"

THE VINE AND THE SUNFLOWER.

A FABLE.

A very young Vine in a garden grew, And she longed for a lover--as maidens do; And many a dear little tendril threw About her in innocent spirit. For she yearned to climb upward--who is it that don't? Only give _man_ a chance, and then see if he wont: To rise in the world, though some fail to own 't, Is a weakness we all inherit.

So this very young Vine, with excusable taste, And knowing such things for her good were placed, Looked all round the garden with glances chaste For a something her faith to pin to. The fair little wisher had thoughts of her own, Nor cared for the pleasure of climbing alone; To perhaps the same feeling most ladies are prone, But that question we'll not now go into.

The first thing that came in her youthful way Was a gold-featured Sunflower--gaudy and gay-- Who dressed himself up in resplendent array, And gazed on the sun as an equal. "Look! look!" quoth the Vine: "He's a lover of mine: "And see how the gold round his face doth shine!" So at once she began round the stem to twine; But mark what befel in the sequel.

One morning, soon after, a hurricane rose: And as most people know, when the storm-god blows, The hollow of heart is the thing that goes To the ground--and the wind sweeps past it. So the arrogant Sunflower, lofty in pride, And hollow from root to branch beside, Soon tumbled before the stormy tide, And lay where the wind had cast it.

It was well for the Vine that her tendrils' hold Was a clasp that a moment served to unfold; So she turned from the thing that she thought was gold With a heart for the warning grateful: And that which had dazzled her youthful eyes-- Which filled her young bosom with sweet surprise-- The flow'r which she took for a golden prize-- Became all to her that was hateful.

POETIC PROVERBS.