Part 3

The Social Hearth.

How oft man looks for happiness afar, Amid loud tumult, or the din of war; O’er foreign lands, through distant climes, he’ll roam To win that pleasure he may gain at home.

Here does the error in its root begin; He seeks without when he should search within, And strive to see included in his breast The seeds of happiness, the germs of rest.

All bounteous nature upon man doth shower Her gifts of pleasure, with more equal dower Than we, dim-sighted and unwise, discern, But by due effort we the truth may learn.

In the charmed circle of the cheerful hearth Life’s purest pleasures, richest joys have birth; Where heart meets heart with confidence serene, Truth smiles in brightness, Goodness rules benign.

How calmly sweet, how soothing to retire From pains and toils to peace beside the fire; Whilst round the blaze, true-hearted friends are met, In whose gay converse we all care forget.

The merry laugh, the simple playful jest, The soul of gladness in each look expressed, The wit retorted, and the temperate mirth, Are like rich sunshine glowing o’er the earth.

Fresh thoughts imparted, truths unknown before, In freedom given but increase our store; And each kind feeling with prolific reign In kindred breasts is multiplied again.

When song or music elevates the time, The homely dance or poet’s lofty rhyme, All feel their pleasure and delight increased By each partaking in the social feast.

When thus we mingle, how it will impart Feelings more kind and noble to the heart, Increase its warmth by love unknown before, And where it has loved, make it love the more.

The sacred psalmist strung his harp to tell How goodly ’tis in harmony to dwell; E’en like the ointment poured upon the head, That to the skirts of priestly vestments spread!

Oh! ne’er should scandal, or detraction mean, Or words unkindly desecrate the scene; But all with pure sincerity conspire To strengthen friendship, fan love’s holy fire.

If thus we meet—if thus in peace unite, And make each home a temple of delight, Our hearts will tell us there is not on earth A place more sacred than the social hearth.

As this sweet strain of poesy came forth, All felt its truth and beauty. It described The pleasures now enjoyed, and but portrayed Such scenes of innocent and social glee As often filled that room. The feelings pure Therein expressed, the higher tone of life, The sweeter charity, unfolded clear, Was but a transcript of that law which ruled The spirit of their Host. Whene’er the life Is tuned accordant to the poet’s song, And all his actions manifest his lays The offspring of sincerity, how great How wonderful their power! And not alone Its truthfulness was valued; but the skill In poetry its melody displayed Surpassed expectance. Each delighted guest Felt curiosity within him rise To know what subject would compose the next, And how it would be treated. Arthur then Was called upon for his. With roguish look He begged them all to guess the theme he chose To render into verse. Some thought it War, Some Peace, some Honour, some Heroic life, Some Solitude. At last a venturous voice Whispered it might be Love. The simple word Gave birth to pleasant smiles. When does it not? To old, to young, to those of middle years, It aye comes welcome. Those who have not known The power of love, with curious longing hope, Still wish that they may know it. Those who feel Its present sway, if they but hear its name, Have sacred visions to their fancy brought Of certain curling locks, bright eyes, sweet smiles, And forms to them angelic. Those who’ve past That passion’s mysteries, recall with joy The season of its sway, and dote to see Young hearts just flitting o’er the selfsame net By which they were entangled. Is not this A picture of the truth, all ye who bear The hearts of warm humanity? The smile Was not diminished when the heir confessed Such guess was near the mark. With steady voice, And gravity maintained by effort firm, As conscious that the subject well deserved High thought and lofty sentiment, he gave A quick recital to a lyric piece Entitled simply—

Passing Thoughts on Love.

The ancient poets sang a love Whose spell of wild and fiery power Ruled men below, and gods above, And conquered in its burning hour.

The wine-cup’s rich delicious draught Ne’er maddened more the reeling brain, Or filled the heart so full, when quaffed, With ecstacy akin to pain.

Then like a dream it passed away, A fervid vision of the night, Till some bright beauty’s potent sway Awoke again the fierce delight.

Such might be passion’s wayward course That flashes like the lightning’s gleam; But ne’er was love, whose fountain-source Sends ever forth a constant stream.

True love is like the stars on high That shine with undiminished ray, And glows all warm and fervently As does the splendid orb of day.

Naught but the beauty of the soul, Arrayed in virtue’s peerless dress, Can pure love waken, or controul The bosom with its loveliness.

It is the glorious bond of life That joins two kindred souls in one; And when they meet, amid earth’s strife, The same bright path they journey on.

Heart yields to heart a living strength, And thought to thought increase of light, Until their happy days at length Well nigh partake of heaven’s delight.

’Tis not the high and manly brow Enlinked to beauty’s witching charm, Can make such deep-soul’d passion glow, Or keep it from decay and harm.

The pure in heart, the pure in thought, Alone such inward union gain; And by the law in heaven wrought Such souls can never more be twain.

Alas! for earth where love is sold For station, honour, pride, and power; Bartered for fame, betrayed for gold, And often scarcely lasts an hour.

Yet some there be who do partake A measure of this love divine; Then such deep love, for love’s pure sake, Oh may I own, or none be mine!

The smiling look, and cheerful playfulness, Continued through the piece. But many found A loftier element pervade the song, And deeper sentiments than they had deemed Indwellers of such theme. When he had done He cast around a furtive glance to see The influence of his verse. All faces wore A look of bland approval. One alone Hung bending down, as if to mark the bloom Of rosy flowerets in the rich bouquet That beautified her bosom. Did her cheek Catch deeper crimson from their loveliness That made it glow so brightly? Sooth to tell There was a hue like that of sunset clouds Which fluttered sweetly there. It might be caught By strong reflection from those happy flowers Which hung upon that breast; or it might spring From thoughts still happier, nestled warm within, Whose stirring motions made the pure blood flow More freely o’er that cheek. Were such the truth, It might betoken sympathy of soul With those high sentiments, and with the heart That gave them utterance. Young Arthur long Had deemed her beautiful, and she to him Had moved a star of light; but mutual words Of loving import had not yet revealed Their hearts unto each other. With a glance Of quick delight, like to the lambent flash Of summer lightning, he beheld that blush, So meek and rosy, and with instinct true His soul divined its meaning. With a word Of rapid whisper in Matilda’s ear, He bad that sister hasten to bring forth Her promised verse; whilst he awhile withdrew From the gay circle, that in solitude He might indulge the overpowering thought Which filled his raptured breast. His joy intense, No words could tell; whilst now in soul convinced That Emma’s noble and susceptive heart Was his for ever! Shortly he returned With looks elate, and joys delightful glow On his proud countenance. When he rejoined His father’s guests, his sister had not yet Commenced her promised task. With timid heart And shrinking feeling, she awhile forbore In modest diffidence; for she was one Of tender nature, of affections warm, And delicately sensitive of soul. Her truth of heart, and nobleness of thought, Made her abhor all wrong. Her simple mind, As clear as crystal, made her ever love Simplicity in all things. Hence she chose To frame a ballad of domestic scenes And their endearments. In a gentle voice, Replete with feeling, she began to read A tale of rural life, of fervent passion, That bore inscribed the humble name of—

Lucy.

Sweet Lucy, in the Pastor’s house Had dwelt from early years, The scene of all her childish joys, Gay hopes, young smiles and tears.

It stood beside the rustic church Engirt with noble trees; A quiet nook, a calm abode, A home for rural peace.

Before its walls with roses twined, And ivy interlaced, A lovely plot of cultered flowers The simple dwelling graced

A rustic fence, with lattice gate, The sole dividing bound, Between that garden, fair and rich, And grassy graves around.

And here, an infant, free from care, In summer’s jocund hours Glad Lucy played, as insect blithe, Companion of the flowers.

To her, amidst the dawning blush Of life’s unfolding bloom, The grave was not a thing to wake A thought of pain or gloom.

Yet well it might—beneath the sod Her parents both were laid; The father ere her hour of birth Was numbered with the dead.

Her mother, pierced with keenest grief, Heart-broken with deep woe, Scarce heard the little infant cry Ere she departed too.

The babe, forlorn, compassion found, Though kindred she had none; The Pastor took her to his heart And reared her as his own.

He childless was, yet with a soul In children to delight; To see the love he bore to this It was a touching sight!

An orphan! O, the very thought Brings tenderness of heart; Then what must one so frail and young To his pure breast impart?

’Twas like some holy vision fair To see his glance so mild, His hoary head, his moistened eye, Bent over that sweet child.

How joyed he at the first clear sounds Her infant lips could make, And o’er the first free wandering steps Her little feet could take.

His friend of life, his wife beloved, In all felt equal glee, And joined to rear the orphan maid In truth and purity.

As feeling grew within her breast, To them a love she bore As fervent as an own child’s love— Yea warmer, deeper, more.

Yet were her parents oft in mind; A holier thought was given, And purer love to those she deemed Her guardians in heaven.

What can so elevate the soul, Refine its richest love, As to be linked by kindred’s ties To radiant worlds above?

A mind so delicate and pure In learning took delight, And treasured up each noble thought And deed with virtue bright.

But chiefly was the Sacred page Engraven on her heart, And did to her its lofty hopes, Its joys, its peace impart.

Thus she who was his highest joy In childhood’s sprightly day, Became the Vicar’s cheerful friend And aid in life’s decay.

How graceful was her lovely form, How rich her curling hair, And her cheeks’ hue like rosy beams Of evening blushing there.

Her gladsome smile’s delicious play, Her eyes’ entrancing light Won sweet regard from every heart And filled it with delight.

Such peerless charms! how could they fail To rouse impassioned love? And bind some willing heart in chains, A captive loth to move.

Young Albert to the village came And saw the maid so fair; Then straight resolved to win her heart A trophy rich to wear.

His manly form, his dauntless look, His elegance of mien; A voice that spoke in dulcet tones, An eye with glances keen;

A ready flow of touching words To tell a tender tale; Must they not fire a maiden’s soul And make a suit prevail?

His words of love! as dew they fell Upon her stainless heart, And made it, like fresh fragrant flowers, To loftier being start.

All simple, guileless, framed of truth, It knew no frail disguise; But let unchecked its passions spring Its deepest feelings rise.

And oft at even-time they strolled The rural lanes alone, In converse deep, with kindred thoughts And feelings blent in one.

Both nature prized, and took delight In sunset skies and flowers, And talking of all fairest things, They wiled away the hours.

Naught can so swiftly light two breasts With mutual flames of love; As finding that all beauteous scenes The same deep pulses move.

Pure, simple, Lucy, scarcely knew Her heart’s full passion won, Until the idol of its hope From her fond side was gone.

He bad farewell in gentle tone And vowed with hasty breath; Farewell, she cried, in truth’s own voice, “Albert! I’m thine till death!”

And such she was! but oh that he Like faithfulness had shewn, Then we upon her maiden grave No timeless flowers had strewn.

He went and mingled with the world, And learnt its sordid ways; Till noble thought, and feeling true Within his soul decays.

Then gold for love, and state for worth, For truth parade and show, His bosom prized, and soon forgot His first-love and his vow.

Soon for him, and a maid of wealth, Pealed forth the marriage bell; But its gay sound assumed afar A tone like Lucy’s knell.

Soon as she heard—from her gay cheek The roses swiftly fled, And left fair lillies, pale and wan, To flourish in their stead.

The lillies fluttered there awhile, But lost their bloom with speed, And withering swift, shewed on their root, The canker worm did feed.

She calmly pined—all meek of soul; The grief she strove to hide Like poison wrought, and caused life’s stream To flow with feeble tide:

Just ere it ceased, with gentle voice— All pain and wrong forgiven— She said—I leave false earth to gain Unfailing truth in heaven.

And now she in the church-yard lies, And soon was followed there By those two loving hearts who’d made Her life their bounteous care.

In five green graves together ranged, Their frail remains abide; Her foster parents, and her own, And hers, all side by side.

All ye who win a true heart’s love, Of faithlessness beware! Go view that simple midmost grave And learn a lesson there!

When she had ceased, the simple pathos shewn In that pure song, had touched each feeling heart, And some bright eyes were brighter for a tear That gemmed their loveliness. A pause ensued Of few brief moments, and then Alfred stepped With freedom forward to impart his share Of promised verse. He had but just returned From college, where his studious hours were spent With fervour most devoted, to acquire An ample store of learning. He had found Rich treasures hid amidst the ponderous tomes Of ancient days, and with determined heart He sought to make them his. A fervent love Glowed in his bosom for their noble thoughts And sentiments and feelings, and he gave His hours with zeal, enthusiastic zeal, To communings with them. Short time had he To dally with the muse, or let the play Of vagrant fancy interrupt his aims; Yet in the festival he would take part, And brought, as fittest offspring of his harp—

A Sonnet To the Master-Minds of Earth.

Immortal bards, philosophers, and sages Whose glorious thoughts have lit this darkened world And raised Truth’s banner, a bright flag unfurled, To guide men onwards through all future ages To liberty and peace. Upon your pages My mind would pasture, as along the meads The simple flock in innocency feeds, Till nourished into strength. Through all life’s stages, In youth, in manhood, and in calm decline At your clear fountains may my spirit drink To quench her thirst for knowledge, to refine Each feeling quick, and learn to nobly think! Oh! much we need ye! ye bright stars from heaven, And to our aid may thousands more be given!

Fair Eva next came forward to the task; She was a joyous creature full of life And health and beauty. In her rich blue eye There was a light of gladness, and her cheek Was clear and rosy as the flowers of spring. Her step was free, as if the morning breeze Were ever her companion, and each limb Had motions graceful as the waving bough. The love of nature dwelt within her heart In all its aspects; but her chief delight Was in the silver, sunny loveliness Of noontide splendours, or the gorgeous scenes All gold and crimson, when the day declines And bids farewell to earth with kingly pomp. On such she looked with ever-raptured eye, Until their brilliance had imbued her soul With joyous thoughts and bright. The theme she chose Was one expressive of that cheerful tone Which filled her spirit, and with mellow voice She gave glad utterance to her—

Love of Spring.

I love the time when buds and bells Hang fragrant in the woodland dells; The primrose and the violet On richest mossy banks are set.

How joyous when the warmth of spring Invites the merry birds to sing, And their sweet bowers of love are made Amid the flowering hawthorn’s shade.

Then robed in verdure, stately trees Stretch their broad branches to the breeze, Rejoicing in the glorious light Of sun and sky, like silver bright.

Amid fair meads young lambkins play Their sprightly games in pure array; And insects sport on gauzy wing, Live gems in sunshine fluttering.

Each rural scent, each rustic sound, Enchantment lend the landscape round; And every sight conspires to bless My heart with wild sweet happiness.

I love the summer’s golden reign, And autumn’s ripeness o’er the plain; But to my spirit naught can bring Such gladness as the days of spring.

For then I rove the woodland wild, With heart as simple as a child, And spend the pure fresh morning hours Amid the breezes, birds, and flowers.

Reclining on some grassy seat Within a leafy dark retreat, I con the Poet’s living book Beside the clear-streamed stony brook.

Such calm seclusion strengthens thought, And all His visions bright are brought Across my mind, more fair and clear, Mid scenes His spirit would hold dear.

I love stern winter’s reign sublime, Rich autumn, and sweet summer time; But nothing to my heart can bring Such gladness as the days of spring!

The blithesome tone of this gay melody, This pastoral song, spread cheerfulness around, And made all hearts beside the winter fire Think hopefully of spring. Some moments passed In pleasant converse; then Lucrece was urged Her poem to recite. With gentle grace And modest diffidence, she forward came, Yet with becoming confidence, as one Who knew, but did not over-rate, her powers. She was a poetess by nature framed And had a soul for song. Her flowing thought Moved on in hidden melody, that gave Each word expressive feeling; and her face In every feature, witnessed to a mind Of passions strong and pure. Her eye was dark, And black, and eagle-like. It shone a star By its own inward light; but o’er it hung Silk, raven lashes, that subdued its blaze But lessened not its power. Her lofty brow, By its expansion, shewed a kingdom wide Where thought might rule; and o’er her well-formed head Rich sable hair, in smooth and glossy braids, Displayed its shining beauty. Down her cheek Some bright curls clustered, and amid their shade There peeped the pearl-white lustre of her ear. O’er her fair countenance the pallid rose Assumed the precedence, and nigh subdued Its rich and blushing sister. ’Twas the hue Of thought spread o’er her features, leaving there The marble’s clear transparence. You might dream She were a statue, did not feelings flash Their radiance from her look, and mind’s pure light Float halo-like around her. Tall her form And moulded into grace; each polished limb Seemed full of life and motion; and her step, Though light and agile, yet had stateliness And maiden dignity. She older seemed Than were her years, for eighteen summer suns Alone had passed with ripening influence, Her beauty to mature; but you might date Her more advanced in womanhood, her mind By its expansion, and the thrill of thought And earlier strength of feeling, had impressed Such semblance on her aspect. She was one To whom the world was beautiful; but yet Her mind had thirst for higher beauty still Than met her waking vision. One to whom The tales of old romance, and fairy lore, And songs of chivalry, were needful food. Each noble thought, bold deed, and virtue bright, Found echoes in her breast; heroic acts, Undaunted words, or patriotic love Met sympathy with her. Creative thought, Imagination’s realising power, Gave form and substance to the visions fair That flitted o’er her fancy; abstract themes Lost their elusive subtlety and gained Embodiment and shape. And thus in truth She was a poetess; and all her verse, Though wrought from fancy’s airy gossamer, Had strength and life and strange reality. She thoughts refined, and spirit-like could chain In binding language, and give power and life To evanescent sentiments. She chose To frame a legend full of rich romance, Such as we picture in the days of old, When love was lofty passion—woman seemed A more etherial being sent to tame Man’s rude stern heart mid glorious chivalry. With thought concentred on the theme; with heart Alive to changing feelings, and with voice Deep, rich, and varied, such as well could shew The latent beauty in a poet’s song, She read the story, not unfitly named—

Fidelio and Lenore.

Oh! Muse, inspirer of the old romance, Sweet songs of chivalry, rich fairy lore, Let thy deep influence through my spirit glance, For I would vision forth a tale of yore,— A legend of true love, that evermore May in bright fiction to the mind display The power of constant truth, to triumph o’er The ills of life in all their dire array, And how that virtue pure speeds conquering on its way.

But thus to sing my soul must be subdued To softest tenderness and gentle thought, And every feeling dissonant and rude To full and perfect harmony be brought; Whilst richest colours, from gay fancy caught, Must paint the whole, and with their light illume Well-chosen words, though seemingly unsought, That run in cheerful music, and assume Rich melodies of verse,—like breezes o’er spring’s bloom.

No Muses haunt Parnassus’ lofty mount, Nor wander on by Castalie’s pure stream; Whose waters welling from their crystal fount Blushed with the light of heaven’s entrancing beam. Mere glorious visions of a Grecian dream Those Muses were! on them I call in vain! And ye must all me most presumptious deem, That such high prize I struggle to attain As sing some wild romance, some sweet Spenserian strain.

The moonbeams shone upon the castle wall, That rearing proudly from its native rock, Gave back the accents of the torrent’s fall Which gushed below, as if to sternly mock The wild rage of the river, whose fierce shock Struck with the might of an eternal storm, But yet impressed not the immortal block Of massive adamant, that reared its form Embattled midst the skies with turrets multiform.

And far around vast forests stretched their boughs In one unpathed perplexity of shade; Upon whose skirts the purple mountains rose, As if they would the starry realms invade With their titanic summits. Midst each glade, And mossy valley, gently purling streams Gushed rippling on, and in their windings made Deep woodland haunts, unpierced by sunny beams, Sweet bowers for purest love,—fit nooks for poet’s dreams.