Part 7

The incident alluded to was represented to the writer, at the time of composition, as a natural one; but although its artificial character diminishes the poetry of the fact, it alters not the spirit of the poem.

Thousands on thousands throng The City’s spacious street, With loud acclaim and raptured shout A coming Queen to greet.

Exultant cries of joy Ring through the sun-bright air, And with one vast and giant-voice A Nation’s love declare.

“Queen of the brave and free! Queen of the ocean-foam! Welcome to this green Sister-isle, Glad as a welcome home!”

To utter forth the joy All human voices fail, So Nature sends her messenger To tell the gladsome tale.

Emblem of truth and love, Of peace like heaven serene, Forth flies Her timid gentle dove To greet the glorious Queen.

Bird of the woodland shade, And solitary calm, What spirit high thy breast inspired To fly without alarm,

Mid that joy-shouting crowd In pomp and bannered pride, To rest thy wing and nestle by Victoria’s loving side?

In Greece, the wise of old, From flights of birds divined The will of heaven, and deemed therein Deep prophecies enshrined.

Bird of the olive branch, Sweet harbinger of peace, Heaven sent thee to the Ark to tell— “The deluge-waters cease.”

We, like the patriarch hoar, And like those ancient seers, Would deem thy mystic flight portends Joy for the coming years.

Now Erin knows her Queen, And greets with welcome smile, And sees she bears a heart of love For th’ sons of th’ Emerald Isle.

She of the wild warm heart, Henceforth her harp will tune To songs of peace, and lays of love, Beneath the summer noon.

Waves, on their silver crests, Will waft the music o’er, Mixed with their own proud melody To Britain’s naval shore.

The Sister-Isles shall dwell In concord yet unknown, And shamrock wreathed with olive twine VICTORIA’S glorious crown!

Lines to a Butterfly.

Blithe reveller in sunny air, How gaily moves thy happy wing, In search of rich and dainty fare Amid the blooming flowers of spring.

The splendid colours brightly glance, Which form thy beautiful attire, Like tinted clouds o’er heaven’s expanse Illumed by sunset’s rosy fire.

How sprightly is thy rapid flight, Beneath the warm and cheering ray; Thine seems a life of pure delight, Gay innocence and mirthful play.

I would not mar thy joyous glee! Such happiness be ever thine! I only wish that light and free And buoyant were my heart as thine.

Stanzas.

Oh! where is the rose which was placed on thy bosom? Is it withered and strewn, and the giver forgot? Fond hope would now tell me—ah am I too sanguine— That brighter and fairer was its destined lot.

It was a mere trifle, yet given with feeling, When suddenly fated in sorrow to part: And gifts are not valued by trade’s sordid dealing, But esteem’d the more rich as they flow from the heart.

If this be their standard, that rose was a treasure! Yet how great its value I’ll not now reveal, But muse in calm silence, with sweet hopeful pleasure, On her who did it in her bosom conceal.

Dane’s Dyke, Flambro’.

How sweet in this secluded vale On soft green turf to calmly lie, And spend an hour in musing well, Whilst gazing on the sun-bright sky.

The busy world seems all shut out By circling hills on every side, So lofty, that you scarce can hear, O’er their proud tops, the breaking tide.

Here solitude and silence reign, Enhanced—not lost—by rural sounds; Wild, varied, woodland scenes prevail Within this deep glen’s winding bounds.

The rude furze clothes each rugged steep, And trees adorn each upland swell; Whilst in the warm and sheltered nooks, A thousand wild-flowers sweetly dwell.

The ash tree waves its feath’ry boughs Obedient to the light, soft breeze; And on the sense delightful falls The song of birds—the hum of bees.

Whilst ’mid this peaceful landscape laid, So free from strife, and thoughts of pain; It seems as if the pastoral days Of ancient times had come again.

Those days of happiness and calm, Ere war was known, or gold was found, When shepherds sung their dulcet lays, With flocks of lambkins feeding round.

What pure refreshment does it give, To leave awhile life’s bustling stage; And here to please and soothe the soul As calm as in a hermitage.

But why on such a scene as this Bestow, as if in mockery vain, The name—allied to blood and war— Of th’ ancient and piratic Dane?

Perhaps ’tis well! as thought returns, Back to that time of feud and war; The contrast makes us prize this age, Ruled o’er by Peace’s brightest star!

A Sea-Side Wish.

The sun shines clear on the sea, All calm beneath his ray; And the tiny waves, with musical sound, O’er the winding sand-beach ripple around, And with the shingle play.

Oh! that I a mermaid were, To sport o’er the blue expanse, To scatter around me, in joy and delight, A wide circle of foam-drops, sparkling bright, And mid the free waters dance.

I’d o’er the smooth surface glide, Like a sea-bird through the air; And in the cool bath of the briny wave Each languishing limb for refreshment lave, And play in rich luxury there.

When the golden glow of morn, Or the eve’s soft crimson beam, Illumined the glass of the azure deep, Should be the sweet time my revels to keep, And sport in the ocean’s stream.

But, midst high fervours of noon, I’d dive to the depths below, And dwell in the cool of the rock’s deep cells, Where lurk the rich agates and pink-valved shells, And many-hued seaweeds grow.

Oh! that I a mermaid were, To know all the sea’s delights, And make its broad waters—its snowy foam— And the calm of its dark green caves my home, And see all its glorious sights!

The Sea-Bird.

Oh! how fair is the sea-bird winging Its flight with a breast like snow, When its form, from the high rock springing, Is glassed in the sea below.

How it floats o’er the reefs and shallows, And glides round the rock’s rough form; It darts through the waves’ deep hollows, Undaunted amid the storm.

Oh, blithe bird of the mighty ocean, Would I had a breast like thine; As free from each passion’s commotion, As calm when life’s pleasures shine.

No deep waves of sorrow should daunt me, No winds of adversity chill; And if dark clouds of care should haunt me, My soul would be placid and still.

If all life should be fair and shining, How calm would my spirit be; Like thy pathway in brightness soaring, Alone o’er the sunlit sea.

Oh, bird of the ocean how lovely Thy pure and delicate form! Either floating in splendour above me, Or piercing through cloud and storm.

The Voice of the Sea.

I hear the deep voice of the sea, As slowly it breaks on the shore, With the self-same tone To my childhood known— Its music for evermore!

How sublimely its accents fall And pierce each recess of the soul, Recalling the past With a trumpet’s blast, And a might beyond control!

It tells of the gay infant hours When I play’d on the sun-lit sand, Whilst each shell and stone Was a wealth unknown, And the beach a fairy-land.

It speaks of the wild boyish days When I roam’d to the rocks afar, Where the black sea-weed Cracks loud to the tread, And shell-fish in thousand are.

All times on my spirit come back When I’ve dwelt by thy shore, O sea; Each friend I have known, Each look and each tone, Now cruelly reft from me.

Thy voice is the voice of a dirge, And mournfully sighs for the dead; Sound on, then, thy knell, Like a funeral bell, For the loved who from earth have fled.

Yet Hope seems to sweeten the sound, Bright Faith, and her sister Love; For whilst on thy brink, I cheerfully think, Of the calm blue heavens above!

The Fisherman.

The fisherman’s life is a mighty war,— He fights the winds and waves; And on the broad plain of ocean afar The hostile tempest braves.

When the sun shines clear, and the clouds float bright, He hoists his ruddy sail, And away he goes under breezes light From home with a joyous—hail!

He baits his long lines and prepares his nets, To take the finny prey; And sings at his work until he gets Far off in the open sea.

Now the land is gone, and no sights are near, But calm blue skies above, And ocean below him as bright and clear, Yet green as a summer grove.

Mid the emerald depths he strives to snare The swift free fish of the sea; And when he has won of the spoils a share He homeward plies his way.

Now the sun sinks down with a fierce red glare, And dark clouds crowd his path, To bid the fisherman bold beware O’ th’ coming tempest’s wrath.

The night grows dark, and the winds roar high, The wild waves proudly swell; But mid the dread gloom, no star in the sky, The mariner’s path to tell!

Each billow comes on like a mountain rock To crush his fragile bark, And cast him far down with an awful shock To a grave in the waters dark.

His courage is high, but his heart will think Of all in his happy home, How in tears they’ll rush to the cliffs steep brink And watch if his boat may come.

His home is where widows and orphans dwell, Whose kin were lost in the sea; And oft to each other they weeping tell Of the loved they no more shall see.

But bright morning comes, and the wild wind veers, The huge waves die away, And mid the lost rage of the surf he steers Right home through the well-known bay.

Go thou forth, then, fisherman bold, go forth A thousand times again; And loaded with spoils, to fond hearts return In joy o’er the peaceful main.

The Head-Land.

From this proud noble head-land How grand to look below, Where far beneath the sea-birds soar, And ocean-waters flow.

The rock-reefs clad with sea-weed, The bright green pools between, And strange wild chasms in rent cliffs, form A soul exalting scene.

Dark blue the distant ocean, Unites with circling sky, So softly that their bounds sublime Elude the piercing eye.

What a mighty plain extended, How fearful, awful, vast, Whilst sleeping, calm—then what in storm, When ploughed up by the blast?

There float light skiffs, whose beauty Swift from the sight is gone; And there gigantic merchant-ships In majesty move on.

Ten thousand hearts are sailing Along yon azure deep; Yet from their native land afar, Sweet thoughts of home they keep.

Ah, how sublime is ocean! For bounds extending wide; But more so as a stage whereon The human heart is tried.

There hope and fear are nurtured, Love to love will oft reply; And th’ fierce might of despair is heard In the sailor’s drowning cry.

Whilst thus on ocean gazing, What thoughts our spirits throng; Too deep for tears, too deep for words, Too deep for poet’s song.

The proud high capes and head-lands, Wide views far o’er the sea, Seem scarce as things of time and earth, But of eternity!

The Storm-King.

When ocean is calm and the air’s soft balm, O’er the glassy surface sweeps; Far in his deep cave, by the salt sea wave, The Storm-king soundly sleeps.

The winds at his call will rise or will fall, Each wave is beneath his sway; The gloom of his frown brings the black clouds down, And turns into night the day.

When his dream is o’er, by the rock-reef shore, In anger he rushes forth, And calls each dread wave from its secret cave, And beckons fierce blasts from the north.

Then proudly he rides o’er the boiling tides, As they eddy around the rocks; Whilst their awful roar on the wreck-strewn shore, The hollow-voiced thunder mocks.

When ocean and cloud like a woven shroud, Are all mingled into one, Amidst the dense spray he pursues his way, And hurries triumphant on.

The terrible form of the king of storm, Few mortal eyes have seen; Or his fierce glance cast where the lightning’s blast, Hath shivered the rocks in twain.

If you would behold the vision unrolled Of the Storm-king on his way; Then his to yon steep that o’erlooks the deep, Where the weed-strewn sea-caves lay.

When winds have the tone of a dull low moan, Foretelling a coming blast; ’Tis a sign that he, from his sleep is free, And gathers his armies fast.

When ocean roars loud, and the sky’s one cloud, From his dark cave issues he; And if you watch well, where waves highest swell, Perchance his dread look you may see.

Farewell to the Sea.

Farewell! bright ocean, to thy winding shore, But not, my spirit trusts, for evermore; Thy power is on me, and ’twould be deep pain, Never to view thy glorious scenes again; Yet till that hour in gladness comes to me Full oft with pleasure shall I muse on thee, And in clear vision see thy form displayed In all its light and loveliness arrayed. Oft will the music of thy choral waves Upon the sand-beach, or in fretted caves, Fall with its mighty harmonies full, clear, Distinct and tuneful on the inward ear, Recalling brightly to the mind’s rapt sight Waves, cliffs, rocks, head-lands, all in beauty bright.— I see the splendour of the morning’s ray Illume the burnished mirror of the bay, Whilst o’er its smooth and polished surface glide Unnumbered sails in triumph and in pride, Some dim in cloudy shade, some pure in light, Whilst some, far distant, scarcely win the sight. And now the glory of the noonday sun Makes each wave silver that it shines upon; Keen, vivid radiance pouring from the sky Flashes around, too piercing for the eye! But evening’s beams of ever-varied hue Spread o’er the ocean and enhance its blue; Soft, pearly tints, bright saffron, richest rose, Their lovely rainbow radiance disclose, Reflected on the deep so sweet, so fair, That the charmed eye could gaze forever there. Around soft stillness and mute calmness reign Along the ocean’s clear and polished plain; No vagrant zephyr’s gentle voice is heard, No shout of sailor, and no wing of bird, The gentle ripples chiming on the beach The sole sweet music that the ear can reach! Some image Peace amid the woodland grove, Some in soft vales where simple rustics rove; But to behold her calmest reign, give me A gorgeous twilight by the waveless sea! Rocks, reefs, bold head-lands on my memory gleam, The sea-bird soaring in the sun’s bright beam,— The dense clouds casting darker shades below,— The waves beginning with white crests to flow, Till lashed to fury in wild rage they roar, And strew light foam along the sounding shore. If thus, great ocean, memory can recall Thy varied scenes, and gaze upon them all As in thy presence, need there be regret At parting from thee? Though it may be sweet In fancy’s pictures to behold thee clear, Yet the true lover would be ever near The mistress of his choice;—and so would I Full oft behold thee with delighted eye; And in this farewell to thy much-prized shore Hope would plead softly “not for evermore!”

Lines to the Sun.

Bright regent of ether, Great monarch of day, Whose sceptre of splendour Drives darkness away;

Thou art the restorer Of life on the earth, And givest its beauty Renewal of birth.

From soft dewy slumber, Mid darkness and night, Each flower opes its eyelid To gaze on thy light.

The dew-drops of morning, Which spangle the vale, To honour thy coming As incense exhale.

Gay birds of the woodland Aroused by thy ray, To musical breezes Attune the sweet lay.

The trees of the forest Rejoice in thy beams, That glance like bright silver Along the clear streams.

How splendid all nature Beneath thy glad reign, In light and in glory, O’er land and o’er main.

E’en man, the earth’s ruler, Awaits thy command; His fetters of slumber Are broke by thy hand.

From sleep he ariseth To toil and to care, Till evening’s rich lustre Hath vanished from air.

Yet art thou but agent,— The servant of him Who gave thee thy brightness, And polished thy beam.

Thy glory is darkness; Thy splendour but night; To Him, thy Creator, Who “dwelleth in light.”

The Muse.

Why woo a false and fabled muse? The breeze, the sunlight, or the shower, Fair morning’s dawn, sweet evening dews, The noble tree or simple flower, Can act with Inspiration’s power Poetic ardours to infuse!

The rough rock, or the mountain glen; Vast forests where no light is gleaming; Lone pathless wilds untrod by men, Quick lightning o’er vexed ocean streaming, Dark nights when no clear star is beaming, Arouse the soul’s sublimest strain.

Each acting on the mental frame, That intellect which God has given, Enkindle poesy’s bright flame, Whose warmth o’er thought and feeling driven In numbers flows; _thus_ drawn from heaven Are thoughts that gain the poet’s fame!

Song—Young Spring.

Young Spring he was a rosy boy, And loved light skies and breezes; Sweet, calm and tranquil in his joy, Like one whom each thing pleases. He danced amid the hawthorn shade, Before it burst to blossom, And scattered yellow wild-flowers round Just where he liked to toss ’em. Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring! You are a merry creature, And when you smile, it makes us smile, Yea—smile in every feature!

Our poets, in the times of old, O’er-loaded him with praises, As if his path all glory were, Midst bright fields rich in daisies. But now he seems to walk on clouds With heavy plunging paces, And squirts, as from a watering-pot, Rain-drizzle in our faces. Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring! You’re grown a freakish fellow, For now you smile, and now you weep,— John!—bring me my umbrella.

Tis said, in ancient days he dwelt In bowers of blooming roses, Whilst nigh him, on the fragrant turf, Warm Zephyr’s wing reposes; But now he can blow hot and cold, Just like the fabled satyr, And chill your blood, and cramp your bones, And make your old teeth chatter. Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring! You are a precious turncoat, For you were warm, but now you’re cold,— George!—get me out my greatcoat!

If that his olden days were fair, And full of glowing sunshine, His temper, then, has altered much, Or all such talk was—moonshine. For now his humours often breed A most unseemly weather, Where rain and hail and frost and snow Come mingled up together. Young Spring, Young Spring, Young Spring! Old Winter you impannel, And play at romps with frost and snow,— Jane!—air my under-flannel!

Autumn.

In this glad season, when the ripened corn All golden-hued along the landscape gleams, And fruits, as poured from Plenty’s flowing horn, Blush red and purple in the sun’s bright beams. Incense of gratitude it well beseems Frail man to offer with devotion high, From his heart as an altar, whilst there teems Such glad abundance round him, and the sky Glows with a glorious light to prove heaven’s goodness nigh.

Oh, that such goodness we regarded more! And, winged with gratitude, our thoughts aloft Like morning skylarks, would rejoicing soar To pay their glad and cheerful tribute oft. Ah! sweet is grateful love, and calm and soft Its soothing influence upon the mind, Making it purer, as the breezes waft Life to the flowers! Then on thy spirit bind The thought of heaven’s rich love, beneficent and kind!

The hopeful promise of the early spring Is now fulfilled; the summer’s rosy flower Transmuted into fruit; and corn-fields bring The full redundance of their golden store, To glad the heart of man. His labour o’er, Well may he lift a deeply thankful voice, And ere the closing of the year grown hoar, Make hospitality’s free rites his choice— A season of glad cheer when loving hearts rejoice.

The Reaper.

The reaper now plies his sturdy arm, ’Mid the heat of the noon-day sun; And early and late in the sweat of his brow, He works till his task be done.

The sun scarce peeps o’er the distant trees, Ere he labours along the fields; And the silvery beams of the harvest moon, Shine sweet as the sheaves he builds.

’Mid cloud and dew of the early spring, In good hope he buried the grain; And soon in green blades with the soft summer breeze It wavered along the plain.

The bright warm close of the golden year, Made his ample reward complete; As it swell’d out each grain and made ripe each ear, And all for the sickle meet.

Happy art thou in thy fruitful work, O reaper of rich teeming fields; For the bright hope we sow in this mortal life, Full often no harvest yields.

The blasts of sorrow, the clouds of care, Disappointment’s terrible blight, Destroy many sweet pleasures we hoped to rear, And leave but winter and night.

Yet unto man in this vale of tears, A holier hope is given; If he scatter around him good seed on earth, His harvest he’ll reap in heaven.

The Widow.

She wanders round the old church walls, And by the grassy graves, As if some scanty solace thence Her mourning spirit craves.

When death, the cherished and the loved, Hath severed from the heart, To view the tombs where they were laid Can sad relief impart.

Such loss is hers—but in that ground Her loved ones do not lie; Yet often there she wanders lone, And strange graves hovers nigh.

Once she a husband kind possessed, And two sons stout and brave; But midst the stern November gales The sea became their grave.

Far off from land, their fishing barks The whelming waves flowed o’er; At home she waited their return, But never saw them more!

With faithful heart she’s wept for them Through many fleeting years; Though o’er their graves she ne’er could pay The tribute of her tears.

Now oft her slow and feeble steps Are to that church-yard led, Because she feels more nigh to them Amid the silent dead!

The Blind Musician.

He touched his flute by the lone inn door, And artless were all the sounds he drew; But mid the notes of that simple lay The deep delight of his soul breathed through.

The earth for him had no robes of light, No gorgeous scenes to exalt his mind; No bright summer clouds or sunset skies To melt his spirit—for he was blind!

Yet cheerless and dark his soul was not, Shut out from a lovely world around; For music could waft his thoughts to dwell, In a rich and joyful world of sound.

I saw on his cheek content’s calm smile, And blessed in my heart the love of heaven; That to a being in darkness born, Such a secret fund of joy had given.

Yet as I gazed on the landscape round All glowing in sunshine rich and free; There gushed from my heart, intense and strong,— “I thank Thee, O God—I see! I see!”

Hope.

Hope, with a rich enchanting light, Allures us gaily on; That, when we think to grasp the prize, Just flickers and is gone.

Its lambent flame again appears, And we renew the chase; But soon our smiles are turned to tears— We’re baffled in the race!

Earth’s hopes are like the meteor-lights That spread the moorland far, But heavenly hope eternal shines Serenely as a star.