"the True, who of man's life had fought
The fearful battle—had, with hallowed lyre,
Or humble distaff, or a pen unbought,
Or kingly sceptre, or that sacred fire
Which burned in earnest words, smitten the Liar,
Satan the Devil—plucked from the o'erthrown
By love supreme, knelt while the eternal quire
Sang, as Heaven's matin hymn before the Throne,

How Christ the Son by love did for fallen man atone.

But not the Ransomed only—though these far
Surpassed in numbers—formed the crowd who hung
Upon the song; for even as star on star
Crowded from nadir to night's boss, the young
Immortal ones who, ere worlds were, had strung
The harp in Heaven clave round, clad in the love
They bore the Christ while suffering.   God hath flung
Around those glorious ones that robe which 'bove

All splendour gleams where'er at their sweet wills they move.

When ceased the song, spirits and souls in bliss—
Through the grand deed of love true equals—long
Held pleasant converse on the righteousness
By the Son shaped from suffering; till among
Their number grew a wish that waxed strong
Of the first man to ask of man's estate.
When life dawned into life.   From 'mid the throng
For all a Spirit spoke—one who elate

Clomb Heaven from earthly flame and storm of human hate.

Thus: "Sire of men, in joy or woe alone,
Where eyes angelic scan without compeer;
His chiefest work on earth who from Heaven's throne
Gave being, force, and law to every sphere,—
First soul of men; first soul in glory here,
Grant what we crave, nor us too curious blame,
Relate how first upon the mortal ear
Song from leafed-forest, air, and ocean came,

And from the open sky with splendours all aflame.

"But chief declare, O Sire of men, how Soul
Grew to its blessed state of sovereign sway;
If instant touched by God it grasped the whole,
Or struggling, darkling, with the darkening clay
Power grew on knowledge, as light grew on day,
Till thou supreme 'mid Eden's glories strode,
Wondering and naming Nature's fair array,
All life obedient to thy sovereign nod,

Companion of Heaven's host, last, greatest work of God!"

The first in sorrow, even in the crowd
Of Heaven's eldest born, conspicuous from
His lofty beauty, saddening, lowly bowed,
Being thus remembered of his mortal home
The ancient Earth, rolling beneath a dome
Glorious with stars; and lo!   Will to begin
The story of these years, when by the foam
Of Time's far sea he stood, the slave of sin,

Rose like the moon 'mid clouds his shifting thoughts within.

And to that sovereign Will all memories throng,
As to the full-orbed moon the ocean host,
Until his voice rolled in the might of song:
"Spirits, mine equals," said he, "I have last
No recollection of a world which cost,
That it might be redeemed, agony and pain—
Pain, agony, and pain—pain to the most
Beloved of God, an Calvary's mountain slain

To expiate my fall and all its mournful train.

.                .                .                .                .
"Spirits, what ye require I will relate,
Beginning while within the forest lay
The marvellous Me, inducted to my state
By the Eternal King our God, sole stay
Of Soul and Nature and of your array
Glorious before His throne. . . .

      "Speak of the first effect
Of guilt upon thy soul; speak of our world
Troubled by God—of reverend silence wrecked
By war of elements—of the unfurled
Banners of Hell that gleamed where mountains hurled
On mountains blazed aloft, and ocean seethed
Into malignant vapour, darkling, curled
Beneath stars trembling with affright, while wreathed

In horror Fear and Hate entered all things that breathed."

"Let me stand face to face with every birth
Of my foul crime which shall upon mankind,
Upon the sea, or on the troubled earth,
Blasting descend,"—

"Thou hast desired a fearful thing,

And as a curse 'tis granted . . . .

Thou shalt descend, O Man, the path of years.
Thou shalt look on the ages.   Thou shalt know
The springs of future hopes and future fears.
Thou shalt discern what fruit thy crime will grow—
Shall be a sharer in the joy and woe,
Rest, motion, effort, and the conflict stern
Of greater times than thine.   Go, Mortal, go!
This much is given, but not in love.   Go learn

Thy proper task, O Soul, thy labour field discern!"

                —Then sacred grew all things,
And holy waxed all seasons in each hour,
And every form of work that from God springs
Was noble in his eyes, and had a power
The worker to ennoble in a dower
Of higher life, that fitted for a higher.—

THOUGHT.

As the flower puts on a richer
    Lustre than the parent tree,
So should thy thoughts gleam with a beauty
    That the eye sees not in thee,
But no flower, however gorgeous,
    Decks the tree a foreign gem:
For the force that gives the beauty
    Lives within the parent stem.

Once I saw within a season
    That my heart remembers well,
A pure living lily mirror'd
    In the waters of a well—
In the waters of a lonely
    Well, upon a mountain side—
In the waters sky and lily
    Mirrored lay, and nought beside;
And I cried, amid the loneness
    Of the place, "Would it were given
That the waters of my spirit
    Thus might mirror God and heaven!"

____________

The sun has set, and one lone star
    Is trembling on the brow of even—
Only one pale and twinkling star
    In all the broad blue waste of heaven.
But know I not that countless hosts
    Beyond yon thin ethereal veil
Trim their love lamps, and only wait
    Till twilight into night shall fail;

Even so, O heart! a single star
    Of hope gleams in thy life's low skies;
But let night deepen, and the hosts
    Of God shall meet thy longing eyes.
Lo, where they come—night's grand array,
    In yon blue dome they dawn and shine—
Look, soul, on a diviner sky!
    Look, soul, the eyes of Faith are thine!

_______________

Drinking long, sweet draughts of beauty,
    With a sweetly passive will,
Once I lay beside the margin
    Of a lonely mountain rill.
Midway in the stream, a laughing
    Boy sat on a rocky seat,
Laughing at the waters sparkling,
    Rushing o'er his naked feet.

O! the pleasure, pure and simple,
    Of life in its morning prime:
Leagues have severed, years have borne me
    From that sunny spot and time;
Yet but lately I was dreaming,
    And I saw within my dream
O'er the white feet flash the waters
    Of the lonely mountain stream.

GILMARTIN'S BONNIE DOCHTER.

O Gilmartin's bonnie dochter!   O the winsome, witchin' quean!
O the hearts that she has broken sin' amang us she has been!

O that she had bidden, bloomin' 'mid the mountains a' the North!
O that some bauld lad had held her far ayont the Links a' Forth!

A' is gaun to rack an' ruin in the country roun' an' roun';
Ilka carle's daft about her—laird an' souter, saunt an' loon.

In the pulpit on the Sabbath hoo blate Threeheads struts an'
        stares;
Pate the elder's ta'en tae drinkin', Rab the blacksmith's ta'en tae
        prayers.

Nane escapes her—Jock, Precentor, thro' her to mischancie cam',
But last Sabbath-day when Threeheads had gi'en out the holy psalm,

Jock, wha was in fancy feastin' on the lips he ne'er maun pree,
Clean forgettin' David, lilted "Lassie, will ye gang wi' me?"

O Gilmartin's bonnie dochter!   O the winsome, witchin' quean!
Simmer frae her smile is blinkin', saftest starlight fills her e'en.

O Gilmartin's bonnie dochter!—blessings on her silken snood!
There's nae doot the lassie's comin' maun ha'e dune the country
        good:

Baith the doctor an' the lawyer how'd beneath her potent spell;
An' the doctor fled the parish, an' the lawyer hang'd himsel'.

O Gilmartin's bonnie dachter!   O her humanising power!
Troth she made the Laird a' Cranky wise for maistly half an hour.

Troth she sae dang dour discretion in the mind o' auld Kilcairn,
That the bodie gied a bawbee to a beggar's barefit bairn.

O Gilmartin's bonnie dochter! when she trips adown the lea,
Glints her feet like snawflakes fa'in' on the bosom o' the sea.

O Gilmartin's bonnie dachter! what she says ye scarce can hear—
Sae the music a' the sweet voice o' the lassie charms the ear.

Things can never haud on this gate; a' the country roun' an' roun',
Ilk ane's daft an' doatin' on her—laird an' souter, saunt an' loon.

Nicht an' day I'm thinkin' on it, thinkin' hoo tae break the spell;
Troth I see nae ither way for't but to marry her mysel'.

VERSES WRITTEN FOR A YOUNG
LADY'S ALBUM.

Of eyes that flash, and locks that float,
    I sing not.   Love, in all the days
Will temper hearts to feel their charms,
    Move babbling tongues to pour their praise;
Lie nobler themes beneath these skies,
    Than floating locks or flashing eyes.

I would not that an empty phrase,
    Traced by my pen, should meet thy eye;
The power that fills a poet's lays
    Should be a power that cannot die;
A guide upon the upward road,
    An influence breathed through him from God.

I would, that on this page thy soul
    The wisdom of a friend should find;
Then, if some shock of fate should mar
    The quiet of thy steadfast mind,
'T were sweeter than the voice of Fame
    To hear thee breathe and bless my name.

And if there came no shock of fate,
    Until the grand recall is given—
Until thy night of mortal life
    Melts in the glorious morn of heaven,
Thy Being, in its light array'd,
    Will bless the man who wrote and said:

Be pure of soul! and O, believe,
    I doubt not thou in soul art pure;
But which of all the angels knows
    How long his glory shall endure;
They saw the Morning Star o'erthrown,
    Though he had served before the throne.

Make every holy thought thy friend,
    Whatever creed the thought may lend;
So, soul shall learn its native song,
    And thy pure life serenely bend
Above life's idle frets and jars,
    As glorious as a sky with stars.

Swift as the lightning on its path
    Be thy compassion, and as free;
As liberal as a harvest moon;
    As silent as a sleeping sea;
And, oh, that act to God is dear,
    Which soothes a wail or dries a tear.

The sunny duties of thy hour
    Will darken mid the night of years;
Conceal no more their wreaths of thorns;
    Breathe forth perplexing doubts and fears:
Courage! the crowns the saints have won
    Are framed of duties nobly done.

And love will come.   Strive not to stem
    The crimson tide upon thy brow;
Love is immortal, and has wrought
    In all the ages even as now;
Rekindling under youthful eyes,
    The flame that glow'd in Paradise.

Yes, love will come! but if his cup
    O'erflow not, let thy spirit say,
"Drink thou no stinted draught, my heart!"
    And put the treach'rous hand away;
Between thee and the blessed land
    There lies life's waste of arid sand.

And there may spring beside thy knee,
    An Influence, fair, and free, and strong;
A string upon that golden harp
    From whence doth roll life's awful song;
'Twill gather from thy soul alone
    Its deepest and its holiest tone.

Before the final word is said,
    Before farewell makes sad this page,
I say that, if thy years shall stretch
    Into a sunny vale of age,
Thou'lt find the wealth thy life has wrought
    Is noble deed and holy thought.

Seen from the Judgment-seat, as waste
    The barren lives of worldlings lie,
As is the way a thousand winds
    Have traced across the midnight sky;
Rest grows upon their storm and strife,
    And silence drinks their psalm of life.

In every age, in every clime,
    From altar, throne, or mountain sod,
The Poet who has sung the truth,
    Has spoken with the voice of God;
My task is done!   What soul can tell
    How far God's voice may reach?   Farewell!

THE HERO BARD.

I sing of a Hero, while yet again
    My fingers the harp-strings sweep,
Who hurled no terrors on homes of men,
    No thunders along the deep;
Who far in the wild a dwelling made,
    With stars and the desert spring,
And sung at the hest of Him who said,
    "Let the mountain torrent sing."

He sang of the joys of peasant men,
    Of the loves of peasant maids,
Till his songs grew voices in the glen,
    And the music of the glades.
Fame was the meed of the peasant bard,
    The praise of the wise and strong;
And the pure heart's love—the true reward
    Of the gifted son of song.

Then his soul grew glad in beauty's light,
    And melted in love's soft fire;
But these enthralled not his spirit of might,
    For that was wed to his lyre.
He laughed in scorn at the light that flows
    From the wreathed and sparkling bowl—
His song was bright with the fire that glows
    Deep in the heaven-born soul.

He looked on the waste of many graves,
    On the sea when tempest tost,
While the snowy tops of angry waves
    In the darkening rack were lost;
And he watched the dazzling host of night,
    Amid skies of waveless blue,
Till his bending spirit blessed the might
    Of the God whose voice they knew.

He looked on lofty lords of the soil,
    In pomp of a transient show,
He looked on the careworn sons of toil.
    In gloom of a transient woe.—
And he loved them with an equal love,
    The low and the lofty one,
For both are loved by the Power above
    Who kindled the rolling sun.

Little he recked for the might of name,
    For rank by monarchs given;
He knew that the true are heirs of fame,
    The brave are named in heaven.
He knew that he is a King indeed
    Whose spirit rides forth in song;
Who lends not his glorious verse to speed
    The lies of a venal throng.

He sang the might of the faith of God
    In our land in evil times;
The brave who bowed at no monarch's nod,
    And warred on a nation's crimes.
The song of that Bard performed its part,
    For only the true song can
Burst from the lips, and burn in the heart,
    Of a hero—minstrel—man.

At the King of Terrors smiled he,
    At the phantom monarch grim;
He knew the angel of death would be
    An angel of peace to him.
He died in the cot where erst he sung,
    And rich has been his reward:
Prayers from the old; and smiles from the
        young—
    The meed of the Hero Bard.

THE EXILE'S LAMENTATION.

A damsel of Israel was pensively gazing
    On Jordan's dark stream with an eye of despair;
She looked on the hills, but no cattle were grazing,
    And scarcely a vestige of verdure was there.

In anguish she turned to the lake of Asphaltes,
    'Neath whose deadly waters the vile are inurn'd;
Corruption's foul breath taints the air, and the salt is
    Thick scatter'd 'mongst waves which Jehovah hath spurn'd.

"What dread conflagration," she cried, fill'd with wonder,
    "Hath ravag'd these cities, once gleaming like gold!"
She paus'd, and a voice spoke in clouds like the thunder,
    "Their sins were too great for my vengeance to hold."

"Oh, hear me, great Sire!" cried the innocent virgin,
    And veil'd her bright cheeks with a look of despair;
Then sank on her knees by the sea's rugged margin,
    And breath'd to the Monarch of Nature this prayer:

"I have strayed o'er the desolate tracks of Palmyra,
    And viewed the dread havoc Thine engines have made;
I have scaled the bleak hills that encircle Old Tyra,
    To where ancient Thebes' hundred gates were once laid.

"I have witnessed the grand hieroglyphical sketches
    Indented on rocks by the finger of skill;
Time changes their form—when Thy sceptre he stretches,
    Great monuments crumble at Thy mighty will.

"From Ethiop's dark race, where the flower's fadeless glory
    Outrivals in splendour the gold crypts of Ind,
To Egypt, whose mountains are blasted and hoary,
    Which once was the cradle and nurse of mankind.

"Horeb and Zion, and Arabia Petraea
    Have felt the stern blow which was hurled from Thy hand;
In anguish Thou buried'st the wealth of Judea,
    And stripp'd Thy fair suppliant of home and of land.

"By traitors' vile hands were my sisters and brothers
    From Salem's loved shares pestilentially swept;
Posterity torn from the breasts of their mothers,
    And infants inhumanly stabb'd as they slept!

"Their putrified bones scatter'd death and contagion
    From Euphrates' banks to the source of the Nile;
The schools of the learn'd, and the courts of religion
    Were left as a prey to the murd'rous and vile.

"But why do I moralize thus on such plunder,
    Since terms such as these may Thine anger provoke?"
She ceas'd—and then terribly roll'd the dread thunder,
    In peals which the peace of the sepulchre broke.

Grim forms raised their heads which had slumber'd for ages,
    And haggardly gazed o'er the river's dark wave;
And thousands, whose names shone on Sodom's black pages,
    Sank back with that crew in the jaws of the grave!

The storm was assuag'd, and a bright cloud descended;
    A voice spoke more loud than the thunder's deep roar,
"Fear not, Israel's daughter, my wrath is suspended—
    Go learn thy Creator to love and adore!"

She rose from her knees with her heart beating lightly,
    And cried, "What am I but an atom of dust?"
Then cast her last look on the cloud beaming brightly,
    And sigh'd, "Oh, Jehovah! in Thee will I trust!"

She tripp'd to her tent by the banks of Old Jordan,
    And play'd on her harp a melodious tune,—
Her heart being eas'd from so grievous a burden,
    She sang, "Why should mortals their Maker impugn?"

STANZAS FROM
"THE FAREWELL."

It flow'd from my heart in the language of sorrow;
    It burst on her ears like a wail o'er the dead;
Her cheeks, like the sun, which should shine on the morrow,
    Gave symptoms of joy through the beams which they shed;
But mine were obscur'd with the dewdrops of sadness,
    That left a dark trace as they silently fell;
My mind with despair, too, was goaded to madness;
    When wildly I bade her a lasting farewell.

Vile treach'ry had tortured the soul of the maiden,
    Too guileless I thought for a monster like he;
And quickly the smiles of affection did fade on
    The brow that once shone so resplendent on me.
The bright sunny hours of our love have pass'd o'er us,
    And left but remembrance our sorrows to tell;
A wide dreary prospect of care lies before us,
    And darkens the thought of our parting farewell.

Aye, gone are those pleasures, those hours gay and sprightly,
    The sun that illum'd them is shrouded in gloom;
The furies surround me with serpents unsightly,
    And steal from my cheek every vestige of bloom.
But where are those pleasures? when language first told me
    That Slander's foul finger had toll'd their last knell,
Distracted I flew, dearest Kate, to enfold thee,—
    We kiss'd, and I sighed as I bade thee farewell.

Oh! Death, if thy cold hand had frozen the current
    That rolls through the channels of this breathing clay,
My tears had not flowed in so copious a torrent,
    Nor grief rent a heart to deception a prey.
That blighted affection in me has converted
    This earth to the wild blazing caverns of hell;
For conscience stands forth, and with stings undeserted,
    Gives tokens within of our parting farewell.

Farewell to those charms richly deck'd with health's roses,
    That blended such soul-melting raptures with mine;
Farewell to that breast where my last sigh reposes,
    Which drew not a throb from that cold heart of thine;
Farewell to those fields where we've wandered, dear Kitty,
    When moon-beams have brighten'd the blue heather bell!
But tears fill my eyes, for the soft voice of pity
    Proclaims thee another's—then, false one, farewell.

TO NANCY.

                      Oh; listen, fond Nancy;
                      Methinks I could fancy
No other sweet creature that moves here below;
                      Wherever I meet thee,
                      With pleasure I greet thee—
Thy image shall guide me wherever I go.
                      Oh, were I thy true love,
                      My vows I'd renew, love,
And pledge them no more to be broken by me;
                      Then do not despise me,
                      For dearly I prize thee—
My heart, dearest Nancy, is centred in thee.

                      Thy kindred may slight me,
                      Yet, love, I'd delight thee,
If thou would'st go with me to some shady grove;
                      For there would I tell thee
                      What dangers befel me,
When far from thy bosom my fault was to rove.
                      Thy smile like the morning,
                      My dark mind adorning,
Dispels from my soul the thick gloom of despair;
                      Like cyrstal drops streaming,
                      Thine eyes, love, are beaming,
Dispersing a halo which none can compare.

                      Then give me thy hand, love,
                      'Tis all I demand, love,
And angels shall greet us with smiles from on high;
                      No grief shall confound us,
                      When wedlock has crown'd us,
For then will I wipe the dark tear from thine eye.
                      Thy children shall bless thee,
                      And tenderly press thee,
Whilst thou on their lips shall imprint the sweet kiss;
                      And when Death shall smite us,
                      Our God shall invite us
To regions rich-flowing with comfort and bliss.

THE OLD HOLLY IN BRANDY BROW FIELD.

(Addressed to Thomas Clough, Esq., of Holly Bush, Blackburn.)

How green grew the Holly in Brandy Brow Field,
Where our young lovers mingled and secrets revealed,
Which told how they loved in my prime infant days,
Ere the mill-blight had banish'd the bloom from my face;
Ere old Mammon my doom had hermetically seal'd,
How green grew the Holly in Brandy Brow Field!

How blithe was the holly in Brandy Brow Field
When it served the poor redbreast from snowstorms to shield;
When the thrush and the blackbird, in spring did repair,
Build their nests, hatch their young, and so sweetly sing there
That my juvenile heart—fraught with ecstasy—reel'd
As I worshipped the Holly in Brandy Brow Field.

In our noon-flights we hail'd him—our holiday games
Made that prickly old tree the delight of our themes;
And our charming young damsels, to brighten the spell,
Came with pitchers of water from Kitty Lowe Well;
While their fine glossy ringlets their blushes conceal'd,
As they baptised the Holly in Brandy Brow Field.

I arose, ere the lark his first octave had gained,
Or the smoke from long chimneys the heather had stain'd;
On the fruit of the blackthorn and bramble I've fed,
Till the sun set in amber, and Dian upled
By the vesper-star, pouring a light from her shield,
Consecrated the Holly on Brandy Brow Field.

With my milk jug and jannock I've tripped through the stile
With my brain in a whirlpool of rapture the while:
I knew not, I cared not, who envied my lot,
'Twas no worldly achievement, no mischief I sought;
But repose from the gaze of the cold world—conceal'd,
E'mbowered by the Holly in Brandy Brow Field.

No bells, save the church bells, to ring us to prayer;
No tyrant to drive us to want or despair;
We lived unmolested in rural abodes,
With no Eden so bright as our own native woods.
To th' old oak, thunder-scarr'd too, in homage I've kneeled,
That expired on the greensward of Brandy Brow Field.

I cared not how large was this war-blasted earth,
When my nights were all love-dreams, my days were all mirth;
I'd the whole planetarium when Nancy was nigh,
With a heaven of love in her soul-piercing eye,
And no feign'd Eldorado such pleasures unveil'd,
As her smiles by the Holly in Brandy Brow Field.

How many gay sprites have the seraphim borne
To their star-paven home, which, in boyhood, I've sworn
Should be blended with mine; but their souls were insphered
Where the wail of the destitute never is heard.
Where the great Esculapius their heart-throes have heal'd
Who once hallow'd the Holly in Brandy Brow Field.

When I last viewed the spot 'twas with bitter regret,
Not a trace of that Holly my aching eyes met,
And I wept, for the palmiest days of my life
Had fled at the stroke of the wood cutter's knife;
And for vengeance to heaven on his head I appeal'd,
Who had fell'd the green Holly in Brandy Brow Field.

But I will not repine, though through suffering and toil
I must battle and share but a tithe of the spoil;
While my offspring are thriving, the duns at my door
Look as shy as the damsels I play'd with of yore:
But embalmed in my heart, how my fortune they wield,
Is the Holly that flourished in Brandy Brow Field.

SONNET.

'Tis midnight! among youth-frequented nooks
    Of solitude I roam; my daily toils
Completed; melody from singing brooks
    Harmoniously each fleeting hour beguiles:
Angelic seers unfold their astral books
    Radiant with mind-wealth; toward the lunar isles
Lingers the Vesper-star—how sweet she looks!
        Endymian-like I gaze, altho' a cloud
        Seems to enwrap Diana in a shroud!
Religious silence overspreads the scene—
    Oh! great and glorious prospect to behold!—
Orbed legions throng the Zodiac, and their sheen,
    Kindled ere Earth upon her axis rolled,
    Streams through the sultry air, a galaxy of gold!

A FRAGMENT.

The angels leaned upon their harps and sang
The fall of Satan.   On the shores along
The crystal rivers sat the ransomed throng,
Who waved their snowy robes with joyous air,
As Raphael blew the trump, "Prepare, prepare!"
And as the diamond floor he stately trod,
Loud hallelujahs shook the throne of God.
The golden doors were ope'd, his wings they shone
With pure celestial glory from the throne.
Heaven's majesty the gifted seraph crowned,
Then downward, to our earth, his way he wound
Through the vast empires of empyrean blue,
From sphere to sphere, from cloud to cloud he flew;
His radiant eyes, which glistened from afar,
Eclipsed the splendour of the evening star.
As down the milky way he passed along
The wreck of worlds in awful grandeur hung;
Still on he swept, with unexhausted wings,
Through Herschell's orbit and Saturna's rings;
He passed Apollo's car, and soon each cloud
Streamed with the glory of the seraph's shroud!

THE POET'S PRAYER.

Incomprehensible, Eternal Being!
    God of the countless seen and unseen realms,
Whose power is boundless, and whose eye all-seeing,
    Whose majesty the finite soul o'erwhelms;

Thou, who hast numbered every heart's pulsation,
    From moth to mammoth—e'en the smallest grain—
To huge leviathans who guard our nation,
    Proclaim Thy plastic power on mead and main;

Thou hast afflicted me—hast made me humble—
    Hast scourged me sore before the sons of men,
Because o'er many a doubt 'twas mine to stumble,
    Strewn on my path by many an evil pen.

Thou knowest my erring judgment; how unstable
    My vacillating heart, great God, hath been;
How prone I was to mingle with the Babel
    Of Hell's elect in many a boisterous scene.

I do not loathe the earth because its beauty
    Is unentrancing to my vacant gaze;
Thou hast imposed on me a holier duty,
    To wean me from the world and the world's ways.

The phantom of my brain—the hideous Siren—
    Hath almost lured me to the Hadean gate;
And I must pause before its bolts of iron
    Are turned on me by a more hideous fate.

God of the infinite, indulgent Father,
    Whose smile is light; yea, the first gleam of dawn
That smit yon orient, or earth's chaos rather,
    Was but a flash of glory from Thy throne.

I've felt the sweat of toil from early childhood
    Stream from my brow—felt Thy avenging rod—
Spent many a stolen hour in glen and wildwood—
    Inhaled Thy breath from every flower, O God.

Here, in this dingle, in my summer rambles,
    I loved to hear the brooklet's sylvan song;
Plucked the wild berries from each bush of brambles
    In childish thoughtlessness, nor deemed it wrong.

God of the morn and evening constellations,
    To Thee my wayward heart heaves many a sigh,
And often in its mournful perturbations
    I tremble, for I fear Thy judgment nigh.

Father! in whose bright home are many mansions,
    O fit me for the lowliest; make me pure
To mix with those whose spiritual expansions
    Have made their immortality secure.

Gorgeous and glowing as yon Sun-god lingers
    In yonder west, how glorious to behold!
For there I trace the wonders of Thy fingers,
    Sketched on the heavens in hieroglyphs of gold.

Fain would I sink with him, for I in sadness
    Behold his setting and uprising beam;
That beam no more will light my soul with gladness,
    Nor beacon me through fairy halls of dream.

I may have merited Thy dread displeasure,
    Jehovah of the Hebrews—I am frail—
And may have filled to overflowing measure
    That cup which makes the Angel's cheek turn pale.

I love Thy works, I hail them on the mountains,
    Like the Chaldean Shepherd; I have slept
Near haunted castles, and by oozy fountains,—
    Like Zion's exiles I have sat and wept.

I ne'er was vain—pride, that delusive bubble,
    Ne'er found in me a votary—I'm the slave
Of my own grade; borne on a sea of trouble
    I roll a wreck o'er many a hostile wave.

The dark conspirator—the base dissembler,
    The profligate, whose life a scourge hath been,
The midnight brawler, and the morning trembler,
    I shun—upon Thy word, O Lord, to lean.

Thy word is light, a stream of living splendour
    Bridging the gulph between me and Thy throne,—
Beckoning each poor and penitent offender,
    The burden of whose sins is like my own.

I, who have deemed myself by Thee forsaken,
    Infuse into my soul Thy saving grace;
That when from my last slumber I awaken
    I may in Paradise behold Thy face.

KITTY LOWE WELL.

There once was a fountain called Kitty Lowe Well,
Lay under a greenthorn in yonder deep dell,
And oft on its bosom the wild rose I flung,
When my heart was at ease and my fancy was young.

There true-hearted lovers at evening have strayed,
And many a sweet pledge by moonlight have made;
Our sires o'er their cups pretty stories can tell,
How they won our fair mothers by Kitty Lowe Well.

From time immemorial, young virgins have made
That fountain their mirror in sunshine or shade;
And with raptures how thrilling their bosoms did swell,
As they chanted their vespers by Kitty Lowe Well.

The west wind blew sweet over clover and rye,
Many a night when the votaries of Venus were nigh;
But sweeter by far were the whispers that fell
From the lips of the loved ones at Kitty Lowe Well.

Oft we searched in the twilight, or sought in the dawn
For the blackberry ripe and the mushroom full grown,
And a banquet we spread too delicious to tell
To regale the fair damsels by Kitty Lowe Well.

There the gipsies, too, shared in our pastimes of love,
And to gayest of measures their lithe limbs would move;
For a coin on the palms of our hands they would tell
Whose love was most constant by Kitty Lowe Well.

Could the fair maid of Longshaw revisit this spot,
O, would she not sigh o'er the changes here wrought!
Yea, the tears in her dark eyes for ever would dwell,
For the vows made and broken by Kitty Lowe Well.

Far down in yon dark arch this queen of our springs,
By lovers forsaken, still sparkles and sings;
But the greenthorn is withered, dissolved is the spell
That bound our young bosoms by Kitty Lowe Well.

FROM "CYPRESS LEAVES."
JOHN BARON'S LAST POEM.

I am going on a journey, Jimmy, where there is no night,
Lit by the sun of righteousness—no evening star so bright,
There my Percy mates with angels singing hymns of joy,
O, what raptures shall I feel when I embrace my angel boy!

And I must leave thee, love, in tears, and thou, my Minnie bright,
Must seek—but never find me—let me kiss you both to-night.
Cling closer to each other, ere my final leave I take,
You'll see me often in your dreams—but never more awake.

More than a parent's love I've felt, for you my darlings dear,
Will ye not ramble to the spot where daisies sweet appear?
We've had our sunny rambles, but I little thought so soon
That I should have to part with thee in life's young afternoon.

A hale old age must not be mine to see thee in thy prime,
Nor hear thy voice at vesper hour, in prayer with Jimmy's chime.
O, let me with thy silken locks another moment play;
To-morrow's dawn may harbinger for me a joyful day.

My blessing's love for ever light on Jimmy's head and thine,
Such as thy father felt betimes in days of "Auld Lang Syne,"
If privileged once more to see the "glimpses of the moon,"
I'd bring you flowers which would eclipse the sweetest rose in June;

For He who holds within his hands the germs of life and death
Can cause a sprig of amaranth to blossom at a breath.
"Behold the lily of the field"—the royal diadem
Of Solomon in all his pride outsplendoured no such gem.

Then what must be the beauty of that land of pure repose,
Which wrings from holiest cherubim the most divine applause.
Be wise as serpents; dutiful: be to your mother kind,
Her beauty fades, and daily leaves forebodings dark behind.

We've had our troubles—come what may—it was our lot to weep:
True sorrow sanctifies our souls—adversity our sleep.
To fight the world's leviathan I was too frail a reed,
The wrongs I have endured, alas! oft made my bosom bleed.

O, Lamb of God, I now commend my darlings to Thy care,
"Thy will be done on earth," I own—so says Thy matchless prayer,
A Father to the fatherless—do Thou in mercy prove,
For while on earth none shared like Thee Thy tenderness and love.

Lord, bless their pretty fairy feet, and ever-prattling tongues,
How ravishing and sweet to me are e'en their nursery songs.
O may they tread in virtue's path, as they in years increase,
"Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace."

Let not an evil dream or thought invade their guiltless heads,
But let the guardian angels keep their vigils round their beds.
Be Thou their gentle Shepherd—lead them to Thy pastures green,
And Thine shall be the glory, sin-atoning Nazarene.

Not from the rock of Rephidim, where Moses smote his rod,
Flowed there such healing balm, as from Thy wounded flesh, O God.
The gushing fountain from Thy side can cleanse the suppliant's soul,
And make it fit with saints to sit where living waters roll.

OH, WHEN WILT THOU RETURN?

Oh, when wilt thou return, my love,
    With me to yonder bowers,
And weave a chaplet for my brow
    Of aromatic flowers?
To pour into my thoughtful heart,
    From out thy soul's deep urn,
Love's captivating eloquence,
    Oh, when wilt thou return?

Lo! smiling with enchanting step,
    Queen of the rising year,
Comes gentle Spring, in living robes—
    How gay she doth appear.
And waving forth her magic wand,
    Old Winter laughs to scorn
In her bright paths to roam with me,
    Oh, when wilt thou return?

Or when o'er hill and mountain top,
    O'er valley, green, and glade,
Grey evening throws its dusky veil,
    And paints its deepest shade;
And on the brow of Night the stars
    With living lustre burn—
To watch with me their mystic dance,
    Oh, when wilt thou return?

Or, when the world is hushed to rest,
    And Nature sleeps in tears
Beneath the moon's mild beam, and all
    A solemn aspect wears—
To pour into my thoughtful heart,
    From out thy soul's deep urn,
Love's captivating eloquence,
    Oh, when wilt thou return?

A FRAGMENT.

Oh! when this earthly pilgrimage is o'er,
    This giddy dance on Life's uncertain wave,
And all its jarring tempests are no more,
    Let me descend into a peaceful grave.

For me no marble cenotaph uprear,
    No sculptur'd form, or monumental show;
I claim no sackcloth mourners round my bier,
    No needless tears of unavailing woe.

No gloomy pomp my fun'ral train to swell,
    No deeds emblazon'd on the lists of fame,
No artificial eloquence to tell
    My humble acts, or chronicle my name.

Without such "honours" let me be inurn'd—
    No splendid mockery like this I want;
No gorgeous structure pompously adorn'd
    For me—a ghastly, lorn inhabitant.

All that I crave is a secluded spot—
    One span of earth 'mongst nature's "living green;"
For each tall weed will sermonise my lot,
    That I am dust—what I before have been!

I LOVE THEE, SWEET MAIDEN.

I love thee, sweet maiden!   I swear,
    By the star-sprinkled sky-path above,
By earth, and by ocean, and air,
    Sweet maiden, I swear that I love!
In ecstasy wild I adore
    The sheen of thy light-woven brow,
Oh! ne'er have I worshipp'd before
    As I solemnly worship thee now!

More bright are the smiles which array
    Thy features, awake or in sleep,
Than sunbeams that wantonly play
    On the tranquiliz'd face of the deep!
To live 'neath thy seraph-like glance,
    And aye in thy presence to be,
My spirit with joy 'twould entrance,
    And earth would be Eden to me!

Oh, rather thy voice would I hear
    Than linnet or nightingale's note;
For strains so transcendently clear
    From thee in rich melody float!
More sweet than Æolian strings
    Awoke by the zephyr's wild sweep—
Such gladness around thee it flings—
    Oh! who could not listen and weep!
.            .            .            .            .            .
I love thee, sweet maiden! I swear
    By the star-sprinkled sky-path above,
By earth, and by ocean, and air,
    Sweet maiden, I swear that I love!
In ecstasy wild I adore
    The sheen of thy light-woven brow;
Oh! ne'er have I worshipp'd before
    As I solemnly worship thee now!

THE LOST CHILD.

In an unguarded hour he wandered from his father's home,
Allured by an unfeeling wretch in company to roam;
He left his childhood's happy spot, and its endearing charms,
A loving father's kind embrace—a mother's fondling arms.

But ah, alas! those dear and watchful guardians of his youth,
Who saw him grow in artless love, simplicity and truth,
When forth in boyish glee he rambled with the opening morn,
They dreamt not—no, they dreamt not—that he never would return.

But when the sun his flaming wheels had dipt in ocean's bed,
And darkening shades of night the azure canopy o'erspread;
He came not in his wonted mirth, nor in his laughing pride,
To frolic round his father's knee, or by his mother's side.

Impatiently they listened for his footsteps, but in vain;
Each flash of joy at every sound was turned to instant pain;
Each lonely tread but mocked their hopes, and in their bosoms
        sore
Awakened anxious doubts and fears they ne'er had felt before.

And in those dreadful moments when to sleep the world is hush'd,
Forth from her cot to seek her child the mother wildly rushed;
With hurried steps the ground she paced in agitation dire,
The sparks of coming agony now bursting into fire!

She searched each flowery valley through, and every grassy spot,
No secret nook left unexplored, yet still she found him not:
No human figure met her eye, the earth was wrapt in gloom,
Each living thing was mute, and all was silent as the tomb.

Despairingly she clasped her hands, and shrieked with maddening
        fear;—
"My child! my child! where is he gone? alas, is he not here?"
Her wild and piercing screams upon the passing breeze were
        borne,
But ah! the echo of her words but answered in return.

O'erwhelmed with agonizing grief, her bursting heart was spent,
As slowly from the fruitless search her footsteps homeward bent;
For ever and anon she gasped his name with quivering breath,
And in the woeful utterance seemed to struggle hard with death.

She reached her humble dwelling, when insensible she fell
Upon a couch, torn with the pangs of Fate's all-crushing spell:
Long, long absorbed in sullen thought the hopeless mother lay,
Till night's dull shadows went, and came the rising dawn of day.

The day passed over, night returned, and morning dawned again;
Hours, days, and weeks, and months dragged on, in misery and pain ;
Till in a sudden hour came one with tidings of her son,
To cheer with hope the broken heart which death had almost wan.

"Be comforted, and from thy soul shake off these dread alarms;
He lives," said he, "and time may yet restore him to thine arms."
"He lives!—but where?" the mother cried, and o'er her visage pale
A smile rushed forth as breathlessly she listened to his tale.

The stranger answered not; but deeply sighing turned his head—
His voice denying power to whisper whither he had fled:
She saw his gathering fears, and asked him in distraction wild,
"Where dwells my son?—speak! tell me where—where lives my
        long-lost child?"

She spoke the words in frantic glee, and fixed her chilling gaze
Full upon his, which struck his soul severely with amaze;
He saw the rising rage begin to sparkle in her eye,
Nor longer from her eager ears withheld a sad reply:—

"For deeds of warlike valour long he nursed a secret flame,
And often wished to quench his thirst for military fame;
Far, far remote his youthful heart those honours seeketh now,
And soon proud manhood's signet will enstamp his graceful brow.

"Yet still with mingled feelings of remorse and deep regret
Thinks on the hour he left his home, nor can his soul forget;
But to return, with laurels crowned, a buoyant hope he bears,—
When thus he comes in glory will he not repay these tears?"

She heard him with suppressing rage, and in derision spoke;
"No more—no more! nor further dare my anger to provoke!
'When thus he comes in glory will he not repay these tears!'
Oh, is it thus ye vainly mock the misery of years?

"'With laurels crowned' and 'manhood's signet on his graceful
        brow!'
'When thus he comes!'—oh, ne'er I heard such mockery till now.
Speak not those flattering words again with your insulting breath,
But say he lives—amidst the shrieks of agonizing death!

"Boast not of laurels, fame, or glory won in dreadful wars,
'Midst blood and rapine, shattered limbs, and death-inflicting
        scars.
The battle-field!—oh, tell me not he seeketh honour there.
Where thousands writhe, as I do now, and madden in despair!"

Scarce had the words escaped her lips, when tremblingly she
        threw
Upon the ground her wasted frame in agony anew:
The stranger saw the madness rush across her fevered brain—
Beheld, and shuddering withdrew, nor dared to speak again.

Years rolled along—yet oft she would in dreamy visions fair,
Outstretch her arms to clasp her son, but, waking, clasped the
        air!
And when twice twenty summers just her head had gathered
        o'er,
That very day he died, alas!—she never saw him more!

FROM A "FAREWELL TO THE OLD YEAR."

Farewell, old year!   Farewell to all thy gladness,
    Goodness and glory, which have been but small;
To all thy sinfulness and silent sadness,
    Monstrous and mighty, and enduring, all;
To disappointed hopes, too fondly cherished;
    To young Ambition's wild and fitful glow;
To all the painful passions which have perished
    With many a young and strong heart's overthrow;
To the expiring echoes of thy knell,
    Which faintly fall upon the ear of night-farewell!

Farewell, old year! though from our homes thou bearest
    Bright forms, which the fond heart had treasured up—
Sweet flowers of earth, the freshest and the fairest,—
    Returning naught but memory's bitter cup;
Still thou hast left us tokens of affection,
    Loved ones whose light and laughter is not o'er—
Souls which awake the glorious recollection
    Of those bright beings who have gone before!
Though stars have waned from the domestic hearth,
    Others around have quickened into beauteous birth!

Farewell, old year! our homage we surrender
    For natural blessings on thy pathway strewn—
The starry brightness and the rainbow-splendour,
    The twilight solemn, and the bashful dawn,
The fresh'ning raindrop, the ethereal mildness,
    The tossing tempest, terribly sublime,
The summer-sunlight and the winter-wildness,
    The genial spring and the autumnal time!
Yet rueful shades have mingled with the sheen—
    With transient weal, alas! unnumbered woes have been!

Farewell, old year!   God speed thee to that ocean,
    That dark, eternal wilderness of years,
Within whose solitudes no soul-commotion
    No life-annihilating pain appears;
Oblivion's empire!   Land of tomb-like quiet!
    Colossal mansion of the mighty Past!
Where leagued oppression and unholy riot
    Their desolating shadows never cast!
That shoreless, deep, unfathomable sea
    Of sunless ages—vast and lone eternity!

TO MY VALENTINE.

The other day by chance I strayed the busy crowd among;
I saw a little dark-eyed maid trip silently along—
A gentle nymph, though not, I ween, the fairest of the fair,
Yet meek and modest was her mien, and graceful was her air!

I traced her steps; and when, at last, she sought her neat abode,
Her fairy feet an old bridge passed, adown a Wrangling road;
Up Thomas Street she sped, and then-alas! 'twas Fate's
        decree—
She vanished from my aching ken at number 23.

Oh! Postman, hie thee to that cot, and take this missive to her;
I really can forget her not, I'll try at once to woo, her!
If she's not in, why you may leave the letter with her brother,
Or grandfather, or you may give it Ann—that is her mother!

If you are not so very dull you'll make out this address;
And perhaps the maiden's name in full it boots not to express;
I've told the place, so hasten there, and ask for Miss M. C.,—
The dark-eyed girl, with wavy hair, at number 23.

Blackburn, February 27th, 1860.

"In this world we often find
 Modest merit left behind;"

LINES
WRITTEN IN A BOOK PRESENTED TO MY DAUGHTER.

When girlhood's gladsome days are o'er,
    With all their laughter and their tears,
And brighter light from richer lore
    Dawns on thy riper years,
Oh! may thy mind in wisdom grow,
    Thine heart incline the better way,
Thy spirit no temptation know
    To lead thy thoughts astray.

Life is a blessing oft renewed,—
    A love-lamp for a moment given,—
A pathway, if aright pursued,
    To happiness and heaven.
Then wheresoe'er thy lot be cast,
    So live apart from strife and sin
That through the narrow gate at last
    Thy soul shall enter in.

—the passion of his woe
Burst from him in resistless overflow.

NO REST FOR ME.

I am not mad—I am not mad,
    And yet a fire burns in my brain,
My soul is seared, my spirit's sad,
    My heart is almost cleft in twain;
Vainly, alas! I sigh for rest,
    Some quiet haven of repose,
For balm to heal my wounded breast,
    And banish all my woes.

Vainly I pray to be at peace,
    From strife and discord to be free,
But, ah! my miseries increase,
    There is no rest, no peace for me;
The day's obscured by clouds of wrath,
    The night with evil dreams is rife,
Perils and plagues beset my path—
    A curse is on my life.

Whether at glowing noon or night
    I look upon fair Nature's face,
I see her works of matchless might,
    All full of grandeur and of grace;
The rugged rocks, the mountains grey;
    Bright rivers flashing in the sun,
Making along their peaceful way
    Sweet music as they run.

The orient splendours of the morn,
    The ghostly twilight creeping round;
The starry hosts that blink and burn
    And glitter in the blue profound.
The endless forms around that spring
    To life and beauty—these I see;
But ah, 'tis vain, alas! they bring
    No, solid joy for me.

I sit beside the chimney nook
    Brooding in silence day by day,
Or poring o'er some goodly book
    To drive distracting thoughts away;
But ever and anon mine eyes
    Grow fixed and vacant as I gaze,
Before them woeful visions rise—
    Phantoms of evil days.

My hearth is desolate and cold—
    My hearth? ah, mine no longer now!
What was that sacred spot of old
    Is blighted—but it boots not how.
Oh, for one draught from Lethe's s wave,
    That the sad past might buried be,—
Buried in blank Oblivion's grave,
    For ever hid from me!

Vain wish! not till my latest breath
    Quits this frail tenement of clay—
Not till I make my bed with Death
    Will all my sorrows drift away;
Then will my sleep be calm and deep,
    From maddening fears and fancies free;
No sighs to heave, no tears to weep—
    Then there'll be rest for me.