Minor Pieces.

WALTER. an acrostic.

While vigor lives, and youth’s brief time is still, Apply thy mind to wisdom, and fulfil Life’s noble purpose, which is “Good to all.” Thus cull a favor which shall never fall; Enriched of labors, so enshrine thy name; Repose at last in peace with honored fame.

THE ARRIVAL IN LEITH DOCKS, ON A VISIT TO SCOTLAND.

The sun had risen but an hour, And spread his golden ray O’er sea, and land, and garden bower,— Thus dawned a glorious day.

A stilly calm prevailed to rest On the surrounding scene; Scarce could upon the ocean’s breast Be a faint ripple seen.

The soft, fresh air of Summer morn Stood peacefully around, When we, upon the ocean borne, In view of Leith were found.

I rose in haste to hail the sight Of Scotland’s lovely shore, Which to my mind brought fancies bright And thoughts of days of yore.

The good old castle towering stood Majestic o’er the scene; Defiance from its rocky rood Was alway frowning seen.

I thought, had it the power to speak, What stories could it tell; What deeds of darkness could it break, Or mysteries dispel.

Around its seat, in hidden gore, Foul deeds of vengeance sleep, Which causéd orphans to implore, And widows oft to weep.

And now, in close succession, see The smoky ringlets rise, From many a chimney-top set free, Ascending to the skies.

Then comes there to salute the ear Faint fragments of a sound; And mingled noises soon I hear,— The bustle turns profound,

From slumber as the city wakes, And Duty gives her call, And for each man a mission makes,— A duty gives to all;

Then set I foot upon the shore— The shore I long to gain; It shall be dear for evermore, While memory I retain.

RECOLLECTIONS. To Sarah.

Let recollections, like the proud sun’s ray, Illuminate and cheer each lonely day, Restore a peace, afford a tranquil rest, Create a joy in your oft troubled breast; And when kind slumber doth its tendance lend, And angels sweet around thy pillow bend, May dreams of happy hours thy spirit cheer— Fond dreams of they who to thy heart are dear. But tell me, love, what is the lingering thought Which seeks a presence, from the distance brought, Far, far away, and which, with pleasing spells, Doth mingle here and there a word which tells— Oh sadly true!—that ye shall meet no more The one you love? These thoughts are very sore; The spirit sinks in grief and sadness low, And thrilling shudders through the being flow. Farewell, farewell, my cup of earthly joy! I drain the dregs, and they are now alloy.

A STOLEN KISS.

The day had passed as other days do pass, With record made of all the deeds Performed by one, or two, or a whole mass,— It matters not, for all concedes.

The sun in turn had lit the eastern sky, Performed his circuit to the west, Diffusing light and heat below and high, And there had sunk his golden crest.

Monotony had likewise marked my course— By that I mean that nothing rare Had happenéd at all, to cause recourse To friendly joy or cold despair.

A pleasant ramble by the ocean side— May be it was the company That added joy when I did watch the tide Roll on the shore of the great sea.

This o’er, thought turned to urge a night’s repose— An old, though ever new, retreat— To rest the weary body, and to close The mind awhile in tranquils sweet.

But, prior to this, I thought it might be well To store some food into the mind, And on the wonders of the day to dwell, There fitting nourishment to find.

The comic thoughts of famous “Punch” were read, Then something dry, but suited more As wholesome food—so some old fogies said— “The Daily News,” let none deplore.

For comfort’s sake—which people always mind, Excepting ladies, when the book Of modes another pleasing style can find, And then they think more how they look.

An instance take of chignon (dead folk’s hair)— A lady, I know well, remarked, “I wish I was not forced those things to wear, But fashion must be always marked.”

Again I say, for comfort’s sake alone The couch I sought, and thought it best Awhile to rest my weary body on; The weary always seek for rest.

The chronicle of news a time was used, At first with understanding clear; It gave instruction, and sometimes amused, (A mixture there for any seer.)

A nod then came, and soon I winged my flight Away into the land of Nod; All earthly things were lost to sense and sight; A fairy land my footsteps trod.

The distance might have been an inch, a mile, Or thousands,—ten, for what I know; It seemed a pleasant place, for still a smile Was on my face; I liked it so.

Wrapt in those fairy dreams of pleasant lands, A gentle pressure on my lips, Of softest touch, like that of fairy hands, And sweet as though with honey tips,

Saluted me, and such a silvery sound Came with it, which as magic fell Upon my ear, so sweet and so profound. It is a stolen kiss I tell.

THE ORPHAN BOY.

See that poor, deserted, homeless boy, All lonely, sad, and weary; Nothing to cheer his wee heart to joy, All melancholy dreary. For his heart is heavy, and he sobs; Tear-drops trickle from his eye; As in solitude he sits and throbs, Gay people pass him by. The poor wee boy.

No mother has he, so kind and dear, To wipe his big tears away, His heavy heart to gladness cheer, Or soft words of kindness say; No father a home to provide, From the Winter’s chilly blast; But anywhere he may abide,— A deserted, poor outcast. The poor wee boy.

A BRIGHT DAY, AFTER A SEASON OF DULL WEATHER.

How smiling all the people seem! On every face behold a gleam; Each heart of joy must brimful teem, And thus send forth a cheering beam.

The gloomy clouds have passed away, And bright and glorious is the day; The sun gives forth a genial ray, And gentle breezes music play.

’Tis strange—but no more strange than true— That cloudy weather can construe Unto our thoughts a gloomy view, That all things seem of dismal hue.

But with a clear, transparent sky, All gloomy thoughts as quickly fly, And bright and happy ones supply Their place, and raise our spirits high.

And thus we in the world shall find The rough and smooth will be combined, Ordained by One who meaneth kind, To brace the firmness of the mind.

MUSIC.

Come, music sweet; come, music, to me here; In softest strains of melody appear; Pour on this wounded heart thy healing balm, Prepared to soothe, and troubled spirits calm. E’er since the time that on this mouldy ball Man held a place, and that before the fall, The youthful world was held in no reserve; For thy enchanting strains did pleasure serve The young creation, and they hailed the sound. But then the Author’s work did all rebound With perfect mirth, and music in it all, Till evil spirits causéd man to fall. But when the fruit was tasted and thought good, First by the woman, then the man, as food, Though the condition was at first so placed, That they might use or all the produce taste Of the fair garden, save alone one tree, Which in the centre stood, and there to be Untouched; but, notwithstanding these commands, The rosy fruit looked tempting in Eve’s hands, Where it was by the cunning serpent placed. Her watering teeth the dimpled apple traced It suited well her palate when she ate; She gave to man, and then was sealed their fate. When in the book of record was inscribed This scene so sad, as man to evil bribed, Music still came, but with it came alloy, For sounds of sadness came with sounds of joy. At first the music was but nature’s own; Yet who will not in ready justice own That nature’s notes in beauty far excel All sounds that art’s production can impel? Who this can question, if they lend an ear Unto the lark that, pouring music clear, Makes all the sphere for many miles around With his gay song re-echo and resound; Or, pausing, marks the sweet, melodious lay The nightingale at stilly night doth lay; Or listens to the morn or evening praise, As the wild warblers blended chorus raise, The hum of bee, as duty it fulfils, The rippling stream that sports among the hills, The constant murmur of the mighty seas, Or pensive sighing of the Summer breeze, Which, rambling, rustles through the leafy trees, The choice of favor it may well command? Yet art’s production may in honor stand, And hear the praises which her lover tells. Who doth not love to hear the Sabbath bells? Or who attend, without an inward sigh, The gentle song which maidens’ lips supply, While on the harp with skilful touch is played Responsive song, in harmony conveyed? Or who can hear the noble martial strain, And not be moved to long the sounds again? The deep, grand notes of noble organ who Can mutely tend, as they go thrilling through, From aisle to aisle of some cathedral old, And, rising, still their richer sounds unfold? The love of music in the bud appears First in the child of sweet and early years; Then in the youth its early leaves unfold; The fruit it bears in manhood’s time behold; Until the Autumn comes, old age enthrals, Decay sets in, and then the leaflet falls.

THE EVIL ONE.

The Devil is out unfettered; His dens lie deep in hell; His power is scarcely bettered; Who can his cunning tell?

He roams in raving hunger; The world is his course; He’s dreadful more than thunder Where’er he has recourse.

Destruction wanders with him, And death is in his hand; A mighty host is with him; Well arméd is his band.

He lies in ambush for thee; He hovers near thy path; He follows ever by thee; An aim on thee he hath.

Then haste thee, haste thee; surely Ye soon will feel his power. Be watchful, be not weary; Let not thy spirit cower.

The path is steep and narrow; ’Tis rugged, rough, and torn; A harsh, a testing harrow, Beset with many a thorn.

There yawns a mighty chasm; The fearful pit is deep; ’Tis terror but to see them; It makes the spirit creep.

No guide but One is able To lead thee safely through; All others are unstable, Unfit, untried, untrue.

Fly to the rock for safety— The rock he cannot climb! Fly! fly! nor think it hasty; And trust not fickle time.

FRIENDSHIP.

And friendship is the sacred name— The name I love to hear; Gives to my heart a sacred flame, And music to my ear.

Yes, friendship is a joy indeed, A peaceful, fragrant bower; To which doth many a soul recede In tribulation’s hour;

And there its load of sorrow lays, Feels conscious of relief, Soothed by the balm which it displays For healing wounds of grief.

Its paths are pleasant and serene; They lie in pleasure’s way; It is true pleasure—there is seen No base, no false array.

’Tis there true joy is to be found, And anger lays her down Amid the placid scenes around, To bask away her frown.

And there that childhood oft is seen To spread its purest glee, And hold its dimpled arms in ween To friendship pure and free.

’Tis there that riper manhood goes And feeble age reclines; For it the genial sunshine knows, Which on her pathway shines.

True friendship’s fervour ne’er grows cold; Its lamp doth alway burn; Its beauty never waxeth old; Its shadows never turn.

The waters are both sweet and pure, Which through its courses flow; Such as would souls of trouble lure; ’Tis they who try them know.

Were old and young together joined, In friendship’s paths to tread, What blessings would thereby rebound On many a sorrowing head!

TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

Hail, spirit of poetic flame! Thine is the theme for me; Thine are the realms—the glorious realms My fancy longs to see.

What seraph on the wings of light Can bear a charm like thee? And where, in fancy’s wide domain, Can fitter grandeur be?

Behold thy shadows on the sky, Thy glory in the sun; And o’er the earth, as light as air, Thy fairy footsteps run.

I see thee in the smiling morn And in the glowing noon, Thy sparkling brightness in the stars, Thy beauties in the moon.

I see thy bark go gliding on O’er all the mighty seas. I hear thy voice upon the storm, And gentler on the breeze,

Comes thrilling with the warbling notes The lark pours out on high, And in the blackbird’s evening song Flows to my pathway nigh;

Comes with the brooklet’s murmuring voice, And from the ocean wave, Which Neptune in his choice sees fit Upon the shore to lave.

I hear the rude, prosaic law Pour out its vile abuse, In earnest with its bitter vice My fancy to seduce.

Yet let the sceptic whet his scythe, Thy beauties to deplore; So shall I love them fonder still, And seek thy presence more.

The proud revilers who employ Their tongues as poisoned darts I deem of rude, unpolished taste, Uncouth and shallow hearts.

BOYISH DAYS.

Hail, happy thought— Sweet, happy thought Of boyish days! Can hope no more arise? Can I no more surmise That they will come again? All happy sport! All sweet resort To merry games, To which, with spirit light, I often did unite In free and boy-like glee! The welcome call To bat and ball I used to hear With that intense delight, So free, and pure, and bright, Which only boys can know. The merry gambols And country rambles I loved to join, With admiration high, To which no fear was nigh. Are they for ever gone? Yes, they are gone— For ever gone; In time’s abyss I see them foundering fast; It soon will be the last—, The dying breath of them. ’Tis sorrow now Bedecks my brow, And sorry care Lies waiting in my path; Prevailing power it hath To bear the spirit down. But let me rise To win the prize, Which is for those Who triumph o’er despair, And, passing every care, Fight bravely to the end.

BEAUTY.

Beauty, as the rose of Summer, For a season looketh gay; Ere a while it fades and falleth; So doth beauty pass away.

Charms, the brilliant and enticing, Sparkle to allure awhile; But they are the world’s vain treasure, And an outward, fleeting wile.

There is yet a charm more pleasing Than the outward to behold; ’Tis a humble spirit, easing Pilgrims onward to the fold.

This the scythe of time shall never Rob of its adorning grace; But shall leave it laurels ever To bedeck its resting place.

’Tis the maiden who shall win them Walks in virtue’s modest way, Heeding not the world’s gay treasure, Minding not the worldling’s way.

Not the maiden who rejoiceth To abound in vaunting show; This shall in the time forsake her, When her hope hath sunken low.

MY SCHOOLMATES.

Oh! where have all my schoolmates gone, With whom I used to play, In harmless sport and happy glee, For many a pleasant day?

It grieves me much whene’er I think That I no more may see The happy faces of the few Who schoolmates were to me.

To seek them would be fruitless toil; I know not where they are; For up and down the world wide They’re scattered near and far.

Some still are in the native place, Some far beyond the sea, Some trading on the mighty main, Some in eternity.

THE DEPARTED YEAR.

Farewell, departed year! How swiftly have thy golden moments fled! Gone to the past, In the dark lays of record to repose; Whence might be culled a tale Which would impeach our name— The way we spent the precious hours, Whereof to learn we shudder, in the thought That they passed from us as a worthless thing, While all our heed to idleness was lent. Recall the olden deeds, Review the acts performed, and see How they will bear the scrutiny ye give. How do the deeds of ill Throng round the retrospective glance! While few and feeble are the acts of truth. Where is the profit we have gained? Or where the good a brother took from us? Let us not spurn the many warnings shewn. Who may not from the ranks of friendship glean One name, or more, in sacred reverence held, Of some dear friend, departed now, But who, while we gave welcome to the year just gone, Was with us, and who held A love deep rooted in our hearts, And who, we once had hope, Would seasons more remain to comfort us. The present ours. May we of wisdom learn the way to live; For who can know that we may live To see this year depart, or see another come? Now let us to the year departed say farewell; For it has gone, with all its joys and cares, Which, ere we knew, moved from our presence, and Another came; which in the old seat sits, whereof We wonder what its course may yield, And all around mysterious fancies rise. But darkness o’er the scene a curtain holds, And veils from view what is upon the time Which is to come.

TO THE SNOWDROP.

Onward ever time is passing; Forward still it hies; By the way delaying never, In constant speed it flies. By days and years we number make, And lay out every stage; While change in many a form appears, To mark each passing age.

But, mid the changing scenes of time, Thy pale head still appears, To shew that, in her beauty clad, Loved Spring’s sweet presence nears. With soothing balms she comes supplied, Preparéd to bestow Them freely on each troubled head; For freely do they flow.

But thou, the first of all her band, The fairest of her gems, We hail thee as a welcome guest, Which Winter still contemns. For thou art still the harbinger (A credit to her choice) To tell that pleasant times draw nigh, For which let all rejoice.

What artist’s pencil e’er could trace, Or painter’s brush apply On canvas, such a perfect form As thy frail leaves supply? They are more pure than running brook, And whiter than the snow— The winter garment of the ground, Which soon will beauty shew.

No giddy grandeur vesteth thee; No fitless fashions flow; Thy mien retains a modest air, Whence hidden graces shew. From this might many a maiden fair A lesson good receive:— That gay appearance fades away, And tends but to deceive.

SPRING.

Blest bearer of peace, she comes in her grandeur; I hear the sweet echo, and hear it again, Through the forests of trees and o’er the green fields, In sounds of contentment, in music’s sweet strain.

She rides in the skies, and she comes on the breeze From her mansions so aerial, illumined, and fair; They stand in a mystery unfathomed by thought, And who can describe them, or who can tell where?

The sound of her footstep, the tone of her call Is hailed with rejoicings—rejoicings of joy; Her whisper so gentle, her breathings of peace All feelings of sadness allure and decoy.

The birds of the air, the warbling songsters, The thrush and the blackbird uniting send higher, By adding their songs to chorus of chorus, Redouble her welcome and sing a sweet lyre.

See, through the dark soil, in patient procession, The flowers are beginning again to appear; From beds of repose, from darkest of hidings, In caution most careful they cunningly peer,

And seemingly ask, in anxious desire, If ’tis the voice of Spring, if Winter’s no more; All longing the time when howling blasts go, To crown her their queen from shore unto shore;

To spread a rich carpet, by nature entwinéd, Pave all her pathways with richest of gems; To stud it with beauty in grandest profusion, With roses and daisies on stalks and on stems.

Then welcome right gladly, then welcome, sweet Spring! Let all be united, let every one sing; Blended in a lyric let every voice be, Your fairest of praises and sweetest notes bring.

THE BEREAVEMENT. Written for S. L.

Beside a bed of sickness sat A maiden young and fair, Torn from the scenes of youth and joy, Her loved one was laid there.

She watched with an unceasing care From morning until night, Nor left him in the stilly hours Before the morning light.

She marked each feebly passing breath And every burdened sigh; Nor grew she weary of the task; No sleep came to her nigh.

She kissed his cheek, his pillow smoothed, His burning brow she bathed; And with a balmy fillet oft His aching temples swathed.

Into the future deep and long Her brooding thoughts would pry; She could not think that he must soon— That he must truly die.

And yet she saw the ruddy hue Pass from his cheek away, And that the lustre of his eye Grew fainter every day.

At last a gentle sleep he slept, And hope came in her breast, As she beheld the tranquil smiles Which on his features rest.

She sat and sighed, “Ah me! ah me! Oh for the time again When I shall see thy happy smile Its wonted mirth regain!

Then shall we, as in time before, The tranquil hours employ In love and in a measure full Of unpolluted joy.”

Oh, child of hope! She knew not then That he who by her lay Was closed in death’s unyielding arms, His spirit borne away.

And when she turned from these fair dreams, And saw he breathed no more, Oh! woeful was it to behold The grief the maiden bore.

She grasped the pale and lifeless form; Her tears fell on it fast; She sat the long night through and wept, And wept the noonday past.

No more she cares for earthly things, Nor friendly presence nigh; These gladly now would leave behind, And now would gladly die.

Dear mourner, is there nought to calm— To soothe thy troubled breast? Is there no balm to heal its wounds, And give thy spirit rest?

Yes! there is one—a fragrant balm, A fountain filled with love, Which floweth ever full and free In the bright realms above.

’Tis there the weary and the sad Can comforts true receive, And there the bleeding heart alone Its anguish can relieve.

Oh! brightly yet the star of hope Sends forth its radiant beams, And sweetly yet the voice of love In friendly welcome gleams.

Then raise thy tear-bedimméd eyes, And call its bounty down; Which, if in faith ye seek, will flow, And all thy sorrows drown.

FAREWELL.

Farewell! farewell! a sad farewell My soul can only give. And can it be That I may see Thy cherished face no more,— See it again no more?

I cannot tell, I must not tell The sorrow that is mine; But while I live Yet will I give A lingering thought to thee, A happy thought to thee.

And to those days, those happy days, I often will recur, Which we have spent, On pleasures bent, Together bound by peaceful joy— A fair, a pure, a loving joy. Farewell! farewell!

IN FANCY BOUND.

I lost myself in labyrinths of unexplored delight, In wandering from the paths of sterner truth; They seemed, beyond a doubt, all pleasing, fair, serene, and bright, Such as would charm the wonder of a youth.

Behind, before, and all around, appearing to the eye As one concerted scene of peaceful joy, With pleasing streams of unpolluted pleasure flowing by, And in it all I saw no base alloy.

The scope was boundless, and I wandered, still admiring all, Indulging oft in free, unfettered thought; In wonder wrapt, I wandered on, but found no rest withal, As each new scene was to my fancy brought.

And in the future I could see with an imagining eye A cheering prospect, rising pure and bright. It seemed my future path in smooth, unchequered ways did lie, That cares were easy and life’s burdens light.

Amid the tranquils sweet around, and to my own design, I built me castles of a towering height, And thereto did my pleasures and my rising hopes resign, Thought that these bulwarks would resist all might.

But, lo! they fell in ruined heaps, and mighty was the fall, And my bright hopes lay ruined at my feet, And the deluding dream of fancy passed away, and all The scenes so fair did from me now retreat;

Like as the mirage travellers see upon the desert waste, In view where cooling waters seem to rise, And which the body longs to reach, the parchéd tongue to taste— Alas! alas! such fancy is not wise.

COUNTRY RAMBLES.

Well do I love to ramble Among the golden heath, To roam, and rove, and scramble On the soft turf beneath.

’Tis there that health is ever Abounding to be found, And beauty faileth never In full charms to abound.

I pity oft and sorrow For the poor city child, That ne’er the chance can borrow To ramble free and wild;

It looks so pale and feeble, Its cheek is thin and white, Its sicknesses are treble, Its joys are never bright.

How different is the childling That roams the open lea! A rosy little wildling, And gay, and blithe, and free.

THE OWL.

Thou hermit bird of tender sight! Ha! well thou fliest from the light, To lie in secret and repose, Hid in some crevice no one knows; And, wrapt in slumber’s lightest sleep, Thy ears their vigils ever keep, Lest some stray wanderer may intrude, To mar thy sacred solitude. Thy pinions only bear thee out To search for plunder and to scout For prey, in soft and noiseless flight, When earth lies in repose, and night Has drawn her curtain o’er the sky. ’Tis then, ’tis then thy tender eye Is keen to see, reviewing all Which under its quick glance may fall.

MINNIE LEE. a picture.

A maiden came to Castletown; A tear stood in her eye; Soon on her cheek it trickled down; Sore did the maiden cry.

I called her to my side, and said, “Why, maiden, do you cry?” A while her weeping then was stayed, But she made no reply.

I spoke to her, in kindly tones, Of friendship and of love; I asked about her lovéd ones, And where she meant to rove.

She, with a voice in sadness lost, And choked with many a sigh, Said that her father’s form was toss’d Beneath the billows high.

Her mother had for many years Been silent in the grave; Her brother, too, she told in tears, Was killed—a soldier brave.

And now her father’s friends withheld The friendship once they gave; And she, an orphan lone, beheld No succour but the grave.

She then besought some menial form Of duty to fulfil, And gladly would the child conform To many a trying ill.

I said, “Dear maiden, come with me; My home shall too be thine, And with my daughters ye shall be Another child of mine.”

And then she wept for very joy; Her tongue would not convey The words she sought it to employ What thanks she longed to say.

And with, a trembling step she came, And, ere a little while, Her joys returned, of old the same, And came her olden smile.

And she by all was fondly loved; She was so good and kind, And gentle in her way, and proved A charm of charms combined.

Years rolled away, eight happy years, Since the memorial day; Then in the town gay joy appears, And merry minstrels play.

And loudly peal the merry bells; It is her wedding-day; It is my son who gladly tells “I will,” I love to say.