Christmas at the Hall.

The morn was gloomy, and the russet earth Gave to the eye a landscape drear and dim; The clouds, low hung, seemed resting on the hills Fraught with unusual weight, and cast around Deep shades of blackness o’er each swelling peak, By leafless woodlands clad; along the vales The farmsteads glimmered, and the fields around— Some grey with stubble, some with scanty grass Pinched yellow by the cold, and some dark brown, Where recent ploughshares had turned up the soil,— A varied scene presented to the eye, But sombre all, and sad. Not that the earth Hath aught of sadness, but at all times gives Some beauty to the mind, e’en when the smile Of sunshine and fertility least glows On her rich countenance, for then she speaks In tones prophetic to the heart, and tells Of secret strength preparing to bring forth The gifts and bounties of another year. The hollow wind moaned wildly through the trees, And waved their solemn branches to and fro In endless motion. Scarce a single leaf, Scarlet or golden, olive or red-brown, Adorned the forest, save where gloomy firs Stretched their red arms, or melancholy pines Reared their tall pyramids of foliage black, Filling the dusky scene with deeper shade, And adding darkness to the clouds of heaven. The naked branches of the hedgerow elms Lashed wildly round, and threatened to cast forth The jetty masses of the old rook nests Lodged midst their topmost twigs. The withered leaves Coursed swiftly o’er the ground, and danced about In strange fantastic coils, and eddies wild Like whirlpools in a river. Heaven and earth Foretel a coming storm, that soon will clothe The naked landscape in a robe of white, Until it shines more beautiful and pure Than fleecy cloudlets o’er the sun-bright sky. How calm and peaceful, e’en amidst the gloom, The simple village looks! With aspect south, From a hill-side of mild declivity, It gazes sweetly o’er the meads below, Through which a winding river, o’er mossed stones, Makes pleasing murmurs. All the cottage roofs Are clad with rustic thatch, and round their doors In summer time, the climbing plants creep up, And make sweet scented bowers. A garden-plot, For use and beauty, is assigned to each, Which industry’s firm hand, by pleasing toil, Arrays in loveliness so rich and bright, It seems a nook from paradise. But now In tidy order they await the spring To make them bloom again. Amongst the trees That rise in stately tiers above the roofs, Along the hill-side steep o’er steep, the smoke In light blue wreaths, from every chimney curls With ample convolution, giving note Of snug warm hearths, and comfortable homes Where winter is not feared. The lattice-panes Shine clear and bright, and to each flitting ray Give keen reflections, whilst their cheerful glance Bespeaks the reign of cleanliness. O’er all There broods an air of quiet and content Of peace, of plenty in that lowly sphere Where heart meets heart in pure simplicity Unchecked by station, and unchilled by wealth. Oh that the earth of such calm homes were full! And such fair villages adorned the plains In countless numbers, where the labouring poor Might live respected, and respect themselves! Who is a hero,—he who daily fights The fearful hosts of poverty and want With industry’s strong sword, and wins the spoils, The honourable spoils of raiment, food, And kindly shelter to make glad all hearts Around his hearth. No stately cenotaph Of costly stones is to his honour reared, But yet he owns a richer monument, Built up of kindly thoughts within each mind, That justly thinks, and loves the really great, The honest and the true. How much of good, One being can perform, whose heart delights To see all prosperous round! And here dwells one Who scatters blessings with a liberal hand, Directed wisely by a mind discreet, That seeks the greatest good. He strives to give Employment to each hand, and due reward To each that labours. With new thought to swell The poor man’s stock of knowledge, that his work May yield a richer harvest; to instil Instruction varied on his craving mind, That it may be matured, to bear the flowers Of pure and simple pleasure; and the fruits Of profit and utility. To sow, To plant, to prune; to plan, frame, rear, and build; To watch the seasons, to enrich the soils, And do unnumbered things to multiply The simple comforts of their quiet homes Have each been taught. And still a higher lore Has thereunto been added; that which tells Of man’s immortal destiny, and seeks To elevate his thought to higher good Than earth contains, and holier principles Than this world’s maxims; that the heart may love In just equality each fellow-man, And bow with holy reverence and joy Before the throne of Light; and thus become More pure and happy, and a citizen Of higher worlds whilst sojourning on earth. And who is he who wisely ministers To all the wants of poor humanity, Each in its kind, and strives to scatter round Throughout his sphere the purest happiness That earth can own? Sir Arthur, at the Hall! To him belong the fertile acres round, To him the village; but he holds them not In pomp and pride and narrow selfishness, But as a man amongst his fellowmen, Knowing and feeling that his hand hath power To curse or bless, and with determined heart He chooses blessing. With an eye that beams, As with parental love, he looks on all, The young, the old, and with a kindly voice Speaks words of warm encouragement; or gives The needed counsel, or the calm rebuke. His words are ever welcome; e’en the churl Who meets reproof, does so in quietness, Straight thinks thereon, and turns him to amend. All look upon him with respectful love And firm devotion. Never hero bold Of ancient feudal times, who led along His faithful vassals to the battle field, To crown them with renown, and win proud fame, Was e’er encompassed with such fervent hearts And such dependent zeal. He leads them on To purer triumphs, conquests more benign; They overcome not to spread round them tears And misery and death. The wars they wage Are with the stubborn soil; the wreaths they win Are fruits and flowers. The triumphs they attain, Are over ignorance, and want and sin, Which bring their meed of pleasure and of peace. The old Age had its heroes, and the new Must have its heroes also. Men of thought, Of knowledge and of skill, whose ample minds Are armories of wisdom to supply The need of lesser minds, and lead them on All strong and mighty to the coming war Of truth with falsehood. Times have greatly changed; And errors and traditions growing dim Flicker like fleeting mists. Their power is gone, And hearts are yearning for the morning beams Of pure, unsullied truth! When will arise The mighty Prophet, radiant with light To lighten nations; to lift up mankind From petty sects and systems, groveling thoughts, Vain dreams, false policies, and bring them forth To bask serenely in truth’s cheerful light United into one? Man’s heart hath hope, By prophecy upheld, and though he long Hath tarried for it, nigh two thousand years, Yet now the dawning seems to streak the east, All things are stirring, slumberers awake, And watchers peer into the rising day! Thus much in passing! Ere we enter in That antique Hall, more fully to attain A knowledge of its owner, all whose acts Are works of goodness, and whose pure life breathes The spirit of rich charity: We’ll trace A ready path across yon meadow-field, To where, in solitude and calm repose, The village church rears up its ancient spire Above surrounding trees. Its antique walls Are softly tinted by the hand of time With varied hues, all chastened and subdued, But exquisitly beautiful. Each arch, Each massive column, and each window quaint, Compels to thoughts of long-passed, hoary days And human ancestry. Oh where are they Who reared that tower, and they whose voices woke The first deep echo from those sacred walls By sounds of holy minstrelsey? And they Of generations, each succeeding each, Through the long current of a thousand years, Down to the last whose bones were hither brought, And o’er whose grave of brown and roughened soil The grass hath not yet crept? “They sleep in dust,” “They slumber in the ground”—’tis thus we speak, And by such speaking we in thought forego The glorious truths of immortality; The birth-right of the soul! What sleeps in dust? What brought we here to slumber deep in earth? The living spirit or the soulless clay? That thing of thought, that seeing, hearing mind, That living active being first had fled, And left its husk rejected. This alone Was hid in earth, to veil it from the sight Ere severed by corruption, part from part, And scattered widely to the winds of heaven, Or cast abroad through earth. Then let not thought Stop chained below, or buried in the grave, But bearing upwards, as with eagle flight, Behold earth’s habitants assembled all, Contemporaneous in the spirit-world, The great, the grand receptacle of life, Where all live unto God, for he is God Not of the dead but living. Each one there Is gathered to his fathers, not of flesh, But of the spirit. Like is linked with like, The pure with pure; the evil, filthy, vile, Are with their fellows. As the tree has fallen So it lies. Oh contemplation great, Sublime and aweful; yet enriched by hope, Where faith is strong in God’s Redemptive love, And knows his Providence, from evil brings A birth of good. The sorrows, pains, and cares Of outward life, oft deeply work within To purify the spirit, and exalt To holier thought and feeling. Let none then Pass judgement on his fellow, but in love, And fitting charity. The inward life No human eye can read; or what that life May yet bring forth. Then let us judge ourselves, And looking round on things that make us mourn, Console our spirits with the glorious truth Christ hath not died in vain! Though in the grave The spirit lies not, and the form of clay Is soon dispersed amid the elements, Yet in the church-yard, or the place of tombs, Fraught with mementos of the ancient past, Our thought is strengthened, and the links re-bound That join us to the dead. We there revive Old loves, and sweet affections, purified, Refined, and softened; and go forth to life More calm in spirit, and with brighter hopes. The threatened storm advances—snowy flakes Fall thin and waving to the half-froze ground, Then slowly melt. They soon in quick descent Must seek the earth, and whirling densely down Shut out the landscape, and array the scene In gorgeous raiment of unsullied white. But ’ere this chances ’twill be well to seek The hospitable shelter of the Hall, And gain a certain welcome. Christmas-tide, So full of joy and open-hearted love, Finds there a liberal reign. But do not think A few more steps will bring us to some seat Of wealth and stately grandeur, whose high lord, Just scatters round his superfluity And blesses as by chance. No marble walls, No colonnades, no proud magnificence, Have now to greet us, but an antique home, Not spacious, but of ample size for all, The needs and elegance of cultured life. Far down yon avenue of noble limes, That spread their leafless branches broad and free, You may behold it. Pointed gables rise And straight tall chimneys rear themselves aloft In strange variety, and by their forms Bespeak a mansion that for centuries Has held a worthy hearth. Though winter broods, The park around looks beautiful, and shews The strictest neatness, and incessant care; For many hands here labour, not alone To please the owner, and delight the sight, But that they each by honest work may gain An independent home, and eat therein That sweetest of all bread—the justly earned! And though Sir Arthur has a taste refined, A sense most delicate, a mind alive To every beauty, native or of art, It is not merely to regale this taste That such pure elegance and order reign, But rather that his feeling heart thereby May spread a due prosperity around Through every grade, and thus he strives to give Unfailing work to all within his sphere. Before the mansion a broad terrace spreads, By steps ascended, and quaint balustrades With pillars, globes and urns, engird it well. And in the centre, most grotesque of form All richly carved, a massive sundial stands To mark the hours. Most ancient horologe That gives a tongue to nature, and compels The mighty sun to measure out the time! Below the terrace, on a velvet lawn, There stands a fountain, where a cherub boy, Carved in white marble, beautiful as life, Holds proudly high a waterlilly’s bell, Whence springs a copious shower of silver rain To drop in music, mid the pool below, And fill the air with murmurs. Here and there, In open spaces, or mid spreading trees, Pure statues stand, or elevated busts Of men renowned, whose mighty deeds or songs Have blessed mankind. Nor is there wanting here Some sweet embodiments of Grecian thought And ancient fable. The bright water-nymph, Pure as the fount; or that enamoured youth, Who gazed for ever in the crystal well Entranced by his own beauty. Clumps of trees, Some in the hollows, some upon the knolls, Give rich variety; and through the dell A winding river sweeps, now polished bright Like some fair mirror, and anon in foam As beautiful as snow, from dashing down A rocky shelf, or gushing o’er mossed stones With playful freakishness. Thick woods enclose The outskirts of the park, with frequent breaks, Through which the sight, well pleased, may wander far O’er distant lands, and view the soft blue hills. The quaint stone carvings, round the massive porch, Along the gables, cornices and sills, Have lost their sharpness, softly moulded down, But not defaced, and time-tints cover all With pleasing richness. O’er the once bright brick Grey hues are dappled, and give harmony That blends the building with the ancient oaks, Planes, beeches, chesnuts, whose outstretching arms Give shelter and protection. Entering in The lofty vestibule, the eye perceives A mixed array of ancient armour, swords, Pikes, shields, and banners, antlered heads of stags, Brave hunting horns, with arrows, bows, and spears, And other relics marking the career Of different ages—freeborn forest life— The reign of chivalry—bold sporting days— Down to the quiet of the present time Of peace and fireside comfort. Many rooms, To link the present with the past, unchanged Retain their ancient fashion, some are framed To modern elegance in style and form. Ancestral thoughts! they fall upon the mind Like twilight shadows, or the first fresh dews That cool the earth! As some soft pensive strain Of mournful music, heard at sombre eve, Recalling early joys, so they recall Dim visions of the vanished. Who can pace An oaken old apartment, dim with years, And not re-people it again by thought And bring the past before him? Youthful forms, Arrayed in early beauty, mid the joys Of feast and dance and song, who soon became Themselves the parents of a race as bright, And passing onwards to life’s calm decline, In honourable age, with aspect mild, Sat hoary-headed by the hearth to watch Their children’s children act again the sports That once were their delight. The voices heard In olden times, within such walls, no more Will echo softly there, but virtues bright May be re-copied, or revive again As fresh plants spring from seed. The great, the good Might thus become immortal on the earth Beyond their immortality of fame, And live a second deathless life enshrined In thoughts and deeds of men. It is the pride, The true, the noble pride of ancestry, When man, on his forefathers looking, strives Their virtues to re-build within his soul, And make their goodness his. Thus would he bear Their shield with honour, and their heraldry By undisputed right be justly his. Such is the aim of some, and here dwells one Whom honour thus engirds. The portraits hung Upon his walls, Sir Arthur views with pride, But ’tis a pride whose inmost life is formed Of deep humility. Such words are weak To truly tell its nature! Joy he feels That such men were before him; deep desire To copy out their merits, and adapt Their sterling virtues to the present age; And linked with this a sense of feebleness, Of unattained perfection, chastens down All exultation, and to gentleness Subdues his mind. Where’er he comes, his eye Is bright with pleasure, and pure joy to greet Each he esteems a friend. His silver hair Twines thinly round his brow, whose high expanse Reveals keen intellect; upon his cheek The hue of healthy age; and that calm smile— If such it may be called—which ever plays Like autumn sunshine on the countenance, Where pure benevolence and holy hopes Possess the heart. It seems a thing of heaven, And hath on earth no antitype but when Some lovely infant, in life’s early bloom, And calm sweet innocence, in slumber lies, And smiles amidst its sleep. Yet firmness too, And dauntless energy, possess his soul With mighty perseverance. Naught can turn His steady purpose when assured of right, Or warp him to the wrong. Yet soft and bland His manner, and the utterance of his thought To those who differ. No harsh words destroy The harmony of truth, or proud looks mar Its beauty to the hearer. Like to one Who, mid spring sunshine, sows prolific seed, He gently scatters round improving thoughts, And leaves the soil to raise them into life According to its nature. Thus he wins The love of all, and the unfeigned esteem; For those whose maxims are opposed to his Respect his firm opinion; held they see In deep sincerity; with deference due And fit regard to independent thought, And moral freedom in all other minds. ’Tis not alone amid the villagers This influence beneficent hath wrought With elevating power. We might speak Of public life, and more extensive spheres Of thought and action, did the time permit And were occasion fitting. But as now For some few happy days we dwell amidst The circle round his hearth; and at this time Of social joy, and glad festivity, ’Twere better far to give a picture bright,— Were but my pencil equal to the task— Of that calm happiness, that tranquil joy, That interchange of mental pure delight Which here prevails, and which has risen up Like some rich harvest ’neath the fostering care Of such a parent, whose example spoke More loudly than his precepts. But ere this, A few quick sketches, of the chief events That marked his life, and helped to mould its form, Shall now be made—though feeble to portray The bright reality, or give life and form To inward workings of the subtil mind. Sir Arthur was the sole surviving child Of him whose name he bears. The other sons And infant daughters passed away from earth Like fruit-tree blossoms, beautiful and brief In their career. The tablets in the church, Recording ancestry through ages past, Record as briefly the short time betwixt Their birth and death. Thus he alone was left The living centre, where the fervent love Of two fond parents, could condense its rays. From budding infancy, the tender care And sweet affection of a mother’s breast, Filled his young heart with tenderness. In youth A father’s wish, and more ambitious love Gave each advantage, and secured each means That could advance in life. A home so fraught With kind indulgence, and where every wish Within the bounds of reason was fulfilled Almost as soon as framed was not a school Best fitted to prepare an active mind, To struggle boldly with the ills of life, And combat with its evils. But their love Rose higher in its grade, than that which thinks Alone of ease and pleasure and delight. It far preferred a future happiness To present joy; and sterling moral worth, With intellectual wealth, and mental strength, As man’s chief earthly good. And hence it came That when his young mind had imbibed at home Ennobling principles and pious thoughts To give it strength, their faithful love forewent The pleasure of his presence to secure The sterner discipline of school, and bring Those precepts into action. With an eye Of keenest vigilance, and heart of care, They watched his progress, and with rich delight Beheld the fruits of their unwearied love Swell into promise. Here he learned to feel, As one amongst a many, and to know The limits of his rights, and thence regard The rights of others. Being much beloved Amongst his playmates, for a truthful heart, An amiable temper, and due skill In many boyish sports; to which was joined Inventive talent, ingenuity, Mechanic art, by which was aptly framed, Things strange and curious, and thus he gained A fame for intellect, and soon became A leader of his fellows, whilst his days Passed on in peace and happiness serene. When youth was verging into man, he went To college, that severer discipline, And study more intense, might build his mind In knowledge, strength, and vigour. Honours due Were soon awarded, and he home returned Well nurtured to take part in public life, And serve the state whene’er it might require. The time of leisure had employment due In lighter studies, caring the estate, And welcome visits to the nobles round, That ever won such friendship and esteem As time could not revoke. Amid the fair, The lovely and the beautiful, to him One shone more lovely, fair, and beautiful Than all the rest; as shines the evening star Above the brightness of the ether round. Wealth, station, grandeur, shed their gifts on her And all their rich endowments. In her eye There beamed the light of pure and gentle love, Whilst in her heart the modest virtues dwelt Calm, soft and feminine; a woman she, “A perfect woman”—one whose form of soul Was framed for union with the heart of man To be its solace, to restore its strength When wearied with the world; to pour the oil Of rich affection on the wounded soul, To heal the spirit, to revive the mind, And with angelic ministrings restore To life and health again. Such sway when reign The storms of trial and adversity, But through the calm and balmy days of life, To make his home a temple, and his hearth An altar, where for ever glowing bright, The flame of gentle and enduring love Sheds its clear beams around, and burning fair Points sweetly up to heaven. When first his eye Beheld this loveliness, he felt within A new life waken, and the life gone by Seemed but a heavy dream. Bright hopes, glad thoughts And richest feelings stirred within his breast In joyous tumult. Solitary hours, And woodland musings, nursed the passion sweet, Until that Being had become the star Of his life’s destiny. In hope, in doubt, In strange conflicting turbulence of soul, He sought, he sued, he won. One blushing word Of sweet consent from her pure modest lips Turned all to peace again, and more than peace, To ecstacy and rapture! Earth seemed changed To paradise, and heaven above him shone With brighter radiance. Happy fled the hours, All swiftly bringing in their golden train Their brightest and their best, the hour to seal This bliss for ever his. The bridal wreath, The fair attire, the pure attendant maids, And all the pomp and pageantry that tells The joy and gladness that awaits the bond, And consummation of a holy love, Were each prepared. When ah! the fearful change Awaiting mortal destinies! A cloud Spread its black shadow o’er this sunny scene, And from its bosom, thunder-charged, sent forth The shaft of death! A sudden illness seized The young and beautiful. Her bridal train Wept o’er her bier. And he who should have led A bride in triumph from the altar, strewed Sad flowers on Ellen’s grave, and with a grief Tearless, consuming, in its mighty strength, Himself seemed death-struck. Agony intense, Dark desolation of the inmost soul, And dread prostration of its sympathies He long endured. The light of life to him Appeared for ever gone; the glorious earth Bereft of all its beauties. Cheerless, lone, He felt as in a desert; naught in life Could win his spirit to activity, And social links seemed severed. Soon again His footsteps rested on the gloomy verge Of the dark sepulchre. The voice of death Called that fond parent, who with gentle love Had nurtured his weak infancy, and she, With heavenly meekness, listened to the call, And softly passed from life. He who had sat Beside the self-same hearth, when auburn hair Curled round her brow, till now bright silver braids Adorned her aged forehead, missed the look, The fair, the placid look of time-tried love Illumining his home, and though his soul Held calmest resignation, yet he pined With secret longing to rejoin in heaven She who had been an angel on the earth, In purity and gentleness. The sun Had scarcely circled round the seasons ere His spirit’s prayer was answered, and he seemed To melt from time into eternity, So peaceful was his end. Thus left alone, And of all nearest earthly ties bereaved, A double desolation, cast its gloom On Arthur’s wounded heart. Though wealth was his, Titles and honours, they retained no charm To soothe his broken spirit. In the prime Of early manhood, just emerged from youth When life is full of promise, life to him Had scarce a promise left. Home scenes, beloved From early childhood, and endeared by thoughts Of warm affection, only served to pierce His breast with deeper pangs. In vain he sought To cast aside his sorrows and arouse The slumbering energies of mind to snap The gloomy bonds that fettered. Efforts vain, Attempts abortive, drove him forth at length An exile from his country, in the search Of unknown scenes, whose aspects new and strange, Could not recall dark visions of the past To fix them stronger on the memory. In foreign lands, mid mountain peaks sublime And desolate rocks, he sought companionship And soothing solace. Nature’s placid face, Her calm, her stillness, and her solitudes Wrought with an healing influence. The song Of ancient bards, the clear historic page, Called forth his spirit as the years fled by From inward cankering. The face of man, The voice of friendship, and affection’s smile Again had light for him. But in his heart There was a hollowness, a fearful void That naught could fill. The power of love seemed gone, But yet his soul, yearned ardently for love, With unquenched thirst. No more could Beauty’s smile Or her bright glances, kindle in his breast A living warmth. He would have given worlds To feel its vital strength revive again The life of his affections; and to pour Their freshness on some sweet responsive heart Linked into one with his. This seemed denied To him for ever. But the discipline Of sorrowful years, and agonising thoughts, Built up within a grandeur of the soul And purified his spirit. Feelings deep, Expansive views, and sympathies enlarged, Had hence a birth. More elevated thoughts Of human life, and human destiny, With all its strange vicissitudes arose; A brighter faith in providence; and hopes More calm and cheerful; lifting thought beyond Time’s narrow bounds; to see existence stretch Far on in realms immortal; and a faith That pierced the clouds of evil, and beheld The light of Goodness shining bright above With vast extense of ray. A loftier life Seemed now within him, and a cheerfulness Illumed his countenance; yet like some bold And dauntless hero, whose deep wounds were healed, He yet retained dark scars. Life now for him Revealed some pleasures; and its duties gave In their performance, solace and delight, But never more could he have hoped to gain That freshness of the heart, that warmth of soul Which glows in faithful love. He oft had sought To wake such life within him; but he strove In vain, in vain! Though years had passed away, He seemed as doomed to carry on through life A solitude of soul. Returning home To his paternal mansion, greetings kind And cheerful welcomes waited him. With firm Determined spirit, he resolved to fill His life with deeds of usefulness, and spread Some happiness around. Whilst thus employed The days grew brighter, and the hours fled by On wings of cheerfulness. Upon the hearth Darkness yet brooded, and a shadow there Sat undisturbed, and, as he thought, for ever! Alas for human life, how oft its hopes Are vain and fruitless! yet the truth to add Its fears are oft as vain. Forebodings dark Have no fulfilment, and the things we dread Are changed to joys and pleasures, like a night Of storm and tempest that brings forth a morn Of radience and beauty. Thus employed In deeds of charity; all thoughts of love For ever laid aside; Sir Arthur’s life Passed smoothly onwards, as some stream whose course, Though clear and lovely, is o’erhung with shade Of forest boughs, and feels not the full warmth Of glowing glorious day. As oft a turn Abrupt and sudden brings the river forth Along the open plain, a change as bright Awaited in his destiny. The hour Of restitution had arrived, and soon, Amidst the maidens beautiful and fair That passed before him, moving not his heart To deep pulsations, one, amidst the train, Lovely as moonlight on the summer sea, Awoke a mystic sympathy, and called To life renewed, the throbbings of his breast. Her form was beautiful, her eye was bright, And rosy blushings tinted o’er her cheek With softest dyes. But yet the beauty there Sprang chiefly from the spirit, whose pure light Illumined every feature. On her brow, Lofty and polished, intellect sat throned In mild dominion. Modesty’s fair beams Arrayed the countenance; and holy love, Benevolence, and purity of soul, Shone forth with living radiance, and threw Celestial lustre round her. Gentle, mild, And bland of manner, calmly she withdrew From observation like some pale spring flower That woos the lonely shade. Her aspect wore The touch of sorrow past, that beautified And made it still more lovely; like the sky Revealing fairer hues when summer clouds To earth have fallen in refreshing rains. Her heart had known the depths of agony, And care and anguish. In that deadly strife The soul had conquered; and she stood on earth With spirit chastened, purified, subdued, And strengthened by the conflict. Her light step Had something saint-like, as, with upward look, She trod the earth; and her soft mellow voice Bore music in its tones, as rich and deep In all its modulations, as if caught From distant echoes of angelic song. How strange are human sympathies! and all The subtle secret workings of the soul That link us to each other. Oft we meet Some unknown being, and short converse gives A knowledge as of ages; then again Long years of converse cannot bring our minds In unison with others. We may live In friendship, kindness, gentle amity, But yet our hearts are conscious of a power Preventing inmost union. This is seen Oft in the intercourse of man with man; But still more oft, though not less wonderful, Of man with woman; chiefly where the love Is pure and perfect, from the inmost mind. Two beings now, whose spirits were prepared For union with each other—though each thought Such thing could never be—together met, And scarce had met before they felt within An inward prompting, instinct of the soul, That their two lives were destined to run on In one united course. Passion for them Had lost its fiery power and heedless rage, And burnt with steady flame. Like summer morn From rosy twilight, with expansion calm, Unfolding into day, such was the course Of their unsullied love. Their hands were pledged With hopeful promise, ’ere few moons had passed; And ’ere the seasons once had circled round, Before the altar of yon village church, Fraught with old memories of wedded love, The happy pair confirmed their truthful vows With sacred sanction. Joyous was the day Through the glad village, and the ancient Hall Was filled with loud rejoicings. All things wore An aspect of rich promise, e’en the sky, As if in sympathy, shone forth with light More clear and radiant. The early sun Rose with keen splendour, and at eve he set In pomp of gold and crimson. Fleecy clouds, With rainbow colours, graced the burnished vault Of heaven’s cerulean azure. Day declined In hues prophetic of succeeding days As fair and bright, and sweetly shadowed forth As by an omen, calmer life had dawned And happier seasons for that wedded pair. We may grow old in heart, ’ere old in years, And share age-wisdom, ’ere its glory-crown Of hoary hairs hath sanctified the brow. Whatever stirs the inmost depths of soul, Arousing thought and feeling, calling forth Life’s strongest passions, rearing into strength All free-born energies, more swiftly brings A full maturity than passing time And common life experience. Thus were taught These inmates of the Hall; and thus had learned To look on life with more discerning eye, Regarding its true aims, its happiness, And noblest objects. They had felt and found Earth’s purest pleasures, dwell in social love And sweet serenities of home, and not In gaudy pomp and pageantry and show. Hence with united aim they sought to rear To loftier growth each faculty and power, Each thought and feeling that could beautify, Enrich and sanctify the homely hearth. The joys of wealth, its dignity and power Were not despised. The grandeur it confers Had due appreciation; but the strength It lends the hand to scatter blessing round Was thought its noblest privilege. To give, With generous freedom to the mild demand Of true necessity, was deemed delight; But not to scatter with a thoughtless hand In very wantonness of teeming wealth, And think such bounty charity. They knew The richest benefit their aid could give, The most enduring, most replete with joy And noble independence, was the means To all who sought their aid and sustenance, To help themselves, and by their native power Rear their own weal. Such prudent practice spread That peace and comfort, cheerfulness and joy Amidst the peasants, and around their homes Threw comliness and beauty; whilst it gave A richer harvest for the scattered seed Of generous gift, and made a little wealth Produce more goodness and true happiness, Than fortunes lavished with imprudent zeal And indiscreet deficiency of thought. Sir Arthur had just passed the middle term Of “three score years and ten,” when full of hope Renewed, and cheerful thought, with joy he led His fair bride from the altar. Every day, As time rolled on, gave precious proof that hope Was not unfounded. Brighter grew each hour Of his expanding life, whilst now he found The strength of purpose, and the joy of heart A kindred spirit gives; as thought with thought, And feeling with deep feeling, swiftly rose With sweet coincidence in either breast. And thus their path of life ran smoothly on Unvaried in direction, like a stream Whose waters pure had hitherto been led Within two separate channels; but anon In peaceful union joining, henceforth pass Straight onwards o’er some sunny, flowery plain, To mingle with the ocean. Not that life For them was destitute of cares and tears And piercing sorrows; but those fearful pangs, That tear the heart, and lacerate the soul, No more were theirs; and having known of such, And borne with resignation, fortitude, And hopeful patience, now the lesser ills, The common pains of life, struck not so deep Nor with so fell a shock, as arrows glance Aside from sturdy breasts in armour cased, And shake not by impinging. Round the hearth Their richest joys were clustered. Oft at eve, In converse sweet, enriched by love’s dear tones, The hours fled gladly by, as on the wings Of woodland birds rejoicing. Now the muse Of history would unfold her living page And make the past the present; and anon Some work of fiction, writ with moral aim, Would stir their spirits, as with truthfulness It shewed the workings of the human heart And uttered wisdom whilst it gave delight. Full oft the music of the poet’s page Would spring to life again: his numbers sweet Translated into vocal harmony, and thoughts Transcendent, eloquent, impassioned, bright, Revealed by living lips. Thus noble minds Of bygone ages, or of modern date, Moulded their spirits to a lofter thought And more exalted feeling. Kindled thus In kindly concert, to like sympathies And deep emotions, their united hearts Grew to more strict similitude, and beat More perfect in their unison. A bliss, So calm and sweet, so purely of the soul, Enriched their life, that earth to them resumed, Full oft, amidst its shadows and its clouds, A radiance as of primal paradise. Twice had the sun’s benign prolific ray Enrobed the earth with harvest, since the hour When bridal peals made all the village glad, And gave a mistress to the vacant Hall, To dwell there in her beauty, when again The old bells uttered forth as rich a strain Of heart-arousing melody. A Son Was born to carry down that ancient line To future generations, and all hearts Rejoiced in sympathy with that glad hope Which swelled each parent’s breast. The passing years Gave now a daughter, and anon a son, Till six fair children filled that home with glee And childhood’s happy laughter. Each grew up From innocent sweet infancy to days Of blossoming youth. The elders now have reached Life’s prime maturity, and one alone, Fair Edith, ranking fourth in age, hath been Translated to the heavens. One spring hath passed On its gay flowery path, since earth received, When twenty summers had adorned her brow, Her mortal vestments, and the spirit fled To the bright regions of immortal life. The first-born bears his father’s honoured name; Matilda, Alfred, Eva, and Lucrece, Mark out the rest, and each one duly shares In nature’s gift of beauty. Mind and form Are of the highest, and amidst them all Great likeness and great difference prevails, Giving a oneness with variety, Like forest trees of diverse branch and leaf, Or sweet flowers intermixed in form and hue. Oh! what a change, beneficent and fair Some thirty years have wrought! The vacant hearth, Deserted by its owner, lone and drear, Is now illumined by the happy looks Of many radiant faces. Stillness deep, And mournful as the charnel, brooding there, Is now exchanged for music far more sweet Than harp or viol; voices breathing forth Affections purest tones, rich words of joy, And sprightly laughter from the gladsome heart! How rich the happiness Sir Arthur feels, And how enhanced, when with the dreary past Contrasted. His unfolding lot in life Seems like a plant, whose form in winter months Lies buried deep in earth, but in the spring Puts forth green shoots, expands its swelling buds, And through the summer multiplies fair flowers All beautiful in sunshine. Grateful thoughts And holy aspirations, crowd his breast And give a blessedness, a joy, a peace Not often known on earth. As every child Was ushered into life, his heart enlarged With love’s divine affections. His delight And steady aim was to prepare each mind For usefulness in life, for well he knew It was the shortest path to happiness: To mark each talent and each faculty In its first opening, and to bring it forth By fitting cultivation; to supply Of intellectual food the purest, best And most ennobling; to rear into strength Each moral purpose, and direct the will To loftiest objects; and above the rest To elevate the heart by cheerful hopes And prospects sweet of immortality, Till fervent love, and reverent piety Glowed in each breast; such was the constant mode Of teaching he pursued, and such he taught By precept and example, till the lore Sank deeply on each heart, and every child In its own individuality, gave birth To noble fruitage, that repaid this care. By such tuition it was sought to mould Their minds to power and strength: but to refine And add due elegance, the finer arts Of music, painting, poetry, and song Were called in aid; and to unbend awhile And give free recreation, every taste Had due scope granted—some were left to rear Fair flowers to beauty; some sought far and wide Things strange and curious, to store them up For full inspection; others tried at will The powers of elements, mechanic force, Or laws of nature, by experiment Renewed and oft repeated. Every hour Had thus its full employment, every heart Some worthy object, and the day fled by On cheerful wing, for every mind was gay, Filled with delight by pure and useful thoughts. All evil is perversion of the good Through wrong direction, or by foul excess! How gaily skips the lambkin in the field Mid sunshine and bright daises. How the fawn Bounds light and gladsome o’er the grassy slope Exulting in existence. Insects wing Their wondrous measures, music-timed, amidst The golden twilight. Health and vigour flow From this activity. Then needs not man, Whose strength is fretted by the cares of mind As well as toils of body, to renew His wearied spirits by the livening joys Awaiting on the dance? Whene’er prolonged To midnight hours, immodestly pursued, Or borne to weariness, a thing thus good Transmutes itself to evil. But not so Was it perverted at the Hall. Sometimes When weariness of mind forbad the strain Attending mental efforts, music’s sounds Distinct and marked, would summon to the dance Amid the social circle, or at times Of friendly meeting it would oft afford Sweet interchange of pleasure, intermixed With cheerful converse, modulated song Or sound of instrumental harmonies. The power of competition oft unfolds A latent genius into richer growth Or more energic action. To bring forth Each talent to full strength, Sir Arthur sought, Amid his household, to stir loving strife And friendly rivalry, by calling all To execute some task of art or skill In one department.—Now to picture fair Some view from nature, or by fancy’s aid Create a scene of beauty. Now to strive On their respective instruments, to give The richest utterance to the magic notes Of some inspired musician; and anon To choose a song, each one to private taste, And then to execute with utmost skill, And see who won, by free consent of all, The palm of willing praise. Thus each was brought To shew some excellence, by right their own, And feel that they contributed a share To mutual joy and benefit. ’Tis thus Mankind are aided by each others skill And nations linked by wants in turn supplied. Of all the arts that elevate mankind, Refine their feelings, and exalt their thoughts From gross and base conceptions, Poesy Must reign pre-eminent. It is the next To inspiration, and almost divine. From human nature’s inmost depths it springs, And blends the will and intellect, till both Give forth their life with strange intensity, And seek to live incarnated in words Through many generations. To the terms Of daily life and common intercourse, It gives new strength, and o’er their rudeness breathes Rich music and soft beauty. When the soul Is sublimated by poetic thought And raptured feeling, no unnumbered words Can give fit utterance, but it seeks by song To tell the harmonies that reign within, And visions bright reveal. The poet’s page Is as a casket, wherein he has hid The treasures of his heart. The talisman, The magic key which can alone unlock Such sacred jewels, is a mind attuned Responsive to his own. Where this is not, His book becomes a blank, and sordid breasts Can find no beauty there. How happy they Whose finer spirits can with joy perceive The luscious sweetness of the poet’s song, Partake the grandeur of like noble thought, And feel entranced with him. The gains of gold, The pomp of life, the pride of circumstance, Can ne’er convey such pleasure to the heart Or give a bliss so pure. To her high bards The world owes much, and more than oft is thought. ’Tis not alone that they have lit the fires Of sacred poesy in other breasts, And taught young bards to touch the lyric strings To sweet, though meaner music; but the might Of their high thoughts hath kindled in the souls Of statesmen, warriors, sage philosophers, And all earth’s greatest emulative thought And nobleness of heart. Whene’er the world Neglects sweet poesy, and dis-esteems The songs of bards, her holier life burns dim And flickers in the temple, and the voice Of prophets may send forth the cry of woe! Oft when the spirit hath been deeply tried By grief or love, or disappointment stern, A healing balsam hath the poet’s skill Sent forth to soothe such smarting wounds of soul And still their fearful throbbing. Melodies Of mournful music, breathing from the heart A vital sympathy, have given strength And healed a kindred sorrow; till at last The unstrung chords within the shattered breast Have been retuned, and every note restored Could sound a richer music than before! Thus was it with Sir Arthur; and the lays Of ancient bards were blended with his life And wrought into his being. On their songs His heart was nourished in his hour of woe Till strengthened into joy. With reverence deep He now beheld them, and their subtle power To give delight, and elevate the soul By ministries of pleasure. Now he sought To wake in others, a like sense and taste To relish their chaste beauties. From its birth He strove to open in each child the spring Of freshly flowing poesy. The book, For his chief teaching, was the glorious scenes Of ever-verdant nature; sunset skies; Soft floating clouds; umbrageous forest shades; Bright stars or flowers; the splendour of the noon, The gloom of storms; the gorgeous pall of night, Were each a lesson, that with double power, Taught Piety and Poetry. Fair twins And loving sisters are they! sent to raise Mankind to higher purity of thought And holier purposes. With cheerful smiles And love reciprocal, they, hand in hand, Oft journey on together, noting well The true and beautiful in all around. Whilst Poesy points out the fair and bright The pure and lovely, Piety will lift Her hand aloft to indicate the Source Whence such sweet visions spring; then both rejoice With kindred raptures, and with keener zest Seek fresh occasions for exalted praise. With hearts thus moulded from their early years And tutored into song, each one hath gained Some small perfection in the gentle art Of linking thought with verse. This Christmas eve— A season dedicate to showing forth Their loving strife by works of utmost skill— To grace the festival, each one must bring, By former compact, an original poem Wrought out in solitude, from private thought And inward feeling, so as best to shew The individual heart. By privilege Of ancient friendship, from our boyish days, And love as that of brotherhood, I’ve come To join the circle by Sir Arthur’s fire, Partake his hospitality, and share The social converse round this happy hearth. Oh Christmas, what a host of sacred thoughts Come thronging at thy name! The mind is filled With holy visions of our human loves Exalted and refined. The charities Of daily life, of kindred and of home, Glow warmer ’neath thy sway. With hasty flight The mind runs backward to more ancient times And simpler manners, when the pomps of life Had wrought not such division, but the heart Of man met that of man, and all rejoiced As in one brotherhood, at higher hopes And brighter prospects, given to the earth By Him who made it. Round the blazing fire Each family assembled, must’ring all Their nearest kindred; whilst with social love And hospitable cheer, mid dance and song And mirth and minstrelsey, the hours fled by With joy and brightness, leaving on the heart A glow more warm than autumn sunshine throws On corn-clad uplands. Plenty filled the barns, And teeming stores gave birth to grateful thoughts And heavenly musings; whilst sweet carols sung Took up the burden of the angels’ song Of “peace on earth, good will to man,” and made A holy joy pervade the sportive glee. To grace the season, at this ancient Hall, The feast is held, in the most antique room, And largest it contains. With wainscoting Of polished oak, and carvings rich and quaint The walls are clad. Along the ceiling run Strong oaken beams that oft each other cross, Dividing all into compartments square, With pendents hanging down, adorned with gold And flower-like wreathings. Pannels here and there Are filled with pictures, where some classic piece, Or ancient love tale, gives to modern eyes The thoughts and feelings in the heart of old. The noble hearth spreads wide, and glorious flames Roar up the chimney, as if wild with joy And laughing at the bitter frost without. Amid their light the yule-log huge burns red, Diffusing round a warmth that seems to reach The very heart and make it happier. Boughs Of laurel, fitted to entwine the brows Of heroes, mingled with all evergreens The season yields, in gay and rich festoons, Or proud bouquets, adorn the walls around. The holly, with its grey-green crumpled leaves And berries bright as rubies, shoots red gleams Like sunset through a forest. Mistletoe, The choice of Druids, with its slimy balls And mystic branchings, fills the pensive mind With memories wild and weird. All things are here To link thought to the past; all emblems full Of rich memento, giving to the heart Sweet impulses, the while the village bells Peal their glad music with the same deep notes That struck the ear long centuries ago. The group assembled owned the mystic power Of these associations. Ancient rites, Time-honoured customs, and the cheerful sounds All sacred to the season, gave delight That brightened in the countenance. Not one But felt the mind o’erflowing with rich thoughts, And stirred with deeper feelings. But on earth Pure joy can never reign, whilst death can part The loved and the beloved. And as around That smiling family the Father glanced, And saw one vacant chair, a tear bedimmed His eye for his lost daughter. On the brow Of her fond Mother, resignation sat In peaceful calm, that gave a purer tone To every word and look. The lively band Of sisters and of brothers, though the heart In youthful freshness hath a buoyant spring, Amid their songs and merry laughter, shewed Their spirits dwelt on Edith. Converse sweet And mutual interchange of sprightly thought Passed on the hours—such hours as leave the mind More full of love and charity, and gleam With starry radiance o’er our path of life When viewed in retrospection. Intervals Of song or music would beguile the time And make the moments sweeter. Verses framed By some skilled poet breathing truth and life, Where raised to loftier power by the voice In melody’s deep tones, transmuting them To heart-enchaining songs. Sweet instruments, Diverse in sort, combined their varied notes In dulcet harmonies, and made a stream Of music as delightful to the ear, As to the eye a gorgeous bank of flowers, Where richly mingled every size and height, And hue and tint, combine their lovely forms To make the fancy, at the splendid scene, Straight dream on paradise. The evening’s feast In rich abundance shewed the liberal hand Of hospitality. Rare viands, meats, With varied wines and drinks, o’erspread the board; But chiefly those which custom, ancient right And use ancestral, have with willing heart Devoted to the season. Flowing thought, The play of merriment, the flash of wit, Enriched the banquet, whilst o’er all there reigned The sway of Temperance. She, with cheerful smile, Gave each enough, the while a graver look Forbad excess, and by this healthful rule Increased the gladness of the social meal. The dearest friends and closest kindred formed Alone this meeting; such as would delight To hear the strains of poetry brought forth By Members of that household, and not deem, With chill austerity, and critic scorn, Their bringing forth an effort at display. Cheered by the pure repast, and seeking now Some other source of pleasure, all the guests With one consent proceeded to demand The promised boon—for boon in truth ’twas deemed, And held on promise too, since last they met To celebrate this season. In the course Of varied conversation on the art Of poesy, the skill required to make Words run in music, subjects fit to frame A song of beauty, desultory talk On power of language, criticism just, And kindred subjects; it was then proposed, Half jest, half earnest, that Sir Arthur should, With each one of his family, present A poem as portion of the Christmas feast When next they met. With merry laugh from all The challenge was accepted, and the scheme Of reading then laid down: Sir Arthur first Should bring forth his production; then the sons And daughters, each in order of their years, Should offer theirs; and to conclude the scene, The Mother chose, with modest diffidence, To rank the last. Now seated round the hearth In one vast circle, with the sparkling eye Of expectation, and the eager glance Of curiosity, the group are ranged To have the plan fulfilled. The ruddy glow Of blazing faggots gives the cheek of youth Redoubled beauty. As the firelight smiles Throughout th’ illumined room, its lustre falls On looks more cheerful still. The lively warmth That fills the sprightly air, now clear by frost, Diffuses gladness, and a cheerful sense Of home-born pleasures—purest of the earth! Delighted with the scene, as one he loved And prized beyond all price, Sir Arthur brought Without delay, his manuscript, and read In tones that shewed the utterance of his heart, To auditors attentive, what he’d named— The Social Hearth. How oft man looks for happiness afar, Amid loud tumult, or the din of war; O’er foreign lands, through distant climes, he’ll roam To win that pleasure he may gain at home. Here does the error in its root begin; He seeks without when he should search within, And strive to see included in his breast The seeds of happiness, the germs of rest. All bounteous nature upon man doth shower Her gifts of pleasure, with more equal dower Than we, dim-sighted and unwise, discern, But by due effort we the truth may learn. In the charmed circle of the cheerful hearth Life’s purest pleasures, richest joys have birth; Where heart meets heart with confidence serene, Truth smiles in brightness, Goodness rules benign. How calmly sweet, how soothing to retire From pains and toils to peace beside the fire; Whilst round the blaze, true-hearted friends are met, In whose gay converse we all care forget. The merry laugh, the simple playful jest, The soul of gladness in each look expressed, The wit retorted, and the temperate mirth, Are like rich sunshine glowing o’er the earth. Fresh thoughts imparted, truths unknown before, In freedom given but increase our store; And each kind feeling with prolific reign In kindred breasts is multiplied again. When song or music elevates the time, The homely dance or poet’s lofty rhyme, All feel their pleasure and delight increased By each partaking in the social feast. When thus we mingle, how it will impart Feelings more kind and noble to the heart, Increase its warmth by love unknown before, And where it has loved, make it love the more. The sacred psalmist strung his harp to tell How goodly ’tis in harmony to dwell; E’en like the ointment poured upon the head, That to the skirts of priestly vestments spread! Oh! ne’er should scandal, or detraction mean, Or words unkindly desecrate the scene; But all with pure sincerity conspire To strengthen friendship, fan love’s holy fire. If thus we meet—if thus in peace unite, And make each home a temple of delight, Our hearts will tell us there is not on earth A place more sacred than the social hearth. As this sweet strain of poesy came forth, All felt its truth and beauty. It described The pleasures now enjoyed, and but portrayed Such scenes of innocent and social glee As often filled that room. The feelings pure Therein expressed, the higher tone of life, The sweeter charity, unfolded clear, Was but a transcript of that law which ruled The spirit of their Host. Whene’er the life Is tuned accordant to the poet’s song, And all his actions manifest his lays The offspring of sincerity, how great How wonderful their power! And not alone Its truthfulness was valued; but the skill In poetry its melody displayed Surpassed expectance. Each delighted guest Felt curiosity within him rise To know what subject would compose the next, And how it would be treated. Arthur then Was called upon for his. With roguish look He begged them all to guess the theme he chose To render into verse. Some thought it War, Some Peace, some Honour, some Heroic life, Some Solitude. At last a venturous voice Whispered it might be Love. The simple word Gave birth to pleasant smiles. When does it not? To old, to young, to those of middle years, It aye comes welcome. Those who have not known The power of love, with curious longing hope, Still wish that they may know it. Those who feel Its present sway, if they but hear its name, Have sacred visions to their fancy brought Of certain curling locks, bright eyes, sweet smiles, And forms to them angelic. Those who’ve past That passion’s mysteries, recall with joy The season of its sway, and dote to see Young hearts just flitting o’er the selfsame net By which they were entangled. Is not this A picture of the truth, all ye who bear The hearts of warm humanity? The smile Was not diminished when the heir confessed Such guess was near the mark. With steady voice, And gravity maintained by effort firm, As conscious that the subject well deserved High thought and lofty sentiment, he gave A quick recital to a lyric piece Entitled simply— Passing Thoughts on Love. The ancient poets sang a love Whose spell of wild and fiery power Ruled men below, and gods above, And conquered in its burning hour. The wine-cup’s rich delicious draught Ne’er maddened more the reeling brain, Or filled the heart so full, when quaffed, With ecstacy akin to pain. Then like a dream it passed away, A fervid vision of the night, Till some bright beauty’s potent sway Awoke again the fierce delight. Such might be passion’s wayward course That flashes like the lightning’s gleam; But ne’er was love, whose fountain-source Sends ever forth a constant stream. True love is like the stars on high That shine with undiminished ray, And glows all warm and fervently As does the splendid orb of day. Naught but the beauty of the soul, Arrayed in virtue’s peerless dress, Can pure love waken, or controul The bosom with its loveliness. It is the glorious bond of life That joins two kindred souls in one; And when they meet, amid earth’s strife, The same bright path they journey on. Heart yields to heart a living strength, And thought to thought increase of light, Until their happy days at length Well nigh partake of heaven’s delight. ’Tis not the high and manly brow Enlinked to beauty’s witching charm, Can make such deep-soul’d passion glow, Or keep it from decay and harm. The pure in heart, the pure in thought, Alone such inward union gain; And by the law in heaven wrought Such souls can never more be twain. Alas! for earth where love is sold For station, honour, pride, and power; Bartered for fame, betrayed for gold, And often scarcely lasts an hour. Yet some there be who do partake A measure of this love divine; Then such deep love, for love’s pure sake, Oh may I own, or none be mine! The smiling look, and cheerful playfulness, Continued through the piece. But many found A loftier element pervade the song, And deeper sentiments than they had deemed Indwellers of such theme. When he had done He cast around a furtive glance to see The influence of his verse. All faces wore A look of bland approval. One alone Hung bending down, as if to mark the bloom Of rosy flowerets in the rich bouquet That beautified her bosom. Did her cheek Catch deeper crimson from their loveliness That made it glow so brightly? Sooth to tell There was a hue like that of sunset clouds Which fluttered sweetly there. It might be caught By strong reflection from those happy flowers Which hung upon that breast; or it might spring From thoughts still happier, nestled warm within, Whose stirring motions made the pure blood flow More freely o’er that cheek. Were such the truth, It might betoken sympathy of soul With those high sentiments, and with the heart That gave them utterance. Young Arthur long Had deemed her beautiful, and she to him Had moved a star of light; but mutual words Of loving import had not yet revealed Their hearts unto each other. With a glance Of quick delight, like to the lambent flash Of summer lightning, he beheld that blush, So meek and rosy, and with instinct true His soul divined its meaning. With a word Of rapid whisper in Matilda’s ear, He bad that sister hasten to bring forth Her promised verse; whilst he awhile withdrew From the gay circle, that in solitude He might indulge the overpowering thought Which filled his raptured breast. His joy intense, No words could tell; whilst now in soul convinced That Emma’s noble and susceptive heart Was his for ever! Shortly he returned With looks elate, and joys delightful glow On his proud countenance. When he rejoined His father’s guests, his sister had not yet Commenced her promised task. With timid heart And shrinking feeling, she awhile forbore In modest diffidence; for she was one Of tender nature, of affections warm, And delicately sensitive of soul. Her truth of heart, and nobleness of thought, Made her abhor all wrong. Her simple mind, As clear as crystal, made her ever love Simplicity in all things. Hence she chose To frame a ballad of domestic scenes And their endearments. In a gentle voice, Replete with feeling, she began to read A tale of rural life, of fervent passion, That bore inscribed the humble name of— Lucy. Sweet Lucy, in the Pastor’s house Had dwelt from early years, The scene of all her childish joys, Gay hopes, young smiles and tears. It stood beside the rustic church Engirt with noble trees; A quiet nook, a calm abode, A home for rural peace. Before its walls with roses twined, And ivy interlaced, A lovely plot of cultered flowers The simple dwelling graced A rustic fence, with lattice gate, The sole dividing bound, Between that garden, fair and rich, And grassy graves around. And here, an infant, free from care, In summer’s jocund hours Glad Lucy played, as insect blithe, Companion of the flowers. To her, amidst the dawning blush Of life’s unfolding bloom, The grave was not a thing to wake A thought of pain or gloom. Yet well it might—beneath the sod Her parents both were laid; The father ere her hour of birth Was numbered with the dead. Her mother, pierced with keenest grief, Heart-broken with deep woe, Scarce heard the little infant cry Ere she departed too. The babe, forlorn, compassion found, Though kindred she had none; The Pastor took her to his heart And reared her as his own. He childless was, yet with a soul In children to delight; To see the love he bore to this It was a touching sight! An orphan! O, the very thought Brings tenderness of heart; Then what must one so frail and young To his pure breast impart? ’Twas like some holy vision fair To see his glance so mild, His hoary head, his moistened eye, Bent over that sweet child. How joyed he at the first clear sounds Her infant lips could make, And o’er the first free wandering steps Her little feet could take. His friend of life, his wife beloved, In all felt equal glee, And joined to rear the orphan maid In truth and purity. As feeling grew within her breast, To them a love she bore As fervent as an own child’s love— Yea warmer, deeper, more. Yet were her parents oft in mind; A holier thought was given, And purer love to those she deemed Her guardians in heaven. What can so elevate the soul, Refine its richest love, As to be linked by kindred’s ties To radiant worlds above? A mind so delicate and pure In learning took delight, And treasured up each noble thought And deed with virtue bright. But chiefly was the Sacred page Engraven on her heart, And did to her its lofty hopes, Its joys, its peace impart. Thus she who was his highest joy In childhood’s sprightly day, Became the Vicar’s cheerful friend And aid in life’s decay. How graceful was her lovely form, How rich her curling hair, And her cheeks’ hue like rosy beams Of evening blushing there. Her gladsome smile’s delicious play, Her eyes’ entrancing light Won sweet regard from every heart And filled it with delight. Such peerless charms! how could they fail To rouse impassioned love? And bind some willing heart in chains, A captive loth to move. Young Albert to the village came And saw the maid so fair; Then straight resolved to win her heart A trophy rich to wear. His manly form, his dauntless look, His elegance of mien; A voice that spoke in dulcet tones, An eye with glances keen; A ready flow of touching words To tell a tender tale; Must they not fire a maiden’s soul And make a suit prevail? His words of love! as dew they fell Upon her stainless heart, And made it, like fresh fragrant flowers, To loftier being start. All simple, guileless, framed of truth, It knew no frail disguise; But let unchecked its passions spring Its deepest feelings rise. And oft at even-time they strolled The rural lanes alone, In converse deep, with kindred thoughts And feelings blent in one. Both nature prized, and took delight In sunset skies and flowers, And talking of all fairest things, They wiled away the hours. Naught can so swiftly light two breasts With mutual flames of love; As finding that all beauteous scenes The same deep pulses move. Pure, simple, Lucy, scarcely knew Her heart’s full passion won, Until the idol of its hope From her fond side was gone. He bad farewell in gentle tone And vowed with hasty breath; Farewell, she cried, in truth’s own voice, “Albert! I’m thine till death!” And such she was! but oh that he Like faithfulness had shewn, Then we upon her maiden grave No timeless flowers had strewn. He went and mingled with the world, And learnt its sordid ways; Till noble thought, and feeling true Within his soul decays. Then gold for love, and state for worth, For truth parade and show, His bosom prized, and soon forgot His first-love and his vow. Soon for him, and a maid of wealth, Pealed forth the marriage bell; But its gay sound assumed afar A tone like Lucy’s knell. Soon as she heard—from her gay cheek The roses swiftly fled, And left fair lillies, pale and wan, To flourish in their stead. The lillies fluttered there awhile, But lost their bloom with speed, And withering swift, shewed on their root, The canker worm did feed. She calmly pined—all meek of soul; The grief she strove to hide Like poison wrought, and caused life’s stream To flow with feeble tide: Just ere it ceased, with gentle voice— All pain and wrong forgiven— She said—I leave false earth to gain Unfailing truth in heaven. And now she in the church-yard lies, And soon was followed there By those two loving hearts who’d made Her life their bounteous care. In five green graves together ranged, Their frail remains abide; Her foster parents, and her own, And hers, all side by side. All ye who win a true heart’s love, Of faithlessness beware! Go view that simple midmost grave And learn a lesson there! When she had ceased, the simple pathos shewn In that pure song, had touched each feeling heart, And some bright eyes were brighter for a tear That gemmed their loveliness. A pause ensued Of few brief moments, and then Alfred stepped With freedom forward to impart his share Of promised verse. He had but just returned From college, where his studious hours were spent With fervour most devoted, to acquire An ample store of learning. He had found Rich treasures hid amidst the ponderous tomes Of ancient days, and with determined heart He sought to make them his. A fervent love Glowed in his bosom for their noble thoughts And sentiments and feelings, and he gave His hours with zeal, enthusiastic zeal, To communings with them. Short time had he To dally with the muse, or let the play Of vagrant fancy interrupt his aims; Yet in the festival he would take part, And brought, as fittest offspring of his harp— A Sonnet To the Master-Minds of Earth. Immortal bards, philosophers, and sages Whose glorious thoughts have lit this darkened world And raised Truth’s banner, a bright flag unfurled, To guide men onwards through all future ages To liberty and peace. Upon your pages My mind would pasture, as along the meads The simple flock in innocency feeds, Till nourished into strength. Through all life’s stages, In youth, in manhood, and in calm decline At your clear fountains may my spirit drink To quench her thirst for knowledge, to refine Each feeling quick, and learn to nobly think! Oh! much we need ye! ye bright stars from heaven, And to our aid may thousands more be given! Fair Eva next came forward to the task; She was a joyous creature full of life And health and beauty. In her rich blue eye There was a light of gladness, and her cheek Was clear and rosy as the flowers of spring. Her step was free, as if the morning breeze Were ever her companion, and each limb Had motions graceful as the waving bough. The love of nature dwelt within her heart In all its aspects; but her chief delight Was in the silver, sunny loveliness Of noontide splendours, or the gorgeous scenes All gold and crimson, when the day declines And bids farewell to earth with kingly pomp. On such she looked with ever-raptured eye, Until their brilliance had imbued her soul With joyous thoughts and bright. The theme she chose Was one expressive of that cheerful tone Which filled her spirit, and with mellow voice She gave glad utterance to her— Love of Spring. I love the time when buds and bells Hang fragrant in the woodland dells; The primrose and the violet On richest mossy banks are set. How joyous when the warmth of spring Invites the merry birds to sing, And their sweet bowers of love are made Amid the flowering hawthorn’s shade. Then robed in verdure, stately trees Stretch their broad branches to the breeze, Rejoicing in the glorious light Of sun and sky, like silver bright. Amid fair meads young lambkins play Their sprightly games in pure array; And insects sport on gauzy wing, Live gems in sunshine fluttering. Each rural scent, each rustic sound, Enchantment lend the landscape round; And every sight conspires to bless My heart with wild sweet happiness. I love the summer’s golden reign, And autumn’s ripeness o’er the plain; But to my spirit naught can bring Such gladness as the days of spring. For then I rove the woodland wild, With heart as simple as a child, And spend the pure fresh morning hours Amid the breezes, birds, and flowers. Reclining on some grassy seat Within a leafy dark retreat, I con the Poet’s living book Beside the clear-streamed stony brook. Such calm seclusion strengthens thought, And all His visions bright are brought Across my mind, more fair and clear, Mid scenes His spirit would hold dear. I love stern winter’s reign sublime, Rich autumn, and sweet summer time; But nothing to my heart can bring Such gladness as the days of spring! The blithesome tone of this gay melody, This pastoral song, spread cheerfulness around, And made all hearts beside the winter fire Think hopefully of spring. Some moments passed In pleasant converse; then Lucrece was urged Her poem to recite. With gentle grace And modest diffidence, she forward came, Yet with becoming confidence, as one Who knew, but did not over-rate, her powers. She was a poetess by nature framed And had a soul for song. Her flowing thought Moved on in hidden melody, that gave Each word expressive feeling; and her face In every feature, witnessed to a mind Of passions strong and pure. Her eye was dark, And black, and eagle-like. It shone a star By its own inward light; but o’er it hung Silk, raven lashes, that subdued its blaze But lessened not its power. Her lofty brow, By its expansion, shewed a kingdom wide Where thought might rule; and o’er her well-formed head Rich sable hair, in smooth and glossy braids, Displayed its shining beauty. Down her cheek Some bright curls clustered, and amid their shade There peeped the pearl-white lustre of her ear. O’er her fair countenance the pallid rose Assumed the precedence, and nigh subdued Its rich and blushing sister. ’Twas the hue Of thought spread o’er her features, leaving there The marble’s clear transparence. You might dream She were a statue, did not feelings flash Their radiance from her look, and mind’s pure light Float halo-like around her. Tall her form And moulded into grace; each polished limb Seemed full of life and motion; and her step, Though light and agile, yet had stateliness And maiden dignity. She older seemed Than were her years, for eighteen summer suns Alone had passed with ripening influence, Her beauty to mature; but you might date Her more advanced in womanhood, her mind By its expansion, and the thrill of thought And earlier strength of feeling, had impressed Such semblance on her aspect. She was one To whom the world was beautiful; but yet Her mind had thirst for higher beauty still Than met her waking vision. One to whom The tales of old romance, and fairy lore, And songs of chivalry, were needful food. Each noble thought, bold deed, and virtue bright, Found echoes in her breast; heroic acts, Undaunted words, or patriotic love Met sympathy with her. Creative thought, Imagination’s realising power, Gave form and substance to the visions fair That flitted o’er her fancy; abstract themes Lost their elusive subtlety and gained Embodiment and shape. And thus in truth She was a poetess; and all her verse, Though wrought from fancy’s airy gossamer, Had strength and life and strange reality. She thoughts refined, and spirit-like could chain In binding language, and give power and life To evanescent sentiments. She chose To frame a legend full of rich romance, Such as we picture in the days of old, When love was lofty passion—woman seemed A more etherial being sent to tame Man’s rude stern heart mid glorious chivalry. With thought concentred on the theme; with heart Alive to changing feelings, and with voice Deep, rich, and varied, such as well could shew The latent beauty in a poet’s song, She read the story, not unfitly named— Fidelio and Lenore. Oh! Muse, inspirer of the old romance, Sweet songs of chivalry, rich fairy lore, Let thy deep influence through my spirit glance, For I would vision forth a tale of yore,— A legend of true love, that evermore May in bright fiction to the mind display The power of constant truth, to triumph o’er The ills of life in all their dire array, And how that virtue pure speeds conquering on its way. But thus to sing my soul must be subdued To softest tenderness and gentle thought, And every feeling dissonant and rude To full and perfect harmony be brought; Whilst richest colours, from gay fancy caught, Must paint the whole, and with their light illume Well-chosen words, though seemingly unsought, That run in cheerful music, and assume Rich melodies of verse,—like breezes o’er spring’s bloom. No Muses haunt Parnassus’ lofty mount, Nor wander on by Castalie’s pure stream; Whose waters welling from their crystal fount Blushed with the light of heaven’s entrancing beam. Mere glorious visions of a Grecian dream Those Muses were! on them I call in vain! And ye must all me most presumptious deem, That such high prize I struggle to attain As sing some wild romance, some sweet Spenserian strain. The moonbeams shone upon the castle wall, That rearing proudly from its native rock, Gave back the accents of the torrent’s fall Which gushed below, as if to sternly mock The wild rage of the river, whose fierce shock Struck with the might of an eternal storm, But yet impressed not the immortal block Of massive adamant, that reared its form Embattled midst the skies with turrets multiform. And far around vast forests stretched their boughs In one unpathed perplexity of shade; Upon whose skirts the purple mountains rose, As if they would the starry realms invade With their titanic summits. Midst each glade, And mossy valley, gently purling streams Gushed rippling on, and in their windings made Deep woodland haunts, unpierced by sunny beams, Sweet bowers for purest love,—fit nooks for poet’s dreams. Here were rock-fragments clad with tangled moss And crowned with wildflowers’ gay and drooping bells; Here trees majestic shot wide boughs across To form vast arbours, or green leafy cells, Amidst whose verdure coolness ever dwells; And on the brook-sides’ grassy banks arose, Whose glossy richness in soft couches swells To woo the student calmly to repose, Or watch glad insects sport at days warm golden close. O’er tower and turret, bastion, portal, keep, The bright moon glancing with serenest smile, Threw on their grandeur, mid the hours of sleep, A sacred light that glorified the pile And made it seem a vision. Calm awhile And lonely, and in stillness lay the scene Save tones of rushing waters, that beguile The thoughts to them a moment. Now is seen A knight’s athletic form in armour’s dazzling sheen. Along the terrace, with majestic stride, He onward passed below the highest tower; And each step witnessed to the noble pride That fills a warrior’s heart—the sense of power, Of free-born might, and fame’s immortal dower. His shield he had not, but his keen sword hung Bright-jewelled by his side, and like a flower His gay plume nodded, whilst he swiftly strung A lute’s expressive chords, and thus in deep tones sung. Serenade. Sweet Lady bright—Lenore! Lenore! Oh! list to thy lover’s lay, Whilst the moonbeams shine o’er the forest boughs As rich as the glow of day! Oh! Lady fair—Lenore! Lenore! My deep love to thee I’ll tell, For the secret founts of my heart o’erflow Unlocked by the moonbeam’s spell! Oh! Lady kind—Lenore! Lenore! Let my soul’s impassioned tale, With a heart so gentle and pure as thine, In its truthfulness prevail. Oh! Lady dear—Lenore! Lenore! I have loved thee deep and long, And I love thee now, and for evermore,— Give ear to my pleading song! Oh! Lady true—Lenore! Lenore! Like yon constant stars above, Or the changeless light of the sun’s glad beam, To thee is my fervent love. Oh! Lady mine—Lenore! Lenore! Would that I might call thee so, In the faithful vow of united love, Ere I to the wild wars go. Oh! Lady love—Lenore! Lenore! Might I have the rich delight, To believe in thy dreams thou’lt think on me? Sweet Lady—good night! good night! The last “good night” rang sweetly on the air When, from the casement of a turret high, A white hand peeped, as beautiful and fair As ever cloudlet on the radiant sky; And to that love-song gave a sweet reply By letting fall a flower—a flower which told Of love’s sublime delicious witchery Within the heart. Hid in his scarf’s gay fold That boon to the wars he bore, more daring brave and bold. The last rich scion of an ancient line Was fair Lenore; a lonely orphan, she Dwelt in that Castle by the rushing Rhine In days of tournament and chivalry: A creature fitted to inspire the free And noble passion of a truthful breast And brave bold heart, whose inbred courtesy And gentler feelings, would seek out a rest, Mid valour’s peaceful pause, in woman’s love possessed. Oh! she was beautiful! a thing of light Of life, of gladness and unsullied smiles; A glorious being fitted to delight By gentle manners, innocent sweet wiles, And gay allurement, that full oft beguiles The heart of sadness with its soothing power; Like sunbeams striking on the ocean isles, And dissipating mists that on them lour, Till all shine fair and bright in noon’s resplendent hour. Thus had her goodness won the noble heart Of brave Fidelio, whose princely halls, Broad spreading vineyards, forest lands apart, And mountain-holds, stood nigh the blue Rhine-falls; Whose gliding waters pass the lordly walls Of many a lofty castle, held by knights Of power and state, but none there is who calls More wealth his own, inherited by right, Possessed in honour true, maintained by valour’s might. Whilst her heart’s lord, mid Palestine afar, In dauntless combat fought the Saracen, To drive him from the land, where first a star Revealed the Saviour to the sons of men, And give its sacred shrines and sites again To be a gladness to the pilgrims’ heart; The fair Lenore, with absent lovers’ pain, Sat all secluded in her bower apart, And wrought rich tapestry bright, and handyworks of art. Two years had fled since that auspicious night, When music taught how deep the love she felt, And bade her heart, with exquisite delight Towards him who wooed her, tenderly to melt In one brief moment; whilst she swiftly spelt An unknown lesson from her burning breast And prized the lore it gave; a truth which gilt With sunset brightness all her thoughts, and blest Her hours with musings sweet, her heart with richest rest. But now her days were mingled with deep care, And oft with agony and doubtful fear, For of her true knight there no tidings were, And as she thought thereon, the sparkling tear Would drop from her blue eye, so bright and clear, And sorrow’s sadness heave her breast in sighs. Intense she watched, but never there drew near His stalwart form to glad her longing eyes. Hark to yon minstrel’s notes that waken her surprise!— Troubadour’s Song. A wealthy knight to the wars went forth, To fight for the Holy Cross; But of all his goods in the sacred cause He cheerfully suffered the loss. He came to his native land again Enriched with fame—but poor! A truthful heart, and a strong bright sword Formed all his earthly store! He went like a troubadour, and sang To his lady-love a strain That told of his loss, and his heart’s deep truth, But she viewed him with chill disdain! She knew it was he, but her sordid soul Had loved for the wealth alone, And she cast his high worth and his truth away From her heart when that was gone. “Ah! my Fidelio that is thee indeed! My heart can pierce thy troubadour’s disguise; Oh do not make my faithful bosom bleed By such too cruel song! within me lies The woman’s truthful heart that aye defies The frowns of fortune, the decrees of fate, And all the change in mortal destinies. How light to me the pomp of wealth and state; Thy truth, and sword alone, make thee my fitter mate!” How glad their hearts in that enraptured hour! What joy they felt, what confidence serene, And like the blooming of a glorious flower, Deep thoughts came forth that never yet had been Unfolded in their breasts. A peaceful scene The future offered; but before the time Their love had priestly sanction, valour keen Advanced the infidel; with zeal sublime The knight re-sought the wars—to stay he deemed a crime! Nigh to that ancient castle of Lenore, Within the forest, in a gloomy cave, A vile enchanter dwelt, who oft of yore Had worked deep mischief. Naught on earth could save From his enchantments, when his soul would crave And lust for evil; with such direful aim He wrought his purposes. The bold, the brave, The fair, the lovely, without ruth or shame, He brought to ill. Pauvero was his name. He was in sooth a most repulsive wight, With matted locks, and sallow livid hue; His red eyes glared as if in wild affright, And lank, spare frame, seemed pinched by hunger blue: Torn filthy rags he wore, that seemed to shew The utmost want; for though he stole away The wealth of thousands, yet he never knew A benefit therefrom, but let it lay Deep in a vast dark pit, all buried from the day. Soon as the knight had left his lady fair, He swiftly thought, by necromantic skill, To win her wealth; and it to slyly bear Away with him that wicked pit to fill. Palled by the dark, with thievish pace and still, He stole into that castle night on night, Aided by imps and magic power, until Its walls were stripped, its coffers emptied quite, And naught was left for use, and naught to please the sight. And further yet to shew his hellish spite, He bore the lady to a noisome den, And chained her there, all hidden from the light, Beneath his cave, far from the haunts of men; Of her bright garments he disrobed her then, And clad in coarse vile rags, that not an eye In such strange garb could recognise again The maiden once so beautiful. A cry Gushed from her tortured heart, but no true help was nigh! When brave Fidelio from the fight returned, He found her castle all in ruin stand, Grey-mossed and broken-walled. His spirit burned With agony’s wild fire, as o’er the land, Now desolate, he gazed; and with his hand Held high to heaven, a sacred vow he swore, To bring fit vengeance on the fiendish band That wrought the ruin; for the wild scene bore Marks of that wizard’s blast, all withered, burnt, or frore. “Sweet lady mine! where art thou dwelling now? That vile enchanter hath thee in his power! Oh! that thou coulds’t but hear my spirit vow To search earth for thee to life’s latest hour. And though he hath deprived thee of thy dower, ’Tis naught to me, for wert thou still but mine, I would not heed bright fortune’s richest shower Or want’s necessity, if still might shine On me that loving look, that radiant smile of thine.” He rushed impassioned to that forest dark, To search each fastness for the wizard’s den, And seek if chance had left some trace or mark To guide his footsteps to Lenore again. Long days and months he sought with weary pain And heart undaunted, but no track had yet Been found to prove his quest was not in vain, Till one bright evening, when the sun had set, He stopped by a stony brook to hear its waters fret. And as he lay upon the flowery brink, Close by a wild rock that ascended high, In dark despondency he ’gan to think On those bright moments when his hope was nigh Its rich fruition; and he heaved a sigh Of doubt and discontent, and wished he ne’er Had gone to th’ wars again, or chivalry Been his heart’s choice; but soon he dashed the tear Away, and sang to his lute these mournful notes—now hear! The Melody. Oh! Lady, thou star of my life, no more Thy clear beams shine on me, And sorrow hath shrouded my lone days o’er Withheld from the sight of thee. Lenore! Lenore! in the forest I cry— Mere desolate echoes the sole reply! My spirit is pining to hear thy voice, My heart to behold thy smile; How at the sweet sound would my soul rejoice, Thy glances my woe beguile; But despondency clouds each bright hope o’er And thrills me with fear to see thee no more. Oh! ne’er did I know till this fearful time The depths of my love for thee, Or proved the wild anguish my soul must feel When thou art afar from me. To my cry in the forest—Lenore! Lenore! Echo seems but to answer—“no more, no more.” No balm to keen sorrow, by day I find, No joy in the noonday light, And but once mid my watchings and thoughts on thee Sweet solace relieved me at night. For I dreamt to the cry of “Lenore!” there came A soft gentle voice that whispered my name. Was it the last tones of his moving lay, Reverberating from the rock behind, Which gave that sound? He rose to pass away, But ’twas repeated, and his startled mind Heard feeble accents borne upon the wind As from a voice, but hollow, faint, and low, Like human wailings deep in earth enshrined. Breathless he listened, whence they came to know, And found them from a cleft, near that rock’s haughty brow. He swiftly climbed, and gained that fissure high, Like some air-passage to a hidden cave; He spoke aloud, and then a sweet reply Unbounded gladness to his spirit gave: “Fidelio! ah, I know thou’rt come to save Thy sad Lenore from this enchanter’s power, And raise her joyful from this living grave, To be thine own, thy loved for evermore; My heart said thou wouldst come, and to despond forbore. “But human strength can be of no avail To rend the vastness of this dungeon wall; Then seek the hermit, dwelling in the vale, Beside the eastern mount, and straightway call His wisdom to thine aid, for he can all The spells of magic by his skill destroy, And make the strongholds of enchantment fall; For naught so pleases him as to annoy “Those powers of hell, and mar their fiendish joy.” Soon was that good and holy hermit found, In his lone habitation far away, And help implored. Said he, “Sir Knight, if sound, True, pure, and perfect, be thy love, the way To free the maid from magic’s direful sway Is short and certain, but will try thy might Of heart and arm. Beneath where she doth lay, Through that hard rock, for full five fathoms straight, Thine hand must dig along, and mine thro’ jewels bright. “This having done, thou wilt behold a cell Of golden ingots, and large diamonds full; And laid thereon, a wand of power, to quell The might of magic and its spells annul; No more I utter! if thine heart be dull In its affections, or thy love untrue, And seek those gay gems round about to cull, Then thou thy daring enterprise wilt rue; “But if thy soul be pure, then triumph waits on you.” The knight returned, and to his task applied, With joyful heart and persevering aim; No gold veins tempting in the rock’s rich side, Nor diamond treasures when he to them came; He seized the wand, and, waving it, a flame Of silvery brightness shone within the grot; He struck the sides, and, answering to the same, Around full tones of music seemed to float Aloft in air, and soon appeared the Maid he sought! When that sweet moment of entrancement passed, They found themselves within a woody glade; And hoards of glittering wealth around them cast, Which to the Castle unseen hands conveyed; And now that mighty fortalice displayed No signs of ruin, but it stood erect In all its former gorgeousness arrayed, A noble building with a proud aspéct Its enemies to daunt, its inmates to protect. Bright was the morning, when that truth-tried pair Their glad vows plighted to the sacred priest; Brave banners fluttered in the mountain air, Proud music floated, and the marriage feast, By regal bounty and rich gifts increased, Was gaily honoured through the realms around; Nor yet for many days those pleasures ceased, But they in castle, and in cot were found, Making each spirit blithe, each joyous heart rebound. The brave Fidelio in the Holy Land Had won such treasures from the Infidel, All by the might of valour’s potent hand, When in these last wars he had sought to quell His arrogant power; that to his share there fell Such mighty wealth as all his sacrifice Of fervent piety repaid full well, Redeeming back his lands; mid gay surprise To twice endow Lenore, to him the noblest prize! Rich were the hours of their unfolding love, And sweeter still the time of plighted vows, But richer, sweeter far than these above, Their wedded life, when every hour arose Some new and deep affection to disclose; Some fond remembrance, some delighted thought To link their hearts. Oft in this hushed repose Of mutual confidence their feelings caught The poet’s sacred fire, and thus in songs were wrought— Canzonet. How sweet, how delightful it is to remember Our first happy days when affection began, And Love, the gay truant, the roguish dissembler, Seemed sporting as lightly as spring breezes fan. But soon that designer in strong finks had caught us, And smiled at our bondage ere we were aware Of the pleasing deception, the mischief he wrought us, In mingling together rich joy and deep care. Then oft on our absence what sadness awaited, What hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, In varied succession, with thrill unabated, Till calmed by our meeting to gladness again. But sweetest that season, when young Love had yielded To Hymen’s rich keeping his strength and his power, And the god on our passion smiled gaily, and sealed it In bonds of endurance to life’s latest hour. Since then have we known the bright pleasures of living, That purest delight of heart beating with heart; When thoughts and affections, deep feelings, emotions In varied succession high rapture impart. Of all the rich boons that to mortals are given, With wreaths of pure pleasure their brows to entwine; Ah! none can be dearer, more breathing of heaven Than the joy of true love in “for ever I’m thine!” Here will we leave this soul-devoted pair, Their wedded days in happiness to spend; Nor bid again to vanish into air Visions and fancies that the muse hath penned; But let their brightness with our spirits blend And their clear moral elevate the heart. For now ’tis time this votive song had end, So poor in thought and music—pray impart Due pardon to my lyre that ill hath done its part! When she had ceased, each heart around confessed She owned poetic powers, and that to her It was a labour of devoted love To weave the rhythm of the poet’s song, And frame his numbered melody. An ear, By close acquaintance with the lofty tones And modulations of the noble verse Of our great bards, may soon acquire the power And skill to versify; and likewise thought May be illumed by their poetic light, Until it shine with lustre, and give forth A seeming inbred poesy. The bard, The true and native bard, does more than this; There is within him a far deeper fount Of innate feeling; and his radiant mind Shines not with light reflected, but gives forth, When warmed by passions burning in his heart, Its own clear coruscations; like those stars Which flash across the sky, so swift and bright, We wonder whence they came. And so with her Was thought creative, and gave mystic birth To things and beings, lifeless hitherto. Now all are waiting for the last regale Which is to crown the whole, and bring to end This contest of sweet verse. A mother’s voice Would give it utterance, a mother’s heart Was its warm birth-place; and each one presaged A song that breathed affection. Oh how calm, How sweet she looked, amidst that family, Her mild cheek beaming with maternal love: How simple and how fair! her very dress, So plain and neat, to her appearance gave A saint-like aspect—not the gloomy saint Of ghostly superstition—but the true, The real, the bright, the one whose cheerful heart Adores the love of Heaven, and lets its love Flow freely o’er on all. And there she sat Close by the fire-side, in the place assigned To venerated guests. Yet none would take That antique chair, but with a general voice Awarded it to her; and said the joys And innocent pastimes could not be commenced Till she consented to retain that seat As her’s alone. And reverent she looked, And well she graced it, as the firelight played On her pure countenance, and silver hair Whose thin braids peeped beneath a seemly cap Of snowy whiteness. Such a holy calm Suffused her features, as can spring alone From peace of heart within. Her soul had known Dark trials on the earth, but they had wrought To purify and strengthen, till her faith Was bright and cheerful, and her hope serene. She now with retrospective eye beheld That Goodness was in all, and hence her life Was bright and beautiful, as golden skies That usher in the calm repose of night. Before attempting to impart her verse According to old promise, with a voice Of winning modesty she softly said She was no poetess, but merely brought Some thoughts and feelings from a mother’s heart In simple language rendered. She rejoiced With soul-felt gladness to behold around So many loving friends; and further still To see her sons and daughters glad and gay With native cheerfulness, and strong in health. For this her heart was thankful. But her ear— And whose is quicker than a mother’s ear— Had missed the gentle tones of one sweet voice From that glad Hall, which but two years ago, On the same festive night, with accents soft Mixed in gay concert there. She knew that none Had ’ere forgot her Edith, but that all Bore her in loved remembrance; and some thoughts Of sacred elevation well became The time and season; and she therefore brought Some simple lines in memory of her, As fittest tribute from a mother’s breast— A song she best could frame. With few words more Of preface, or apology she read— An Elegy on Edith. Place o’er her tomb a simple cross, The emblem of Redemptive love, To bid us hope, amidst our loss, And trace her flight to realms above. She lies not there—the feeble frame Alone reposes ’neath the sod; But her bright soul, that vital flame Now shines before the throne of God. Her eye so dark, will glance no more, Her raven hair in ringlets wave; The music of her voice is o’er, And her light step is in the grave. No more will mortal eye behold That form so lovely, soft, and fair; Now blending with the earth’s damp mould, Or scattered through the realms of air. Her tears are dried, but she hath left To us a legacy of tears; To be of her sweet love bereft Must dim the eye through future years! But ah! much deeper grief will wring And anguish tear that mother’s breast, Where she in infancy did cling And slumbered in a holy rest. But I forbear—and seek to calm All earthly grief with heavenly hope, And aided by its healing balm Give not my hidden sorrow scope. Then let us raise our thoughts on high, And trace her spirit’s glorious flight From sorrow, pain, and agony To peace and joy in worlds of light. Is she afar? ah! thin the veil That hides the spirit-land from view; Such thoughts instinctively prevail, And my fond heart believes them true. The angels’ is an inner world, Not distant, but in life more high; Though now in fleshly vestments furled To us are kindred spirits nigh. And I can think that when I quit This “earthly house” for glory bright, Me first her angel-smile will greet, And her hand lead through realms of light. Throughout the strain a mournful sadness breathed, Yet mixed with elevated hope, and made All bosoms move in sympathy, and eyes Suffuse themselves with tears. But not of grief And sorrow unalloyed. For there are thoughts So lofty, elevated, pure and sweet, Linked with affection and devotion, warm In contemplating loved ones passed from earth, That the bright tears they strew upon the cheek Are more like dew-drops, ’neath some twilight sky All glad and rosy, than the chilling rain That falls from gloomy clouds. Now sacred thought Was kindled in each breast, and musings calm Which suited well the season and the hour; Then all spoke of retiring, for the time When the first star that shewed its feeble light, Whilst day was darkening, in the furthest east, Should have attained its highest point in heaven Had come, but oh how swiftly! Happy hours And peaceful had been spent, and every heart Was filled with gladness; and a holier love Warmed every bosom, such sweet fellowship Had reigned triumphant there. With cheerful looks And grateful, farewell greetings for the night To host and hostess, each delighted guest Went to the room warm hospitality Had set apart for him; yet with the hope, The glad and confident hope that day would bring— And many days succeeding—such pure joys And pleasures innocent, as o’er his heart Had softly flowed amid the recent hours Of social glee. The antique hall was soon By its gay crowd deserted. On the hearth The giant yule-log, lessened to a stick, Burnt with a crimson glow, but through a veil Of thin white wavering ash. The warmth it gave Is now diminished, and the keen frost-air Pierces the lonely room. Farewell old scene Of oft-remembered joys—to thee, good night! And now withdrawn to solitude, I may Let thought make free excursions, and review The recent hours of pleasure. There are times When we think inwardly, that is more deep Within our being, so that images Distinct and palpable, are scarcely seen To flit before the mental eye; yet thought Rolls on in fulness, like a mountain stream Deep, sweeping, vast, but ’neath the clouds of night Silent and unrevealed. Such most is felt When many persons, actions, words, and things Have passed before us quickly; then they crowd The mind too fully, to let each stand out In individual being; but they all Are lodged within the memory, and come forth So fresh and vital, during future days, And oft so unexpectedly, we start To see them rise again as from the grave. Oh wondrous is our being! every thing That e’er hath passed before us: every thought That flitted cloud-like o’er our realm of mind; And every feeling that hath urged the heart, E’en with a slight vibration, seems to leave A certain impress stamped upon the soul As with a seal eternal: sendeth forth A living substance, from the which is built Our being and identity; conjoins By mystic sympathies, and secret links, Our spirits unto others. Little knows Philosophy, though brightly on advance, About the inner world, the world of mind. The earth’s deep crust she pierced hath, and made Mankind astonished at its boundless age; Her outstretched hand has spanned the wilds of space, And shewn the distance infinite of stars; Her hawk-like glance hath downward looked, and seen Whole worlds of vital being in dim grains As small as summer dust. High are these truths, And mighty and ennobling; but still more And greater have to come, when she hath searched The world of matter more, till its known laws, And comprehended principles have given A greater strength, and more divining power To pierce far deeper mysteries, and scan The inner world of spirit. Newton learnt The law that binds the universe in one From a mere apple’s fall. If sages pore As thoughtfully on mind, may they not bring Some hidden things to light, that may reveal Great laws and simple, that shall elevate All science far beyond its present flight, Though eagle-like its wing now seems to reach The sun of Truth, so loftily it soars. How warm and pleasant is this curtained room Assigned for night’s repose. The cheerful fire, With its bright tongues of flame, illuminates The walls with fitful gleams, and ruddier light Than issues from the lamp. ’Twere sweet to sit And muse for some hours longer, but the night Is far advanced, and though the stillness round Invites to contemplation, yet the time And prudence too forbids. Before I give Myself to slumber let me draw aside The heavy curtain, o’er the window hung, Excluding cold and wind; and thence look forth Upon the landscape to behold the scene Arrayed in winter’s garb. Oh gorgeous sight, Unutterably grand! The morn was black And dark and dismal; through the middle day The storm’s white burden was cast down to earth With strange rapidity; and now the night Shines bright and glorious, beautiful and fair! Far o’er the head, so lofty that the eye Can scarce rise up to view her, glows the moon With keen intensity of silver light, And from her heavenly altitude pours down Such floods of radiance on the snow-clad earth As fills the heart with rapture. Scarce a star Can shew its beam amid the purple sky So rich her bright rays spread. The frosty air, Sharp, keen, and subtle, hath a delicate haze That beautifies all objects, giving them A softer aspect, a more lovely hue, A spirit-like appearance. On the trees, Leafless and verdureless, a foliage lies Of splendid whiteness. A strange stillness holds Their forms gigantic, and their stretching boughs, As if they slumbered in the midnight air. Short shadows cast they on the even ground, Night’s silver regent hath her throne so nigh The summit of heaven’s arch. Along the lawn How softly spreads the radiant plain of snow, More smooth and level than a temple floor Of alabaster framed. O’er all the beds And borders ranged for flowers, no smaller shrub Or plant can shew a branch; but buried deep Beneath a downy burden, mark their tombs By hemispheres of white. When looking far Across the landscape, every object gleams As it recedes by distance, more refined, More unsubstantial, till the veiling mist, Long ere the eye can reach th’ horizon’s bound, In softened beauty, blends the earth with heaven. Far to the left, some cottage roofs appear, Where lies the village, rearing chimneys tall, Now smokeless in the moonlight. Nigh the wood Which swells in highest grandeur, o’er the hill That rises to the westward, stands the church All pure and peaceful in the holy light. On its embattled tower the moonbeams fall, And seem to hallow it, so fair and calm It gleams within them. From its summit shoots The tall and taper spire, and high o’ertops The loftiest trees around, and stands alone Amid the ether, whilst its form sublime With emblematic finger points to heaven! When morn arises, from that ancient tower An anthem-peal will ring, a music rich And pregnant with deep thoughts. For centuries The selfsame tones have burst upon the air And made it thrill with harmony. It fell On ears that listen on this earth no more, And when we hear it, it will be a link Uniting us with them. Oh! mystical And wonderful is sound. A single note May call our past life up, and make it live All vivid in the present. Every thing Has its own voice, its sound. As once I passed— Not having passed it for a length of years— An old park-gate in manhood, which I oft Had entered when a boy, the simple click Of its loud latch, was recognised again In one brief moment, and it brought to sight All those companions who, in school-boy days, Had there surrounded me; and heavy thoughts Pressed on my spirit, for I knew that some Were carried to the grave; and some were gone I knew not whither; and the most, perhaps, I should behold no more! Then what deep thoughts, What thoughts of piety should Christmas bells Awake within the soul! Their mighty tones Teem with the memories of two thousand years Or nigh thereto. What wonderful events Since then have happened, how the world hath changed, And man hath been exalted, since the Words Divine of Christ were mingled with his lore! And who is he? “Emanuel, God with us!” O mighty name and nature, on his arm “The government shall rest!” In him we see Jehovah manifest! To us “a child Is born, a son is given,” and his name Is “Wonderful!” Oh wonderful indeed That he who ’habiteth eternity Should stand revealed in time; that he who dwells Far o’er the heavens, should yet descend to earth; That He, enthroned in “unapproached light” Should visit this world’s darkness! Many names And titles glorious, hath the Son of God, In whom we see the Father, one with Him So true and absolute, whoso beholds The Son beholds the Father. Search the Word And see if these things be so; let it tell The truth in its own language. “In Him dwells The fullness of the Godhead bodily.” He is “The true God and Eternal life.” In flesh Christ came, and he “is over all God blest For evermore.” Still further it reveals “God was in Christ,” and “reconciling” there “The world unto himself.” Jehovah says Times oft repeated in the elder Word He is the Saviour, and none else but He; He is Redeemer, and he will not give His glory to another. We should hold Exalted notions of that Saviour who Was born to David, and is “Christ the Lord.” Whom prophecy hath named “the Mighty God, The everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” What mighty words, and wonderful are these To waken thought within the humble mind And make it strive to apprehend and know The mystery sublime. But comprehend It never can, such lies not in the power Of finite mind, its feeble grasp can ne’er Include infinity. Then let us pause And ponder deeply, for the truth is not More difficult to hold, or to believe, Than that creation at the first sprang forth Beneath the fiat of Almighty Will, And finitude was born, and time began! Ring out ye bells! and with glad notes proclaim The glorious advent of the Prince of Peace. And let your melodies resound aloud Till every heart with pious joy is filled! Princes of war have desolated earth And ravaged nations, cities, homes, and hearths, Till men cried out in misery, and made The vaulted heaven re-echo to their cries. But wars shall cease, and men shall beat at length Their swords to ploughshares; and all peaceful arts Shall flourish on the earth. Then Truth shall shine With her own cheerful radiant light, and bless The kingdoms of the World, and Goodness dwell Enthroned in every heart. Then life shall run In one pure current, as a crystal stream, And every deed in excellence shall shine Like stars of heaven. A bond of holy love Shall make a glorious brotherhood of man, And heaven-descended charity shall link The nations into one. Then holy joy Shall elevate each heart, the song of praise Burst gladly from each lip, and men shall lift Their voice in anthems, whose ascending notes Shall fill the skies with harmony sublime. Oh! that the bright and happy hour were come When earth exulting shall behold the reign Of Christ the great Messiah! Once he came, In deep humility, to taste of death, In weakness and in weariness; but soon As prophecy foretells, he shall appear Revealed to men, in majesty and might. In spirit and in power, to build his church, His kingdom, on the earth, and stablish it In peace profound, in holiness secure, In truth unshaken, happiness supreme And rich with glory that shall know no end! Then shall Jerusalem lift up her voice In songs of gladness, when she is arrayed In garments fair of righteousness; her head Encrowned with wisdom’s sparkling diadem, And she rejoiced o’er as a beauteous bride By Him who framed her. Then her sun no more Shall set in darkness, or her moon withdraw, But God shall be her everlasting light, Her walls Salvation, her wide portals Praise, And her deep mourning cease for evermore! My meditations have ascended high, Yet are they fitting to the time; it brings Unnumbered thoughts like these! The human soul Created in God’s image seems to share In His infinity. Evolving thought, For ever growing, can within it dwell, And oft ascending and ascending still To higher points of elevated Truth, View things around it with extended glance, And with more god-like insight. What can fill Its vast capacity, or quench the thirst It bears for knowledge. It was born to rise For ever upward into brighter light! Lift high the banner of “Excelsior.” On! on! the watchword! Let us search for Truth With steadfast heart, and holy trust in God, Then never can we fail! Where shall we find The thing we look for? In the musty tomes Of darkening ages, in the harsh decrees Of priests king-ruling, in the twilight dim That settles on the past! Ah! no, not there Look to the future, to the morning light Appearing in the east! Three books are writ, Three books divine; their pages rightly conned Will blend their full triunity of Truth In one bright blaze of wisdom. Pierce within, And read the volume there, and it will tell Of something higher than the world around, More living, more substantial; look abroad, O’er the vast universe of worlds and suns, That border on infinitude; then turn Another page, and read inscribed thereon, A like infinitude, within the small And tiny measurements of living grains And vital atoms, all disposed by laws Sublime in their simplicity, that bind The great and little in one mighty whole. Lessons like these will fit the mind to see That in a written book, indeed divine, A like infinitude of Truth must dwell Concealed within the letter. Human minds That have enlodged themselves in books, leave there A record of their greatness. Learned men Have conned the documents, that sages writ, With care unceasing, and at last confessed They had not reached the ultimate of thought Embodied in them. What must be the depths, The vast profundities of pages penned From perfect inspiration? Christ hath said Flesh profits nothing, but the words I speak Are spirit and are life. The letter kills, The spirit giveth life, hath Paul announced. How shall we pierce this body to let forth The spirit of pure truth. From whence attain The “key of knowledge” to unlock the stores Of hidden wisdom in the word divine. The promise saith that brighter light shall come, And many hearts now need it! Thought, with them, Hath been enlarged by pure philosophy, From nature’s pregnant book. They yearn to see Its perfect harmony with truth divine, And find all streamlets from the Fount of Truth Blend in one lucid river. Let us wait In patience and humility the time Of this grand consummation! Let us up To the high mountain tops, from thence to watch The dawning sunlight of earth’s brighter day. Such day shall come, though it hath tarred long, And yet may tarry, for the certain harp Of sacred prophecy hath oft foretold Its glorious advent—let us watch, and wait! It is full time that I should now arrest Thought’s current in the midst. Though on a theme So full and teeming, it might swiftly run Its rapid course for ever. O’er the earth The cold increases, and the bitter frost Draws flowers upon each pane. I must retire From this unsullied prospect, fair and calm And eminently beautiful. The fire Burns low within the grate, and embers lie In darkness on the hearth, that but of late Were red and glowing. In the shade of sleep, And night’s oblivion, I must seek to quench The fire of thought, and for awhile forego A life of consciousness. Yet with a hope Of sweet refreshment, and with strength renewed, To spring up cheerful when the morning sun Makes bright the winter landscape, and enjoy That intellectual pleasure, pure delight, And social intercourse, that ever form The banquet rich of Christmas at the Hall!