Poems by John Harris

Poems by John Harris
The Mine 

 
A mine spread out its vast machinery.
Here engines with their huts and smoky stacks,
Cranks, wheels, and rods, boilers and hissing steam,
Pressed up the water from the depths below.
Here fire-whims ran till almost out of breath,
And chains cried sharply, strained with fiery force.
Here blacksmiths hammered by the sooty forge,
And there a crusher crashed the copper ore.
Here girls were cobbing under roofs of straw,
And there were giggers at the oaken hutch.
Here a man-engine glided up and down,
A blessing and a boon to mining men:
And near the spot, where many years before,
Turned round and round the rude old water wheel,
A huge fire-stamps was working evermore,
And slimy boys were swarming at the trunks.
The noisy lander by the trap-door bawled
With pincers in his hand; and troops of maids
With heavy hammers brake the mineral stones.
The cart-man cried, and shook his broken whip;
And on the steps of the account-house stood
The active agent, with his eye on all.
  
Below were caverns grim with greedy gloom,
And levels drunk with darkness; chambers huge
Where Fear sat silent, and the mineral-sprite
For ever chanted his bewitching song;
Shafts deep and dreadful, looking darkest things
And seeming almost running down to doom;
Rock under foot, rock standing on each side;
Rock cold and gloomy, frowning overhead;
Before; behind, at every angle, rock.
Here blazed a vein of precious copper ore,
Where lean men laboured with a zeal for fame,
With face and hands and vesture black as night,
And down their sides the perspiration ran
In steaming eddies, sickening to behold.
But they complained not, digging day and night,
And morn and eve, with lays upon their lips.
Here yawned a tin-cell like a cliff of crags,
Here Danger lurked among the groaning rocks,
And oftimes moaned in darkness. All the air
Was black with sulphur and burning up the blood.
A nameless mystery seemed to fill the void,
And wings all pitchy flapped among the flints,
And eyes that saw not sparkled min the spars.
Yet here men worked, on stages hung in ropes,
With drills and hammers blasting the rude earth,
Which fell with such a crash that he who heard
Cried, “Jesu, save the miner!” Here were the ends
Cut through hard marble by the miners’ skill,
And winzes, stopes and rizes: pitches here,
Where worked the heroic, princely tributer,
This month for nothing, next for fifty pounds.
Here lodes ran wide, and there so very small
That scarce a pick-point could be pressed between;
Here making walls as smooth as polished steel,
And there as craggy as a rended hill.
  
And out of sparry vagues the water oozed,
Staining the rock with mineral, so that oft
It led the labourer to a house of gems.
Across the mine a hollow cross-course ran
From north to south, an omen of much good;
And tin lay heaped on stulls and level-plots;
And in each nook a tallow taper flared,
Where pale men wasted with exhaustion huge.
Here holes exploded, and there mallets rang,
And rocks fell crashing, lifting the stiff hair
From time-worn brows, and noisy buckets roared
In echoing shafts; and through this gulf of gloom
A hollow murmur rushed for evermore.





Carn Brea 1863 

THE Poem opens with an Allusion to bright Gems and noble Minds often shining amid Rubbish and Barrenness—Song of the Moorland Maiden—The Author's Love of Nature—His County — His Copy-Book—The Horsemen—Carn Brea—Rain Storm—Cottage on a Rock—Burial of a Christian—Sabbath Evening Bells—The Honeysuckle—Reverie—The Cottage Dame—Her Cornish Courtesy—The simple Meal—The Widow's Story—Her Trials—Her Miner Tributer Husband—His Boy and he descending into the Mine—Perseverence—Bright Fancy—Disappointment—His stricken Household—Distraining for Rent—His Prayer—The mystic Voice—True Benevolence illustrated in the Sailor —Soldier—Orphan—Stranger—Pilgrim—Damsel—Labourer—A quiet Fishing Town—Prudence Worth—Her Charity reaching the Fisherman—Farmer—Artisan—The Widow—The Afflicted—The Miner's Journey—His Conversation with Nature and God—His simple Tale—The Lady's Kindness—His Promise.



THE fairest flowers, the richest veins of ore,
The brightest gems, the costliest specimens,
The grandest, greatest, meekest, noblest minds,
Are often shining in this darksome world
Where least expected, and their glory's beams
Remain unnoticed in the general glare.
How many an honest man in homely weeds,
Whose name is odour in his little sphere,
Dwelling in nook obscure by sea or stream,
Or hawthorn lane, or carn, or rushy moor,
On mountain side, or in the listening vale,
Or where the city darkens, many-tongued,
Or in the hamlet's hollow, where the rill
Trickles soft-singing over slippery stones,
Beside the mine, or on the healthy farm,—
How many are there living thus obscure,
Scarce known on earth, but much esteem'd in heaven,
The gems of Adam's race, whose royal names
Are deep engraven in the Book of Life!
So have I heard from some low cottage porch,
Reed-wrapp'd and woodbined over like a bower,
With lattice low, and rude walls, boulder-built,
Sweet-scented mid the mineral of the mine,
What time the milk-maid brush'd the early dews,
A gentle carol warbled from the lips
Of moorland maiden, rarely caught by kings. 
Some court "great gluts of people," houses, towns,
And cities drunk with riot; but, for me,
I woo the reedy meadow and the fen,
Where rushes rustle, or the rock where climbs
The shining ivy, and the wild bird sings.
Quaint do ye call me, that I love such scenes,
For evermore with Nature? Be it so;
I am her child, and she my mother is;
And so you must not blame me. Up the hill,
And down the vale, and through the breezy carn,
By the sea-shore, and on the ragged ridge,
I read her legends, living lays of love.
My own old county is my copy-book,
From which I cull my pictures; and its leaves
Are like her mines, exhaustless in their worth.
My hero-miner is no gilt ideal,
Pull'd in to make a poem, but a man
Who really lived, and acted, and expired;
A noble man, a man to imitate.
But, see, two riders and their foaming steeds
Burst from the coppice like a thought of flame. 
Still Onward dash'd the horsemen. Through the mist
Loom'd the grey granite crags and castle-top
Of mineral-mark'd Carn Brea, whose awful head
Was drench'd with rain, and pitted with the storm.
The rabbit cower'd within its mossy cell,
The wild bird sat in silence 'neath the ledge.
With half-shut eye, and beak beneath its wing,
And talons sunk into the sodden mould,
As march'd the winds across the horrid wild,
Hurling the rain-drops on the groaning world.
Still onward dash'd the horsemen. Bank and brier,
And deep morass, and ditch with water drown'd,
And lanes where ruts yawn'd hungry, and dark pits,
Whose open months led into treacherous mines,
And rivers wildly tumbling o'er their brims,
And ruins green with age, or grey with years,
And bogs with torture boiling,—all were pass'd,
And in a cottage clinging to a rock,
Where sat a lonely dame in linen weeds,
They turn'd at last for shelter, while their steeds
Smoked in an outhouse 'neath a roof of straw. 
A Christian had been buried, one whose gifts
Were great in secret, whose heart-prayers were made
More in the closet than the crowded church;
Who spoke with pity to the lowest hind,
And wiped the tear from Sorrow's soften'd face;
Who call'd the children round him when the day
Expired in purple o'er the forest falls,
And told them tales, and fed upon their smiles,
Laugh'd with their laugh, and shouted with their shout,
Mingling the lays of age with early life;
Then led them far beyond the reefs of time.
He stood between the oppressor and oppress'd,
Healing the wounds which cruelty had made.
He sought the bed of sickness, and, when found,
Refresh'd the sufferer with his purse and prayer.
With liberal hands he wrought most liberal things.
The widow found in him a constant friend.
The wandering orphan, shivering through the world,
Ne'er stopp'd in vain before the good man's gate.
His bounty, like the sky-lark's joyous song,
Gladden'd the hearts of all within its range.
He stoop'd to wretchedness, and, with kind words
And kinder deeds, lighten'd the grey-hair'd man.
Familiar was he with Dame Nature's laws,
Nor seal'd her book of wonders; but his soul
Held endless converse with the' Eternal Word.
Messiah was his pattern. Morn and eve,
And busy noontide, found him toiling on
In the Redeemer's footprints. By his life
He preach'd the Saviour to the multitude,
And cried to all, "Walk in the narrow way."
He stood among his fellows like a tree,
Of foliage rare and verdure beautiful,
Whose summer greenness never knew decay. 
The Sabbath bells are ringing, vale and wood,
And rock, and ridge, and slope with mosses dress'd,
Seem hung with echoes; wandering voices flow
Upon the spirit, lulling it to peace,
And gentle visions fill the mind with heaven.
Beneath this honeysuckle let me sit
In quiet meditation. As for man,
His days are swifter than the eagle's wing,
Or river rushing down the steepest crag.
To-day he rises in his summer prime,
To-morrow bends along the vale of age.
How near the days of happy childhood seem,
Though forty winters block them up with clouds!
I stretch my arms forth with a gush of joy,
And seem to touch my daisy-gathering hours.
Alas! alas! old Time hath hurried on,
And left them far behind the farthest hills,
With king-cups sparkling over all the land:
And now I battle with the storms of life.
But there is peace at last for all our woe,
And comfort for thc weary, if we trust
The kind and loving Saviour, in the home
Of Eden-music higher than the stars. 
Peal on, ye gentle preachers. Day is done,
And Eve steals down the vale in garments grey:
I ponder in her shadows. One sweet spot
Is ever with me, as your echoes float
Above the tree-tops, like the sweep of wings.
A little grave it is among the hills,
Beside a Gothic chapel, and I seem
To hear the tread of those who haste to prayer,
Through primrose lanes, although I'm far away.
Here have I long desired to sleep at last,
When life, with all its cares, is at an end,
Among the honest, pious villagers,
Just at the foot of my old granite mount;
That when the cottager, his day's work done,
Sits in the dusk with baby on his knee,
What time the first few tapers gild the pane,
He, listening to the river at his gate,
May think of him who caroll'd through his moors. 
Sweet honeysuckle! let me linger here,
Among thy fragrance issued in a shower.
How blissful thus to muse where Nature pours
Her incense forth in hollows watch'd with hills,
And roof'd with stars, and floor'd with living flowers!
0 what a temple is the leafy wood,
The rude old carn, the ocean's solemn shore,
The valley's bosom, and the meadow's lap!
I love thee, Nature, with a fire unfeign'd,
And ever at thy feet thy child would sit
In pleasant meditation, where the eye
Of selfish man beholds not my retreat,
In storm or calm, when heaven is blue or black,
Learning thy lore, and treasuring up thy truth.
Could I have had my choice, my home would be
Among the rocks and rivers, fens and ferns,
From human hives as lonely as a crag.
Here, hermit-like, I'd pass away my hours,
Drinking at Nature's fountain, undisturb'd
By trump or tumult, writing simple song,
With wife and bonny bairns, until life's last
Long evening shadow fell upon the plain.
But Providence has given me other work,
And other wonders, and I bless His name.
Now to our story mid the spreading thyme. 
The dame heap'd up the fuel on the hearth,
Which crack'd a joyous carol, while the blast
Drove the rude rain-drops shrieking on the thatch,
And hissing on the casement. Then she spoke,
With much of love and Cornish courtesy.
"I give you greeting to my lowly home,
Ye storm-caught strangers. Nearer draw you now
My fir-wood fire, and dry your weltering weeds.
I have a turf-baked cake upon the shelf,
And milk and cream upon the pantry board:
Pray let me fetch them for you." So she placed
Before her guests these simple elements.
They ate, and drank, and chatted each with each,
Giving their hostess space to speak between. 
She told of trials past, and tempests near;
Of storms blown over, and of gales to come;
Of blank bereavement, like the rush of war;
Of kindred lost, and relatives betray'd;
Of beauty blighted in her summer morn;
Of tear-drops shed upon the infant's grave;
Of Hunger sitting with the household flowers,
As still as Death, amid the charnel dews;
Of sickness entering with its fever-face,
And laying low a loving family;
Of harvest-time, when earth was wet with rain;
Of noise and show acquiring shouts of praise,
And meekness pining in its empty shed;
Of Horror, stalking through the heavy night;
Of Desolation, coming like the sea,
With blacken'd breakers, bearing with a roar
The hopes of man upon the rocks of doom.
But more than all were they intent to hear
How first she walk'd the way of widowhood. 
Her husband was a miner, toiling where
The light of morning never found its way,
Or star-beam gilt the gloom; where night remain'd,
Blacker than Boreas when he hides the hills,
And shrouds the valleys with his dismal wings.
His eldest boy strove with him, twelve springs old;
A bud in shade, a blossom in the dark.
And they were wont the ladders to descend,
Tied in a rope. At one end was his sire
Going down before, and after him the lad
Came clinging to the staves. Around their waists
The cord was fasten'd; so that, if the child
Fell, he might save him as he downward dropp'd,
And bring him to his mother and his home.
He was a tributer; a man who work'd
On speculation, digging through the ground
In search of ore, the sweetener of his toil.
If found, he flourish'd; if not found, he fell;
Nor fell alone, fell wife and family. 
But much of misery was he doom'd to feel.
Long months of disappointment, nights of woe,
And days of strife, and mental agony:
He dug, and found not; dug and dug again,
Again to be the loser—all was dead.
He ventured till his clothes were heavy rags,
And the last shilling glided from his purse.
Yet hope sang with him in the sulphur-rifts,
And pictured bright to-morrows. And when green
Tinctured the rock, or copper stain'd the stone,
In fancy he beheld his stores increase,
His pile of mineral levell'd on the floors.
His debts discharged, his wife in new attire,
His household songsters warmly clothed and fed,
His new home rising by the running brook,
His farm enclosed, his pretty meadows till'd,
Poultry and pigs rejoicing in the stye,
And Molly 'neath the hawthorn by the gate
Chewing her cud in quiet. So he dug,
With eyes the home of tears, and heart in heaven:
But when men elbow'd him along the street,
And frown'd upon him in his patch'd-up vest,
And cries of hunger echoed in his home,
His heart sank in him, and the angel Hope
For a short season travell'd from his side. 
One weary day he labour'd in the smoke,
Pale with prostration, while vex'd Fortune's wheel
Turn'd round and round in utter emptiness.
He left his working-place a clouded man,
And in his white-wash'd home among the stacks
A wail o'ercame him such as Misery yells
Among the famish'd in her shatter'd shed.
His darling children, cold and hunger-pale,
Cower'd in his hovel, crying much for food.
On a small stool, scour'd white with straw and sand,
His eldest boy bent, broken in the bud,
Weeping aloud with redness in his eyes.
A little girl sat sobbing on her chair,
With hunger-marks upon her lovely cheek.
In the wood-cradle baby found a voice,
Thrusting his faded hands in empty air.
The mother's face, beneath her apron hid,
Appear'd a sky of drops; while through the gloom
Words wander'd woful, "Father, give us bread." 
Meanwhile the moon's face blush'd behind a cloud;
Strange foot-falls echoed on the threshold-stone;
The door was rudely open'd; when at once
Two men rush'd in, with wildness in their looks,—
The landlord and a towering officer,
Who, spite of tears, and sighs, and hunger-moans,
Took an inventory of their furniture,—
Clock, dresser, table, settle, stools, and chairs,
Bed, bedding, clothes-press, pewter pans and plates,
Old faded pictures, jostled much by time,
The hour-glass, and the cage without the lark,
And other items, such as knives and spoons,
With numerous tin cans shining on the shelf,—
And, scowling on the good man, left his home.
O God of Jacob, succour the distress'd! 
Sleep came at last, and bound them in their tears,
When he, with many arrows in his soul,
Knelt in his chamber, with uplifted voice,
Praying and sobbing, "Father, hear Thy child,
O hear Thy child! Have mercy on a worm!
Yes, I have sinn'd against Thee; with high hands
And outstretch'd arms defied Thy just commands.
Yet, 0, have mercy on me, for the sake
Of Thy dear Son, who tasted death for me.
Give me Thy Holy Spirit, gracious Lord,
To lead me in the path of rectitude,
And fill my erring soul with light Divine.
Thou seest my wasting household: all day long
Have they been pining in my breadless home;
The stamp of famine is upon their face;
Weakness in every limb, mist o'er their eyes.
And untold gnawings shake through all their frame.
Have mercy on us, Father; let our cry
Bring down Thy bounty on our shrouded hearth,
All-gracious Benefactor. Thou art He
Who ever feed'st the raven of the rock,
The wild bird of the wood, and all the forms
Of unseen life that throng this wondrous world;
And Thou hast promised, those that trust in Thee
Shall feel no lack of anything that's good.
O, Father, Father, shield us from the woe
Of wasting hunger; let my little ones,
And her that bare them, speedily be saved
From creeping down to death with feet of bone.
Be merciful, 0 God, to sinners vile;
Open a door of hope, a path of life,
That we may bless and praise Thy mighty name.
But if, by Thy inscrutable decree,
My poor petition may not move Thine heart,
And we all die, Thy righteous will be done."
lie wiped the hot drops from his eyes, and heard
A voice of sweetness, "Go to Widow Worth." 
The shipwreck'd sailor, rescued from the deep
Moaning in mountains round its struggling prey,
And toss'd half-naked on a stranger shore,
Clothed, warm'd, and fed, and guided to his home;
The limb-lopp'd soldier, hunted by the foe,
And hidden with the mercy of the good,
Whose sons and daughters he had sworn to kill,
Until the howl of murder droop'd and fell,
And he in safety reach'd his friends and fire;
The friendless orphan on a winter's night,
Blue with the blast, and crying with the cold,
Snatch'd from his doom, and shelter'd from his fate,
By those who never knew his father's name;
The hungry man, in valleys not his own,
Fed from the table he had never seen;
The thirsty pilgrim, o'er life's burning sands,
Refresh'd with waters from the limpid brook,
A little girl the cheering minister;
A starving labourer, borrowing precious loans
From one whose dwelling tower'd above his own,
Which saved his feeble wife, and feebler ones,
From rushing o'er the rapids of despair;—
These know the worth of true benevolence. 
Within a quiet, pious fishing-town,
Snug in the west, resided Prudence Worth;
A lady famous for her charity,
Both in her native place, and far beyond.
The unsuccessful, striving fisherman,
Who in his little boat went paddling forth,
Singing his hymns, and looking up to heaven
With net, and hook, and bait, to lure his prey,
On the blue fields of ocean wonder-fill'd,
Where the great gull rode kingly, and the winds
Spoke in a language heard not on the shore;
Returning when the moon twined her chaste rays
O'er the white billows breaking on the sand,
With not a single fish for all his pains,
To creep into his shed, distress'd, and sad;
Emptied his sorrows in the widow's ear,
And felt his wants abundantly supplied.
The failing farmer in the western vales,
Craving her bounty, drank it like a stream
Of living waters, healing greedy woe;
The toiling artisan who sigh'd for help,
Found help in her, when other helpers fail'd;
The pale mechanic and the delving hind,
The heart-crush'd struggler sighing on through clouds,
The weeping widow and the orphan slim,
All found in her an angel of relief.
In the sick chamber, and the home of pain,
She sat, like Love, with honey on her lips,
Dispensing bounty with a smile of joy.
Like Him, who left the glory of the heavens
And stoop'd to suffering manhood, walking o'er
This woful world with healing in His heart,
Both for the bodies and the souls of men;
So Widow Prudence pass'd her pilgrimage:
Her goodness, like an odour wafted far,
Had reach'd the honest miner; and he took
His staff in hand to travel to her bower. 
The morning light was wooing the green earth
To wake from slumber, when he kiss'd his babes,
And westward turn'd his face toward the hills,
Whose blue peaks caught the sunshine, while they seem'd
To roll him welcomes from their rocky tongues.
He walk'd along, conversing with his thoughts,
Which rose in mystic phases, many-hued;
Now wing'd with hope, now blank with rayless doubt.
Through long, rude lanes he travell'd, charm'd with birds,
That trill'd sweet measures on the fresh free air;
Or awed with Nature's wonders, mount and main,
And forest high, and river rushing clear,
And carn, where quiet slumber'd, hid in moss;
Or farm, or cottage, peering through the trees,
With apple-blossom laden; and his soul
Discoursed, meanwhile, in silent speech with God. 
He reach'd the lady's residence, and told
His simple story,—how in a dark mine
"Bad speed" pursued him; though he labour'd long,
And toil'd with zest unchanging, nothing came;
And now his goods were all distrain'd for rent,
Which would be sold at once, unless a friend
Would lend him money to escape the blight.
'T was a great trouble which had touch'd his soul,
And so he pray'd she'd help him. "Where's your home?"
Ask'd Mrs. Worth; "pray tell me,—and your friends?
For aught I know, you are a wicked man,
A drunkard or impostor; tell me all." 
"0, Madam, I am neither," he replied;
"But what I say is honest, simple truth.
No bread is in my cupboard, and the cry
Of fainting hunger pierces through my frame.
My neighbours know, but will not heed, my woe.
If you will kindly lend me this small sum,
I promise that, when four short months are flown,
I'll come and pay you, as I hope for heaven."
"How much do you require?" ask'd Widow Worth.
"Three guineas," said the miner; "this would make
The world a glory and my life a joy."
Her heart, unused to anything but love,
Yielded to his entreaty: so she placed
The money in his hand, saying, meanwhile,
"Here, take it, though I never see it more."
And he, o'ercome with gratitude, retired,
Sobbing between his thanks, "I'll come again
In four short moons, and each bright guinea pay."









  

Land's End and  Kynance Cove

Kynance Cove (1855)

The wondrous cliffs are polished with the waves,
And flash and flicker like huge mineral walls,
Their scaly sides are clothed with leafy gold,
And burn with beauty in the light of day.
The sands that lie on this Elysian cove
Are all ring-straked with painted serpentine:
The hollow caves the waves have fretted out
Are dashed with images of fiery hues:
And on the rocks, like beautiful psalm-leaves,
Are odes of music lovely as the light,
Trilled by the sea nymphs in the watery robes.
  
I’m fond of travelling old deserted paths,
Searched by the winds and soft with solitude
Of matchless Nature in her robe of crags,
Or fringed with flowers, or edged with velvet moss;
And shout together, “God hath made us all!” –
Of odorous heaths, that oft inspire my Muse,
And lift me high on Inspiration’s steep;
Of musing lonely by old Ocean’s shore,
And roaming wildly through the fields of thought;
White castles, towers and palaces uprise,
Built with chaste light, and roofed with burning gems,
But starting from my song trance one bright morn,
And turning down yon crooked curious lane,
These fancy-pictures floated in the dark,
As rock on rock uncurtained to my gaze,
And rolled upon my vision like a spell.
  
Hail, fairy-featured, beautiful Kynance!
A loving smile is ever on thy face,
And Beauty revels mid thy gold arcades,
Along thy glittering grottoes tones are heard
Like songs at evening by some distant lake.
Thy coloured crags, on which the sea-birds perch,
Are tuneful with the tread of tiny feet.
 No harsh discordant sound is heard in thee;
And he who journeys through these sculptured creeks,
And gazes on those hills of serpentine,
Where Nature sits upon her chiselled throne,
Smiling benignly in her samphire robes,
Wearing her best, her craggy gem of crowns,
When clustered once more in his loving home,
Will feel a sweetness flowing through his heart,
And more exalted views of Nature’s God.
  
Why seek for beaty in the stranger’s clime,
When Beauty’s state-room is gay Kynance?
Why seek for visions courted by the Muse?
When Kynance opens like a mine of gems?
Why seek for language from the waves’ white lips
When Ocean’s organ fills this pictured Cove with hymns?
Why seek for caverns striped with natural lays,
When they are stained here by the surging sea?
Why seek for islands girdled with the main,
When Kynance holds them in her feathery folds?
So mused I in the sea-damp Drawing-Room,
While through the Bellows rushed a flood of song.



  Lucretia Poems


On the Death of my daughter Lucretia

 

And art thou gone so soon?

And is thy loving gentle spirit fled?

Ah! is my fair, my passing beautiful,

My loved Lucretia numbered with the dead?

Ah! art thou gone so soon?

 

I miss thee, daughter, now,

In the dear nooks of earth we oft have trod

And a strange longing fills my yearning soul

To sleep with thee, and be, like thee, with God!

I miss thee, daughter, now.

 

I miss thee at thy books,

Lisping sweet bible-accents in my ear,

Showing me pictures by the evening lamp,

Beautiful emblems thou didst love so dear:

I miss thee at thy books.

 

I miss thee by the brook,

Where we have wander'd many a summer's day,

And thou wert happy with thy loving sire,

More happy here than at simple play:

I miss thee by the brook.

 

I miss thee in the Reenes,

Where we have hasted in the twilight dim

To wake the echoes of the silent dell,

And mark the glow-worm 'neath the hawthorn's limb:

I miss thee in the Reenes.

 

I miss thee on the Hill,

The dear old hill which we have climb'd so oft;

And O, how very happy we have been

In the still bower of the heathy croft!

I miss thee on the Hill.

 

I miss thee at day's close,

When from my labour I regain my cot,

 And sit down sadly at the supper-board,

Looking for thee, but, ah! I see thee not:

I miss the at day's close.

 

I miss thee everywhere,-

In my small garden, watching the first flower,-

By the clear fountain,- in thy Sunday-class,-

Running to meet me at the evening-hour:

I miss thee everywhere.

 

Farewell my beautiful!

Thy sinless spirit is with Christ above:

Thou hast escaped the evils of the world:

We have a daughter in the meads of love.

Farewell my beautiful!

 

When I and little Jane,

Walk hand in hand along the old hill's way,

Shall we not feel thy cherub-presence, love,

Singing our sad psalms in the twilight grey?

I shall soon go to thee.

 

Companion of the bard,

Mid rocks and trees, and hedges ivy-cross'd!

At morn and eve in Nature's presence-cell

We oft have enter'd with our musings lost,

My child, my harp, and I.

 

How thou didst love the flowers,

The mountain-heather and the buds of Spring,

The brooks and birds, the hush of solutide,

The moon and stars, like some diviner thing,

Beautiful prophetess!

Ah! thou were like a rose,

Dropp'd by an angel on earth's feverish clime,

To bloom full lovely, till December's winds

Blasted thy beauty in its morning prime,

Ere it had half unclosed!

 

Hush, murmering spirit, Hush!

It is the Lord, He only, who hath given:

And he hath taken - blessed be his name!-

The gem, which fell from paradise, to heaven:

I bow and kiss His rod.


 

The Strong Smith by the Sea.’

 

            Worked a strong smith by the sea,

            Chanting thus with bosom bare,

            ‘The sword I change to shining share.’

 

            Heaps of spears in his smithy lay,

            Blades gore-dyed in the fearful fray,

            And the sparks rose high on the morning air

            As the sword was changed to the shining share.

 

            And loud the monster bellows roared,

            Reddening many an ancient sword.

            ‘This is the way,’ sang the strong smith there,

            ‘To change the spear to the shining share.’

 

            The great wind came from the northern moor,

            And shook the walls from roof to floor;

            But that steady smith, in the forge’s glare,

            Still changed the sword to the shining share.

 

            And ever that strong man laboured he,

            Summer and winter beside the sea,

            With heavy hammer and bosom bare,

            Till the swords were changed to the shining share.

                                                                                                               
 










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