A THOUGHT.

What might a single mind may wield,
With Truth for sword, and Faith for shield,
And Hope to lead the way!

Thus all high triumphs are obtain'd;
From evil, good-as God ordain'd
The night before the day.

From "Poems."

THE WATCHER.

The night was dark and fearful,
The blast went wailing by ;-
A Watcher, pale and tearful,
Looked forth with anxious eye;
How wistfully she gazes, —

No gleam of morn is there!
And then her heart upraises
Its agony of prayer!
Within that dwelling lonely,

Where want and darkness reign, Her precious child, her only,

Lay moaning in his pain:

And death alone can free him,-
She feels that this must be:
"But oh! for morn to see him
Smile once again on me!"

A hundred lights are glancing
In yonder mansion fair,
And merry feet are dancing,—

They heed not morning there.
Oh! young and joyous creatures,
One lamp, from out your store,
Would give that poor boy's features
To her fond gaze once more.

The morning sun is shining,-
She heedeth not its ray;
Beside her dead, reclining,

That pale, dead mother lay!
A smile her lip was wreathing,
A smile of hope and love,

As though she still were breathing"There's light for us above!"

THE LIGHT OF HOME.

My son, thou wilt dream the world is fair,
And thy spirit will sigh to roam,
And thou must go;-but never, when there,
Forget the light of Home!

Though pleasures may smile with a ray more bright,
It dazzles to lead astray;

Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night
When treading thy lonely way:-

But the hearth of home has a constant flame,
And pure as vestal fire,-

"T will burn, 't will burn for ever the same

For nature feeds the pyre.

The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed,
And thy hopes may vanish like foam,-
When sails are shivered and compass lost,
Then look to the light of Home!

And there, like a star through midnight cloud,
Thou'lt see the beacon bright;
For never, till shining on thy shroud,

Can be quenched its holy light.

The sun of fame may gild the name
But the heart ne'er felt its ray;
And fashion's smiles that rich ones claim,
Are beams of a wintry day:

How cold and dim those beams would be,
Should Life's poor wanderer come!-
My son, when the world is dark to thee
Then turn to the light of Home.

I SING TO HIM.

I sing to him! I dream he hears
The song he used to love,
And oft that blessed fancy cheers
And bears my thoughts above.
Ye say 't is idle thus to dream-
But why believe it so?
It is the spirit's meteor gleam
To soothe the pang of wo.

Love gives to nature's voice a tone
That true hearts understand, -
The sky, the earth, the forest lone
Are peopled by his wand;
Sweet fancies all our pulses thrill
While gazing on a flower,
And from the gently whisp'ring rill
Is heard the words of power.

I breathe the dear and cherished name,
And long-lost scenes arise;

Life's glowing landscape spreads the same '

The same Hope's kindling skies;

The violet bank, the moss-fringed seat

Beneath the drooping tree,

The clock that chimed the hour to meet,
My buried love, with thee,-

O, these are all before me, when
In fancy's realms I rove;

Why urge me to the world again?

Why say the ties of love,

That death's cold, cruel grasp has riven,

Unite no more below?

I'll sing to him for though in heaven, He surely heeds my woe.

IRON.

"Truth shall spring out of the earth."-Psalm lxxxv. 11.
As, in lonely thought, I pondered,
On the marv'lous things of earth,
And, in fancy's dreaming, wondered
At their beauty, power, and worth,
Came, like words of prayer, the feeling —
Oh! that God would make me know
Through the spirit's clear revealing,
What, of all his works below,

Is to man a boon the greatest,
Brightening on from age to age,
Serving truest, earliest, latest,
Through the world's long pilgrimage.

Soon vast mountains rose before me,
Shaggy, desolate, and lone,

Their scarred heads were threatening o'er me,
Their dark shadows round me thrown;
Then a voice, from out the mountains,
As an earthquake shook the ground,
And like frightened fawns the fountains,
Leaping, fled before the sound;
And the Anak oaks bowed lowly,
Quivering, aspen-like, with fear-
While the deep response came slowly,
Or it must have crushed mine car!
"Iron iron! iron!"-crashing,
Like the battle-axe and shield!
Or the sword on helmet clashing,
Through a bloody battle-field:
"Iron! iron! iron!"-rolling,

Like the far-off cannon's boom;
Or the death-knell, slowly tolling,
Through a dungeon's charnel gloom!
"Iron! iron! iron !"-swinging,
Like the summer winds at play;

Or as chimes of heaven ringing
In the blest Millennial day!
Then the clouds of ancient fable
Cleared away before mine eyes;
Truth could tread a footing stable
O'er the gulf of mysteries!

689

Words, the prophet bards had uttered
Signs, the oracle foretold,

Spells, the weird-like sibyl muttered,
Through the twilight days of old,
Rightly read, beneath the splendour
Shining now on history's page,
All their faithful witness render-
All portend a better age.

Sisyphus, for ever toiling,

Was the type of toiling men, While the stone of power, recoiling,

Crushed them back to earth again! Stern Prometheus, bound and bleeding, Imaged man in mental chain, While the vultures on him feeding, Were the passions' vengeful reign; Still a ray of mercy tarried

On the cloud, a white-winged dove, For this mystic faith had married Vulcan to the Queen of Love! *

Rugged Strength and radiant Beauty-
These were one in nature's plan;
Humble toil and heavenward duty -
These will form the perfect man!
Darkly was this doctrine taught us
By the gods of heathendom;
But the living light was brought us,
When the Gospel morn had come!
How the glorious change, expected,
Could be wrought, was then made free.
Of the carthly, when perfected,

Rugged iron forms the key!

"Truth from out the earth shall flourish,'
This the Word of God makes known-
Thence are harvests men to nourish -
There let iron's power be shown.
Of the swords, from slaughter gory,
Ploughshares forge to break the soil;
Then will Mind attain its glory,

Then will Labour reap the spoilError cease the soul to wilder,

Crime be checked by simple good, As the little coral builder

Forces back the furious flood.

While our faith in good grows stronger,
Means of greater good increase;
Iron, slave of war no longer,

Leads the onward march of peace;
Still new modes of service finding,
Ocean, earth, and air, it moves,
And the distant nations binding,
Like the kindred tie it proves;
With its Atlas-shoulder sharing
Loads of human toil and care
On its wing of lightning bearing

Thought's sweet mission through the air!

As the rivers, farthest flowing,

In the highest hills have birth;
As the banyan, broadest growing,
Oftenest bows its head to earth-
So the noblest minds press onward,
Channels far of good to trace;
So the largest hearts bend downward,
Circling all the human race;
Thus, by iron's aid, pursuing

Through the earth their plans of love,
Men our Father's will are doing,
Here as angels do above!

* This poem was written in 1845, and published in January, 1846. I name this because in 1848, Lord Morpethhow the Earl of Carlisle in a speech he made at Sheffield, England, introduced this idea of Vulcan and Venus representing strength and beauty in a very happy manner. I do not know that he was indebted to my poem; but as the thoughts were similar, and as I might be accused of imitation, I here give the date of "Iron." One merit I may justly claim for my poems-a negative one- - they are not imitations nor versifications of the thoughts of others.

THE POWER OF MUSIC.

When Orpheus struck his burning lyre.
Mute nature caught creative fire.—
Rough stones obeyed the swelling sound,
In mystic measure moved aroun,
Till, polished by the harmony,

The finished structure, grand and free,
Rose like the star that heralds day,
To show Man's Mind its work and way'

The sword may sever slavery's chain —
The strong arm crush the tyrant's reign,
As lightning from the lurid sky

Shatters and scathes the Temple high;
But 'tis the sweet-voiced Spring that calis
The ivy o'er the broken walls,

And gently swaying in the blasts,
The fragile plant the Pile outlasts.

And thus the power of Music's breath
Re-clothes the wastes of Time and Death
The "blind old man" begins his strain,
And Greece is "living Greece" again!
The Songs that flowed on Zion's Hill
Are chanted in God's Temples still.
And to the eye of faith unfold
The glories of His House of old

Each Prophet-Bard of ancient days
Still breathes for us his lofty lays;
The words that bear a mission high,
If Music-hallowed, never die; --
And thus Religion, Law and Art,
Sow their choice seeds in every heart;
From age to age the Song flows on,
And blends fresh life with glories gone.

A mystery this-but who can see
The soft south wind that sways the tree
And warms its vital flood to flow,
And wakes its folded buds to blow ?—
Even thus the power of Music, felt,
The soul is swayed, the heart will melt,
Till Love and Hope so bless the Hours,
Life's dial-plate is marked by flowers.

And every Temple Art has reared

Some truth has taught, some error clearea, But only Music's voice leads on

When Time is o'er and Heaven is won;

The Angel-Art to mortals taught,

The golden chord of human thought,

When pure and tuned by Faith and Love, Linked with the golden harps above!

IT SNOWS.

"It snows!" cries the School-boy-hurrah!" and his shou

Is ringing through parlour and hall,

While swift, as the wing of a swallow, he's out

And his playmates have answered his call:

It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy,—
Proud wealth has no pleasures, I trow,

Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy,
As he gathers his treasures of snow;

Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs,
While health, and the riches of Nature, are theirs.

"It snows!" sighs the Imbecile-"Ah!" and his breath
Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight;
While from the pale aspect of Nature in death,
He turns to the blaze of his grate:
And nearer, and nearer, his soft-cushioned chair
Is wheeled tow'rds the life-giving flame —
He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air,
Lest it wither his delicate frame:
Oh! small is the pleasure existence can give,
When the fear we shall die only proves that we live!

"It snows!" cries the Traveller-"Ho!" and the word
Has quickened his steed's lagging pace;
The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard —
Unfelt the sharp drift in his face;

for bright through the tempest his own home appeared Ay, though leagues intervened, he can see;

T'here's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table prepared, And his wife with their babes at her knee.

Blest thought! how it lightens the grief-laden hour,

That those we love dearest are safe from its power.

"It snows!" cries the Belle-"Dear, how lucky!" and turns From her mirror to watch the flakes fall;

Like the first rose of summer, her dimpled cheek burns
While musing on sleigh-ride and ball:

There are visions of conquest, of splendour, and mirth,
Floating over each drear winter's day;

But the tintings of Hope, on this storm-beaten earth,

Will melt, like the snow-flakes, away;

Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bliss,

That world has a fountain ne'er opened in this.

It snows!" cries the Widow - "Oh God!" and her sighs Have stifled the voice of her prayer;

Its burden ye 'll read in her tear-swollen eyes,

On her cheek, sunk with fasting and care.

Tis night and her fatherless ask her for bread

But He gives the young ravens their food,"

And she trusts, till her dark hearth adds horror to dread!

And she lays on her last chip of wood.

Poor suff'rer! that sorrow thy God only knows -
Tis a pitiful lot to be poor, when it snows!

Thus, in her soul's deep chambers,
The Spirit's voice was heard;
And though before her shrinking sense,
The thorns, the cross appeared,
The parting, and the dangers,
Fear, doubt, and dread combine,
She clasped him to her throbbing heart-
"Yes, Lord, he shall be thine!"

Is a native of Ireland; her birth-place was in Wex. ford county, where her family, whose name was Fielding, was of high respectability. When Mist Fielding was about fifteen, she was taken by her mother to England, and there they resided severa years, before revisiting her native country. But the scenes which were familiar to her as a child. must have made a vivid and lasting impression on her mind; and all her sketches evince so much freshness and vigour, that her readers might easily imagine she had passed her life among the scenes she describes. An able critic observes that, "To her early absence from her native country is probably to be traced one strong characteristic of all her writings the total absence of party feeling on subjects connected with politics or religion."* Miss Fielding was very fortunate in her mar riage connexion with her husband, Mr. S. C. Hall, an English gentleman, whose talents and taste, as a successful writer and artist, are widely known. Soon after her marriage, Mrs. Hall commenced her literary career; no doubt the sympathy and approval of her husband incited her genius, and assisted materially in developing her powers. Her first work, entitled "Sketches of Irish Character," appeared in 1829. Of this, and her succeeding works, the following is, probably, a correct, though by no means a flattered estimate. "Mrs. Hall's sketches bear a closer resemblance to the tales of Miss Mitford than to the Irish stories of Banim or Griffin, though the latter may have tended to direct Mrs. Hall to the peculiarities of Irish cha racter. They contain some fine rural description, and are animated by a healthy tone of moral feel ing and a vein of delicate humour. The coquetry

* Dublin University Magazine for 1840.

66

66

| nating than the darker shades and colourings of imaginative composition."*

of her Irish girls (very different from that in high life) is admirably depicted. Next year, Mrs. Hall issued a little volume for children, "Chronicles of a School-Room," consisting also of a series of tales, simple, natural, and touching. The hometruths and moral observations conveyed in these narratives, reflect great credit on the heart and ❘ the judgment of the writer. Indeed, good taste and good feeling may be said to preside over all the works of our authoress. In 1831, she issued a second series of "Sketches of Irish Character," fully equal to the first, which was well received. TheRapparee" is an excellent story, and some of the satirical delineations are hit off with great truth and liveliness. In 1832, she ventured on a larger and more difficult work- an historical romance in three volumes, entitled The Buccaneer." The scene of this tale is laid in England, at the time of the Protectorate, and Oliver himself is among the characters. The plot of "The Buccaneer" is well managed, and some of the characters (as that of Barbara Iverk, the Puritan) are skilfully delineated; but the work is too feminine, and has too little of energetic passion for the stormy times in which it is cast. In 1834, Mrs. Hall published "Tales of Woman's Trials," short stories of decidedly moral tendency, written in the happiest style of the authoress. In 1835, appeared "Uncle Horace," a novel, and in 1838 'Lights and Shadows of Irish Life," three volumes. The latter had been previously published in the New Monthly Magazine, and enjoyed great popularity. The principal tale in the collection, "The Groves of Blarney," was dramatised at one of the theatres with distinguished success. In 1840, Mrs. Hall issued what has been styled the best of her novels, "Marian; or a Young Maid's Fortunes," in which her knowledge of Irish character is again displayed. Katty Macane, an Irish cook, who adopts Marian, a foundling, and watches over her with untiring affection, is equal to any of the Irish portraitures since those by Miss Edgeworth. The next work of our authoress was a series of "Stories of the Irish Peasantry," contributed to Chambers' Edinburgh Journal, and afterwards published in a collected form. In 1840, Mrs. Hall aided her husband in a work chiefly composed by him, and which reflects credit upon his talents and industry-"Ireland, its Scenery, Character," &c. Topographical and statistical information is here blended with the poetical and romantic features of the country- the legends of the peasantry-scenes and characters of humour and pathos-and all that could be gathered in five separate tours through Ireland, added to early acquaintance and recollection of the country. The work was highly embellished by British artists, and extended to three large volumes. In tasteful description of natural objects, and pictures of every-day life, Mrs. Hall has few superiors. Her humour is not so broad or racy as that of Lady Morgan, nor her observation so pointed and select as Miss Edgeworth's. Her writings are also unequal, but, in general, they constitute easy, delightful reading, and possess a simple truth and purity of sentiment that is ultimately more fasci

Mrs. Hall's residence was for a number of years at The Rosery, Old Brompton, near London; where her home was distinguished for its simple elegance, and the refined taste and hospitality of the gifted pair who presided in this pleasant literary retreat. At present they reside in Surrey, about eighteen miles from London; Mr. Hall is editor of the "Art-Journal," and Mrs. Hall, a constant contributor to its pages There her latest and one of her most interesting works, "Midsummer Eve; a Fairy Tale of Love," first appeared, with superb illustrations. The most distinguished artists in Great Britain furnished the pictorial semblances of the author's pure and beautiful ideas; we hardly know which deserves most praise. The volume was issued in 1848, and well sustains the intention of the authoress: "I have endeavoured," she says, "to trace the progress of a young girl's mind from infancy to womanhood; the Good and Evil Influences to which it is subjected; and the Trials inseparable from a contest with the World." Mrs. S. C. Hall, as she always gives her name to her works, seemingly desirous of associating her husband's fame with her own, never loses an opportunity of inculcating those virtues as well as graces which make the happiness and enlarge the best influence of her own sex. Another beautiful trait of her character, is her active benevolence; she engages in those associated efforts to benefit society by taking care for woman's education and comfort, now beginning to be made in England. We find her name on the Committee for the Asylum of the "Governesses' Benevolent Institution;" and in the establishment of "The Queen's College" for the better promotion of female education, Mrs. S. C. Hall was warmly interested.

From "Marian; or a Young Maid's Fortunes"
MARIAN'S CHARACTER.

It would be difficult to analyze the feelings with which Marian awoke to this new existence — for new indeed it was; the kindness of Lady Isabel, the dean's benevolence, the joy of her beloved nurse, each succeeding the other, were more like spells, the spells of a happy land, where there were no tears, no anxieties, no troubles. She was filled with joy and gratitude. Not many weeks had elapsed, and she was living a new life, in a new world, remembering only the past to enhance the sweetness of the present. Her heart's beatings, lest it should be a dream, not a reality, had hardly subsided; and when each morning she awoke, she could scarcely believe that what surrounded her was less than fairy-land. It was with mingled delight and astonishment that Lady Isabel discovered her rare excellence in music. She had not only completely mastered the mechanical part of the science, but infused into her performance that pure and exquisite spirit which, like genius, cannot be taught-it cometh we know not whence; but it is impossible to listen to vocal or instrumental music such as hers, without feeling that

*Chambers' Cyclopædia.

Nature has bestowed "a grace beyond the reach of art." Her voice was a soprano, not of extensive compass, but of the finest tone, particularly on the middle notes, where expression so fully tells. Lady Isabel, accustomed to the best music of Italy, was astonished not only at its richness, as it rolled forth in purest melody, but at the beauty of her conceptions and the truth of their delineation. The few songs she sang were chosen with admirable skill, and she succeeded in exciting whatever interest she pleased in her hearers. Lady Isabel was spell-bound by the charm of this extraordinary talent; it was something so original, so different from any thing she had expected. As yet Marian had only learned the simple melodies of her own land, and a few as simple French songs; but hers was a voice which evidently could sing any thing-round and flexible, perfect in its intonations, and capable of the highest culture. To have understood the pleasure experienced by Lady Isabel at this discovery, it would be necessary to understand the power sweet sounds possessed over her feelings; to those who comprehend this, explanation would be unnecessary; those who do not would think us gone mad on the subject. It is indeed labour in vain to attempt proving to the unmusical the power of music; that high, and pure, and holy enjoyment, which, as we may believe, is one of the delights we are to experience in heaven.

"I do not like to see tears in your eyes, Lady Isabel," said Marian, when she finished singing one of the sweet ballads of poor Ireland, whose euphonious termination, "Colleen das crutheen amo," she had learnt to pronounce with its natural softness, from our friend Katty Macane. "I do not like to see tears in your eyes, dear Lady Isabel; why should you ever shed tears? — you, so good, so happy, so rich, so independent: what made you cry, dear lady?"

60

"Your music, my dear child."

"I ought to be happy at that! to think of my nurse's ballad making you weep!"

"It is even so," replied Lady Isabel; "ballads such as that excite in a double way, by the words and music, both playing on the feelings together. That voice, Marian, is a fortune!"

"I wish it would make me one: do you think it would?" inquired the girl, eagerly.

"Yes, I am sure of it there can be no doubt about the matter."

"Oh, then, dear Lady Isabel," she exclaimed, joyfully, "only tell me how I can set about it; you have been so good, so generous to me, that you will not refuse me this request, and then I should be independent; it would make me very, very miserable if I thought that all my life I was to be only a dependant; a thing to subsist upon the cast-off food and cast-off smiles of others! Oh, Lady Isabel, if I could once, even, earn my own bread!”

"You earned it with Mrs. Jones, my poor girl you surely earned it there."

"I might perhaps have earned food, dear Lady Bell, but not money. I wore the cast-off garments of charity."

"Say, of justice rather; they were earned."

66

My dear lady, I could not think they were; when any thing approaching finery was given to me, I could not bear to put it on-I felt how strange the charity-child that crossed my path would look decked out in ribands. I loathed myself."

"No, Marian," replied her friend, "you loathed your dependence; you were proud, child, too proud; that was the pride that apes humility.' I do not wish to wound your feelings, Marian; but, in the many tales you have told me, where you were stern and stubborn-and I loved you all the better, because you did not spare yourself -I traced it all to pride."

"But I could kneel and kiss the dust beneath your feet, and the good dean, too; I could serve Lord Augustus not only as a servant but as a slave; my old nurse, my fond and faithful nurse, I could beg for her. Oh, Lady Isabel, is that pride?"

"It is not humility, my dear child; it is affection. We have not insulted you; if we had

"Dear Lady Isabel!" exclaimed Marian, astonished at the idea; but seeing her ladyship smile, she reverted to her old purpose. "But this voice -I have practised it as you told me; and now that I understand the Italian words your ladyship so kindly translated, I think I do better; I shall not be content with doing better, I want to do well."

"Marian," said Lady Isabel, "listen to me. You have, above all others, a quality which will render you either very great or very mean- there is no medium-it is PRIDE."

"Oh, Lady Isabel," she interrupted warmly, "what should a foundling do with pride?"

66

True; and I may add, what should any one do with pride?-false pride, that builds unto itself a pyramid of false greatness, and frets itself into perpetual agitation, lest its pyramid should be assailed. You have unhappily lived with those who sought to undervalue you; your feelings stimulated by pride, rebelled — you became harsh and irritable - expecting hourly assault, your defiance was ever ready; so that I am not quite certain but that, at times, you might have been the aggressor."

"Not only might, my lady," said the frankhearted girl, "but was. I can call to mind many instances when I was the aggressor; and now, when I am so happy, I wonder how I could ever have been so bitter. But was it pride?"

"Yes; think, and you will see it was."