(PUBLISHED OCTOBER, 1856.)
KNOWLEDGE once parcelled out her wide domain,
And set apart with learned boundaries
Each separate art, each of the sciences;
And over each, as she was wisely fain,
She set a line of kings that they should reign;
And each she bade, with temperate decrees
To seek his empire's weal, till by degrees
It rose to perfectness. But all in vain,
(However wise might her arrangements be,)
She felt they were, if she should fail to find
One whose complete, all-sided scrutiny
Saw all, and understood; a mighty mind
To govern all. She found one, came to thee,
O Bacon, loud proclaiming, "Thou art he!'
BEFORE me rose, from out the sacred ground,
A mass immense of stone; and far on high,
The shaft, aspiring, pierced the summer sky,
Now vocal with the bells' inviting sound.
Rich sculptured bands the tapering column bound;
But coignes and buttresses escaped the eye,
Half hid by shade from trees enclustered nigh,
Beneath whose boughs the cloistered pathways wound.
Tall, stately pillars stretching out arched arms,
And shrined saints devout, with out-spread palms;
And quaint gargoyles, dragons and pythons grim, Griffins, and sculptured men grotesque of limb; And storey'd windows with their varied light ;— Such were the wonders crowding on my sight.
Majestic silence circled round.
And lingering footsteps, and with solemn gaze
Upon this relic of forgotten days,
Men passed by speechless; and it should be so !—
Here was truth throned long centuries ago;
Abbots have slowly paced these sacred ways,
And glittering Bishops in superb arrays,
And youthful choristers in robes of snow.
Barefooted monks have trod these time-worn stones;
These walls have echoed to loud penance groans,
In the far past. From hence the mellow tone
Of holy anthems reached the' eternal throne,
And from these sacred courts the rising prayer
Has sanctified full oft the quiet air.
And in those solemn cloisters long I strayed,
Contemplative, and almost hoped to meet
Some monk along the olden ways, to greet
Me with a saintly blessing. There I stayed,
Nursing fond fancies in the leafy shade;
But none approached, and I regained the street,
Where busy men passed by with hurried feet,
Silent, and self-absorbed; and my heart said,
"The age of old was nearer God than this,
In love to God, and sympathy for men.
All selfish now, men give the Judas kiss,
And serve themselves, and Mammon. Then,
The life was God's,-to Him the knee was bent,-
And time, in doing good,-His service,-spent."
THE SEASONS.
(PUBLISHED DECEMBER 13TH, 1856.)
Now the spent Earth hath lain her down and died.
Four times I saw her. First, all blythe and gay,
All fresh and blooming in her virgin pride,-
A tall, slim maiden. Like a woodland fay,
Her dress was velvet green; and day by day,
The rainbow-tinted flowers around she flung;
The while she carolled forth a pleasant lay,
And hill and dale repeated that she sung,
And through the hollow woods responsive echo rung.
Again I saw her :—in calm majesty,
Most dignified and grand ;—in the full flush
Of her ripe, regal loveliness. And she
Had clad herself in all the hues of lush
And glorious flowers; and a celestial blush
Spread over face and bosom, at the gaze
Of him she loved, -the Sun; and a hot rush
Of joy went through her heart, for all his rays
He, ardent, bent on her, and lighted all her ways.
Again I saw her. Her bright, gaudy dress
Was changed for russet brown.
A matron now,
More chastely grand appeared her loveliness,
As heightened by her holy marriage vow.
A calm and sacred light was on her brow;
And soft-eyed Peace, and ever-glad Content,
Her steps attended. All things seemed to bow
Low before one whose glance was eloquent
Of every virtuous grace in her fair bosom blent.
And once again I saw her; but her face
Was cold, and very white, for she was dead;
And gone was all her fresh and living grace :
O'er the stiff limbs the snowy sheet was spread,
With ivy decked, and holly berries red.
The face was calm, nor told it of the throes
Of that birth-hour in which her life had fled.
Phoenix-like, from her death her daughter rose,
To live as sweet a life, but with as sad a close.
THE evening breeze, so soft and murmurous,
Sounds like the gentle tone of children's prayers ;
And o'er the earth the darkness stealeth on,
As o'er the heart the sense of loneliness.
The' obsequious clouds that followed the sun down,
As if he went on to his grave, and these
His mourners were, are now with sable garb
Returning, and they seem surcharged with tears.
THE WRECK OF THE "BIRKENHEAD."
(PUBLISHED DECEMBER 20TH, 1856.)
THE ship was doomed. Though her unhappy crew
Strained every nerve, no labour could avail;
Down they must go full soon; nor hove in view,
The drear horison round, one friendly sail.
The truth was whispered low, and then grew pale
The hardiest cheek, then quailed the boldest eye,
While from the women rose up such a wail,
That scarce the lost in endless agony,
It seemed, could tell their woe in such a fearful cry.
The "Birkenhead" steamship, conveying troops from England to the Caffre war, was wrecked on the 25th February, 1852, off the coast of South Africa. Out of 630 persons who were on board, 433 were lost. One of the survivors thus speaks of the conduct of the troops :- "The order and regularity that prevailed on board, from the time the ship struck till she totally disappeared,
And in the children's faces was a white
And awful terror. Wildly, here and there,
Ran some with screams; others were mute with fright.
Some, of ill thoughtless, did with wonder stare.
There knelt one little maid with golden hair,—
"Our Father,"-'twas the only prayer she knew,—
She said aloud; and from that sound of prayer
The roughest sailor a new comfort drew,
And, the first time for years, he cried, "Our Father!” too.
The ship was sinking fast. Upon the deck
The soldiers mustered at their chief's command;
Waiting of hope and life as well the wreck,
There resolutely stood the martyr band,
Calmly resigned; while, hoping to gain land,
Into the few small boats the women crowd,
And the young children. Still these firmly stand,
There was no room for them, no hope; yet bowed
Not one in useless grief, nor told his woe aloud.
Nor one endeavoured with a selfish strife
To save, by mingling in the hurried press,
A loved but thus dishonourable life.
No! all stood mute in awful wretchedness,
Till the boats left them in their loneliness.
far exceeded anything that I thought could be effected by the best discipline. Every one did as he was directed, and there was not a murmur nor a cry among them until the vessel made her final plunge. All received their orders, and carried them out as if they were embarking, instead of going to the bottom; with this difference only, that I never saw any embarkation conducted with so little noise and confusion. When the vessel was just about going down, the commander called out, 'All those that can swim, jump overboard and make for the boats.' Lieutenant Girardot and myself begged the men not to do so, as in that case the boat with the women must be swamped. Not more than three made the attempt."-Official Report.
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