The Drunkard's Child

A little child stood moaning
    At the hour of midnight lone,
And no human ear was list'ning
    To the feebly wailing tone;
The cold, keen blast of winter
    With funeral wail swept by,
And the blinding snow fell darkly
    Through the murky, wintry sky.

Ah! desolate and wretched
    Was the drunkard's outcast child,
Driven forth; amidst the horrors
    Of that night of tempests wild.
The babe so fondly cherished
    Once 'neath a parent's eye,
Now laid her down in anguish
    Midst the drifting snows to die!

"Papa! - papa!" - she murmured,
    "The night is cold and drear,
And I'm freezing! - Oh, I'm freezing!
    In the storm and darkness here; -
My naked feet are stiff'ning,
    And my little hands are numb, -
Papa, can I not come to thee,
    And warm myself at home?

"Mamma! mamma!" - more wildly,
    The little suff'rer cried -
Forgetting, in her anguish,
    How her stricken mother died -
"Oh, take me to your bosom,
    And warm me on your breast,
Then lay me down and kiss me,
    In my little bed to rest!"

Poor child! - the sleep that gathers
    Thy stiffened eyelids o'er,
Will know no weary waking
    To a life of anguish more.
Sleep on! - the snows may gather
    O'er thy cold and pulseless form -
Thou art resting, calmly resting,
    In the wild, dark, midnight storm

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Pamela S. Vining, also known by her pseudonym J. C. Yule, was an English poet whose work was recognized in the 19th century. Despite her significant contribution to English poetry, detailed information about her life, including her birth and death dates, remains elusive. She remains a noteworthy figure in the canon of English literature for her emotive and thought-provoking poetry.

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

To Our Parents

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

Honor To Labor

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

Frost-Flowers.

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

Song - Oh, take me where the wild flowers bloom!

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

English

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Stay, Mother, Stay!

    "Stay, mother, stay, for the storm is abroad,
And the tempest is very wild;
It's a fearful night with no ray of light,
Oh stay with your little child!"

    "Hush darling!" the mother, with white lips said -
"Lie still till I come again,
God's angels blest will watch o'er thy rest
While I am abroad in the rain!
    Thy father, child? - oh, I quake with fear
When I think where he may be,
And I dare not stay till the dawn of day -
I must hasten forth to see!"

    Then the young child buried her tangled curls
In the ragged counterpane,
While the half-clad mother went forth alone
In the blinding wind and rain.

    Down many a narrow, slippery lane,
Down many a long, dark street,
Went that shivering form thro' the pelting storm
O...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

All on a Christmas Morning.

The wind it blew cold, and the ice was thick,
Deeper and deeper the snowdrifts grew;
A young mother lay in her cottage, sick, -
Her needs were many, her comforts few.
Clasped to her breast was a newborn child,
Unknowing, unmindful of weal or woe;
And away, far away, in the tempest wild,
Was a husband and father, kneedeep in the snow.
All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

The lamp burned low, and the fire was dead,
And the snow sifted in through each crevice and crack:
As she tossed and turned in her lowly bed,
And murmured, "Good Lord, bring my husband back."
The clocks in the city had told the hour
With a single stroke, for young was the day
But no swelling note from the loftiest tower,
Could reach that lone cot where a mother lay.
All on a Christm...

John Hartley

Johanna

'Twas a balmy day in Autumn,
In the drowsy, dreamy Autumn,
When from out the quiet woodland
Sounds of rustling leaves came only -
Leaves that floated softly earthward -
And the streamlets had a murmur
Such as wanders through our visions
In the hushed and starry midnight -
Low, soft murmur, full of music.

With the small hand of her darling
Clasped in her's, there came a mother
To an Artist - fondly asking
For the picture of her pet-lamb -
Winsome pet-lamb full of child-life,
Full of merry, ringing laughter -
Laughter that went up unceasing
Like the happy chime of streamlets
Singing thro' some mountain valley, -
Like the bird-song in the forest
In the time of early roses, -
Like the tinkle of sweet waters
Dripping o'er a marble fou...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

I Laid Me Down And Slept

(Ps. 3 5.)


                                    Dark was the midnight hour,
And wild with storm. Nor moon nor pitying star
Gleamed through the inky darkness from afar;
And Earth seemed reeling blindly to her doom,
As reels some stout ship thro' the midnight gloom,
What time the tempest and the waves have power.

                                    I stood alone that night,
And stretched my chill hands tow'rd the rayless sky,
And heard the wrathful winds go shrieking by,
And thought of one, whose weary feet from far
Were journeying homeward thro' that night's wild war,
Stricken with dire Consumption's deadly blight

                                    "Oh! feeble, woman's hands
Outstretched in anguish thro' the enshrouding dark,
Ye cannot reach ...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

To A Motherless Babe.

Why art thou here, little, motherless one, -
Why art thou here in this bleak world alone?
With that innocent smile on thy beautiful brow,
What hath this stern world for such as thou?

Why art thou here in this world of unrest,
Thou that of angels shouldst be the guest? -
Oh, wild are the storms of this wintry clime,
Dire are the ills that will meet thee in time!
Lamb, with no shelter when tempests are near,
Dove, with no resting place, why art thou here?

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

The Snowdrop Monument (In Lichfield Cathedral).

        Marvels of sleep, grown cold!
        Who hath not longed to fold
With pitying ruth, forgetful of their bliss,
        Those cherub forms that lie,
        With none to watch them nigh,
Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss?

        What! they are left alone
        All night with graven stone,
Pillars and arches that above them meet;
        While through those windows high
        The journeying stars can spy,
And dim blue moonbeams drop on their uncovered feet?

        O cold! yet look again,
        There is a wandering vein
Traced in the hand where those white snowdrops lie.
        Let her rapt dreamy smile
        The wondering heart beguile,
That almost thinks to hear a calm contented sigh.

        What s...

Jean Ingelow