Up to Dunbar our Cromwell went,
Not to invade was his intent;
But they who first King Charles sold
Now turn their backs on friends of old,
And principles they then held dear
Were sacrificed for self, I fear.
Another Stuart they receive,
Who knew too well how to deceive;
The most perfidious of his race,
Corrupt in life, and void of grace,
The menial of the Papacy;
And yet content by oath to free
Himself from Holy See's control,
And covenant to save his soul
By the Scotch Presbyterian mode,
As to the crown this paved the road.
But Cromwell brooked not this control;
He wished man free to save his soul
As conscience may to him dictate,
Without subservience to the State.
He saw also thro' the disguise
Of one well versed in fraud and lies,

The careful text-books measure
(Let all who build beware!)
The load, the shock, the pressure
Material can bear.
So, when the buckled girder
Lets down the grinding span,
The blame of loss, or murder,
Is laid upon the man.
Not on the Stuff, the Man!

But, in our daily dealing
With stone and steel, we find
The Gods have no such feeling
Of justice toward mankind.
To no set gauge they make us,,
For no laid course prepare,
And presently o’ertake us
With loads we cannot bear:
Too merciless to bear.

The prudent text-books give it
In tables at the end,
The stress that shears a rivet
Or makes a tie-bar bend,
What traffic wrecks macadam,
What concrete should endure,
But we, poor Sons of Adam,
Have no such literature...

A group of mounted officers
Ride up and fall in line;
Their gleaming swords hang at their sides,
Chevrons their arms entwine;
They bare their heads as pass along
A train of wounded men,
Their shattered comrades from the field
They ne'er may meet again.

"Salut aux Blessis!" loud they cry.
The wounded soldiers hear,
And for a time forget their pain,
And swell the lusty cheer.
Thus should it be in other lines;
The men who lead the van
Should e'er accord a brother's cheer
To every wounded man.

The "rank and file" the wounds receive;
Sometimes the leader, too;
But honest wounds none should despise;
The bearer may be true.
He stood his ground 'gainst mighty odds,
And dared the shot and shell;
So bare your heads, ye scarless ...

What tho' th' claads aboon luk dark,
Th' sun's just waitin to peep throo;
Let us buckle to awr wark,
For ther's lots o' jobs to do:
Tho' all th' world luks dark an drear,
Let's ha faith, an persevere.

He's a fooil 'at sits an mumps
'Coss some troubles hem him raand!
Man mud allus be i'th dumps,
If he sulk'd 'coss fortun fraand;
Th' time 'll come for th' sky to clear: -
Let's ha faith, an persevere.

If we think awr lot is hard,
Nivver let us mak a fuss;
Lukkin raand, at ivvery yard,
We'st find others war nor us;
We have still noa cause to fear!
Let's ha faith, an persevere.

A faint heart, aw've heeard 'em say,
Nivver won a lady fair:
Have a will! yo'll find a way!
Honest men ne'er need despair.
Better days are dra...

In enterprise of martial kind,
When there was any fighting,
He led his regiment from behind,
He found it less exciting.
But when away his regiment ran,
His place was at the fore, O
That celebrated,
Cultivated,
Underrated
Nobleman,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
In the first and foremost flight, ha, ha!
You always found that knight, ha, ha!
That celebrated,
Cultivated,
Underrated
Nobleman,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

When, to evade Destruction's hand,
To hide they all proceeded,
No soldier in that gallant band
Hid half as well as he did.
He lay concealed throughout the war,
And so preserved his gore, O!
That unaffected,
Undetected,
Well connected
Warrior,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
In every doughty deed, ...

Lo! Time, at last, has brought, with tardy flight,
The long-anticipated, wish'd-for night;
How on this blissful night, while yet remote,
Did Hope and Fancy with fond rapture doat!
Like eagles, oft, in glory's dazzling sky,
With full-stretch'd pinions have they soar'd on high,
To greet the appearance of the poet's name,
Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame.

Alas! they soar not now; the demon, Fear,
Has hurl'd the cherubs from their heavenly sphere:
Fancy, o'erwhelm'd with terror, grovelling lies;
The world of torment opens on her eyes,
Darkness and hissing all she sees and hears;
        ("The speaker pauses the audience are
            supposed to clap, when he continues,")
But Hope, returning to dispel her fears,
Claps her bright wings; the magic s...

        Accept, my Prince, the moral fable,
        To youth ingenuous, profitable.
        Nobility, like beauty's youth,
        May seldom hear the voice of truth;
        Or mark and learn the fact betimes
        That flattery is the nurse of crimes.
        Friendship, which seldom nears a throne,
        Is by her voice of censure known.
        To one in your exalted station
        A courtier is a dedication;
        But I dare not to dedicate
        My verse e'en unto royal state.
        My muse is sacred, and must teach
        Truths which they slur in courtly speech.
        But I need not to hide the praise,
        Or veil the thoughts, a nation pays;
        We in your youth and virtues trace
        The dawnings of your royal race;

[Oct. 9, 1830.]


When with gigantic hand he placed,
For throne, on vassal Europe based,
That column's lofty height -
Pillar, in whose dread majesty,
In double immortality,
Glory and bronze unite!
Aye, when he built it that, some day,
Discord or war their course might stay,
Or here might break their car;
And in our streets to put to shame
Pigmies that bear the hero's name
Of Greek and Roman war.
It was a glorious sight; the world
His hosts had trod, with flags unfurled,
In veteran array;
Kings fled before him, forced to yield,
He, conqueror on each battlefield,
Their cannon bore away.
Then, with his victors back he came;
All France with booty teemed, her name
Was writ on sculptured stone;
And Paris cried with joy, as whe...

    If but one spark of honest zeal
    Flashes to life within his breast -
    A feeble, flick'ring spark at best;
    If for a moment he doth feel
    A dim desire to throw aside
    The bonds that idleness has wrought,
    To do, to be the man he ought,
    The tyrant thing he calls his pride -

    The curse of all things good on earth -
    Takes on the cruel midwife's role,
    And each high impulse of the soul
    Is strangled in the hour of birth.
    "To dig I am ashamed," quoth he;
    "Mine is the pride of name and race
    That scorns to fill such humble space -
    Life's lowly tasks are not for me."

    Oh, he can flatter with his tongue,
    Can toady to the rich and great,
    Can fawn on those he feels to hate,
    Un...

Ye careful Angels, whom eternal Fate
Ordains, on Earth and human Acts to wait;
Who turn with secret Pow'r this restless Ball,
And bid predestin'd Empires rise and fall:
Your sacred Aid religious Monarchs own;
When first They merit, then ascend the Throne:
But Tyrants dread Ye, lest your just Decree
Transfer the Pow'r, and set the People free:
See rescu'd Britain at your Altars bow:
And hear her Hymns your happy Care avow:
That still her Axes and her Rods support
The Judge's Frown, and grace the awful Court:
That Law with all her pompous Terror stands,
To wrest the Dagger from the Traitor's Hands;
And rigid Justice reads the fatal Word;
Poises the Ballance first, then draws the Sword.

Britain Her Safety to your Guidance owns,
That She can sep'rate Pa...

        Show me the way that leads to the true life.
    I do not care what tempests may assail me,
        I shall be given courage for the strife;
    I know my strength will not desert or fail me;
        I know that I shall conquer in the fray:
    Show me the way.

        Show me the way up to a higher plane,
    Where body shall be servant to the soul.
        I do not care what tides of woe or pain
    Across my life their angry waves may roll,
        If I but reach the end I seek, some day:
    Show me the way.

        Show me the way, and let me bravely climb
    Above vain grievings for unworthy treasures;
        Above all sorrow that finds balm in time;
    Above small triumphs or belittling pleasures;
        Up to those heights where...

In the banquet hall of Progress
God has bidden to a feast
All the women in the East.

Some have said 'We are not ready, -
    We must wait another day.'
Some, with voices clear and steady,
    'Lord, we hear, and we obey.'

Others, timid and uncertain,
    Step forth trembling in the light,
Many hide behind the curtain
    With their faces hid from sight.

In the banquet hall of Progress
All must gather soon or late,
And the patient Host will wait.

If to-day, or if to-morrow,
    If in gladness, or in woe,
If with pleasure, or with sorrow,
    All must answer, all must go.
They must go with unveiled faces,
    Clothed in virtue and in pride.
For the Host has set their places,
    And He will not he denied.

Since the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence - though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone, we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no vet'ran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here,
No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début
Of embryo Actors, to the Drama new:
Here, then, our almost unfledg'd wings we try;
Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can...

Only a little scrap of blue
    Preserved with loving care,
But earth has not a brilliant hue
    To me more bright and fair.

Strong drink, like a raging demon,
    Laid on my heart his hand,
When my darling joined with others
    The Loyal Legion * band.

But mystic angels called away
    My loved and precious child,
And o'er life's dark and stormy way
    Swept waves of anguish wild.


This badge of the Loyal Legion
    We placed upon her breast,
As she lay in her little coffin
    Taking her last sweet rest.

To wear that badge as a token
    She earnestly did crave,
So we laid it on her bosom
    To wear it in the grave.

Where sorrow would never reach her
    Nor harsh words smite her ear;...

Riches I hold in light esteem,
And Love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream,
That vanished with the morn:

And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!"

Yes, as my swift days near their goal:
'Tis all that I implore;
In life and death a chainless soul,
With courage to endure.

Let no one say of Christ's Church, "Ichabod,"
Or deem her strength partaker of decay,
Or think her trumpet voices fail. To-day
I saw a man who was a man of God,
His feet with gospel preparation shod,
The Spirit's quick and mighty weapon sway;
I heard him faithfully point out the way,
To him familiar, which the Master trod.

Intrepid, patient follower of the Lord,
While such as thou, obedient to His call,
Living epistles, known and read of all,
Proclaim the wonders of His sacred Word,
No sound of lamentation should be heard,
No shade of apprehension should appal.

    Her eyes are the windows of a soul
    Where only the white thoughts spring,
    And they look, as the eyes of the angels look,
    For the good in everything.

    Her lips can whisper the tenderest words
    That weary and worn can hear,
    Can tell of the dawn of a better morn
    Till only the cowards fear.

    Her hands can lift up the fallen one
    From an overthrow complete,
    Can take a soul from the mire of sin
    And lead it to Christ's dear feet.

    And she can walk wherever she will -
    She walketh never alone.
    The work she does is the Master's work,
    And God guards well His own.

Fear no unlicensed entry,
Heed no bombastic talk,
While guards the British Sentry
Pall Mall and Birdcage Walk.
Let European thunders
Occasion no alarms,
Though diplomatic blunders
May cause a cry "To arms!"
Sleep on, ye pale civilians;
All thunder-clouds defy:
On Europe's countless millions
The Sentry keeps his eye!

Should foreign-born rapscallions
In London dare to show
Their overgrown battalions,
Be sure I'll let you know.
Should Russians or Norwegians
Pollute our favoured clime
With rough barbaric legions,
I'll mention it in time.
So sleep in peace, civilians,
The Continent defy;
While on its countless millions
The Sentry keeps his eye !