The Works of the Poet Coachman, M. Suttill

Preface

. HE following compositions have been written during a P5P long life as a servant. I was bora in Fearby, and raised at Crosslanes, just below, two miles from Masham, in Yorkshire. I had the best of mothers. Her name was Ann Parnaby. My father's name was Francis Suttill. He died before I could know him. Mother was left with five lads, of whom I was the fourth, and the worst in the family. As to grammar, I never learned it ; therefore, don't expect it in these compositions. But if I was hungry, I know how to ask for a bit of bread, and would easily understand a cold, heartless denial, when it was so keenly needed. I am not insensible to human woe; and woman's lovely form and face are my delight. And now, if any of my many readers feel half as happy as I did when composing the following pieces, I shall not have written in vain.

If it shall, in the suture, be found that I have helped you, dear reader, to occupy your leisure hours to advantage, do not thank me, for I was impelled to do so by a power over which I had no control. But I was its willing slave. All birds cannot be nightingales, nor all men poets. Some birds fly through the air, And some warble it everywhere ; So some men live a life of drudgery, Others a life of joy, all fancy free. And could I but with a little feather quill, My own allotted task on earth fulfill, — To arouse the dormant souls of noble men, I should not use in vain my idle pen. Ev'n some spark first kindled the living fire In Patti's soul, to tune the heavenly lyre. Then could I lay my useless body down, If one should catch the flame, though all the world should frown. All cannot sing, but all can go and hear, And feel the heavenly rapture, and weep the silent tear.

How base is he who has not got a heart To feel, with grief, when others have to smart ! Oh, sin ! why wast thou ever bred on earth ? Thou art the cankerworm which spoileth all our mirth. But I write not for fame or glittering gold ; True talent's a thing which cannot be sold. And now, as the world is made up of all the odds and ends of the earth, those who are extremely devout will find some thing worth reading. But let them not get offended if they find something sentimental for those who love it. Remember that thou wast once in the same captivity. And now I commit myself to an impartial Public at my own expense. If this work leaves me in poverty, it is but the lot of poets ; and I will be pleased if through you I am able to lift up my head any higher than my fellow coachmen. Them I shall always respect, for their long patience in enduring the extreme cold for hours at many a door, while their employers are warm within ; and blessed is the man who has a kind and considerate employer.

Let such ever hold all beneath his charge as a sacred trust committed to him (in his employer's absence) as if it was his own. Good conduct and fidelity ever brings its own reward. And you, my fellow coachmen who have hard places, endure them. The lowest spoke in your carriage wheels rises to the top in the turning. May God give you all favor in your masters' eyes, and may God bless this glorious country is the prayer of your fellow-servant, MATTHEW SUTTILL. IF I AND DEDICATION. MIGHT BE PERMITTED TO DEDICATE THIS WORK OF MINE TO THAT DEAR BEING WHO CHOSE TO TAKE THE MAN OF HER CHOICE, I WOULD GLADLY DO IT, FOR " LOVE LEVELS ALL DISTINCTIONS 'MONGST THE HUMAN RACE, AND WOMAN'S GREATEST FORTUNE IS CARRIED ON HER FACE." MAY HE WHO HAS BEEN SO HIGHLY HONORED EVER HOLD HER IN HIS HEART AS HIS SUPERIOR IN STATION, AND MAKE UP IN DEVOTION WHAT HE LACKS IN POSITION. is, THE BOOK TO THE READER.

I'M a New Year's gift to all mankind, From a brainless, thinking mind ; Now I appear in this New Year, Till you a better one can find. Read me over, con me well, But I was never made to sell, But only as a gift to thrive, Just peeping out in 'eighty-five. Are you a lover, crossed in love? Then I the cause will quickly prove. But are you sad because of sin ? The remedy is found within. There's nostrums for all kinds of cases— The index will tell you where the place flboems. BY MATTHEW SUTTILL, THE POET-COACHMAN. The following was composed in early life. It is only a very small part of a large poem offered to the Butler Publishing Co., in Fourth Street, Philadelphia, who gave me no encouragement. So I destroyed it myself, thinking it to be worthless, but kept this remnant. It begins by speaking of THE SEA.

Its footsteps come like armies in the night, To sweep all living things from off its tide — But there the batter'd ship still braves the storm. But where's the Spanish noble? where his brides He lies beneath, a lost, a lifeless form, With many sun-burnt sailors at his side ! She weeps not ! No, she hath no tears to spare ; Yet still she lov'd him with a love divine ; She knew his soul was gone where angels are, Like stars of heaven that never cease to shine. She knew that he was quite prepar'd to leave This earth, with all its blandish'd wiles and snares. The lord of many earthly joys that grieve Mankind to lose, tho' full of thorny cares, He lived but for his soul ! this was his all. His work was love, combined with secret prayers And angels, listening to his midnight call, Did spread for him the Lord's last supper there.

She wept him not ! the terrors of the deep, — Their awful might unnerv'd her loving heart. She could not bear to think, nor wish to weep ; Death in her mind had fix'd its fearful dart. Angel of beauty, now the sea is calm ! And grief begins to swell that heart of thine. Tho' wealth is thine, in wealth there is no balm To soothe the soul ; led by a hand divine, The welcome night has passed away; And like a bride, the messenger of light, In his golden palm, brings forth the Sabbath-dav, That man may worship God with all his might. Where is God's house? No church of stone is here ; Where are the merry bells whose tripling voice Awakes the scatter'd hamlets, to appear To worship; and in prayer and praise rejoice? These are the churches made by hands divine. Flesh ! blood ! and spirit ! and the priceless soul !

Are all, O, God ! rich heavenly gifts of thine To keep beneath man's wavering will's control. But the soul-adoring beings began To sing the praises of their heavenly King. The wonders of the deep ! His ways to man Inspired their hearts and mov'd their tongues to sing. God heard their voice, and tears in every eye Fill'd every soul with energy divine, And rich and poor were all prepar'd to die; All felt God's love makes mental darkness shine. So days and nights passed on, all hoping still, Until appear'd the welcome sight of land ; And then hurrah ! hurrah ! with right good-will, From every tongue, sung out that hearty band. The sun now rul'd sole monarch of the sky, His golden wings swept every cloud away; Then all nature, with its enchanting eye, Seem'd strange, and grand, and beautiful and gay; All deck'd in glorious white, the golden shore, The ever new-made bride to the surging sea, Cries out aloud, " I'm thine for evermore, Thy salt embrace tells that thou lovest me.

I will not leave thee, though the sun may shine, In all his fiery heat, to drink me dry, For I am guarded by a hand divine That sends me gushing torrents from the sky. And now thousands of souls glide o'er the deep, Converging to their happy home at last ; Some to rejoice ! some to wail and weep Departed friends ! Some to forget the past. Some came with hopes of gain — that cursed rust, Which eats away the honey of the heart, And chains the soul forever to the dust ! But some, with higher and holier part, Came to teach the heathen ; rescue the slave From among the dens of the children of sin, i And the blood-red chains of the fiend-like brave Without a spark of manliness within. But most were men of craft of various skill, Still all bound by one tie and grand design — No compact, but a feeling of goodwill, Made this motley crew of wanderers combine.

The mighty ship passed on ; her white sails set, Rock'd to and fro, in friendship to the land. The gentle wind the unfurl'd banner met, Whose starry flames sent welcome from the strand And there battlements on battlements arose To guard the great Euphrates of the West, On either hand, against her hostile foes, A shelter for the exil'd and oppress'd. For like a paradise on either side The swelling hills enchant the gazing eye, And thro' the midst there flows a nation's pride — A bay whereon the world keeps passing by. Such is the scene entrancing to the sight ; Unto a new-found world the marvelous way Where once the savage Indian stood to fight His brother man ; or, Judas-like, betray. Part Second. Safe in the haven of a foreign land, Weary with travel o'er the stormy deep, Each grasps with tear-filled eyes his fellow's hand No friend is there ; and sorrow makes them weep, One kind stranger, a good Samaritan, Led the new-comed ones to a place of rest.

He wept to see young faces, pale and wan, The signet of the oppressor and oppressed, Captives from the dungeon-keep, where have bled The noblest sons under the despot's sway — These to the torture and the rack were led, Yet scorn'd the fiend who wish'd them to betray. Junarrah could not sleep on such a night ; He to himself had made a solemn vow To watch and pray until the morning light. He bent his footsteps to the murmuring shore; The constant sea, in sweet devotion, still Kept praising Him who bid its waters roar. The moon began the darken'd space to fill ; Far o'er the void, her face began to rise Like an angel messenger from the sea. The clouds gave way ! and then the vaulted skies Gave forth their shining host of starry majesty. Junarrah knelt ! he pray'd ! he wept ! he sang ! Down his cheeks tears of sweet repentance run; And in his mouth he found a cloven tongue To tell the change within his heart begun.

God saw his tears and heard his midnight prayers ; A glorious angel from above is sent, To guard him from the world and all its snares, And give the charge that all mankind repent. "Go forth," the spirit said, " for many days, And in thy wanderings follow thou the sun, For I will direct thee in all thy ways, Tho' sore assail'd, until thy task is done. When darkness round about thee dwells, I still Will fill thy thirsting soul with unseen light ; — ago. Not such as that which dawns on every hill, But such as makes the holy angels white. Arise ! go forth ! be constant in thy prayer, Look not up, for heaven, where stars do shine, But in thy inward self — for God is there, Recording every deed and bright design. Go forth to teach not by the word alone, But by me — I am life unto the dead ! I Am sent me from His eternal throne To conquer sin for which His blood was shed.

I give not life for one short sunny day — With grief and tears, and often black despair ; And what I give I will not take away — It shall be peace and everlasting there." And now Junarrah rises from his prayer, Gazing around in wonder and delight, To see the mighty works that now declare What Peace can do, when men will cease to fight. He sees unnumber'd masts on every side — Travelers of the deep, from every land ; — Iron palaces, the wonder and the pride Of man's vast skill and power to understand ; How to invent ; bring forth ; unite, and make Things for his use and own desire, That every living thing can now partake Of comfort, peace and love — the heavenly fire — The holy blessing which keeps increasing, Building up His kingdom — long foretold — A life-like leaven that's never ceasing To change the vilest dross to sterling gold.

Written no further, on account of the disappointment years TO A VERY BEAUTIFUL BUT UNFORTUNATE LADY, ONLY 22 YEARS OLD, WHO HAD A PAIR OF DIAMOND EAR-DROPS IN HER EARS. I saw, hanging in thine ears, the other night, An angel's tears, all sparkling with light. And these same shining gems he wept In pity, that thou thyself had stept Into a path which leads to endless woe, If not retraced while dwelling here below. And as mine eyes beheld these precious stones, I heard the angel's agonizing groans, Because he saw a drop of blood shine there, Shed for thee — so fallen, yet so fair ! But oh, what precious gems are these ? Pray, let the light shine on them, if you please. See, in the crimson blood an image shines ; I dare not tell His name in these few lines. It is the Sinner's Friend — his only Friend !

And now, dear Nora, can you comprehend ? Sweet Nora, with thy diamond shining eyes, Thou art a fallen angel in disguise, A woman fair to look upon and be desired ; And only the nuptial bond is what's required To make thee a sparkling gem in any home, That in these wild paths thou should'st no longer roam. I could say I love, but whom I dare not tell, Unless thy gentle voice should break the silent spell. Why, kiss me then ! it is for love and not for lust That I adore thee, dwelling in the dust. THE ANGEL AND CHARITY. The priceless boon on earth to find, An angel sought among mankind ; And to a maiden's door he came And whispered, "Fair one, what's thy name? "If you will wait, I'll quickly prove My name, bright angel ! it is Love ; I was watching for thy visit now As I saw thy garments, white as snow."

She showed the visitant a sight ; — A fair, lost child was there that night, Sleeping in blessed innocence. Then from that room she led him thence Into a little alcove, near, Where the mother wept her silent tear. " What more than this, now, can'st thou prove To let me know thy name is Love ?" She show'd him garments for the poor, And visits paid from door to door ; And then she took and fed him well. " Thou dost indeed in love excel. This shining dress which now I wear With thee I must for ever share. " Twas then the robe he parts in twain, Then half upon himself again He throws, the shining wreath of flame. "'Tis true, dear maid, that Love is thy name, And this bright robe it shall be thine, Remember that it once was mine." And then he vanished from her sight, And Love was left alone that night, THE OUTCAST.

O, my weary feet have trod the street, almost all the night ; And, but for shame, I'd tell my name, for I haven't ate a bite. An outcast, viler than the vile, I scarcely now can catch a smile From any passer-by. But have men no shame, when they tell my name ? They once were not so shy. But because I've lost That more precious than fine gold, I'm trampled in the dust. What if I consented against my will, Or was deluded by man's subtile skill To give mine honor to his lust ? Outcast ! Outcast ! There she goes ! Her worshipers now become her foes. O man ! how darest thou be so vile, To frown where once thou used to smile? My charms all trampled in the dust APOPHTHEGMS. If you ever see a person on the edge of a precipice, don't push him over, for the Devil may lead you there some day. Beauty, Wealth and Intellect dominate the world !

THE VOICE OF THE WIND IN THE FOREST. No sea is near, yet still I hear The rushing waves speak loud, Or like a gale upon the sail, Whistling thro' the canvas shroud. Tis the hoarse wind's cry, just passing by, Amongst the sorest trees ; The breakers rise, white in the skies — Clouds fly before the breeze. How near akin is the forest's gale To the sea's wild cry when winds prevail ! The breakers foaming on the shore, Their restless voice forevermore ; The murmuring wind complains, Complains, then sighs and weeps Its tears in gentle rains, Which calm the troubled deeps. The wind has gone to rest, and all is still ; The sun's last rays are dying on the hill. Silence lives amidst this heavenly calm ; I feel my beating heart without alarm. In flesh and blood, I lift mine eyes above, And see the floating clouds begin to move.

A rosy flush enflames the vaulted skies ; The earth, in lingering twilight, shadowed lies. A golden halo trembles in the west ; The sun, himself, at last has gone to rest. So rest, ye winds ! so rest, ye troubled seas ! Calm down into a soft and gentle breeze, And hush your voice among the waiting trees. THE DAUGHTER'S LAMENT. Is there a heart that never felt The joys, to home returning, Which caused the silent tear to melt And set the heart a-burning? Old, friendly faces soon I'll see, I'll set them soon a-smiling ; My faults shall from their memory flee. There'll be no more reviling. But the sweetest of them all Will be my darling mother, In whose forgiving arms I'll fall, And kiss my loving brother. I wildly wander'd far away — And left them broken-hearted ; No one knew why I should stray, Nor kissed me when we parted.

O, mother, can you now forgive Your daughter's past unkindness, And let me beneath your shelter live, Who left you in her blindness ? O, home, sweet home ! no more I'll roam No more seek stolen pleasure ! I've sought for joy, without alloy, But virtue is the treasure. Oh ! give me back my spotless heart ; Give what is a woman's glory, And take away the sting and smart Caus'd when ruin is the story. A FEW QUESTIONS. Who can hinder the snow from snowing ; Or the rain, as it falls, coming down ; Or the wind, in its wild career, blowing ; Or from a king's face take a frown ? Who can hinder the snow from drifting along ; Or the eddying stream in its murmuring song ? Who'll stand on the ground when the earthquake appears, Or hinder the widow from weeping her tears ? Who'll melt the ice, when it covers the ground, Or stifle the thunder, in its rumbling sound ?

Who'll cover the hills with grass, when they're bare ; Or clothe the sweet flowers, with nicest of care ? Who'll stay the swift clouds, as onward they fly, Like ships on the ocean passing you by ? Who'll clothe the forests with leaves once again, Or shine for the sun to ripen the grain ? Who'll say to the dead, when they're mouldered away, " Come forth from the grave," and they quickly obey? Who'll cause the sun to burnish the clouds With the brightest of light, when like funeral shrouds ? Who'll count the sands that stay the wild seas, Or hinder the frost beginning to freeze ? Who'll number the dead laid under the ground, And change the frail dust wherever 'tis found ? Who'll say to the wilderness, covered with sand : " Be a garden of roses all over the land ;" Or to the wild wind, as onward it flies, All purple and hot, like flames in the skies : " Stay your wild billows ! let the desert rejoice I" And waters spring forth, at the sound of his voice ?

Who'll number the stars that still flame and shine, And count the bright jewels hid in the mine ? Who'll tell the dark deeds, which never were told, For some coveted woman ! or jewels ! or gold ? Or what eye can see what never was seen, The sins which arise in each mortal being ? Who'll hinder the sun from shining to-day, Or the hungry lion from seeking his prey ? Or stay the proud waves of the changeable sea ? He's the king of the world, the king for me ! Who'll cover with clouds the vaults of the sky, Or marshal the thunder that rolls upon high ? Who'll feed the wild birds that fly thro' the air With abundance of food, and make them his care ? Who'll constant supply the springs that arise, And fill with moisture the clouds in the skies? Who'll stay the wild tempest of wind and of rain Which levels the trees and covers the plain ; Or cover with blossoms, the blossoming trees, Or breathe the sweet breath that comes in the breeze?

Who hears the sigh of the needy and sad, And sends his own spirit to make them glad ; And bottles the hot tears of those which weep, And gives to the world, calm, innocent sleep ? Who says to the dying, ready to die, " Leave this cold earth ! come away to the sky" ? Who'll calm mad passion, when stirred by strife, Whole nations seeking for national life ? Or who'll bring about the reign of sweet peace, When the world's population shall largely increase ; The wilderness land be cover'd with grain, And houses and hamlets all over the plain ? Who'll bring about that long wish'd-sor day, When all nations shall drive foul war far away, And help one another to girdle the earth With the gladness of joy and innocent mirth? When neighbors shall cease to backbite and belie, Then shall this sweet blessing come very nigh.

Who'll stay the planets revolving around, Or hush the cataracts' continual sound ? What hand can handle the wind as it blows, Or the pitiless stream, as onward it flows, Sweeping the hills and the valleys below, Bringing destruction and anguish and woe ? Who'll care for the hairs which fall from your head, Counting each spangle of the living and dead ? Who'll know each personal being that has been — The abject poor, and opulent queen ; The lowly contented, without renown, Like some fair flower, in the wilderness grown ? Who'll answer the voice which calls in distress, And help the helpless, in their helplessness, When no arm is near ; and none to save The solitary one from an untimuh grave? Who'll cause the fair flowers always to spring, And teach the wild birds the music they sing? Who'll set up a kingdom, to rule, and to reign, Of which the wicked alone shall complain ?

Who'll please the world with the themes of his mind. And leave the fault-finder no faults to find, Shall be crowned with a crown, brighter by far Than the radiance which shines in a luminous star. And now, dear reader, for wliat I have wrote, Count not these few lines as too dearly bought, I write not for fame nor glittering gold, True talent's a thing which cannot be sold. TO ADDRESS TO ALL PEOPLES IN ALL LANDS EVERY SECT AND TRIBE, AND EVERY PREACHER. " Serve ye the Lord with gladness, And come before His presence with a song." (Composed on the last Sunday in the year 1880.) Let no vain thoughts this solemn hour employ, But let your hearts be glad ! rejoice with holy joy I Throw off the vain desire for human praise ; Lift up your hearts, and with your voices raise Anthems of gladness ; for Christ, who rules above, Sends down His richest grace of holy love.

Then let the preacher tell the wondrous tale, How, while on earth, Christ did at last prevail O'er sin, o'er death, o'er dark temptation's night, And turned our hellish darkness into light ! Ah ! let the preacher tell how Christ arose From out the rock-sealed tomb, and then disclose How He was seen as risen from the dead ; Then was the captive sinner captive led From earth below, to yon bright world above, A trophy of the Saviour's dying love. How on the mountain top He shone so bright That the bright sun was darkened with His light. Ah ! let him tell Christ reigns as king and priest, And bids His weakest follower to the feast. Awake, thou child of dust ! awake, and tell How Christ doth all the world in love excel, Ah ! lose thyself behind the bleeding cross, And count man's vain applause as earthly dross.

Christ's in the house ! nay, He's at thy side ; Be bold to speak, for He will be thy guide. His words, thro' thee, shall be as living flame, And clothe the sinners' soul with burning shame. Rejoice ! be glad ! the day begins to dawn, Christ reigns in grace ! and grace is still His throne. Sinners tremble, and now they cease to sin ; — Sure is the work the spirit doth begin. And, Preacher — harvest time will soon appear, Garner'd above what thou dost gather here, The angels reap what thou unseen hast sown And water'd with thy tears till it has grown. Ah, blessed bliss ! thy labor's not in vain ; Keep going forth till thou the crown obtain. And ye who listen to the voice divine, Give heed unto the theme ! for sinner it is thine. Christ's call obey ! harden not thine heart, Lest thou at last with devils take thy part.

All men, awake ! Christ lives to make us live, And for sin's death, 'tis life alone He'll give. Who would not worship Thee, and Thee adore, With reverence and awe, for evermore ? O, Christ ! thou Man, thou God, thou All in All! Let all mankind before Thy mercy fall ; Weak wast Thou, Saviour, in the days of old ; — Thy majesty and might have never yet been told. ON WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, THE POET. (Written in 1881.) Bryant's harp is laid aside, No more the music's springing From the chords his fingers plied, While some friendly voice was singing. The measured tread within his mind, And images which filled his brain, Shall ne'er again a subject find To ripple out his sweet refrain ! Voiceless fingers, lying still, You have lost your wonted skill ; Other hands than thine shall tell How the iambic numbers swell.

On wings seraphic, up above Thou hast reach'd the fount of Love ; The hidden things thou sought to find Are more than what is left behind, Things unspeakable are thine, Earth's temptations still are mine. INFINITY. God, all infinite, eternity, and space, Three things which now no mortal eye can trace From whence they spring or when they end There's none so wise to comprehend. LINES Sent to the Poet Longfellow three weeks before he died, I've never seen your face, sir, Nor the light which fills your eye ; But there's a peculiar grace, sir, Shines there, who dare deny ? The heart of those who ever burn With genius' hallow'd flame Seeks nature's hidden worth, to learn From whence all inspirations came. The Poet's eye sees everywhere, Fresh themes for joy and mirth, And knows God, in His constant care And love, enriches all the earth.

What joy, I know, has filled thine heart When springs the flame divine ; Its raptures can a bliss impart, Unspeakable — I've felt the same in mine. How sweet is harmony, in sound, Yet much sweeter far in thought ; But then there's music all around Which has never yet been wrote. Those precious sweet emotions, Which spring within the mind, Are counted as silly notions When we would be true and kind. And now that the evening shades Of this present life on earth, Are dusky with the twilight, May you learn their golden worth May the shine of coming glory Shine to thine inward eye, An eternal elysium, When thou'rt about to die. No fading leaves on trees, Or drooping, dying flowers Fills the land of glory, Or heaven's eternal bowers— But life, life eternal Is written all around. There's no serpent there to tempt Or steal along the ground.

No weeping eyes will ever Weep in that land above ; No hateful strife or tumult ; There all is perfect love. Oh, happy, joyful heaven ! Where the sunder'd meet again, And all changes shall be ended, And Christ shall for ever reign. SPRING LFAVES. Written in Baltimore, 1883. Little leaves ! We are waiting Just to show how green we grow, In delightful blessed union, Covering every naked bough. When the dancing little sunbeams Make us cover all the street, Lovers linger 'neath our shadow, Where to woo, they often meet. When the pattering, gentle raindrops Wash away the risen dust, We put on anew our greenness, Awaiting yonder coming gust. Tho' but leaves, we still replenish Spreading roots hid far below, And upon some chosen fruit-trees Bring out blossoms in a glow. Tho' despised when autumn cometh, Blown about by every wind, Hated by each passer-by then, As if by growing we had sinn'd, Now we preach a glorious sermon, Voiceless tho' our speech may be : In God's blessed harmony, See, how living leaves agree !