Poems

Front matter

POEMS.

BY ELIZABETH SHERWIN.

APRIL, 1851.

To april

POEMS.

Mortality

Noon waned apace, young Joy pined and expired, Gay hope grew sick, and airy Fancy tired; And, crushed by time's unflinching hand, the maid Began to languish—wither—droop and fade.

Chill evening came and found the roses gone, The birds all silent,—morning's beauty flown, And poor Mortality, in pitious plight, Viewing dismayed the coming shades of night. Her cheek was blanched—her sparkling eyes grown dim- Her hair was grey, and faltering every limb; Friends had departed—all she loved had fled— Each scene had faded—Hope herself seemed dead; When, by compassion moved—with pitying eye Her great creator, bending from on high, Sent from his throne of grace the soothing aid Of kind religion—pure angelic maid, Whose healing balm soon soothed her broken heart, And Hope reviving reassumed her part, And, smiling, pointed to that world of day >>> Where darkness never comes—where light bears sway; While Faith, unflinching, led the thorny way. And as the night of life was closing round, A glittering cross illumed the gloom profound; While fearful Death, of his sharp sting bereft,— His terrors gone—his comforts only left— Stalked forth,—and with his stern attendant, Fate, Flung wide the portals of life's last dark gate; And Hope—and Faith—and Charity—and Love, Bore the lorn maiden to the realms above.

The thunder storm

"To him, the ever good, who gave us life, "Admire the scenes which his all-bounteous hand "Hath spread before us. Blessed be his name!"

"Yon village church, whose humble roof is seen "Through the rich foliage of the trees around, "Incloses, all the earth held dear to me, "Save you,—the best of men, your sainted father; "Be it ever yours to live as he has lived, "To follow his example, and to trace "His footsteps to eternal happiness. "Oh, never will remembrance lose the sight "Of those last looks, the sound of those last words, "Which thus with faltering voice he gently breathe' Father of mercy, to thy care I trust "'My orphan children and my widowed wife!' "He ceased—and, struggling with the pangs of death "He looked—he clasped—I can no more—he Died!

Here ceased the mourner, overwhelmed with tears Of bitter grief. The children sobbed aloud, And I, unconscious what I did, wept too, Shedding fond tears of sympathizing sorrow.

Long in this doleful reverie we remained, Till roused at length as from a dream, we saw, With wild astonishment, the azure sky, But late so calm and beautifully clear, O'ercast with clouds: the sunbeams had withdrawn, And nature wore a face of gloominess, Speaking, with signs of fear, a thunder-storm.

A fearful consternation reign around; All viewed with silent dread heaven's angry brow; And naught save the affrighted screech-owl's note Was heard amid the calm, the death-like quiet. The trembling flocks, impelled by shrinking fear, Sought shelter 'neath the branches of the trees; The birds, scared from their nests, flew swiftly on To where a straggling sunbeam lingered still, Still unextinguished. We alone remained Unsheltered; knowing his almighty hand Who rules the thunder could as well protect Us here as in the deepest dungeon cave.

Faintly at first the thunder's voice was heard In distant murmur; and the pale lightning Shot through the gathered clouds far in the west. Nearer and nearer came the dreaded storm; Louder and louder grew the clashing peals, And brighter flashed the lightning's forked fire! "What mortal pencil could portray the scene At this dread moment? Frantic now with fear, The widow clasped her children to her bosom, Imploring heaven to shield them from the storm. Meanwhile, in quick succession shot each flash Of vivid fire from out the bursting clouds, Rolling the thunder's deaf'ning peals around. One dreadful flash of blue electric flame Struck the ill-fated spot whereon we stood, Tearing the children from the mother's arms, And the uprooted earth beneath our feet. For some short space of time my eyes were closed

Upon the passing scene; I knew no more Until my slumbering senses slowly woke, When, lo! the scene was changed,—the storm was past A sight the most appaling met my eyes: Near me, upon the mountain's broken side, In death's most frightful form, lay cold and stiff, The two sweet smiling cherubs who so late With wonder and delight gazed on the sky, And fearlessly surveyed th' approaching storm, Unconscious of their doom; and near them lay In death-like slumber, but with open eyes, Glazed, and in frightful wild convulsive stare Fixed on the torn dismembered corses,— The widow, thus bereft of every hope, Thus torn from all her earthly happiness. With trembling arms I raised her from the ground, And gently bore her from the scene of death. Long did this lethargic, this heavy sleep, Cast over all her woes a kindly veil Of deep forgetfulness. She neither spoke nor moved, But senseless lay till midnight hour came on, When, as the clock told twelve she started up, And, as awaking from a dream, she cried— "Where are my children?" Then, as if a beam Of recollection darted o'er her mind, She said—"Did we not leave them on the mountain! Oh, where! where are they? My dear lost children! "Ah! there they are,—I see them smiling now! They beckon me, and I must go." Again She sank upon her pillow,—not as erst To rise again; but surer came the sleep Closing her eyes upon the world for ever.

A teacher's address to her pupils

O'er all their failings kindly draw a veil; Hide all their faults, and for their sorrows feel. Severity should ne'er your hearts invade, Nor passion's angry storms your sex degrade. Yet still be firm;—still on yourselves depend, And, next to God, be each your own best friend. Be gentle—mild;—be steady, true, and just,— Nor too confiding, nor afraid to trust. Your parents honour, love, attend, obey; Regard their counsel, and their care repay. Respect yourselves, God's holy laws fulfil,— So shall you live blest and contented still; And ever find, till life shall have an end, In God a father, and in man a friend.

The sisters

THE SISTERS.

Poor Jane Howard! She was but sixteen when she lost her only remaining parent, a widow, who had during life enjoyed a small annuity.

Jane had an only sister, some three years younger than herself, and their dying mother had enjoined her to look well to Marrion, for she was a gentle child, beautiful, but delicately framed.

They had no friends left who were able and willing to assist them.

All their earthly property was disposed of in order to bury their parent, and a kind neighbour offered a temporary shelter, which they accepted thankfully, and thought them- selves happy when they were engaged to sew for a clothing establishment in a neighbouring town.

Thither they repaired and hired a lodging; one room, which contained a couch that served them for a bed, four chairs, one table, and a few other trifling articles.

Here they commenced that life of sedentary labour which soon, happily for them, terminated in the grave.

Their joint exertions, strenuously exercised, could not procure them more than five shillings in a week; and often much less than that was all they could earn for labouring fourteen or fifteen hours each day during the six.

I knew them well, and my heart has often bled to witness their daily struggles with those ruthless destroyers, incessant toil and grinding poverty. Yet, both had sylphlike forms, exquisitely moulded; beautiful features, with complexions clear, and cheeks of a soft light vermilion. They had been well educated in childhood, and a natural refinement seemed to regulate their every movement.

It was charming to witness the affection of these two sisters. Not a murmur escaped them, and they appeared to have no fear or anxiety hut for each other. But it was plain earth was not destined long to he the resting place of either.

Marrion sickened—drooped—and died!

Who can picture the distress of the bereaved one? Not they who, when one loved being departs, have others left to live for, and share that spark of high divinity in our nature, the heart's affection! They only can imagine who have one—one only dear friend, and lose that one.

Poor Jane! In the first burst of grief, which lasted for a day and a night, nothing could induce her to leave the corpse. A thousand times she kissed the marble cheek,—beautiful even in death; but no word escaped her.

On the second morning she appeared to rouse, and a look of calm resignation was on her countenance. She knew that her sister's remains must be buried, and felt that she possessed not the means of procuring even a shroud.

Truth, however painful, must be told. Jane was advised by a neighbouring old woman, who had herself lost all in life but her natural kindness of heart, to make application to the parish; and she offered to accompany her to the relieving officer.

Quietly she acquiesced, grateful to her friendly adviser. In three days her case was laid before the proper authorities, and on the fourth a coffin was brought by four poor men, who were instructed to perform all the necessary preliminaries for interment, and then to convey the body to the parish burial ground.

The solitary Jane insisted on accompanying her sister's remains to the grave. "No," said she, "Marrion shall not go unmourned. In life she loved me dearly, and I will not leave her until I have seen her decently laid in her last resting place." And she followed, accompanied by the kind old neighbour. But it was too much for her. At the close of the sad ceremony she fainted, and was borne senseless to her forlorn home.

I saw her often during the three succeeding days, and on the evening of the last she appeared more cheerful than usual. Her cheek was flushed and her eye was unusually bright.

She spoke of her sister calmly, and told me how happy they had often been after leaving church on Sundays, when walking in the green fields; and that Marrion would sometimes wonder if heaven were like green fields, all covered with flowers, and flooded with sunshine; and observe how happy we should be when there. "I dreamt of her last night," said she, " and she appeared to be standing in the midst of a beautiful garden, surrounded with angelic forms—who beckoned me towards them. The happy expression of her countenance is before me still, but in my effort to join her I awoke."

That night Jane bade me adieu very affectionately. She then lay down, and I left her on her little couch in a gentle sleep. The next morning she was a corpse.

One grave encloses the remains of the two sisters. No stone marks the spot, but a little green mound is still visible in the parish burial-ground of D.

With trembling hands and fevered head, I scarce can give thee daily bread. Of earthly joys which poets sing,— The bliss of life's first opening spring, Thou ne'er hast known. Thy joyless days Have ne'er been cheered by childish plays; And cares which childhood should not know Have charged thy earliest hours with woe, Which steals away thy life's first bloom, And soon will bring thee to the tomb. How many bitter tears I shed Beside thy hard, uneasy bed! And when death's hand has eased thy pain, No other wish shall I retain, Than that my call may soon be given, To join thy guiltless soul in heaven.

The drunkard's wife

Yes! and my marriage vow I've truly kept, And through the many changes we have known, When I have laughed in glee, in anguish wept, Both smiles and tears were ever all his own.

But when the labours of the day are done, From home and me he spends his hours of joy; Whilst I in bitter anguish weep alone, And count the tardy moment rolling by.

With anxious ear I list to every sound, And my heart flutters at each tone I hear; Until some distant clock, with toll profound, Proclaims the first dim hour of morning near.

At length he reeling comes, with maddened brain, Whilst I, absorbed in sorrow, pale with woe, Hear with a shudder the wild curse profane, Or trembling, shrink beneath the unmanly blow.

Oh! when will all this bitter grief be o'er? When will my broken spirit be at rest? When shall my eyes be dried to weep no more? Oh! when shall peace possess my tortured breast?

Not until death his welcome aid shall lend, And end at once my sorrows and my life; No earthly power can with success befriend The poor unhappy wretch, a Drunkard's Wife!

Lines on visiting overbury wood, near Bredon, Worcestershire

And muse untired. Oh! if on human life Immortal spirits do attend and watch Unseen, the erring steps of mortal man, Here in this sacred spot they sure must rest. Could I but shake the mist from off my eyes And now behold them in this lovely shade; I could imagine it were Paradise! But oh! vain wish: each bond has long been burst By man's transgressions—that spiritual And mortal beings, bound in friendly intercourse, Sad thought,—Death and the grave alone can now Effect our union with angels, and conduct Our souls to never-ending Paradise.

Remarks on the education of the poor

REMARKS ON THE EDUCATION OF THE POOR.

The idea that knowledge incapacitates a person for some situations in life, is a very erroneous one. There is no state, however difficult, no employ however laborious, no situation however subordinate, no condition however low, but may be amended and rendered more easy and more respectable by a person possessed with a capacious and well cultivated mind, without doing the smallest injury to any individual, or disturbing in the slightest degree, the general order of society.

Man, in a state of ignorance, is scarcely a degree above the lower animals of the creation. In vain for him does the sun shed its mild lustre upon the earth—he feels the warmth, but sees no beauty in his smiling beams. In vain do the loveliest flowers enamel the soft grass—he passes them by unheeded: in vain do the birds chaunt forth their liveliest melody—'the sounds breath not of music in his leaden ears. Dull, sullen being: his musings are on carnal things. The thrilling voice of nature cannot rouse his drowsy soul. He may raise his eyes upwards, but he feels not those unspeakable delights which the cultivated mind experiences when gazing upon the clear blue vault of heaven, studded with countless glittering orbs, whilst the senses are soothed by the gentle pressure of the light evening breezes. Who that has experienced these pleasures would wish them to be withheld from the poorest being upon earth? No one possessed of common feeling and justice. A considerable portion of our mechanics and labourers

of the present day are but mere organized machines: their hours of relaxation are spent in sensual gratifications, and they are impelled to labour only by the knowledge that if they do not do so they must starve. They look upon their employers, and all those who move in a sphere above themselves, as beings of another nature, by whom they are trodden down and oppressed, and are restrained from outrage and insubordination by the iron hand of power alone. If this class could receive in infancy the foundation of a good substantial education, which would give them a taste for rational and intellectual amusements, and teach them the duty of respecting themselves, it would render them, as regards those above them, more obedient, more industrious, more respectful, and more just; and, as regards themselves, more frugal, more cleanly, more orderly, and far happier. It may also make them capable of distinguishing injury and insult from justice and acts of kindness, and enable them to show approbation or resentment accordingly; but this would be matter of pleasure to all who adhere to the golden maxim "Do unto others as you would they should do unto you." They may also evince a predilection for refinement and intellectual improvement, but the rules of good order would not be broken by their gratification in this respect. There is no just reason why a person engaged in the lowest employment should not have a neat little retiring room, with carpetted floor, comfortably furnished, with books, musical instruments, or anything which his taste may lead him to desire and his industry enable him to procure for the amusement of himself and family during the short intervals of cessation from toil. Surely, none can better deserve enjoyments than those who obtain them by the "sweat of their brow."

How many families who at this moment go clothed in rags, and present to the view a meagre, half-starved appearance, might be living in comfort and respectability, pleasing instead of offending the eye, if their means of living were properly and frugally employed, which would, in all probability, be the case if the parents had, in childhood, received a good education. By early education I mean that the infant should have the advantage of being placed under the care of a person who would keep a strict watch over the opening mind, and take all possible means to en- courage the intellectual qualities to expand and predominate over the passions, to assist in mounting the first and most difficult steps to knowledge, without frightening the mind from further progress,—thus encouraging virtue, and crushing vice in the bud. The adoption of infant schools is a plan in favour of which too much cannot be said, and the various government schools, are invaluable blessings; but the nature of the instruction should be attended to. With habits of early piety should be instilled a knowledge of those sciences which expound the laws of nature, and as much general information as possible.

It is evident to the careful observer, that the most ignorant are the first to murmur, and the loudest in their exclamations against tyranny, whilst those who are pos- sessed with the largest share of acquired knowledge, have the largest share of common sense, and are the first to perform the most arduous and disagreeable duties of the stations in which an allwise Providence has placed them, knowing that their respectability does not depend upon the station they may hold, but upon their own individual con- duct in that station.

Youth being the time when habits are formed, and the character of the man fixed, how necessary it is that every possible means should be adopted to form the judgment, to direct the taste, to instil pure morals into the mind, to clear the reason with truths, to guide with an unflinching hand into the paths of strict rectitude, and to give the means of happiness in this world, and the hope of it in the world to come.

Those who possess knowledge should not hoard it up with the avariciousness of misers, but bestow it with liberal hands on them who have not the means of obtaining it.

May success attend the praiseworthy efforts which are made for the cultivation of the mind and the advancement of human nature; and may all unite with firm but peaceful ardour in furthering the best plans for improvement, and in support of "the Throne, the Altar, and the Land we live in."

Lines on a recent melancholy event

LINES ON A RECENT MELANCHOLY EVENT.

Poor Annie was a pretty blue-eyed, kind-hearted girl, the only hope of an aged father, and he was her only friend. They were poor, but cheerful as poverty can be: he obtained his living by daily labour, and Annie was placed to service at the house of a neighbouring farmer.

"Without education, simple and unsuspecting, she listened to the improper addresses of her master's son.

As soon as the circumstance became known to her mistress, she was discharged in disgrace; her inhuman seducer refusing any recompense, even pecuniary.

Ashamed to return to the roof of her father in her present degraded position, and with a mind clogged by ignorance and burthened by guilt, she gave way to despair, and put a period to her existence by throwing herself into a pond near to her early home.

The air was calm, the sky serene and bright, The gentle moon shed round her silvery light, The twinkling stars in silent beauty beamed, And earth the home of peace and beauty seemed.

But through the air a solemn pealing sound Broke the dead calm which reigned on all around;

And echo, sighing, answered back the knell, The lingering whisper of the passing bell. At this lone hour, to shun the multitude, Who press with vulgar gaze, with action rude, Poor Annie to her latest home was borne, The victim of deceit, of cruelty and scorn. No sable weeds—no mimic grief was there,— No stately pall concealed the homely bier; One follower alone, with hoary head, Bent low, and wept the unconscious dead.

A few brief moments, and the scene was closed. Still o'er the grave where Annie's form reposed, The wretched father knelt,—with accents wild, In anguish mourning his departed child.

Superstition

SUPERSTITION; OR, THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.

It is very painful to observe the great degree of superstition which is still entertained in many parts of England. The following tale is really true in substance, though varied a little in detail, in order to render it acceptable to the general reader.

I once paid a visit of a few weeks to a country village, which I will call Barnel, in a sequestered part of Shropshire, where everything appears to move on in the same jog-trot way it did some centuries ago. There is the parson, a free good-natured man, who speaks familiarly to every one, makes frequent visits to the poor, preaches two sermons every Sunday, dines often with the squire, and sometimes with a few of the most substantial farmers in the neighbourhood; and the Doctor, looking very stout and very good humoured, who rides an unusually fat horse, appearing to be on very good terms with himself and every one else: he is a bachelor. There is a Butcher, with plenty of flesh on his back as well as in his shop, with a very lean wife and seventeen children; a Blacksmith also; a widower, with one son and a daughter.

The one thing which is of great importance, and which most villages boast of, the great emporium for news and scandal, namely—a Barber's shop—was wanting in Barnel, but there were several Beershops, which answered the pur- pose quite as well. Two or three farm houses, and eight or ten labourers' cottages, made up the sum total of the habitations which composed the village of Barnel.

It was early in October when I first visited this rural district, and I was highly delighted with the picturesque beauty of its scenery, checkered with all the variety of colour which autumn, in this country, never fails to bring. It was at a cottage of the bettermost order that I took up my temporary residence—or rather a small farm-house. The inmates consisted of a man, his wife, two children and two servants. The master, whose name was John Seedman, was a plain, good sort of person, very kindhearted, possessing such education as the sons of farmers in that neighbourhood generally received, at the only school of which the village could boast, conducted by the parish clerk; that is to say, he could read a little—write a little—and knew a little of arithmetic. His wife, whom he married young, was the daughter of a saddler in the nearest town, who had saved a little money, and given his daughter a tolerable education. My host and hostess, therefore, were people of good repute and some standing in the village. Their house was better furnished than those of some of their neighbours, and their style of living was somewhat superior. The son was a tall, rawboned youth of eighteen, but the daughter was really a loveable girl. She had been brought up in a boarding school in the market town of which her mother was a native, and had learned such things as girls generally do learn at country boarding schools of the middle class; but what was deficient in education was made up in natural refinement and sweetness of disposition.

With this happy family I spent a few weeks, and during that time had leisure to make many observations: but nothing struck me so much as the incredible superstitious notions which were entertained by the whole village: the amiable Amy Seedman not being an exception.

It happened that amongst the most favoured of Amy's suitors, was one Thomas Green. He was the son of a surgeon, and had been sent to a farmer in the neighbourhood of Barnel, in order to be instructed in the arts of husbandry and agriculture. He was a good looking person, with light hair and a florid complexion, about twenty- five years of age, was generally better dressed than was usual with the farmers' sons thereabouts, and his manners had a slight degree of town polish about them, which made him an object of great interest amongst the girls of the village. But Amy seemed to claim his chief attention, and it was evident that she was what is ordinarily termed, in love with him.

Now Amy was a quiet, reserved girl, but in course of frequent conversation with me, had confessed her attachment to this young man, and her fears that he was not serious in his professions of constancy towards her. "Would there," said she to me, one day, "be any harm in ascertaining this." "Certainly not," I answered, "if you are possessed of the means of doing so." "I have the means," said she, "but I don't know whether such means are culpable or not, and I wish to consult you on the matter, only I must beg that you keep my secret, for I could not bear to have it known." I made the desired promise, and she then proceeded to inform me that on the side of the nearest mountain lived an old man named Jonathan, who obtained a living by telling fortunes; and that he frequently foretold events, which occurred exactly as he predicted, but she feared that he dealt with evil spirits, and on that account arose her scruples to go and consult him on the present occasion. I could not forbear laughing at her seriousness in such a matter, and rallied her on her credulity; at which she seemed a little offended, and assured me that there was not the slightest doubt of old Jonathan's possessing the power not only to foretell events by his arts, but also to render great assistance in recovering stolen property, which he frequently did; and to convince me of this, she gave me an instance which had come under her own knowledge not more than three months previous. I will give the affair in her own words:—

"About three months back, one very hot day, whilst all our people, except mother and myself, were engaged in the fields at haymaking, mother thought it a good opportunity to get the best linen aired, as the sun was sufficiently warm. Accordingly, we looked up a quantity of table linen—best sheets, and such things as were not in everyday use—and spread them on the grass in the orchard at the back of the house. On going in the evening to bring them in, we were much surprised to find that they were all gone. My mother was almost frantic at the idea of losing her best linen, and every enquiry was made in order to recover it; but all was of no avail, and a week passed away without our hearing any tidings of the lost things. It was supposed that some gypsies, which had lately been encamped in the neighbourhood, must have carried them away.

"At the next washing-day, Betty Edwards, our washer-woman, asked mother if she had been to consult old Jonathan about the loss of her linen. At first my mother ridiculed the idea of his being able to give her any assistance; but after Betty had told her of many instances of things which had been long lost, having been again recovered by his means, she began to think there could be no harm in paying him a visit, and ascertaining what he would be able to do in the matter; but she was enjoined by Betty to keep her intentions a profound secret.

"Accordingly, to make no delay, she went the same evening to the cottage of Jonathan, and found him at home. After she had told him all the particulars of her errand, he looked very grave for some time, without speaking, but at length said "he would do what he could for her." He then produced several very large and very old books, the leaves of which he turned over, appearing to read and make calculations for more than half an hour, during which my mother's patience was nearly exhausted. At length he told her that he did not think the things were taken out of the village, and asked her if she had suspicion of any person. After considering for a little time, she told him she thought she had, but did not like to say. This intelligence seemed to give him some uneasiness, and he informed her that he could do nothing more in the matter unless she told him whether the person suspected by her lived in the village or at a distance from it. She very reluctantly, after much hesitation, said it might be one of the servants in her own house, but requested him not to act upon her suspicion. After again becoming grave and silent for some time, he said that he must consult his books before he could , tell anything more, and that for her to wait was useless, but if she would come to-morrow morning, he did not doubt of being able to put her in a way to recover the stolen property.