What are lords and ladies,
What a noble's weal,
If the soul is selfish,
And the heart is steel?
Better woo a pauper
In his rag and scar.— Ellen has a spirit
Gentle as a star.
Gliding o'er the waters
Where the fisher came,
Creeping up the headland,
Ellen was the same;
Turning into Mylor
At the evening hour,
As a dirge was pealing
From the belfry tower.
From the earth and ocean,
From the sea and sky,
To their mighty Author
She would turn her eye:
And her song was hopeful
As a prophet's lay
Utter'd on the hill-tops
At the close of day.
Ferns and little flowerets, On the ground that lie, Blinking mid the mosses, Smiling at the sky;
These she loved so dearly
On the moor and mead.-
If you marry Nelly,
You'll be rich indeed.
I MOURN with those that mourn : Clouds round about me lower, And tears flow down for him, The gather'd flower.
And tears flow down for you,
Who bow before the blast
With stricken hearts for him
Whose life is past.
See, see, the golden gates
Of highest heaven unclose,
And Ernest enters in,
A fragrant rose.
O, yestermorn a flower
Bloom'd in my humble shed;
And evening shadows fell
Upon it dead.
Have they not met above,
Your angel-babe and mine,
In meads of boundless love
And bowers divine?
Then let us mourn no more :
Our Father's loving hand
Has placed those gentle sweets
In Eden-land.
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO A LADY-FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.
I THINK I promised long ago,
When days were short and nights were slow,
That I a jingling rhyme would send,
Wove for a faithful lady-friend,
Whose kindness, like a fragrant flower,
Has often cheer'd my Cornish bower.
So, snatching up my rustic reed,
I woo the Muses from the mead;
And as its first note breaks the air,
They troop around my fireside chair,
And seem well pleased their aid to lend
To pipe a song for lady-friend.
Old Winter now has left the woods,
And Spring is come in robe of buds.
AN EPISTLE TO A LADY FRIEND.
The flowers are springing in the lane,
And cuckoo's note is heard again;
The linnet carols by the lake,
The blackbird whistles in the brake,
The thrush is tuning on the tree,
The lambs are dancing o'er the lea.
Abroad the poet pipes his lay:
"Thank God I see another May !"
Here you'll be pleased to understand,
Your note much cheer'd my household band,
To know that you had health regain'd,
And so much happiness attain'd,
Which surely is, my lady-friend,
The greatest blessing God can send.
O, what is all a monarch's wealth
Without the golden gift of health?
Although the merry month of song,
To-day the wind blew loud and strong;
O'er hill and vale it madly swept,
And great the grumbling that it kept,
And great its wrecks half-wash'd ashore,
And great its trophies toppled o'er.
I saw a boat sink in the sea;
I saw it twist an aged tree;
I saw it smite an old man's hair,
And toss about a maiden fair;
And as it crack'd above our shed,
How Howard gazed and shook his head!
So, praying that your life may be
Spared many years from sorrow free,
To cheer the weary child of time,
I close my rustic-running rhyme.
CAPERN'S VISIT TO CORNWALL, 1860.
CORNUBIA TO DEVONIA GREETING.
HURRAH, classic Cornwall!
Shout with bardic pride:
Devon's thrush has warbled
O'er thy heathers wide;
And our hearts were gladden'd
By his converse strong,
Swelling round our pathway
Like an ancient song.
By Cornubia's crosses
Devon's gifted son,
With his harp unshoulder'd,
Sang when day was done :
And her gentle daughters,
Tuneful as the streams
Running round the rushes,
Were his richest themes;
Musing like a Druid
By the cromlechs brown,
Or the Nine Stone Maidens
Rising on the down;
Worshipping with Nature
Near the lonely loch,
By a poet's birthplace,
On the hill of rock.
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